Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage

In Memory Of Kirn

Content Notice / Disclaimer

This post contains personal reflections on loss, sudden death, suicide, depression, illness, and grief. Please read with care. If you or someone you know is struggling, consider reaching out to a trusted person or a mental‑health professional. Support resources are listed at the end of this post.

One Year On

It has been one year since my husband’s—later, my—dear friend, Kirn, died by suicide. A year that has passed both slowly and impossibly fast.

I still remember that Wednesday. I was in a strategy session—one of those meetings where you are expected to be present, sharp, purposeful. My phone buzzed with a call from my husband. That alone wasn’t unusual, but he knew exactly where I was. I missed the call and messaged: Don’t forget I’m in a meeting. He replied: Ok, call me after.

Nothing about the exchange was extraordinary. And yet, something in my body went on alert. I excused myself, stepped into the hallway, and called him back.

For someone who is guided by purpose—who always needs to understand—and who for a long time led with philosophy and intellect rather than emotion, I was shaken in a way I hadn’t experienced before. This was a friend I had spoken to only days earlier. A friend my husband spoke to almost every morning, having known him since secondary school. One of the most expressive, caring, generous people we knew.

For a long time, I grappled with how he could take his own life. My husband grappled with how his best friend never shared that weight with him.

My therapist suggested I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath—to sit with the interior world of someone who lived with depression and self‑harm ideation. I could understand self‑criticism. I knew how to diminish myself, reject my own strengths, fixate on failure—and then dust myself off and push forward. That wasn’t always healthy, but it was familiar. What I couldn’t understand was this.

I understand now that sometimes, you simply don’t understand.

Kirn’s death was meticulously planned—if a phrase like that can ever be used without discomfort. Funeral arrangements booked and paid for. Outfit chosen. Instructions left for the distribution of his assets; those not already shared or donated. His own eulogy written. Instructions of who should read it. Even an approved guest list.

I am still haunted by the words read by my father‑in‑law—because Kirn was like a son to them. That he was tired. That this was his choice. That he had lived a full life at 43. That he had given enough. That it was time. That we should not be sad for him, but happy—because he was happy now.

For 43 years, he worked relentlessly to provide: for his mother, his sisters, his children. Forever the hustler. Forever the giver. Always there for others.

A stark lesson: you cannot pour from an empty cup.

Later, through letters he left for my husband and a small few others, we learned he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. The prognosis was not good. He decided he did not want to be a burden.

Those words—I don’t want to be a burden—landed with a weight I cannot fully explain. They were familiar. And they filled me with guilt. That someone so generous, so loving, so consistently present for others could believe he was undeserving of the care and priority others would surely have given him. That we would have given to him- was that my ego?

During that time, as I was learning about anger in therapy, I felt flashes of it—at him, at us, at the world, at God. Cancer does not discriminate. That is a fact. But emotion is not always rational.

In a moment I once would have called pettiness—but now recognise simply as emotion—I thought of someone else I knew. Someone deeply disappointing, insecure, two‑faced. Someone who survived their own cancer journey. I had shown up for them professionally and personally, even without knowing the full story. They survived. They thrived. And from what I could see, learned not one meaningful thing about humility, authenticity or humanity. As I still lament on this, perhaps this is my unhealed wound of that experience coming up.

And then there was Kirn. A good person. Exhausted from fighting for everyone else. Too tired to fight for himself.

That is not a sugar‑coated lesson. It still makes me angry.

Just writing this, I felt it again. I messaged my husband to say so. He asked—gently—whether I was just feeling randomly angry. (A fair question. I am capable of that.)

Our feelings don’t disappear. We work on healing, authentically, but the feelings live in us. We can give them space, acknowledgment, and grace—and we must also choose not to let them consume us.

I still don’t understand. But I accept that it happened.

I understand now that we cannot judge what someone has carried unless we have lived it ourselves. And no—this is not a justification for treating others poorly. Harmful behaviour is still a choice. Sometimes deliberate. Sometimes born of unhealed wounds. Both can be true.

I turned 40 last year. In the years leading up to it, I learned real, unglamorous life lessons. I am grateful that I chose not just to survive them, or rush past them in search of a victory narrative. I sat with my mistakes. With my losses. With friendships that ended. With questions about who I was becoming and where I wanted my life to go.

On a lighter, but strangely meaningful note—my best friend deepened my interest in astrology. Last year, I asked my priest what my stars looked like. The answer was bleak. There was no way to dress it up. This year, I asked again. The difference was profound. When I questioned how such a change was possible, his answer stayed with me:

Time, karma, and the work you’ve done—this happened because of you.

Faith—spiritual or otherwise—can anchor us. It reinforced what I already felt: that the internal work matters. That what truly matters in life is not always what looks impressive from the outside.

Kirn fought a good fight for others. He was extraordinary. And still, he suffered. Perhaps he felt he was not enough. Perhaps he believed it truly was his time. We will never fully know.

What I do know is this: we all have a choice in how we live and who we become. The lessons of the last few years have shaped the choices I make today.

We are all worth the fight. We owe it to ourselves to say that out loud—to examine who we allow into our mental, physical, and spiritual spaces.

The sound of Kirn’s mother’s cries as his body was taken away still rings in my ears. A reminder that our choices carry consequences that ripple far beyond us.

It is harder for my husband. Losing Kirn is like losing a limb. I advocate deeply for therapy—for myself, for others—not as a cure, but as a companion in learning how to live with pain rather than be ruled by it.

I believe Kirn lived a full life because he was full of life. Do I wish he were still here? Of course. But that is my lens, my longing.

He left behind three beautiful children. The road is unimaginably hard. And still, his life—and his loss—continues to teach.

I am thinking of him today. And of everyone who is struggling. Words urging people to speak and seek help matter. And so does the quieter work: choosing how we live, how we care for ourselves, how we care for others.

It feels fitting—and painful—that this reflection is written on a Wednesday. The call came on a Wednesday. I moved my therapy session that week from Wednesday to Thursday; and ironically my schedule did not allow for a session today. Full circles have a way of finding us.

Books have enriched me. But it is life that has taught me most—the tears, the endings, the pivots, the disappointments, the joy. I try to pause now and ask: What is the lesson here?

I am trying to live kinder. More purposefully. Less impressed by titles and optics, more guided by integrity and truth.

For all the lessons—even the ones that broke us—may we ask better questions. May we find meaning where we didn’t think to look. May we choose quality over quantity.

Kirn’s lessons live on. They continue to shape me.

🌿 If no one has reminded you today: you matter, your life matters, and you are worthy of care—especially from yourself.

✍🏽 Author’s Note
This piece is shared in remembrance, reflection, and honesty—not as an answer, a solution, or a guide. It is one person’s experience of grief, anger, learning, and ongoing acceptance. If it stirs something tender in you, please treat yourself gently and reach for support where you can.

If You Need Support

If this post brings up difficult feelings, please consider reaching out:

• A trusted friend or family member
• A mental‑health professional
• Local or international suicide‑prevention helplines

You are not a burden. You matter.