Tear, Tools, and Treasures

Questions and answers about losing a child

A Note Before the Q &A

The words that follow are responses to questions from Esther Stanway-Williams, a bereaved mother, like me.

When she reached out, her questions were tender and raw. They were the kind of questions only a bereaved mother would know to ask. What was the hardest part? How do you survive it? Is there any joy left? Her pain echoed my own. I answered her honestly.

These are lived reflections. They come from the long nights, the wrestling with guilt, the anger, the faith that faltered and then slowly steadied. They come from learning that grief is not something we get over, but something we learn to carry.

I share these answers because suicide is still wrapped in silence. Because parents are suffering quietly. Because mental illness is misunderstood. And because our sons were so much more than the way they died.

A portrait by a family friend, Delora. She captures Kevin's true essence and love of the Sitar

Music was Kevin’s Love Language.

From an early age, he loved learning and creativity. He surprised us all by reading at just four years old. He had an adventurous spirit, always pushing himself to explore and grow. By twelve, his discipline was evident. He earned a first-degree black belt in karate and became a certified lifeguard, demonstrating focus, responsibility, and quiet determination.

At twenty-one, just two months shy of his undergraduate graduation, he attempted suicide. It was a devastating season for all of us. Yet two years later, he found the strength to return to college and completed his degree in Biomedical Engineering.

But music was where his heart truly lived.

Whether playing in one of the many bands he joined or creating melodies on his sitar, Kevin poured emotion into every note. Music was not just something he did. It was how he expressed what words could not.

In college, he discovered the sitar, an instrument he had never encountered before. Drawn to its depth and complexity, he immersed himself in its history and technique. That curiosity led him into Bollywood music, expanding far beyond the jazz traditions he already loved. He also played trumpet, flute, shakuhachi, djembe, harmonium, and piano. Music was woven into the fabric of his life.

His creativity extended beyond sound. He found meaning in art and woodworking, shaping beauty with his hands. I believe his love for music and the arts helped him endure depression when other treatments felt overwhelming. Music gave him room to breathe.

Kevin was kind, humble, intelligent, talented, and deeply loved. His death still leaves me grappling with how someone so gentle and creative could die by suicide. But this I know: my son’s death does not define his life.

Kevin, known online as Sitarhero, lived with passion, curiosity, and heart. His love for music continues to resonate in every life he touched. His legacy lives on in every note, every memory, and every soul he inspired.

TEARS…

Q: What has been the saddest, hardest, and worst part of losing your son?

My dear son, Kevin Itwaru, lost his twelve-year battle with mental illness and depression. Suicide—the word we whisper and avoid—entered my life and took my child. It divided my world into before and after.

Kevin told us he would not take his life. I believed him. I held onto those words. And yet the unthinkable happened. Some days, when I ruminate, the weight of that reality is brutal.

That day shattered me. I was stunned, disoriented, grasping for answers that slipped away. My faith was shaken. My heart is undone. It was the saddest day of my life, the moment everything changed.

Like most parents, we imagined a future filled with milestones, ordinary mornings, and shared laughter. When that future disappeared, grief came as shock, disbelief, longing, and relentless focus on my son. For over two years, I lived in a fog that blurred time. Moving forward felt like trudging through mud. Some days, I could not move at all. I collapsed onto my pillow, crying out to God with questions that had no answers.

My anger toward God was fierce. I could not understand why He allowed Kevin to suffer so deeply. I replayed our final phone call again and again, blaming myself for missing signs in his voice. I carried guilt for going on a cruise I never wanted to take, for not being there in the way I wished I had been. Guilt and blame drained what little strength I had left.

During COVID, my daughter visited often. I wore a mask of “I’m okay,” but inside I was unraveling. Suicidal thoughts crept in, not because I wanted to die, but because the pain felt unbearable and unending. It was a season of isolation and silent suffering.

And then there are the what-ifs. Grief turns the past into a courtroom where every decision is examined. Suicide leaves behind the tyranny of hindsight, where self-compassion feels out of reach.

Grief persists because Kevin is absent from this earthly life every single day. That is the harsh and saddest reality of living each day.

TOOLS…

Q: What has been most helpful for you in navigating this tragedy?

What has helped me most is not trying to get over my grief, but learning to walk with it.

Grief is not something to solve or conquer. It is something to honor. Embracing it has slowly built resilience, patience, and growth.

I rediscovered my faith, not as a source of answers, but knowing God understands and holds me close. Prayer, scripture, journaling, and quiet devotion became sacred spaces where I could breathe. God did not explain my loss, but He sat with me in it.

I found strength in others who had walked this road. Pastor Rick Warren’s story of losing his son to suicide reminded me that I was not alone. Iris Bolton’s My Son, My Son helped me get out of bed on mornings when it felt impossible, as she understood the pain of losing a child tragically.

I joined David Kessler’s Tender Hearts grief group and later became a Certified Grief Educator and peer moderator. Connecting with other bereaved parents five days a week softened the isolation. Grief shared can be grief eased. Being with others who understood allowed me to speak openly without judgment.

I have also learned what true friendship means. True friends show up, and they stay. My best friend of more than thirty-five years, from New York City, comes to be with me each year before February 28, the day Kevin died. She is here with me even now as I write this. She carries the memories with me and does not look away from the sorrow. That kind of faithfulness is sacred. It soothes my heart.

TREASURE…

Q: What have you, maybe unexpectedly, discovered that has brought you joy along this path?

Unexpectedly, I discovered that joy did not disappear, even though happiness did. Happiness belonged to the life before. Joy belongs to the life I am learning to live now. It is quieter, more reverent, almost hidden.

For a long time, I lost my sense of self. I was breathing and enduring, but not living. Slowly, through patience and grace, my heart has begun to open again. Not to forget, but to allow life to enter alongside sorrow.

I do not believe in toxic positivity. Joy does not erase pain. It appears in sacred, ordinary moments.

It is making Kevin’s favorite foods and feeling close to him. It is walking around my community lake, letting the rhythm steady my soul. It is hearing his laughter in memory before tears come. It is receiving notes or messages from his friends and family members.

It is sunrises and sunsets. Waterfalls, rainbows, and cardinals. My granddaughters’ laughter. And hearing his nieces speak of “Uncle Kevin” with love and ease.

Kevin is painting Paw Patrol for his nieces.

When his name is carried forward in their voices, it feels like music to my soul. These moments do not erase the ache. But they remind me that love remains, and I refused to allow death to triumph over love! After all, love never dies.

If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to share it with someone who may need hope. And if you are a bereaved parent, I would be honored to hear your child’s name.