Traveling with Despair: Consent, Compassion, and Care in Suicidal Crisis

When Death Feels Like the Door: Spiritual Tending and Suicide 

There are times in many lives when continuing feels unbearable. When suffering is relentless, and death seems like the only door left open. And some survive a loved one’s suicide—carrying grief, anger, confusion, and a longing for meaning. Suicide touches us all, and spiritual care providers must be willing to enter these conversations with clarity, compassion, and courage.
This post honors the complex truths of suicide, speaks plainly about the responsibilities and limits of spiritual tending, and offers guidance for companions who want to respond with both ethics and care.  This post is especially for spiritual companions , chaplains, and care givers—those who sit with others in spiritual crisis, but I hope friends and family will find some resources here as well.

 

Things to consider

1. Sovereignty and the Right to One’s Life

Your life belongs to you. For those facing terminal illness, chronic pain, or relentless suffering, having options at the end of life is part of dignity. Attempts to override a person’s autonomy—especially through coercive mental health interventions—can cause deep harm. Spiritual companions must resist the urge to “fix” or “rescue,” and instead bring presence, honesty, and respect.

2. Death Is Not a Cure

And still: depression, despair, disability, isolation—these are not failures or moral flaws. They are human experiences. And they often change. Most problems do get better. Even if nothing improves externally, the meaning-making process can shift our orientation toward life. Spiritual direction can help seekers rediscover a reason to live, not through persuasion, but through presence and sacred attention.

3. Systemic Realities and Legal Responsibilities

Spiritual directors and companions are not exempt from the laws of their region. In some states or contexts, we are mandated reporters. In others, we are not. Regardless, we have ethical obligations to be transparent about what we will do if someone discloses suicidal intent.

This should always be covered during intake:

• Whether you are a mandated reporter
• What sorts of disclosures require you to take action
• What kind of action you may take if someone shares they are planning to die
• What steps you will take before involving authorities or others
• How you will involve the person in decision-making
• How consent and confidentiality are navigated in this work

4. Asking the Hard Questions Is a Kindness

Too often, companions avoid asking directly. But avoidance communicates fear or shame. Consent-based spiritual companionship allows for honest, nonjudgmental checking-in:

• Are you thinking about ending your life?
• Do you have a plan?
• Are you open to making a care plan together?
• Can we involve your emergency contact in this conversation?

These questions are invitations, not interrogations. Asked with consent, they affirm a person’s worth and open up room for safety and choice. Sometimes, just being able to speak the truth with someone who is not reactive is all the gift someone needs.

5. Supporting Survivors of Suicide

Those who have lost someone to suicide carry a unique grief. They need space to speak the unspeakable, to rage, to wonder, to find their own story again. Spiritual direction can offer a rare space where there is no pressure to resolve or sanitize the loss.

6. Training and Preparation

Taking a Mental Health First Aid course or an Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) can give you essential tools. All humans, but especially those in caring professions do need enough grounding to respond wisely and compassionately when someone is in crisis.

Nothing about us without us!

When looking for resources on mental health care, especially regarding suicide, make sure that the training includes and centers the voices of those who have been suicidal. 

Mandated Reporting and the Potential for Harm

Spiritual companions sometimes hold deep fears when someone expresses suicidal ideation. In many places, laws around “mandated reporting” add another layer of complexity. But legal responsibility is not the same as ethical or relational care—and jumping straight to emergency response can do more harm than good.

Involuntary interventions, especially police-led “wellness checks” or psychiatric holds, can be terrifying, disempowering, and even dangerous—particularly for marginalized people. Black, Brown, disabled, queer, and trans individuals are often at greater risk of violence or trauma when law enforcement is involved. Even when intentions are good, calling 911 may escalate rather than de-escalate a crisis.

Many who have survived suicidal moments speak of the harm they experienced from forced interventions: being treated as criminals, handcuffed instead of comforted, or retraumatized rather than supported. Often, what they most needed was someone to listen without fear, without trying to control them.

As spiritual companions, we must:

• Be up-front during intake about whether we are mandated reporters and what that means in our context.

• Clearly communicate what kinds of disclosures might trigger a report, and what steps we would take before involving any outside authority.

• Prioritize consent and collaboration whenever possible.

• Examine our own impulse to “fix” or manage another’s pain. Are we acting from love—or from fear, control, or our own discomfort?

If you’re unsure whether to involve outside help, pause. Talk with the person directly. Ask what support would feel safe to them. Seek supervision or consult colleagues before escalating a situation. And make space for continuing education rooted in the lived experiences of suicidal people—especially those from oppressed communities. One excellent resource is the Wildflower Alliance, which offers trainings grounded in peer support and alternatives to coercive systems.

Some Possible Options

People often ask: If we don’t call the police, what can we do?

There’s no single answer—but many people who have lived through suicidal crises have shared what did help, and what made things worse. Their wisdom invites us to expand our imaginations beyond emergency response toward more human, connected care.

Some ideas to consider:

• Give people time. If someone doesn’t reply right away, it doesn’t mean they’re in danger. Many of us sleep, unplug, or feel overwhelmed. Wait before assuming the worst. Of course, if you know someone is in active danger, trust your instincts—but often, giving space honors their autonomy and avoids unnecessary escalation

• Distinguish levels of risk. Suicidal ideation is not the same as imminent intent or action. Ask consent-based, clear questions: Do they have a plan? Are they in immediate danger? Are they open to co-creating a care plan?

• Activate mutual care networks. A friend nearby might be able to check in gently and in person. Someone trusted—who knows the person and their context—can often help more than a stranger in uniform.

• Discern medical needs. If someone clearly needs medical help, an ambulance may be appropriate. But this is different from a police-led “welfare check,” which often lacks trauma-informed or mental health training.

• Build support in advance. Encourage people to create a care web: a few folks who agree to be contacted if something feels off. This shifts the paradigm from crisis response to community resilience.

• Offer joy and connection. Sometimes, the smallest gestures bring the most comfort: a silly meme, a voice message, a gift card, a shared memory, a child's drawing, or just your steady presence. These may not solve everything—but they remind someone they are not alone.

Whatever the options are, it can be helpful to have a list of referrals and ideas at hand. Reach for this list during a conversation, rather than trying to create it in the moment. Be prepared with alternatives to the "911" option!

At the heart of it all: people want to feel seen, not surveilled; supported, not controlled. In our spiritual accompaniment, we can center consent, creativity, and compassion—walking alongside someone even when we cannot take away their pain.

Try It: Consent-Based Crisis Conversations

Next time you’re in conversation or a check-in that touches on despair, try this:

• Begin with clear consent: “May I ask you a few direct questions about how you’re doing, even if the answers might be hard?”
• Use direct language with care: “Are you thinking about taking your own life?”
• Offer collaborative choices: “What would support look like right now?” “Can we make a plan together that helps you stay connected and safe?”
• Respect their pace: “Would you like to involve someone else you trust in this conversation?”

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

When Spaciousness Feels Like Abandonment: On Being Directive Enough

A Sacred Container of Kindness with Structure

Power exists in every relationship. In spiritual companionship, it’s essential to acknowledge that power — not to misuse or ignore it, but to hold it with intention and care. Pretending the relationship is fully equal can actually create harm, especially when the explorer is vulnerable or unsure of the process. 

Ethical companionship means naming and carrying the responsibility that comes with holding space. We don’t dominate or dictate — but we also don’t disappear. The seeker is not looking for control, but for a steady presence: someone who can offer a sacred container where openness is paired with structure, and freedom is framed with kindness.

The relationship between a helper or spiritual caregiver and the person being companioned isn’t a democracy. In fact, trying to give away the power and responsibility that comes with the companion’s role can lead to the explorer feeling abandoned. Often, what the seeker truly needs is hospitality with structure — a compassionate vessel to hold their journey.

I often see a kind of over-correction — in couples, in spiritual companioning, and in well-intentioned attempts to be kind. Someone wants to be generous, open, and non-controlling… but ends up avoiding responsibility altogether.

We don’t want to dominate or control, so we don’t offer structure at all. We say things like:

• “I don't know, whatever is fine.”
• “What would you like to talk about today?”
• “Well, it’s really up to you.”

And those phrases sound kind. But in many moments, they leave the other person feeling… a bit lost. Or even abandoned.

This has me reflecting deeply on what spiritual companionship and leadership require. Sometimes, in our desire to avoid control or hierarchy, we swing so far toward “letting it unfold” that we leave people untethered. Spaciousness becomes vagueness. Non-directiveness becomes abandonment disguised as kindness.

While the explorer (or seeker) might say they want openness, there are moments when they’re actually asking:

“Can you help hold me while I find my way?”

“Whatever You Want, Dear”: Over-Accommodating in Relationships

You’ve probably seen this dynamic: one person in a couple tries to be accommodating by never naming a preference. They say things like, “Whatever you want, dear,” or “I’m fine with anything.” And while that might seem polite, it can become maddening.
Because sometimes, what the other person really wants is partnership. Co-creation. Someone else to carry the load of decision-making. The unspoken question underneath may be:

“Can you help hold this moment with me?”

That kind of passivity — even when well-meaning — shifts all the responsibility onto the other person. And over time, it erodes connection.

Spiritual Companioning with New Explorers: Structure is Care

In a first or early spiritual direction session, the explorer may have no idea what this work can be. Maybe they signed up because they’re seeking, or someone recommended it, or it just felt right.

As a companion, if I open with “So what would you like to talk about today?” — I might be offering freedom. But I might also be offering fog.
If someone is unsure what spiritual companioning is, one of the kindest things we can do is to name the possibilities and offer a gentle framework:

“Some people bring a recent experience or feeling they want to explore more deeply. Others start with a dream, a decision, or even just a longing they can’t quite name. Would any of those feel supportive to you today?”

That’s not directive in the sense of control. It’s inviting with structure. It’s a form of hospitality.

When the Companion Has a Suggestion: Leadership with Consent

There are also moments when I, as a companion, feel an inner nudge to offer something — a question, a practice, an image from a tradition, a shift in focus.
This isn’t “telling the seeker what to do.” It’s offering a possible path with spaciousness and care. The difference is in tone and consent:

“I have something arising I’d like to offer — a possible thread we could explore together. Would you like to hear it?”

Even in mutual models like Anam Cara, where roles alternate and shared presence is central, spiritual direction isn’t a democracy.

 It’s a sacred container, one held with intention and awareness. And containers — to be safe — need shape.

Timbisha Shoshone food/presentation bowl CC0

Particular Focus: When Non-Directiveness Isn’t Loving

In spiritual direction, we’re often trained to hold silence, to wait, to mirror back. That’s beautiful, and often exactly what’s needed.
But not always.

Sometimes, a question like “What would feel supportive to you right now?” isn’t as kind as simply offering:

“Would it be helpful if I named a few ways people navigate this?”

When someone is floundering, we can discern whether they need a mirror to reflect their own knowing — or a lifeline to steady them until they find their footing.

That’s not directive in the controlling sense. It’s offering structure with consent — meeting the seeker’s need with care, not control.

That structure is often what allows them to re-center, rather than drift away.

Try It: Reflect on These Questions

1. Have you ever hesitated to offer guidance for fear of being too directive? What happened?
2. What helps you know when a seeker wants choice versus when they need structure?
3. In group settings, how do you hold shared leadership while still offering direction and care?

Leading with consent and hospitality doesn’t mean abdicating your role. True presence includes noticing when structure is needed and offering it without control. That’s part of the sacred trust we carry — not to steer someone’s journey, but to help hold the vessel as they navigate it. When we honor the power that comes with this role and offer it with transparency, kindness, and humility, we create a space where seekers can rest, risk, and return to their own deep knowing.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

The Sacred Fire of Anger

Making Friends with Anger

A reflection for spiritual companions and seekers alike

There is a kind of fire that burns clean.

Too often we are taught to fear anger. To suppress it, silence it, spiritualize it away. We are told that “good” people are calm, measured, forgiving, never furious. Especially those of us socialized to be caretakers—women, queer folks, BIPOC, disabled folks—we are often expected to bear injustice quietly, or at most with polite critique.

But righteous rage is sacred. It is holy energy. It says: this is not okay. It fuels resistance. It fuels change. And it can also fuel care.

Fiery outline of the word LOVE, CC0

When my mom was dying of cancer, I found myself filled with an anger that surprised me. Anger at the disease, at what it was stealing, at the helplessness of it all. But that fire lit something in me. It gave me the energy to speak brave, vulnerable words to her—words I might not have dared if I’d only stayed in grief or numbness. 

Anger gave me the energy to show up for an abused elder, advocating for his safety and doing what needed to be done to remove him from the dangerous situation. That anger didn’t turn violent. It created boundaries. It was fierce love.

Anger doesn’t have to mean harm. In fact, when we repress it, that’s when it turns inwards—into shame, illness, bitterness. But when expressed wisely—at the right time, in the right way—it can open doors to healing and justice.

Woman holding torch with blue background, CC0

Sometimes I curse to myself—mutter sharp words, swear under my breath, or speak with a kind of fire that helps move the energy through me and out. It’s not always pretty, but it’s honest. These words are often born of a need to stay grounded, to give form to my anger so it doesn’t fester unspoken. Anger, after all, is movement—it wants expression, wants release. In those moments, I don’t fear the heat of my words. I let them rise, trusting that even rage can be sacred when it flows rather than festers.

And sometimes I joke that I want to cast a curse. But not a curse meant to cause misfortune or harm. No, the curses I imagine are acts of transformation. A spell like: “May you be filled with compassion.” Or: “May you feel how your words land on someone’s spirit.” Or: “May the next person you try to insult surprise you with their dignity.” These are the kinds of spells I want to send into the world—fierce and clear, rooted in care. They arise from a place where anger meets love, where the commitment to change burns just as hot as the outrage itself.

As spiritual companions, we often sit with those whose anger is tangled up in grief, trauma, or injustice. Our role is not to calm them down. Our role is to hold space for their fire, and help them discern how to use it. Anger might be the very thing that empowers someone to set a boundary, or to leave a toxic system, or to speak truth after a lifetime of silence.

Welcoming fire in stone fireplace, CC0

In a world that is constantly offering reasons to feel powerless—racism, transphobia, climate crisis, war—it is anger that can move us from despair to action. It is anger that interrupts complacency. And it is anger, strangely, that sometimes helps us love better. Because we care that much. Not the kind of love that is about being nice, or even kind, but fierce love—the kind that tells the truth, that shows up, that protects the most vulnerable. The kind of love that makes change.

May we give ourselves, and those we walk with, permission to feel angry.

May we learn to channel that energy into courageous compassion.

And may we honor the sacred fire—not to destroy, but to illuminate the path toward justice and wholeness.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy