There is an empty chair that follows me wherever I go. Sometimes it’s in the corner of the room, quiet and dignified. Other times it takes center stage, impossible to ignore. This chair holds the space for those I’ve lost—friends, colleagues, mentors. People I loved. People who were helpers, too. Mental health professionals who carried the burdens of others until they could no longer carry their own.
I don’t remember when the losses started. Grief has a way of bending time. But I remember Erica’s laugh, Jasper’s radical tenderness, Benjamin’s fierce intelligence, and Josephine’s steady presence. I remember their gifts. I remember their pain. I remember getting the calls. And the silence that followed.
For a long time, I did what many of us do: I kept going. I taught. I listened. I helped. I held space for others while secretly wondering if anyone would hold space for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk about it—I just didn’t know where. Or how. Or if it would even matter.
Then, someone told me about Survivors After Suicide, the 8-week support group at Didi Hirsch. I signed up. I sat in a circle of strangers who had also been cracked open by loss. And for the first time in a long time, I felt less alone.
There’s a particular magic in shared grief. It doesn’t fix anything. But it makes the unbearable slightly more bearable. In that circle, I didn’t have to explain why I couldn’t “move on.” Everyone understood that grief isn’t a thing to get over—it’s a thing we carry, a love that didn’t get the future it deserved.
I began to heal. Not in a linear way, but in a human way. I cried. I laughed. I told the truth. And I began to remember something I had forgotten: the healing power of creativity and expression.
That’s when I returned to an old love—psychodrama. Born in the early 20th century by J.L. Moreno, it’s part theater, part therapy, part raw, radical honesty. In psychodrama, you don’t just talk about what happened—you show it. You step into a scene. You reverse roles. You replay a goodbye that never came, or say the thing you’ve held in your chest for years. It’s not acting. It’s truth-telling. It’s what I now call Catharsis Theater.
This is the work I do today. I’ve trained in these methods, steeped myself in the wisdom of experiential healing, and now I offer Catharsis Theater events throughout Los Angeles—and recently, in Paris, our first international gathering. We bring together those who have lost someone to suicide and offer them something words alone cannot: the chance to be seen, heard, and witnessed through action. Our mantra? Don’t tell me. Show me.
It’s not therapy, but it is therapeutic. It’s the best of theater, the best of therapy, and—honestly—the best of humanity. We cry, we laugh, we rage, we remember. And that empty chair? It’s there, too. But now, it sits among many others, surrounded by people who understand. Who care. Who stay.
I continue to love those I’ve lost. That love hasn’t faded—it’s just taken new forms. I carry Jasper in my creativity. I see Erica in every courageous soul who stands center stage. I feel Benjamin when I teach, and Josephine when I pause to listen deeply. We do not move on. But we do move forward, together.
If you’ve lost someone to suicide, I hope you know this: your grief matters. Your story matters. And you are not alone. Whether it’s through a support group, a piece of art, or a moment of shared silence in a room full of strangers, there are still places where we can heal.
The chair is still empty. But the room is no longer quiet.
About the author
Brian Stefan is a licensed clinical social worker, educator, proud staff member of the Didi Hirsch Suicide Prevention Center since 2015, and founder of the California Grief Center. After experiencing the loss of multiple friends and colleagues to suicide, he combined his background in psychodrama, grief work, and group therapy to create Catharsis Theater, a therapeutic theater experience for communal healing. He facilitates events locally and internationally and teaches social work at both the undergraduate and graduate levels.
