Breaking the suicide silence

By Herman M. Lagon

We Filipinos ask “Kumusta?” so casually that sometimes we have already walked away before the other person answers. It is a greeting, almost punctuation. But every now and then, somebody needs us to mean it. Kumusta ka, talaga? Then comes the harder part: staying long enough to hear an answer we may not know what to do with.

September is Suicide Prevention Month, and September 10 is World Suicide Prevention Day. This year leaves us with a simple challenge as “Changing the Narrative on Suicide” ends its three-year run: “Start the Conversation.” That does not mean bringing up suicide over coffee as casually as traffic or basketball. It means someone can say, “Hindi na ako okay,” without becoming a joke or the next chismis in the group chat. More than 720,000 people worldwide die by suicide each year. That makes an honest conversation worth having.

Being a guidance counselor and formator, a teacher, a friend, a father, and a son has taught me that people do not always need a great speech. Sometimes they need someone to notice. The class clown can be hurting. So can the honor student, the quiet teacher, or the father everybody thinks is strong.

We should be careful, too, about asking for one easy explanation. Breakup? Grades? Depression? Utang? Hiya? Suicide is complex. Turning a person’s story into one problem may be convenient, but human pain is rarely that simple.

When someone does open up, our instinct to give advice can arrive faster than the jeepney we have been waiting thirty minutes for. “Kaya mo iyan.” “Think positive.” “Pray lang.” “Mas marami ngang mas mabigat ang problema.” Usually these words come from affection. But someone in deep distress may not need a pep talk. They may need us to stop fixing and start listening. A gentler response can be almost embarrassingly simple: “Nandito ako. Gusto mo bang magkuwento?”

Caring does not mean carrying someone’s crisis alone. We can listen, take concerns seriously, and connect the person to proper help. When safety is at risk, secrecy has limits. So does what we can safely handle ourselves.

This is why Suicide Prevention Month should not end with posters and hashtags. Schools need guidance services students actually trust. Workplaces need cultures where seeking psychological help does not quietly damage someone’s reputation. Families need room for “Hindi ako okay” without immediately turning the dining table into a courtroom. We often tell struggling people to reach out. Fair enough. But we should ask ourselves something uncomfortable too: Have we become people worth reaching out to? Can someone admit they are hurting at home, in school, or at work without fearing judgment or gossip?

Suicide prevention is not the counselor’s job alone. Families, peers, schools, workplaces, health services, government, communities, and media all have a part: notice, listen, support, and make help easier to reach.

That includes what we post and share. A suicide is not content for clicks, theories, or group-chat speculation. We can talk about it without sensationalizing it, while respecting grief and pointing people toward help. Sometimes restraint is also compassion.

Yet I hope Suicide Prevention Month does not become a month devoted only to death. Prevention must eventually lead us back to life. One idea that has stayed with me is the need to help people build “a life worth living”: relationships, belonging, purpose, meaningful work, small pleasures, dreams, and believable reasons to imagine that tomorrow might be different from today. Hope here is not “Cheer up.” Hope can be much smaller and more credible: This terrible week does not have to become the rest of my life.

That also means we should stop treating resilience as an order: Be strong. Strength is not pretending everything is fine. Sometimes strength looks like telling your daughter you are struggling. Walking into the guidance office. Calling a friend at an inconvenient hour. Sitting beside somebody without knowing exactly what to say. Asking for professional help. Or simply being able to say, “Hindi ko na kaya mag-isa.” Sometimes resilience begins there — with people who care, proper help, and a safe place to struggle.

Years of listening to students, while being both a father and a son, have taught me to value presence over perfect answers. Maybe breaking the suicide silence begins much more quietly than we imagine. Not with the perfect words, but with noticing. Asking. Listening. Staying. And knowing when to bring in help.

We already have the question.

Kumusta ka, talaga?

What matters is whether we are willing to hear the real answer.

And when that answer is “Hindi ako okay,” may we be the kind of people who stay, listen, and help find a way forward.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.