Suzette Pope
1957 – 2025
Suzette’s story is not only about struggle
it is about the consequences of silence inside families and the possibility of healing through truth.
PROLOGUE
For six months after her death, Suzette’s body remained in a Calgary morgue.
That fact alone forces a difficult question.
How does a person who once stood on stage singing in front of friends, who once belonged to a circle of people who cared about her, end her life in such silence that even her final arrangements are delayed for half a year?
Suzette’s story does not begin with that moment, but it is where this memorial begins.
Because that moment cannot be ignored.
Her life was complex. Like many people who struggle with depression, Suzette carried a deep sense of abandonment that followed her through much of her adult life. Relationships were often difficult. Connections sometimes broke down. Family history, unresolved conflict, and emotional wounds shaped many of the experiences that followed.
But Suzette was never only her struggles.
There was a time when she was known for her voice — a strong soprano that stood out in choir. Friends remember her confidence and presence during high school performances, especially the excitement of singing together at the Opus talent show. In those years she belonged to a close circle of girls who considered themselves a sisterhood.
Those memories matter.
They remind us that every life contains more than the final chapters.
Suzette’s story includes talent, friendship, hurt, resilience, and unanswered questions. It includes moments of belonging and long periods of isolation. It includes the ways families sometimes fail to resolve conflict before relationships break down.
This memorial is not written to condemn anyone.
It is written to tell the truth of a life that deserves to be remembered honestly.
Suzette’s story also explains something important about the work I am doing today. Her life and the circumstances surrounding her death are part of the reason I continue walking across Canada speaking about Peace Tables — a way for families and communities to resolve conflict before silence replaces care.
If telling her story helps even one family choose conversation instead of separation, then Suzette’s life continues to create something meaningful.
And that is why this memorial begins here.
Suzette’s life began inside a complicated family situation.
When she was born, our parents’ relationship was already under pressure. About a month after her birth — perhaps six weeks — my father insisted that my mother leave, even though she did not want to. The decision was not hers to make.
Because of that, Suzette’s earliest weeks unfolded without the stable parental bond that many newborns experience. Much of her early care came from my father’s younger sisters — a group of teenage aunts who helped care for her during that time.
In practical terms, Suzette was surrounded by people. She was not physically alone. But emotional stability in a child’s earliest months depends on consistent attachment to parents who can provide a sense of safety and belonging.
Suzette’s beginning was shaped by instability.
Part of that instability came from the larger family structure she was born into. My father was the first born son in a family of ten children — eight girls and two boys. Their father, my grandfather, struggled with alcoholism and gambling. Because of this, much of the responsibility for helping raise the younger children fell onto my father at a young age.
In many ways he became the central authority figure for his siblings. The expectations placed on him were enormous, and those pressures shaped the way he later ran his own household.
The family Suzette entered was large and tightly connected, but it was also structured around strong hierarchies and unspoken expectations. Loyalty to family authority was deeply embedded in that environment, and difficult subjects were rarely discussed openly.
For a newborn child, these dynamics are not something she could understand. Yet they form the emotional atmosphere in which a life begins.
Suzette’s earliest experiences were shaped by shifting roles, shared caregiving among teenage relatives, and the absence of the secure parental attachment that many children rely on to form their first sense of safety in the world.
This chapter is not written to assign blame.
It simply describes the circumstances into which Suzette was born — circumstances that left an imprint that followed her throughout her life.
From the very beginning, Suzette’s story was shaped by a search for belonging.
Abandoned at Birth
A New Baby Arrives
About fifteen months after Suzette was born, another child arrived in the family.
I was born on December 24 — Christmas Eve.
Within the extended family, my birth was celebrated in a special way. I was often introduced as a “gift from God,” and in those early years I received a great deal of attention from relatives. At family gatherings I was treated almost like a little celebrity. The affection and excitement around my arrival were obvious and constant.
For the first few years of my life, those memories feel warm and joyful.
But childhood experiences are rarely felt the same way by every child in the room.
Suzette had already entered the world under very different circumstances. Her earliest weeks had been shaped by instability and by the absence of the strong parental attachment that many children experience. Then suddenly another baby arrived — one who seemed to receive admiration and celebration from the very family structure that had already felt uncertain to her.
At the time, I never considered what that contrast might have felt like for Suzette.
Children simply live inside the roles they are given.
Years later, when our younger brother was born, I experienced a dramatic change in my own life. Shortly after his birth I developed a serious kidney infection. One of the symptoms was that I began wetting the bed every night. Doctors and a priest at the time told my parents that I was simply being lazy and that strict punishment would teach me to stop.
For about a year, that meant beatings every morning for something that was happening while I was asleep.
As a child I never connected the illness to emotional stress or changes within the family. It wasn’t until many years later, while researching depression and emotional trauma in an effort to help Suzette, that I began to understand how deeply childhood experiences can affect the body and mind.
Only after Suzette died did another realization emerge.
Her high school friend Darlene eventually found me online while searching for Suzette’s name. During our conversations I shared many stories about our childhood, including how difficult things became for me when our brother was born.
Darlene listened carefully and then asked a simple question.
“How do you think Suzette felt,” she said, “watching another sibling receive all the attention when she already felt abandoned?”
That question stopped me.
For years I had focused on how my own childhood changed after our brother’s birth. But Darlene’s words made me realize that Suzette may have experienced those earlier moments even more intensely.
She had already struggled to feel secure within the family. Then she watched another child celebrated and embraced in ways she may have never felt herself.
Throughout her life Suzette often spoke about the feeling of being abandoned.
Perhaps moments like these helped shape that feeling.
Understanding that now does not change the past, but it offers another lens through which to see the early family dynamics that may have influenced the path her life eventually took.
To understand Suzette’s life, it is important to understand the family environment we were born into.
On my father’s side alone there were ten siblings — eight girls and two boys. My father was the first-born son. In a family of that size, especially in those years, the role of the oldest male carried enormous responsibility.
Their father, my grandfather, struggled with alcoholism and gambling. Because of this, much of the responsibility for helping to raise the younger children fell onto my father while he was still young himself. In many ways he became the authority figure among his siblings long before he was an adult.
Growing up under those circumstances shaped him deeply. Because of what he experienced with his own father, he strongly opposed alcohol and gambling throughout his life. He saw firsthand the damage those addictions could cause and often spoke against them.
Yet family patterns sometimes reappear in unexpected ways.
Our younger brother eventually developed the very addictions my father had tried to avoid. Gambling and alcohol became part of his life, echoing the behavior of our grandfather. Watching this unfold was confusing and painful.
At times my father seemed to resist those behaviors, yet in other moments he appeared to enable them. I remember visits where my father would continue serving alcohol to my brother until he was clearly too intoxicated to drive, yet my brother would still leave with his family and drive them home.
It was difficult to understand how someone who had been so opposed to these patterns could allow them to continue in the next generation.
Over time my brother’s gambling and financial decisions created serious consequences. Eventually he gained power of attorney over both of our parents’ lives. During that period large amounts of family wealth — which had once been worth millions — were transferred into his name.
Both of our parents died not long afterward.
From my perspective, these events remain deeply troubling. My mother spent her life trying to ensure that her daughters would be treated fairly and receive equal consideration alongside her son. The situation that unfolded later in their lives was very different from what she had worked so hard to create.
The family environment we grew up in carried strong expectations about loyalty and authority. Difficult subjects were rarely discussed openly, and challenging family dynamics were often left unresolved.
There were also deeper wounds that were never openly addressed.
One of my aunts had been sexually abused when she was young. Instead of recognizing the lasting impact of that trauma, the family and medical system eventually labeled her as mentally ill. She later underwent shock treatments, which at the time were used as a response to behaviors doctors believed were psychological problems.
Looking back, it is difficult not to see the pattern that can occur in families where painful truths remain hidden.
What she carried was the impact of abuse. Yet the language used around her life focused on treating her as the problem rather than confronting the cause of her suffering.
When the original harm cannot be acknowledged, the person most visibly affected by it often becomes the one who is judged unstable or difficult. The trauma is buried, and the victim carries the burden of explaining behaviors that were shaped by something far deeper.
This culture of silence shaped the environment that many of us grew up in.
Understanding that environment helps explain some of the pressures, contradictions, and emotional dynamics that surrounded Suzette as she grew up.
It was a family system where loyalty was strong, authority carried weight, and difficult truths were often left unspoken.
Family System
Two Sisters Growing Apart
Suzette and I were close in age.
I was only about fifteen months younger than she was. From the outside, people might assume that two sisters so close in age would naturally grow up as companions. But our relationship never developed that way.
From my earliest memories, Suzette carried a deep resentment toward me.
At school she made it clear to other children that they should stay away from me. She told classmates not to associate with me, even though we were nearly the same age and living in the same household. As children, we were not allies. We were already separated by emotional distance that neither of us fully understood at the time.
Looking back now, it is easier to see how the early dynamics within our family may have shaped those feelings.
Suzette had entered the world already carrying a sense of instability and abandonment. Then another baby arrived — me — who received attention and affection from the extended family. As children, we rarely have the language to explain those feelings, but they can shape how siblings see each other.
For Suzette, I may have represented something she believed had been given to me but not to her.
As we grew older, that distance between us remained.
There were very few periods in our lives when we truly connected. The one time we did grow closer was after Suzette finished high school, when her struggles with depression became more severe.
Around that time she had begun working for our father.
She described that experience as extremely difficult. Our father’s expectations were relentless. Perfection was demanded, and mistakes were not easily tolerated. Day after day under those conditions wore her down emotionally.
By the time she finished that period of her life, her depression had deepened significantly.
It was during that time that I tried to help her.
I encouraged her to leave that environment and start fresh somewhere else. Eventually I convinced her to move to Alberta. My hope was that distance from the family dynamics we had grown up with might give her space to rebuild her life.
During those years I helped her as much as I could.
In many ways, the research and work I later did on depression began because I was trying to find ways to help my sister. I wanted to understand why some people seemed trapped inside emotional pain that they could not easily escape.
But healing only works when someone is open to it.
Suzette struggled deeply with her depression, and the patterns of blame and conflict that sometimes accompanied it made relationships difficult for both of us. Our efforts to reconnect did not always succeed.
Over time the distance between us returned.
Even so, the fact that our relationship was complicated does not erase the truth that she was my sister.
Understanding the forces that shaped our relationship helps explain both the love and the difficulty that existed between us.
Before depression marked her adult years, Suzette knew what it felt like to belong.
In high school, she was not on the outside looking in. She was right in the middle of things. She had presence, confidence, and a natural ability to connect with people. She had a tight group of girlfriends who moved through school together and supported one another.
For those years, Suzette fit in easily.
She had talent that people noticed. Her voice stood out in choir, especially when it came to the highest soprano notes. Singing came naturally to her. Friends remember standing beside her in choir and hearing how strong and clear her voice could be.
One of the most memorable moments from those years was the Grade 12 talent show called Opus. It was a variety show where students performed different acts at the end of the school year.
Six girls performed together in one of the musical numbers: Suzette, Darlene, Laural Carr, Cindy Kirkham, Diane Johnson, and Vicki Snook. They sang “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.” Mark Critchley played the piano, and another student dressed as a soldier played the trumpet.
It was a lively performance filled with energy and laughter.
Among the group, Suzette’s voice stood out. She was the strongest singer of the six girls performing that song.
Her friend Darlene remembers those moments clearly. She described Suzette as someone she always liked, someone she was proud to stand beside when they sang together.
In those high school years, Suzette had what many people search for throughout their lives: belonging. She had a group of friends who shared experiences, laughter, and the excitement of youth together.
Darlene later described that circle of friends as a kind of sisterhood.
For that time in her life, Suzette was part of something strong and joyful.
Those memories are important because they show another side of her life. They remind us that Suzette was not defined only by the struggles that came later.
There was a time when she was confident, talented, and surrounded by friends who valued her presence.
Adult Years: Depression
Suzette’s Legacy: When Silence Becomes the Real Tragedy
Suzette’s life followed a path that many people would struggle to understand without hearing the full story.
She entered the world under difficult circumstances. At the time of her birth, our father insisted that our mother leave, and Suzette began life without the secure bond that most children experience with their parents. Instead, she was cared for by teenage aunts while our parents continued their lives.
That early experience left a mark that followed her throughout her life. Suzette often spoke about feeling abandoned. It was a theme that appeared again and again in how she understood herself and her relationships.
Yet there was another side of Suzette that people who knew her during her teenage years remember clearly.
In high school she was vibrant, talented, and socially connected. She had a strong group of friends and was deeply involved in school activities. She had an extraordinary singing voice and could reach the highest soprano notes with ease. In choir and performances she stood out, and her friends remember those moments with great affection.
For those years, Suzette belonged.
She was confident, talented, and surrounded by people who enjoyed being with her.
But as adulthood began, something changed. From around the age of eighteen onward, Suzette began struggling with depression that would follow her for much of the rest of her life. Relationships became more difficult, and the sense of connection she once had slowly gave way to isolation.
During those years I tried to help her.
My own experiences with depression led me to begin researching the human mind, trauma, and the causes behind emotional suffering. Much of the work that eventually became the books and research behind the Global Peace Train began with the hope that I might find tools that could help my sister.
I believed that if we could understand the root causes of emotional pain, healing might become possible.
Despite the challenges in our relationship, I never stopped recognizing that Suzette was my sister.
When Suzette passed away in Calgary, relatives told me that my aunt Jeanne Lathangue had stepped forward and taken charge of the situation. People in the family told me that Jeanne was the contact person and that if anything was needed I should speak with her.
Although Suzette and I had not spoken for many years, I still felt a responsibility as her next of kin. I made the phone call to Jeanne to see if I was needed and whether there was anything I should be doing to help ensure Suzette’s affairs were handled properly.
During that conversation Jeanne told me she had nothing to say to me and that I was not needed.
Based on that conversation, I believed the situation was being handled by the family members who had taken responsibility.
What I did not know at the time was that Suzette had left no will, and that legally the responsibility for her affairs would fall to her next of kin.
By the time the full situation became clear, Suzette had remained in the Calgary morgue for six months.
In a painful way, Suzette’s life ended the same way it began.
With abandonment.
That realization forced me to confront something deeply troubling about how families and human systems sometimes operate. Conflicts that are never addressed can grow so large that people stop communicating entirely. When silence replaces conversation, responsibility becomes unclear and relationships break down.
Suzette’s story is not unique.
Many families experience unresolved conflicts that quietly grow over time.
That is one of the reasons I began researching conflict resolution and human behavior so intensely. I wanted to understand why people who once shared love and connection can become so divided that they cannot come together even when it matters most.
That search eventually led to the development of the Peace Table framework.
The Peace Table is a simple idea with powerful potential: when people sit together and speak honestly about their experiences, conflict can become the beginning of understanding rather than the end of relationships.
Every family has disagreements.
Every family has moments of pain and misunderstanding.
There is no shame in that.
The only real tragedy is when people refuse to talk and allow silence to define the future.
Suzette’s story is being shared not to shame anyone, but to show why conversations that should have happened earlier matter so much.
The Peace Table remains open.
To my family, and to any family who sees themselves in this story, the invitation is simple:
You do not need to pretend the past was perfect.
You only need the courage to sit down together and begin the conversation.
Suzette’s life cannot be changed.
But the lessons it leaves behind can still shape what happens next.
If her story encourages even one family to choose conversation instead of silence, then something meaningful will grow from the pain we experienced.
And that would be a legacy worth honoring.