Strong But Not Invincible: Suicide Prevention and Mental Health for Therapists & Helpers

I’ve spent most of my professional life in spaces where people look to me for answers, guidance, or comfort. It’s sacred work that I value, but it comes with something I didn’t fully understand when I first began this journey as a therapist. People start to see you as the one who always has it together. They assume you’ve made peace with your own storms, that you know how to hold it all, and that no matter what’s happening in your own life, you’ll show up the same way — calm, composed, capable. I don’t know if it’s society that plants that seed or the nature of the work itself, but once it takes root, it grows quickly, shaping how others see us, and sometimes, how we start to see ourselves.

A Culture that Expects

The culture often expects therapists to be strong, even when they need support too.

I’ve noticed it in the way people look at me, expecting reassurance that I’m okay. I’ve felt that expectation in subtle ways, in the questions I’m asked, in the pauses when I answer honestly, in the way people’s eyes search my face to see if I’m as “together” as they thought. And the truth is, therapists are human. We have our tired days, our quiet days, our days when the weight of the work and the world lingers longer than we’d like.That’s the part people don’t always see. Many of us work surrounded by good people and good intentions, yet we still hold the weight because we don’t feel safe putting it down. And for those of us in the helping professions, admitting we need to set it down at all can feel like its own act of courage, especially in a culture that expects us to always be the strong one.

Heaviness in Silence

Many therapists can recall moments when they knew they needed something — a break, a moment, a shoulder — and still didn’t ask. Not because they were trying to be martyrs, or because they believed no one cared, but because putting words to those needs can feel complicated. When you’ve spent your life being the one people turn to, it becomes easy to forget how to turn toward others. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That it’ll pass. That you’ve made it through worse. And you keep going — quietly, carefully — hoping next week will feel lighter. It’s not that therapists don’t know how to ask for help — we spend our days teaching others how. But when the roles are reversed, it feels different. The words don’t always come as easily.

There’s a quiet and persistent fear that being honest about our needs will shake something loose. That the people who trust us will start to see us differently. And so we show up anyway. We smile. We get the work done. We convince ourselves we’re fine. Even surrounded by other helpers, it’s possible to feel like you’re carrying something no one else can see. And that, I think, is what wears on us the most — not the work itself, but the weight of holding our own heaviness in silence. And while many of us learn to live with that silence, tragically I’ve seen how it can become an unbearable burden for others.

Like a Liability

Years ago, I shared a few clients with another therapist. We didn’t work for the same organization, but our paths crossed often — through the foster care system, through mutual professional circles. I didn’t know her closely, but I knew enough to see that she was good at what she did. She was kind and cared about the young people she served. She showed up and leaned in. But she also carried things privately. Things most people didn’t see.And one day, we got the news that she had died by suicide.

Even the most capable helpers may carry silent struggles no one else can see.

Even now, I remember how shocked everyone was. People kept saying, “She didn’t seem like someone who was struggling.” But the part that’s stayed with me most is learning that before she died, she checked herself into the hospital. She tried to get help. She stayed for a few days and then told them she was okay — that she was ready to go home. And they let her. Maybe she told them what they needed to hear. Maybe she knew the language, the checkboxes, the tone to use. After all, she was a therapist. She knew the system. She knew the language of survival — and perhaps that’s what made it harder for anyone to truly see her pain. And then she went home, and ended her life.

I was struck by both the loss and the idea that someone who worked in the helping profession, surrounded by other helpers, still didn’t feel like she had anyone to turn to. No one she could be completely honest with, nor a space where her truth wouldn’t feel like a liability.

She worked in a group home at the time. After her passing, the decision was made not to share the truth with the kids. Instead, they were told she had to leave the job abruptly — that she was sorry she couldn’t come back. I can understand that choice. Explaining something so complex to young people is never simple. And yet, I still wonder: what might have happened if that moment had been used differently? If someone had found a careful way to open a conversation about pain, pressure, and the courage it takes to ask for help before things spiral? Those questions have stayed with me, shaping the way I think about prevention — not just in moments of crisis, but in the everyday choices that help us hold on.

Intentional Choices

When people talk about suicide prevention, they usually start with crisis hotlines and emergency contacts — and those things are important. But in my experience, prevention begins much earlier.

It often begins quietly, in subtle shifts we tend to overlook — like the way our body tenses when we say yes to something we didn’t really want to do. Or how we feel ourselves shutting down after certain conversations, but push through anyway. Or how we start telling ourselves, It’s not that bad, just to make it through the day.

For many helpers, the breaking point doesn’t come all at once. It builds slowly — through overcommitting, over-functioning, and putting ourselves last again and again. That’s why I think prevention looks more like a practice than a plan. It might be choosing not to pick up that extra shift, even when the money is tempting. It might be deciding to keep the older car because the idea of another monthly payment feels like too much. It might be recognizing that even though we give great advice to others, we also need someone to process with — and making the call to schedule our own therapy.

Sometimes it’s as simple as asking ourselves the same questions we ask our clients: What do you need right now? What are you avoiding? What would feel like care today?

It’s not always about grand gestures. More often, it’s the small, intentional choices that help us stay connected to ourselves — so we’re not waiting until everything is unraveling to pay attention. But even with those choices, we can’t always see clearly when we’re slipping — which is why how we care for each other matters just as much as how we care for ourselves.

Miss The Moments

Even with the best intentions, there are days when we don’t notice how heavy it’s gotten. We minimize what we’re carrying. We say we’re fine — and almost believe it. That’s why wellness can’t be sustained in isolation. We can do all the self-check-ins, set all the boundaries, and practice all the awareness in the world… and still need someone else to notice when we’re slipping.

Some of the hardest people to support are the ones who help others for a living. Not because we don’t need support, but because we’ve learned how to keep going — even when we shouldn’t have to. We know how to manage the conversation, how to offer just enough vulnerability to be relatable, but not so much that anyone worries. We know how to say, “I’m good,” and make it sound believable — not because we’re lying, but because it feels safer. And most of the time, people take us at our word. Especially when they’re used to seeing us as capable, dependable, composed. But that’s where we, as helpers, have to shift how we care for each other. It can’t just be the occasional check-in or a quick “You good?” in passing. It has to be more intentional than that.

Sometimes it looks like noticing the change in someone’s energy and gently naming it. Sometimes it means showing up — not with a solution, but with soup. It might look like offering a quiet weekend away, even if it’s just a drive and some fresh air. Or making the call instead of sending the text. Or staying in the conversation a little longer when someone hesitates before they answer. We work in spaces that ask so much from us emotionally. And if we wait for each other to ask for help, we’ll miss the moments when help is most needed. Which is why the responsibility of care can’t fall only on the individual — it has to be something we carry together.

A Collective Responsibility

I think we like to believe that strength will protect us — that if we keep going, keep working, keep smiling, the hard things won’t catch up with us. But strength without care, without rest, without support — it isn’t strength. It’s survival. And survival has a cost.

Wellness isn’t sustained in isolation. It takes care, connection, and community.

When we talk about suicide prevention, the conversation often centers on crisis: the safety plan, the emergency response, the call you make when everything feels like too much. And those things matter. They abs

olutely matter. But I’ve learned that prevention often begins in much quieter places. It starts in the ways we care for ourselves before we reach the edge. And in the ways we care for one another, even when nothing seems “wrong.”

We say, “You don’t have to go through this alone.” And I believe that. But being there for someone — truly being there — is more than finding the right words. Sometimes it means staying present when someone has nothing to give back. Sometimes it’s bringing a meal without waiting to be asked. It’s hearing their silence and refusing to disappear into your own busy life. It’s texting again, even when they haven’t responded. It’s sitting with them while they cancel plans, break down, or whisper, “I just can’t today.”

And sometimes, it means being that same kind of presence for ourselves — noticing our own fatigue before it turns to numbness, giving ourselves permission to rest without justification, letting ourselves receive even when we’re used to giving. Healing doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it looks like making it to bedtime. Sometimes it looks like asking for help in a whisper. Sometimes it looks like showing up for someone without expecting them to show up for you first.

We don’t have to do everything. We just have to stop doing it alone. And when we choose to carry the weight together, even in small ways, we remind each other that survival isn’t the only option — that care, connection, and hope are possible, too.