I HOLD YOU CLOSER

I want to kill myself today.

That WhatsApp message from my little brother, Arman, buzzed in my crossbody purse just as we lined up for lunch at the Mandarin, a popular buffet-style restaurant in town. It was Thursday, August 1st, 2019, just after 11 a.m. in Eastern Canada. Due to the time difference, it was already evening in Kazakhstan.

A cold wave rushed through my body, freezing my thoughts. My heart stumbled, then shattered into a million pieces. I forced myself to stay composed. 

I was in a public place with my two young daughters, their father, and our close friends beside us. It was meant to be a family vacation in Ontario, a “let's-try-to-save-our-marriage” trip. Our hosts, Bryan and Maria, were longtime friends. Bryan had been a pastor all his adult life, and I clasped to a fragile thread of hope that his wisdom might be the lifeline I needed to believe I was doing the right thing by giving my marriage one last chance. 

“He won’t do it,” Bryan said about Arman’s words to me. “He’s just manipulating.” 

I was gutted by my pastor friend’s response—wounded by how swiftly he dismissed both my brother’s pain and my own.

My first message to Arman was clouded by that comment, but I quickly caught myself.

What am I doing? 

I texted him again, recklessly, as fast as my fingers could move:  Arman, my dear, I need you so much. I love you endlessly. Please don’t do it. I need you. 

Going on that trip was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I was already overwhelmed—struggling with my marriage, under financial pressure, and most of all, consumed with doing everything I could to support Arman as his mental health continued to spiral downward. Thousands of miles and opposite time zones separated us, and I was barely holding on. I desperately wanted to go back to Kazakhstan, be with him in person, and manage his care more closely, but I was completely alone in my fight for my brother. Even my then-husband didn’t support my urge to go.

Arman wasn’t just my younger brother; he was my heart. More than a sibling—he was like my firstborn. That might sound strange unless you knew what we endured growing up: narcissistic, abusive parents; a household ruled by fear, control, and survival. Our bond was a rare blessing amid all that darkness. We became each other’s safe place, and in his most fragile moments, Arman trusted me. That message—his cry for help—was the fruit of that bond. One thing even our mother couldn’t destroy, no matter how hard she tried to divide us.

I had been fighting for Arman’s life since May 2018, when he first called me in the middle of a panic attack, his voice trembling with fear. He believed in me. He believed I could help. He still had a flicker of hope. But I failed him.

The doctors failed him.

Our family failed him.

His friends failed him.

The system failed him.

We all failed him.

That night, he survived—thanks to a friend who managed to get ahold of him and stayed on the phone for two hours. Research shows that a caring voice can save a life. That night, it did.

We returned home from our trip on a Saturday night. The next morning, I woke up at 5:15 a.m. to multiple messages from Arman. He was in pain. Deep, unbearable pain. I knew he didn’t want to die, but the suffering had become bigger than his will to live, and the environment around him remained toxic, abusive, and cold. 

Even after his previous suicide attempt, no one truly showed up for him. Not his friends. Not our parents, whose quarrels and cutting words echoed through his days, deepening his wounds and making him feel like a burden. 

I thought I was doing the right thing, finally following the doctor’s advice, giving him space, and leaving him alone. To this day, I quietly wrestle with the weight of guilt, wishing I had known then what I know now.

This time, my search for him was frantic. I called, texted, and reached out to anyone who might know where he was. My hands were shaking. My thoughts were racing. I was begging the universe, someone, anyone, to help me find him.

Around 8 a.m., my sister called. The police had found Arman.

You are gone…

You stepped into the sky…

I believe God welcomed you

and with the wings of heaven

you flew up like an angel…

I searched for you so hard

I called everyone I knew

I begged them to find you

but you are gone.

You will never return...

They called me to say

that your body was found

your broken body without life…

I screamed hysterically no, it cannot be…

Where is my dear, where is my beloved

little brother, where is he?

My house shook from crying

my children ran to their mother

We hugged and cried…

Pain was filling our house….

And eerie groans filled the walls…

Our hearts broke into pieces.

We have lost you forever.

We need you. We love you.

I can only cry to the skies…

(Excerpt from FIVE A.M. by Dana Kurmasheva)

It’s impossible to put into words what happened to me. The news shattered me. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming and crying, calling his name, unable to believe that this was it. He was gone.

I had made so many mistakes. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t fight the medical system. I couldn’t convince our parents how serious his condition truly was. And I had listened to the heartless voices around me that called him weak, manipulative, and attention-seeking.

Many knew Arman as one of the kindest souls—with a huge heart, deep love, and a sharp, witty sense of humor. He was in his prime, building a successful career as an oil and gas engineer. 

Friends and colleagues from around the world approached me with heartfelt messages. His closest friends even paid for his gravestone. And yet, many of those same people had once judged him harshly when his personality shifted, when he grew withdrawn and unrecognizable, and when the joyful spark in him began to fade.

It was the worst nightmare I’ve ever experienced, and it felt like it would never end. I was completely alone—devastated, paralyzed by fear, with no one to turn to. Until the very end, I clung to the illusion that our parents might finally show some form of unconditional love. I didn’t go see my brother. I wasn’t by his side. I was sending money, finding doctors, contacting friends, and battling with our parents, who blocked me and ignored my pleas. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed—fourteen months—and how drastically his mental state had deteriorated.

Now I see it clearly: my brother was incredibly strong for holding on as long as he did. He carried the weight of his despair for over a decade, ever since I left him behind when I immigrated to Canada.

Conditioned to live by abandoning his own needs and silencing his own dreams, he poured all his energy into everyone else.

Facing my own suicidal thoughts became the heaviest burden of all. Only later did I learn—from Dr. Alan Wolfelt’s The Wilderness of Suicide Grief—that survivors of suicide loss are at high risk themselves. It’s not just the ambiguous and devastating nature of the loss; we grieve multiple layers at the same time. In my case, it was a staggering amount of loss all at once.

In the deepest agony of mourning, it was as if a veil suddenly lifted from my eyes, awakening a piercing question in my soul…

What am I doing with my life? 

That moment marked the beginning of a slow, painful, yet valuable transformation—both within me and around me. I chose healing and released the relationships that no longer nurtured my growth. I let go of the false hope in a marriage that had starved my spirit, and I began listening to my intuition, my dreams, and the signs I believed were from Arman. With determination, I searched for answers and opened every door to healing, even the ones that frightened me. 

Hiking in the mountains, sensing every breath of nature around me, spotting signs and images in the clouds on my walks, falling in love with hot yoga and Neurographica drawing, capturing beauty through photography, and being as present as I could for my daughters—these were my undeniable efforts to heal and to slowly rebuild myself and my life.

I know Arman wants me to live the life he didn’t have—a life that’s fulfilling and free. His passing taught me that I must care for myself and honor my own needs first, so I can truly be there for my daughters and others. So I embraced my healing and, for the first time, began showing up for myself. I gave myself permission to feel every feeling, to move through the raging waves of grief with gentleness and compassion.

Then I started writing, as if Arman were guiding my hand. 

I hadn’t written poetry since high school, but one day, I had to confess honestly, “I have to let it all out, or it’s going to kill me.” Writing became a pivotal part of my healing. My grief, my love, my hope, and the insidious monsters of guilt and unforgiveness—every word was soaked in my tears and heartbreak.

Writing became not only a crucial part of my healing, but it also grew into something far greater than I could have imagined. It gave me the voice I had never dared to use before and led me to a beautiful discovery: the gift my brother had left me. My book FIVE A.M. The Silence After Goodbye was published, and it carries not just my voice, but Arman’s, as well. His poetry and songs are woven throughout its pages, bringing his spirit and words back to life.

Alongside writing, I was unexpectedly drawn to get a tattoo. It wasn’t something I had ever considered before, but this decision came straight from the heart. I chose to have our special nicknames inked on my arm—in Arman’s own handwriting. Seeing his words etched into my skin brought a deep sense of peace, comfort, and hope. It’s a reminder that he’s still with me.

The brick we dedicated to him in the park behind our house has become another meaningful connection. When my daughters and I walk our dog, we always pause there—at this simple memorial by the entrance. Nature was Arman’s refuge, and in that space, his spirit feels tangible, soothing our souls. 

We feel that same love and presence every time we look at his photos on the wall. I often find myself talking to him, tracing his face in the frame, as if he’s right here with me, in my home.

Inviting close friends for lunch on the anniversary of his passing, decorating our Christmas tree, and sharing cake and dinner on his birthday in November aren’t grand gestures. They are sacred rituals—heartfelt acts of love that help me carry him forward while learning to carry myself. Through these moments, I show my daughters that grief is simply love that never leaves us, and that our connection with loved ones can become even stronger than before.

As I reflect on my journey through grief and healing, I carry profound gratitude for my brother and the unexpected gifts he blessed me with: the courage to find and use my voice, and the calling to share our story. 

Our story is not mine alone—your story matters, too. 

We are not meant to walk through life or loss alone. As humans, we are created for connection—to stand beside one another in the brightest joys and the deepest sorrows; to celebrate life together, and to learn, painfully yet beautifully, how to say goodbye.

If you’re grieving, please remember this truth: you are not alone. You never have to be. 

In the darkest moments, when silence feels eternal and your heart unbearably heavy, know that there are others who see you, who hear you, who walk beside you—even if from a distance.

I stand here, speaking openly about grief and healing—through my book, through this story, and through every chance I get to break the silence—along with many brave-hearted souls across the globe.

Grief is a language of love, a testament to the depth of our connections. It may twist us, break us, and reshape us, but it also teaches us what it means to be deeply human. Through grief, I have learned to live with tenderness for myself and for others, and to carry pain and hope side by side. I’ve come to understand that healing is not a final destination but a winding path we walk together, hand in hand, as one village, lifting and supporting each other through the ever-changing seasons of loss.

To my beloved brother Arman: all I have left now is to hold you closer—in every memory, in the silence between words, in speaking your name aloud, and in every breath I take. Your love still guides me, softly threading its light through all that I am becoming, leading me forward—beyond time, beyond goodbye.

(November, 2025. © Dana Kurmasheva.)