This Friday marks three years since my brother Austin died by suicide.

There’s no easy way to write that sentence.
There never has been.

Each March, as the date creeps closer, something shifts in my body before my brain catches up. I get quiet. Tired. Unmotivated in places where I’m usually clear. Sad in ways that don’t always make sense.

Grief has a way of showing up even when you think you’ve made peace with it.

And I’ll be honest—some weeks, like this one, it’s hard to keep writing. Hard to keep posting. Hard to keep doing this work. Not because I don’t care. But because it costs something.

Writing about men’s mental health…
Talking about suicide…
Sharing stories that live deep in my chest…

It’s not just content. It’s my life.

When I lost Austin, I didn’t just lose my brother.
I lost a future I thought we’d share. I lost an innocence I didn’t know I still had. I lost the illusion that strong, funny, talented men are somehow safe from despair.

But I gained something too.

In the emptiness he left behind, I found a deeper purpose. I stopped chasing success for success’s sake and started asking harder questions:
What matters? Who’s hurting? How do we build something better?

And week by week, I started to write. Not because I had all the answers. But because I didn’t want anyone else to feel as alone as I did.

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Three years in, the grief is quieter now—but it’s still there. It shows up when I hear his favorite songs. When I see young men at the edge of hopelessness. When I write a post like this and wonder if he would’ve read it.

If you’ve lost someone, you get it. Grief doesn’t ask for permission. It just arrives, unexpected and unapologetic. But it also reminds us: love was here.

So if you're missing someone right now, me too.
If you're tired of pretending you're okay, same here.
If you’re wondering whether it’s worth it to keep showing up—the answer is yes. Not because it’s easy. But because someone out there needs your story too.

Thanks for being here.
For reading. For caring. For helping me carry this.

You’re not alone.

—Ethan

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