Mrs. Jayne Runyon still remembered the phone call.

She was 20 when her cousin Frank died by suicide—the first of four losses she endured.

Decades later, the questions lingered—the guilt, the “what ifs,” the shock.

For Runyon, suicide is not a distant issue but a lived reality that shapes how she teaches, grieves and speaks about mental health.

Runyon and Frank grew up in the same hometown, as close as cousins could be. They shared inside jokes—too inappropriate to repeat—and grew tighter through junior high and high school.

After classes at Streator High School, the pair worked the night shift together at Hardee’s, laughing between orders and closing down the line side by side.

When he died, she said, the grief came with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

“I beat myself up that I wasn’t there for him,” Runyon said. “I was kind of living my own life in college and hadn’t kept in touch as much, so I had a lot of guilt with the feeling that maybe I could have said something to save him.”

If she called. If she set up lunch. If she checked in.

“It’s not rational, and I knew it wasn’t rational,” she said. But she couldn’t shake the feeling.

That first loss became a shadow she couldn’t outrun. Years later, she got more calls—each one reopening a wound she thought had begun to heal.

“I’ve lost people in accidents, to cancer and Alzheimer’s,” she said. “But nothing equates to getting the dreaded call.”

In 2019, while preparing to teach her eighth-hour class, Runyon learned her 30-year-old niece Cailtlyn had died by suicide.

Even though her niece had struggled with mental health before, she seemed to be doing better.

“No matter how many losses you’ve experienced, nothing prepares you for that,” Runyon said. “Suicide just hits different because of all the questions it leaves behind for everyone else.”

Each time, the grief found its way back.

“My body remembered the grief even when my mind thought I’d moved on,” Runyon said. “It remembers the date. It just remembers, and it holds that tension. Until you let it out, you’re in its grips.”

As the years passed, Runyon chose to meet that grief by speaking about it. In her classroom, she decided grief wouldn’t be something she hid. She told students they could sit, breathe and be honest.

“I always made sure when I was a teacher here that I shared with students that I was a safe space,” Runyon said. “If they were anxious, I understood. Sometimes they would just come sit on the couch in my room, and they didn’t even have to say anything. Sometimes it’s just knowing someone else understands.”

For Runyon, the act of sharing became its own kind of healing.

Therapy, she said, helped her begin to process what talking alone couldn’t.

“It lets you verbally process—to get it out and then have someone give you questions and things to think about,” she said.

She believed that connection—to a counselor, a friend or a teacher—was essential.

“At our school, we have the dream team of counselors,” she said. “I’ve taught for 34 years, and they’re phenomenal. They have access to good resources and work closely with Project Oz and other community programs.”

Through her losses, Runyon learned that silence helps no one.

“Talk to someone,” she said. “Share it with someone. All you have to say is ‘I’m struggling.’ It’s so important to take every single thought seriously. Problems are temporary. Suicide is permanent.”

Runyon knew that talking about those she lost could still make her emotional—but that was a price she was willing to pay.

“When you lose someone, people don’t want to bring it up because they think you’ll cry,” Runyon said. “And I might—but that’s okay. I’d rather have you remember the person I loved, so I know they meant something to someone else, not just me.”

If you or someone you know is struggling, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline offers free, confidential support 24/7. Call or text 988 to reach a trained counselor, or chat at 988lifeline.org.