Exactly one year to the minute when my phone rang with the news about Manny.

The call that shattered our world. It’s been a brutal year. But I am in a different place at 3:05 p.m. today than I was at 3:05 p.m. last year, lying on the floor trying to comprehend the unthinkable.

When people ask how I’m doing, two answers run in parallel.

In one lane, I still can’t believe it. Manny? The last kid you’d ever imagine. The whole thing still feels like it doesn’t fit — with his personality, his humor, his presence, the life he lived. Even the idea that I’m writing emails like this, speaking publicly, hosting a concert for a thousand people… about suicide? None of that feels like who I am. It feels like I got cast in the wrong role.

But the other lane tells a different reality.

I’ve spent a year reading, listening, and thinking. And the more I’ve learned, the more obvious it becomes that the version of me that still says “this shouldn’t be me” is the mindset that blinds so many of us – that blinded me. The belief that “it can’t be my kid… it can’t be this friend… it can’t happen in my circle” is the thinking that prevents us from taking the actions that might make a difference.

“Oh, I’m not worried about him.” Yeah, that’s it … right there…that’s the deadly “it’s not my problem” problem that stands in the way of us getting help for the people we love.

When I look from that lane back at the other, it’s becoming painfully clear how it could happen — and how it will happen again unless we change what we notice, how we talk, and how we show up for each other in the most personal, intimate ways.

Personally, these posts have become part of how I show up for others and my mourning process. Thank you for letting me use this space. A year from now, I may feel differently than I do today. Perhaps some of what I’m saying will change in the future.

But on the one-year anniversary of the worst phone call, here’s the 10-point summary of how I understand what happened – we can call it The Manny’s Band Thesis:

• Our kids are living in an entirely different world than the one we grew up in — their smartphones, social media, and now AI are accelerating a mental health crisis that we parents are neither equipped for nor yet acknowledging.
  
  
• Depression is a killer disease, like cancer. But unlike cancer, we don’t recognize its danger. We don’t take it seriously. We don’t have the same fear of depression, yet it kills three times as many of our kids.
  
  
• There is a lot of “awareness” around mental health and suicide – lots of posters, t-shirts, and social media posts. However, Manny suffered alone and did not receive help because no one connected a vague sense of “awareness” of a general problem “out there” to the specific individual right in front of us. The suicidal mind doesn’t allow the victim to seek help for themselves … so he died.
  
  
• As with anyone suffering from a disease, not everyone who is taken for treatment survives — but many do. Our job is to give our kids and friends every possible chance. While the individual suffering with suicidal ideation is not likely to seek treatment for themselves, it’s up to us – those around the victim –– to make that happen.
  
  
• The “it’s not my problem” is a powerful force. It is the obstacle that keeps us – those around the victim – from taking steps to help.
  
  
• The “signs” do not show up as neon road signs, and Hollywood has given us an inaccurate view of what we think we are looking for. When we assume “it’s not my problem,” then we do not see signs when and if they do appear. In hindsight, Manny offered dozens of signs – I never saw.
  
  
• Because you can’t always see it and don’t know what you’re looking for, I believe the most important thing you can do to prevent youth suicide is to periodically ask direct questions and have honest conversations – even when you don’t think you need to.
  
  
• But we don’t do this. Fear, ignorance, and social mores prevent us from talking about mental health and suicide at the individual and personal level. And when no one has permission to point things out – the people in the picture don’t see what’s in the picture.
  
  
• What’s required is a cultural paradigm shift — that permits us to talk openly and honestly about mental health and the risks of suicide, and suicide prevention not as a “problem out there,” not as national statistics, but rather as part of the normal challenges of our lives and our kids’ lives, discussed openly* among family and friends as we talk about other health issue or potential dangers. (*Note: talking about the specific details of an individual death by suicide – the how/where – is not recommended.)
  
  

This is hard. It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. We’ll need practice.

So that’s where Manny’s Band Practice came from.

Manny’s Band Practice is small-group QPR suicide prevention training, held in someone’s living room, basement, garage, or wherever your circle feels comfortable.

A group of trusted adults and friends come together to learn how to have real conversations about what we’re looking for, what to do, and most importantly, practicing doing it. It’s not therapy. It’s not a seminar. It’s not more awareness. It’s practice — with your band of friends – the same way you’d practice for any show that matters.

When a small group gets together and has a shared experience, there’s a connection and a permission to talk that comes from it – if you’ve been to baseball practice, dance practice, or play practice – you’ve experienced the cast, crew, or team building a special connection. And that’s how we are going to attack that stigma everyone keeps talking about . . . not just by posting on social media about what “you should do” but rather, by showing up and doing it.

So a year later, that’s where Manny’s Band is going. That’s the “why” behind the concert last week and the focus of the year ahead.

No, Manny’s Band Practice won’t end all youth suicide.
But I believe it would have saved Manny.

And I believe it can save a very large number of kids like him.

Most nonprofits chase numbers that can be tracked, measured, and reported. But Manny wasn’t really all that great at math. He loved people, his friends, and all the different kinds of music they could make together. A year after his death, our effort in Manny’s name is chasing numbers that will never appear on a spreadsheet.

We’re in pursuit of the phone calls you’ll never receive.