On a cold autumn night in Saint Petersburg, Russia, a little bundle of joy was born—Alfred Komlev.
In August 1999, when Alfred was nearly two years old, we brought him and his younger sister, Lolita, to the United States. Like many immigrants, we came in search of a better life—one we worked hard to build.
When Alfred turned 17, he came to me holding a stack of papers. "Mommy, can you please sign these?" he asked.
I looked at the forms and asked what they were. With pride in his eyes, he told me he had decided to join the U.S. Air Force.
"Mommy, I want to give back to the country that adopted us and gave us endless opportunities—opportunities you never had growing up."
That little brat. How could I say no to that?
I signed the Delayed Entry Program forms, and Alfred officially enlisted at 17.
Alfred served in Security Forces (Military Police). His first duty station was Thule Air Base in Greenland, followed by an assignment at Aviano Air Base in Italy. Sadly, he was only in Italy for 48 days. The transition was difficult, and I could tell from our frequent conversations—two to three times a day—that he was struggling.
Yes, he was a mama's boy. I was his best friend outside of the military.
On September 17, 2016, Alfred made his final calls. One by one, he told each family member: "Goodbye. I love you. Never forget it."
Alarmed, I contacted the Red Cross for a wellness check. But by the time help arrived, Alfred was already gone.
At 2:56 a.m. on September 18, we received a knock on the door. A chaplain informed us that Alfred had taken his own life.
Life changed forever—for me, for his father, his three little sisters, his friends, his brothers in uniform, and for everyone who loved him and looked up to him.
Alfred was 5'6", 220 lbs—a big, gentle bear full of love, compassion, and humor. He was always there for others, guiding them through their darkest moments. But he kept his own pain hidden. He didn't ask for help. He didn't want to seem weak.
And now, instead of holding my precious son, I hold a folded flag in empty arms.
Eleven months later, Alfred's little sister, Lolita, joined the Air Force to honor his legacy. She was in basic training on the first anniversary of his passing.
While stationed at Nellis Air Force Base, Lolita was sexually assaulted.
On top of her grief, she now faced a new trauma. And yet—she reached out for help.
She feared being labeled broken or weak, but she knew that staying silent was far more dangerous. She understood the devastating ripple effect that suicide can leave behind.
Lolita chose life. She chose healing.
She recently re-enlisted and is doing well. She is the definition of resilience, strength, and courage.
Please remember: There is no shame in asking for help.
The Aftermath of Suicide
During Suicide Awareness Month, we often talk about prevention—how to recognize warning signs and intervene. But we must also talk about postvention: the aftermath, the wreckage, and the lifelong journey of those who are left behind.
Suicide is a thief. It doesn't just take one life—it robs everyone left behind. It takes away futures we dreamed of:
- The mother-son dance at a wedding
- Watching our children become parents
- Celebrating graduations
- Seeing them chase dreams and build a life
What remains feels like the aftermath of an earthquake. Survivors are left to pick up the shattered pieces and somehow rebuild a life that will never be the same.
We live with:
- Shame
- Regret
- Anger
- Blame
- Abandonment
- Fear—that it could happen again
But we also live with love, with memory, and with the strength to speak truth in a world that still struggles to talk about suicide.
If there is one message I hope you carry with you today, it's this:
There is help. There is hope. And there is no weakness in reaching for it.
I hope this touched your heart and you will always choose life.
988 – Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
With Love,
Tatiana Oddson
Alfred's mom.