The Young People We Forget After Suicide

Four months after her estranged father took his own life, a 15-year-old girl sits across from me in my consulting room. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t rage. She doesn’t ask why. She simply tells me she’s tired.

It’s a sentence I hear with increasing frequency — not just from teenagers who have lost a parent, but from those who have lost a friend. In Australia, we speak at length about preventing suicide, and rightly so. But what we rarely talk about are the young people left behind. The sons, daughters, classmates and teammates who wake up the next morning carrying questions they can never get answered. Suicide doesn’t just end one life. It radiates outward — into families, schools, footy teams, group chats, gaming communities and entire peer groups. And those caught in the blast are often the least supported, the least noticed, and the least understood. Whether the person lost is a parent or a close mate, young people often experience grief that is complicated, contradictory and deeply unsettling. Most deaths provoke sadness. Suicide triggers something much more layered. Teenagers ask themselves questions that cut straight to the bone: “Should I have seen the signs?” “Could I have stopped it?” “Was I not worth staying for?” “Why would someone my age do this?” These thoughts aren’t rare; they are overwhelmingly common. And they can be devastating. Research from around the world shows that teens bereaved by suicide — whether of a parent or friend — are at significantly higher risk of anxiety, depression, substance use, school refusal and, most concerning, suicidal ideation. When someone your own age or someone who created you dies this way, it can distort your understanding of what is possible or even thinkable.

For young people who lose a parent they weren’t close to, or a friend they’d recently fallen out with, the emotional maze becomes even more complex. “How do I grieve someone who wasn’t really there?” “Is it wrong to feel numb — or even relieved?” “Am I allowed to be angry at them?” These are normal questions, but because we don’t talk about them, young people often feel they’re grieving “incorrectly”, adding shame to an already overwhelming experience. When a child loses a friend to suicide, parents often feel uncertain, overwhelmed or frightened. They want to say the right thing but fear saying the wrong one. They are grieving too — grieving their child’s innocence, their own sense of safety, the realisation that their teenager’s world is far more complex than they imagined. But teenagers do not need perfect sentences. They need calm. Predictability. Honesty. A sense that the adults around them can withstand powerful emotions without collapsing or panicking. Presence beats perfection every time.

If there is one message I’d deliver to every principal and teacher in Australia, it is this: a student grieving after suicide must not be left to drift. Young people rarely walk into a school office and announce they’re falling apart — they show it through slipping grades, irritability, withdrawal, lateness, zoning out, or simply looking “different” in ways only attentive adults pick up. Whether the loss was a parent or a friend, schools must be actively, deliberately supportive. That means assigning a designated safe adult on staff — someone the student knows they can approach without judgement. It means monitoring academic performance, not to penalise them, but to catch the early signs of struggle. It means maintaining predictable routines, because structure is comforting when the rest of their world feels chaotic.

It also requires compassionate flexibility: extensions where appropriate, reduced homework loads, quiet spaces when needed, and an understanding that emotional dysregulation is part of trauma, not “acting out”. Schools must keep clear lines of communication with home, checking in with parents about mood, sleep, behaviour changes and social dynamics. And most importantly, teachers must understand that a drop in concentration, motivation or behaviour after a suicide is not defiance. It’s grief. It’s the brain’s executive functioning going offline under the weight of trauma.

Doing nothing isn’t neutral. It is, in fact, one of the most damaging responses a school can offer. When adults pull back, assume the young person is coping, or expect them to “soldier on”, students interpret it as a message: no one sees me. Early, proactive support isn’t a luxury — it’s a protective factor that can prevent depression, school refusal, substance use and even further suicide risk. Schools can’t undo the tragedy, but they absolutely can determine whether a young person feels held — or alone — in its aftermath. Our suicide-prevention strategies are improving, but our postvention response in schools  — the care for those left behind — is patchy at best. Every child affected by suicide deserves timely counselling, coordinated care, school-based monitoring, follow-up for at least a year. Right now, it’s a postcode lottery. Many receive no formal support at all.

The 15-year-old girl in my office — exhausted, polite and doing her best — deserved more than silence. So do the countless teenagers mourning a friend whose death makes no sense to them. If we truly care about young people, we must stop treating suicide as the end of a story. For those left behind, it is the beginning of a long and vulnerable journey. And we have a moral responsibility to walk it with them. Anything less risks failing them twice.

Why Australia's Sober Teens are Our Most Radical Generation Yet

For decades, Australians have treated alcohol as a social passport. To refuse a drink was to risk ridicule. “C’mon, just one” was as much a part of adolescence as acne and awkward school photos. But something is shifting, and it’s happening in the very demographic most marketers assumed would keep the grog flowing: our young people.

Across Adelaide — and increasingly across the nation — Gen Z is turning its back on booze. They are gathering for matcha raves instead of beer barns, swapping shots for sober socials, and asking a revolutionary question: do we actually need alcohol to connect, belong, and have fun?

As a psychologist who has spent decades working with young Australians, I find this trend nothing short of thrilling. In an era where anxiety, depression, and self-harm rates among young people remain unacceptably high, the fact that more teenagers and twenty-somethings are making conscious, health-positive decisions about alcohol is a story worth celebrating.

Why the change? For one, this generation has grown up watching their parents drink — and not always in healthy ways. They’ve seen the fallout: family fights, risky behaviour, the emotional toll of dependency. Unlike previous generations, they’re prepared to say, “No thanks.”

They’re also more health-savvy than any cohort before them. These are young people raised on wellness apps, brain science TikToks, and a cultural shift that frames alcohol not as a rite of passage but as a carcinogen, a depressant, and a sleep-wrecking agent.

And then there’s the economic reality. With cost-of-living pressures biting, the price of a night out on alcohol looks increasingly absurd. Why fork out $18 for a cocktail when you can buy a green tea, feel sharp the next morning, and still make it to uni tutorials or work shifts on time?

The benefits for mental health are obvious. Alcohol is a depressant. It amplifies anxiety, lowers mood, impairs judgment, and increases impulsivity — a dangerous mix in a cohort already navigating intense academic, social, and digital pressures. Removing alcohol from the equation makes space for genuine connections and healthier coping strategies.

As one young Adelaidean put it, “Drinking is inconvenient. You can’t drive, you can’t do things, you’re kind of confused.” That kind of clarity is gold for young people trying to hold down jobs, pass exams, and manage friendships in an increasingly demanding world.

What’s fascinating is how quickly culture is adapting. Venues now stock sophisticated alcohol-free beers and mocktails. Daytime parties powered by tea or kombucha are no longer niche but mainstream. In fact, businesses ignoring this shift risk losing an entire generation of customers who simply don’t see intoxication as entertainment.

Compare this to 10 years ago, when choosing soda water over sauvignon blanc was seen as suspicious. Now, it’s a sign of maturity. We’ve gone from “prove you can hold your drink” to “prove you can hold a conversation without one.” That’s real progress.

Of course, we must be careful not to romanticise this completely. Some young people will still misuse alcohol, and binge drinking remains a stubborn part of our culture. But for the first time in my professional life, I can see a real cultural tipping point.

If we want to support it, parents should resist the urge to pressure kids into drinking “like everyone else.” Schools should include sober socialising as a legitimate and positive lifestyle choice in health education. And policymakers must keep investing in public health campaigns that reinforce the benefits of moderation or abstinence.

There’s something deeply hopeful about this story. For years we have labelled Gen Z the most anxious generation in history. And yet, in their rejection of alcohol, they are showing extraordinary resilience and clarity. They’re rewriting what it means to be young in Australia: less about hangovers and regret, more about agency, authenticity, and mental health.  That’s not boring. That’s brave.  So let’s drop the outdated stereotypes about “kids these days” and recognise what’s really happening. A generation is quietly staging one of the most radical health revolutions of our time. They’re not losing out on fun. They’re gaining freedom. And for once, it’s the adults who could stand to follow their lead.

Urgent Action Needed: Social Media’s Neglect of Our Children’s Safety

As a child and adolescent psychologist, I am deeply alarmed by the rampant exposure of young people to graphic violence on social media. The recent assassination of Charlie Kirk has tragically thrust this issue into the spotlight, revealing a shocking reality: social media companies are failing to protect our children from trauma that should never be normalized.

Every day, I see young clients haunted by horrific footage they've stumbled upon online. This is not just unfortunate; it’s an outright crisis. As whistleblower Frances Haugen stated, “Facebook prioritizes profits over safety.” This is not merely a corporate oversight; it’s a moral failure that endangers the mental health of our youth.

The technology exists to filter out this graphic content. Advanced algorithms can detect and remove violent material before it reaches users. We have seen this capability in action with other types of inappropriate content. So why are social media giants allowing violence to proliferate? The answer lies in their misplaced priorities, where engagement trumps ethics.

Recent studies have underscored the urgent need for change. Research from the Royal Society for Public Health found that the longer children spend on social media, the worse their mental health becomes. Specifically, children who spend more than two hours a day on social media are significantly more likely to report poor mental health, including anxiety and depression. This alarming data reinforces the idea that prolonged exposure to potentially harmful content is detrimental to our children.

As Australia's eSafety Commissioner, Julie Inman-Grant has emphasized, “We need a digital environment where young people can thrive.” She has been vocal about the need for greater accountability from tech companies, stating, “The onus is on platforms to ensure that harmful content is removed quickly and effectively.” This is critical, as the desensitization to violence among young people is alarming. They grow up believing that brutality is just a part of life, leading to anxiety, depression, and distorted perceptions of reality.

We, as parents, educators, and mental health professionals, must take a stand. It’s time to demand accountability from social media companies. We need stricter regulations that hold these platforms responsible for the content they host. Empty statements after tragedies are no longer enough; we need real change that prioritizes our children’s mental well-being.

Moreover, conversations about media literacy are crucial. It’s not just about shielding our children from graphic images; it’s about empowering them to critically assess what they see. We must equip them with the tools to navigate this violent landscape and understand its impact.

The assassination of Charlie Kirk is a wake-up call. We cannot allow this moment to pass without demanding change. As Haugen warned, “The system is rigged.” We must insist on transparency in content moderation and advocate for safer online spaces. Inman-Grant has also pointed out, “If we want to see the change, we need to be the change.” Our children’s mental health should never be sacrificed for profit.

We are not powerless in this fight. We can push for change and create environments where our children can thrive without the threat of violence in their feeds. The technology is available; it just requires our collective will to ensure it is used responsibly.

In conclusion, the urgency of this issue cannot be overstated. We must unite to hold social media companies accountable for their negligence. Our children deserve a future where they can navigate the online world safely, free from the trauma of graphic violence. It’s time to take action—our children’s well-being depends on it.

Generation Under Pressure: Why 2026 Could Break Young Australians

If you think young Australians are doing it tough now, brace yourself. By 2026, they’ll be staring down a perfect storm of pressures that make today’s youth anxiety epidemic look like a warm-up act.

Let’s start with the mental health crisis. Waiting lists for psychologists are already obscene, and despite endless hand-wringing from politicians, they’ll still be there in 2026. That means thousands of young people will continue to fall through the cracks — untreated anxiety, depression, eating disorders and self-harm behaviours becoming a grim daily reality. It’s not just tragic; it’s policy failure on a national scale.

Next up: education and work. In the age of artificial intelligence and disappearing job security, Year 12 exams are more than just stressful — they feel like a matter of survival. Students know their futures hinge on a brutal contest for a shrinking pool of stable, well-paid jobs. The result? More sleepless nights, more pressure-cooker classrooms, more young Australians feeling trapped between old pathways like university and precarious gig work that promises little security.

Then there’s the economy. Housing insecurity will bite even harder in 2026. Forget the Aussie dream of owning a home — for many young people, even renting will be a nightmare. Sky-high prices, chronic shortages, and the reality of living with Mum and Dad well into their twenties will fray family relationships and delay milestones like independence and starting a family.

Of course, young Australians don’t get to log off from the digital world either. Social media is already a relentless engine of comparison, cyberbullying and toxic content. By 2026, immersive technologies like the so-called “metaverse” will make it even harder to draw a line between reality and online life. Governments can promise regulation all they like, but as long as Big Tech puts profit before children’s wellbeing, our young people will pay the price.

And let’s not forget the looming spectre of climate change. Bushfires, floods, and a steady drumbeat of doomsday headlines are fuelling eco-anxiety on an unprecedented scale. For this generation, climate change isn’t an abstract future threat — it’s an existential backdrop to their adolescence. That sense of helplessness and dread will only intensify if we keep dithering.

Finally, there’s social fragmentation. Fewer young people are volunteering, civic engagement is sliding, and family structures are shifting. Add the poison of political polarisation — amplified by online echo chambers — and you’ve got a generation caught between hope for collective action and despair at the noise and nastiness of public life.

Put bluntly, 2026 will test young Australians like never before. The stressors are relentless, overlapping, and in many cases, entirely foreseeable. What’s unforgivable is that so many of them are preventable.

We don’t need another glossy government strategy. We need urgent investment in mental health services that actually meet demand. We need schools that prioritise resilience and adaptability, not just ATARs. We need digital regulation with teeth, not platitudes. And we need a climate policy that treats eco-anxiety not as teenage melodrama but as a rational response to government inaction.

The choice is ours: equip young Australians to thrive in 2026, or abandon them to sink under pressures they didn’t create. To do the latter would not just be negligent — it would be an unforgivable betrayal.

TikTok and the Teenage Self-Diagnosis Epidemic

By Dr Michael Carr-Gregg

If you’re a parent, teacher, or policymaker and you’re not worried about TikTok’s role in adolescent mental health, you should be.

Right now, millions of young Australians are bypassing GPs, psychologists, and psychiatrists — and turning instead to influencers and algorithms for answers about their wellbeing. Google has been replaced by TikTok. Evidence has been replaced by anecdotes. And self-reflection has been replaced by self-diagnosis. The results? Confusion, contagion, and in some cases, catastrophe.

The research is damning. Less than 15% of mental health content on TikTok comes from professionals. Over half of ADHD videos are misleading. Autism, trauma, and DID content is riddled with errors. Algorithms push this material at teens even if they aren’t searching for it.

During COVID, we saw a wave of functional tic disorders linked directly to TikTok content. That’s not awareness — that’s algorithm-driven iatrogenesis. Iatrogenesis is the unintended causation of a disease, injury, infection, or other harmful complication as a direct result of medical intervention or treatment, including diagnosis, therapeutic procedures, drugs, errors, or negligence. It reflects any adverse effect on a patient that is not considered part of the natural course of their underlying condition but instead results from external activities. 

Adolescence is a perfect storm: identity confusion, peer pressure, and a brain wired for risk-taking. TikTok dangles easy answers: vague “symptom lists” that fit anyone (the Barnum effect), confirmation bias delivered on demand, and a culture where mental illness is normalised — even glamorised. Be clear, the platform doesn’t just reflect teen struggles, it shapes them.

To be fair, social media isn’t all bad. I am a big fan of the work of Dr Julie Smith a UK psychologist. Dr Smith began documenting her insights in short TikTok videos in 2019 after realizing that lasting therapeutic knowledge often feels inaccessible. She wanted to empower more people outside the therapy room by distilling psychological concepts into quick, digestible content. Her creative use of props (think overflowing "stress buckets", trauma filled waste paper baskets, fish tanks, or finger-trap metaphors) makes complex concepts like emotional regulation and anxiety relatable—without sacrificing clinical accuracy. Teaching through visual metaphors is a hallmark of her content, has resonated so well that she’s amassed millions of followers and is a trusted voice.

Unfortunately research shows that not all the content is as good. Parents report fractured relationships. Schools see distracted, distressed students insisting they “have” disorders based on TikTok clips and clinicians like me, spend valuable session time unpicking myths spread by influencers.

We don’t need another moral panic. We need action:

Parents: Talk with your kids about what they’re watching. Model healthy screen use. Don’t outsource mental health care to an app.
Schools: Make media literacy as fundamental as maths. Enforce phone-free classrooms.
Clinicians: Ask about social media use at intake. Offer credible alternatives.
Platforms: Stop pretending. Enforce algorithm transparency. Flag unverified health content.

TikTok is not going away. But if we leave our kids’ mental health in the hands of algorithms and amateurs, the cost will be enormous.

Young people deserve better. They deserve professional help, credible information, and adults willing to guide them through the noise. Self-awareness is healthy. Self-diagnosis on TikTok is not.

Adulthood is chock-full of disappointment. Our kids need to face the truth.

James Sicily, the captain of my beloved Hawthorn, is lining up for a crucial set shot at goal with just 63 seconds remaining in the 2024 AFL semi-final against Port Adelaide. He hits the post and, ultimately, the Hawks lose the match by three points, ending our finals campaign.

There was one emotion that united all Hawks fans at that moment, and it was disappointment. Whether it’s a missed goal, a failed exam, or the cancellation of a long-anticipated event, disappointment is woven into the fabric of life.

Yet, in my decades of working with young people, I have witnessed a growing reluctance – among parents and society at large – to allow children to experience and learn from disappointment. Instead, we rush to shield them, to smooth the path, and to rescue them at the first sign of distress. In doing so, we rob them of one of life’s most important teachers.

Disappointment, far from being an enemy, is a practice lap for adulthood – a necessary training ground where young people develop the resilience, perspective, and coping skills that will serve them throughout their lives.

When we allow young people to encounter disappointment, we give them the opportunity to process and label emotions. This emotional literacy is a cornerstone of mental health.

Each setback, when navigated with support rather than avoidance, becomes a stepping stone towards greater resilience. The ability to bounce back from disappointment is a skill that will be called upon repeatedly in adult life.

Disappointment teaches young people that setbacks are not the end of the world. It encourages them to step back, assess situations objectively, and reframe negative experiences in a constructive light.

Learning to manage disappointment without immediate adult intervention fosters autonomy and problem-solving skills – qualities essential for successful adulthood.

In recent years, there has been a well-intentioned but ultimately misguided trend towards overprotection. Parents, anxious to spare their children pain, intervene at the first sign of trouble – calling teachers to dispute grades, negotiating with coaches for more playing time, or simply removing obstacles altogether. This concierge parenting can go too far, undermining the authority and boundaries that young people need to thrive.

The result? A generation less equipped to handle life’s inevitable disappointments. When children are not allowed to fail, they do not learn that failure is survivable. When every setback is cushioned, they miss the chance to develop the grit and tenacity that adulthood demands.

So, what advice can this heritage-listed child and adolescent psychologist give parents when their offspring has to face disappointment?

First, resist the urge to immediately fix the problem. Step back and allow your child time to process their feelings and find the words to express them.

Next, help them assess the situation objectively. A reality check gets them to evaluate whether it is really as bad as it seems.

Importantly, don’t let disappointment fester into resentment or anxiety. Encourage constructive reflection rather than rumination.

Finally, do talk about it when they are ready, as encouraging expression can help young people process disappointment in a healthy way. Young people work much better as processing plants for emotions than sterile containers.

Simple techniques, such as deep breathing, can help manage the physiological response to disappointment, keeping young people in “thinking mode” rather than “reaction mode”.

Adulthood is not a series of uninterrupted triumphs. It is, more often, a journey marked by challenges, setbacks, and the need for adaptation. By allowing our children to experience and learn from disappointment, we are not being cruel – we are preparing them for reality. We are teaching them that randomness and chaos happen in the universe, that life can be tough, that things can go wrong, and that what matters most is how we respond.

As parents and caregivers, our role is not to eliminate disappointment but to walk alongside our young people as they navigate it. We must model resilience, encourage positive thinking, and provide the support they need to emerge stronger from each setback.

James Sicily will have other kicks, and Hawthorn will rise again, just as our children will face new challenges and setbacks. If we can teach them to greet disappointment not with fear or avoidance but with courage and curiosity, we will have given them a gift far greater than any fleeting victory.

Michael Carr-Gregg is an adolescent psychologist and the author of 18 books on mental health.

https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/adulthood-is-chock-full-of-disappointment-our-kids-need-to-face-the-truth-20250523-p5m1qd.html