IN MY VIEW | Between taboo and truth: how we talk about suicide

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Openly discussing suicide is one of the most uncomfortable and misunderstood public conversations of our time.

When an admired celebrity with a platform appears to give reasons for ending his life, it can look like a form of permission — especially to people who are already vulnerable, isolated or ambivalent about staying alive.

Any hint that ending one’s existence is being presented as sensible, admirable or “brave”, risks legitimising it in the eyes of those who are desperate for a way out, and who may latch onto that message more strongly than any caveats or warnings.

There is a very real risk that a carefully nuanced message is heard only as, “if they can do it, so can I” — and once that impression takes hold, it is difficult to undo.

The challenge is to acknowledge both dangers honestly: the danger of legitimising or glamorising self‑harm on the one hand, and the danger of abandoning people in unspoken suffering on the other.

At the same time, keeping suicide wrapped in taboo has not stopped people from dying.

Silence is not neutral; stigma and secrecy drive suicidal people underground, into deeper isolation and shame, often cutting them off from understanding and support.

It simply pushes them into deeper isolation, abandonment and shame, often without understanding and support.

Globally, more than 700,000 people die by their own hand every year — roughly one in every 100 deaths — while intentional homicide claims about 400,000 lives.

Despite the fact that suicide kills far more people than murder, we pour our outrage, airtime and resources into the violence we can see, and comparatively little into the despair that turns inwards.

Critics reply that some measure of social disapproval reflects a deep intuition that life should be protected, and they worry that loosening it could weaken social restraints against self‑harm.

Those who want these conversations in the open insist that they are not trying to promote death, but to acknowledge a reality that already exists.

The effect of silence is not neutral. Stigma and secrecy drive suicidal people underground, where desperation grows in isolation and where they are least likely to be reached by those who care.

Behind all these arguments are real people whose suffering is anything but hypothetical.

Many live with severe, long‑term psychological pain that can be as intense and unrelenting as physical agony, yet is often dismissed because it cannot be physically seen.

Detractors worry that equating mental anguish with terminal physical illness overlooks the fact that mental states can sometimes shift dramatically with new circumstances or treatments.

They believe that keeping end‑of‑life decisions tied to physical terminal illness is a safeguard: mental states are more fluid, they say, and blurring this boundary could expose more people to irreversible choices made in changeable conditions.

These questions collide with how we practise medicine.

Our health systems and medical advances have created an industry out of pursuing every possible intervention to gain more time.

For many people approaching the end of their remaining years, quality matters as much as quantity, yet our systems and narratives often treat prolonging life as an unquestioned good, even when it extends misery and ignores whether that extra time is still experienced as meaningful or bearable.

Doctors counter that their primary ethical duty is to preserve life, and that building formal “quality of life” thresholds into decisions risks sliding into subjective value judgments about whose life is worth sustaining.

At the heart of this lies the question of autonomy: whether we are willing to take seriously a person’s own assessment of what matters to them, what they can bear, and the point at which continued existence no longer aligns with their deepest values.

Opponents argue that a person’s capacity to assess “what they can bear” may be distorted by depression, trauma or hopelessness, and that society should be cautious about treating these assessments as final.

Those who raise the issue of self‑euthanasia often have a long history with the mental‑health system.

Many have spent years seeking help from therapists, psychiatrists and doctors; their decision is the end point of a long journey through medicines, therapies, hospital admissions and self‑help, not a rash shortcut.

Others respond that no amount of past distress guarantees that the future could not be better, and that a history of failed treatment does not entitle anyone to assistance or social validation of taking one’s own life.

While new treatments and spontaneous improvements are always possible, professionals cannot ethically guarantee that a person’s severe, longstanding mental misery will lift.

For some, insisting that individuals cling to hopes others are asking them to carry on faith is a further burden.

Critics reply that even if change cannot be guaranteed, the mere possibility justifies encouraging people to stay alive, because death closes off all future chances of relief.

Families stand to be deeply affected, whatever is decided.

Sudden, hidden suicides can produce unique trauma, guilt and unanswered questions; transparent, honest communication, even amid disagreement, can at least give loved ones a chance to talk, grieve and say goodbye.

Some relatives, however, may find a drawn‑out, planned self‑inflicted death even more traumatising, leaving them feeling like powerless witnesses to something they cannot, in conscience, accept.

Bringing these conversations into the public sphere has potential benefits.

It can show communities how widespread suicidal distress is, teach people to recognise warning signs and encourage responses marked by empathy rather than condemnation.

But publicising such narratives can also politicise and polarise the issue, turning deeply personal torment into yet another culture‑war battleground that may not ultimately serve those who are most vulnerable.

Beneath all this lies the familiar fear of the slippery slope, especially for disabled, elderly or otherwise vulnerable people.

Those concerns must be taken seriously wherever changes to law or medical practice are considered.

Some believe that the only truly safe way to avoid such a slope is to maintain a firm prohibition on any form of self‑euthanasia endorsement, however confined.

Rebalancing our priorities toward quality as well as quantity means being willing to ask uncomfortable questions about what a good life, and a good death, might look like, and to accept that there may not be a single answer that fits everyone.

Creating space for thoughtful, responsible discussion is not about telling people that death is the answer.

It is about telling people that their pain matters, that their voices count, and that society is willing to listen honestly to those whose distress has not yet been relieved.

Sceptics counter that no public conversation can truly control how it will be heard or used, and that some questions are so grave they belong, if anywhere, behind clinical and family doors.

Between these positions lies the landscape we now have to navigate: a world where suicide is both a public health crisis and a moral taboo, where medicine can extend life but not always alleviate suffering, and where we must decide whether speaking openly is a risk we are willing to take in the hope of offering something better than silence.