They set down their chairs and start the circle. Soon, others join. The room begins to quieten as everyone settles into their groups. Glancing around the circle, Kavita notices that she and Hawthorn are among the youngest. Apart from one other middle-aged man, Hawthorn is the only male. Kavita is the only person who isn’t white.

Brenda takes a seat to Kavita’s right, once removed. She starts by explaining how things are going to proceed. First, they will take turns introducing themselves. Then they will share the name of their loved one, when they died, how old they were, and how they died. This gives the session structure, but they shouldn’t feel constricted by it. If other things come up, they can feel free to share them, bearing in mind everyone needs to be given a chance to speak by the end of the session.

“The more times we talk about our loss out loud, the more real it becomes. Sharing in a supportive environment also helps to combat shame. After all, shame can’t survive when it’s met with empathy.” A few people nod in agreement. “I’ll start things off. You heard a bit of my grief story earlier. What you didn’t hear was that my mother completed suicide. She was bipolar for most of her life. But her bouts of depression were always more frequent and severe than her highs. Medication and therapy helped her cope, most of the time, but each time she sank into depression, she seemed to sink a little deeper. It would take her longer to come out of it. It would take more effort.

“Before she died, during another high spell, she stopped taking her meds, convinced that she didn’t need them anymore. Shortly after that, her health started deteriorating. She went back on her meds, but they always took weeks to kick in. By then it was too late. She was convinced she would always feel as bad as she did in withdrawal. A few days before she died, we spent some time together, and she told me how worn out she was by it all. It was a red flag, although I didn’t see it at the time. They found her car in a parking lot near Remic Rapids, along with a note on the dashboard that I wish I’d never read. Her body was never found. We had nothing to bury, other than some of her belongings. Her name was Anne. She was fifty-five. It’s been ten years, but sometimes it feels like it happened this morning.”