I’m not offering medical advice here, and I’m not telling anyone what to do, especially in moments of deep distress.
When we talk about preventing suicide, the focus usually lands on the person who is suffering. We look for risk factors, interventions, the right treatment and the right words at the right time. Those efforts matter, and they save lives.
But there’s something else worth considering, something less discussed and far more demanding — the discipline of nonjudgment.
Judgment is like a reflex. It arrives almost instantly, often before we’re even aware of it, offering a simple explanation that gives us a sense of certainty. Discipline moves differently. It asks us to slow down, to sit with uncertainty and to resist conclusions that feel too clean.
I lost my best friend to suicide.
He was a Marine who flew combat missions in Vietnam and carried those memories home, like so many did. And yet, he built a remarkable life, a career, a family and a deep commitment to his community. He was tough and athletic on the outside, gentle and quiet on the inside. He was the kind of person who showed up without being asked.
He founded nonprofits and raised millions of dollars for athletes with disabilities. He showed up for everyone, including me. For years, he handled everything with steady strength and a smile, until he couldn’t.
Behind that strength were hospitalizations, years of therapy and medication. At one point, he underwent electroconvulsive therapy, the kind many people still associate with the novel and movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It frightened him. I think it embarrassed him, too. He didn’t want to be seen as “crazy” or weak.
Then came severe back pain. On its own, it wasn’t life-ending. But layered onto decades of emotional strain, it became too much to bear.
I spoke with him on the phone just hours before he died. His voice sounded stretched thin, like he was talking while holding his breath. I told him I was worried. I asked how I could help, after all the times he had stepped in for me without ever being asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be OK tonight.” He was home with his wife, so I believed him.
The next morning, he was gone.
It’s tempting to turn a loss like that into a simple story. A war hero struggles with anxiety and reaches a tragic but predictable end. We like stories that make sense, but life isn’t neat, and neither is suffering.
Over time, I’ve come to understand what research has long suggested. Suicide is rarely about one thing. It’s more often an accumulation of physical pain, emotional strain, isolation and identity loss, layering over time until something gives.
Among veterans, and among people living with spinal cord injury or disease (SCI/D), those layers can run deep. Depression and chronic pain are common. Loss of independence reshapes daily life, and many wrestle with the fear of becoming a burden, not because they are weak, but because they are carrying so much.
Not long after my friend’s death, I met another veteran through the Paralyzed Veterans of America Cal-Diego Chapter. He was much younger, and he had not experienced combat trauma. Instead, multiple sclerosis was slowly taking away the independence he once had.
One afternoon, he stopped by the chapter’s office and left a check. That evening, he gathered with his family for a celebration of his life, something he had already decided would end later that night.
By the next day, we learned he was gone.
What frightened him most wasn’t the illness itself but the weight he felt he was placing on his family.
That fear is more common than we admit. As independence slips and even simple tasks require help, relationships begin to change. Loved ones step into the role of caregivers, and gratitude starts to mingle with guilt. Over time, a sense of uncertainty settles in: Am I asking too much of the people I love?
For many living with paralysis, that question is never far away, and for those of us who served in the military, the message was clear: Don’t complain and don’t show pain. In combat, and even in rehab, that mindset can help. But when it becomes the only language you know, it can also become dangerous.
Saying “I’m not OK” can feel like admitting failure, and sharing darker thoughts can feel like a sign of weakness. So, instead, we deflect, make a joke or change the subject entirely.
And when someone dies by suicide, judgment arrives quickly.
We reach for words like “selfish,” “weak” or “coward.” Those words create distance. If suicide is weakness, then we tell ourselves we are safe. If it is selfishness, we can keep it at arm’s length.
Judgment gives us the illusion of control. But often, it’s fear in disguise.
Nonjudgment is much harder. It doesn’t mean agreement, and it doesn’t mean we stop trying to help. It means recognizing that we can’t see the private calculations happening in someone else’s mind. It’s the place where pain is weighed against dignity and exhaustion against hope.
It is easy to say, “I would never make that choice.” The real discipline is to also say, “But I will not judge someone who does.”
I have come to accept the fact that there was nothing I could have said that night to change my friend’s decision. That isn’t surrender; it’s an acknowledgment that sometimes pain speaks louder than logic, loyalty or even love.
In communities shaped by SCI/D, we pride ourselves on resilience. But resilience without compassion can harden into something else. We owe each other more than judgment.
My friend is gone, but his impact remains. Thousands of people with disabilities are living better lives because of him.
If I honor him well, it will not be by trying to explain his death. It will be by practicing what he sometimes couldn’t give himself: Mercy, without judgment.
As always, please share your thoughts at al@pvamag.com.
