My son’s first attempt at suicide was in March, 2020.

He was 11 years old.

I haven’t written about it before now, and very few people even know that it happened. We kept it very quiet, mostly because he didn’t want anyone to know. It ate me up inside, and because I wasn’t writing about The Thing, I couldn’t write about anything. I threw myself into work. I wrote about racial injustice. I navigated the hell that is virtual schooling during a pandemic.

I did not write.

A writer who isn’t writing is either struggling with depression (check), overwhelm (check), or panic (double…