Tiffany McLeggon | When silence becomes the loudest cry

Every September, headlines remind us that it is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. Posters go up, hashtags trend, and speeches are delivered. But when the microphones are turned off and the lights are dimmed, one is left to wonder: what changes in the quiet corners of our homes, classrooms, and workplaces?

The truth is, the most dangerous cries for help are not always loud. They are often wrapped in silence, sealed behind a smile, and buried under the narrative that “I’m fine.”

Suicide is not only a statistic, it is the echo of unspoken pain. It is the empty chair at the family dinner table, the call that never will be answered, the text that will never get a reply, the song that a friend will never sing again. In Jamaica, we often reduce the conversation to “mental health issues” or “the need for counselling”. While those are critical, they are not the full story. To talk about suicide honestly, we must talk about shame, silence, and the culture that makes asking for help feel like weakness.

CULTURE OF STRENGTH AND BURDEN OF SILENCE

In many societies, including here, strength is glorified. From a young age, boys are told to “man up” and suppress their feelings, while girls are expected to “hold it together” for their families. Vulnerability is equated with fragility. When people do reach a breaking point, the language we use is merciless: “weak”, “attention-seeking”, “ungrateful” and others.

But isn’t it ironic? We are a country that knows struggle intimately, whether through colonial scars, economic hardship, or the daily battle with taking care of our needs or crime and inequality. We celebrate resilience in music, sports, and politics. Yet we do not extend the same grace to those who are fighting battles within.

When silence becomes a survival strategy, people learn to mask their despair. And then, when they are gone, we are left asking the question we should have asked when they were alive: “Why didn’t they say something?”

Awareness campaigns are important, but awareness without transformation is shallow. We know the hotline numbers. We know the slogans: “You are not alone,” “It’s okay to not be okay.” But the people who need to hear these words most often do not believe them – because awareness is not the same as belonging. You can know all the information in the world and still feel like nobody would understand you if you spoke up.

True prevention means creating communities where honesty is not punished. It means schools where guidance counsellors are not overloaded and workplaces where wellness is not reduced to an annual workshop. It means pastors and leaders who do not spiritualise depression away but sit with people in their valleys. It means friends who listen without rushing to fix, and families who can say “I love you” without condition.

There is also a need to shift how we perceive risk. The stereotypical image of someone at risk of suicide, withdrawn, visibly sad, or openly hopeless, is misleading. Many who die by suicide are high-functioning, outwardly successful, even joyful. They laugh with colleagues, post inspirational quotes, and volunteer at church, while privately battling exhaustion that no amount of sleep can cure.

We should not only ask, “Who looks depressed?” but also, “Who is carrying too much without relief? Who is always the strong one, the helper, the leader, the ‘reliable’ friend?” Sometimes the ones holding everyone else together are themselves falling apart.

THE QUESTION WE MUST ASK

So where do we go from here? The most radical question we can ask ourselves not only during Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, but every day of the year, is not, “How do we stop suicide?” but “How do we build lives worth living?”

Because prevention is not just about crisis intervention. It is about reimagining a society where hope is accessible, where support is visible, and where people are not merely surviving but thriving. A society where mental healthcare is affordable and stigma-free. Where teachers are trained to spot emotional distress as quickly as academic struggle. Where men can cry without ridicule, and women can rest without guilt. And where young people are not dismissed as “too sensitive” but recognised as carrying the weight of an uncertain future.

We owe each other more than pity after the fact. We owe each other presence in the now. A check-in message. A willingness to sit in silence. The courage to ask, “Are you thinking of hurting yourself?” without tiptoeing around the truth. And just as importantly, the courage to answer honestly when the question is asked of us.

The late Jamaican poet Louise Bennett once reminded us that “every mickle mek a muckle” – small things add up. A conversation today may be the mickle that tips someone toward tomorrow.

It is important that we resist the temptation of platitudes. Instead, let us commit to becoming people who notice, people who listen, people who make it harder for silence to be the only option. Suicide prevention is not just the work of counsellors and hotlines. It is the work of neighbours, Fireworks, teachers, church sisters, bredrin, and breda.

In other words, it is the work of all of us.

The loudest cry is not always the one you hear. Sometimes, it is the silence sitting right next to you. The real question is ... will you notice?

Tiffany McLeggon is a youth leader and communications professional. Send feedback to mcleggontiffany@gmail.com