There is a silent turmoil surrounding many young people that rarely breaks into conversation. It settles in quietly during transitions from one life chapter to the next—most commonly between middle school and high school, and again between high school and college. These moments are often framed in terms of academic readiness or future planning, but beneath the surface, a different reality unfolds. Students are not just moving buildings or adjusting to new schedules. They are being asked, implicitly and often without support, to reinvent who they are. And some simply don’t know how.

Adolescents build identities in layers—through friendships, interests, roles, and the ways others see them. These identities are not shallow. For many, they are lifelines. The kid who identifies as "the soccer player" or "the drama lead" isn’t just filling a schedule; they are filling a social position, one that makes them visible and meaningful. When these roles are lost or forcibly left behind, the consequence isn’t just emotional discomfort. It can be the loss of identity—their reason to live.

Suicide, in these contexts, should not be viewed solely through the lens of individual mental illness. It is a social issue—an outcome shaped by our institutions, values, and the support structures (or lack thereof) we provide during moments of identity rupture. To prevent it, we must first understand the profound disconnection that occurs when a young person no longer recognizes who they are or feels like anyone else does.

The transition from middle school to high school is one of the first major identity shocks a young person faces. It often marks the end of environments where they felt known and the beginning of much larger, impersonal spaces. According to Evans, Borriello, and Field (2018), students moving into high school frequently report increased loneliness, decreased academic confidence, and a general sense of disorientation as their social standing and support systems shift dramatically. What’s often misunderstood is that this isn’t just about getting used to harder classes. It’s about the struggle to maintain a coherent sense of self in a completely new social ecosystem.

Connection plays a protective role here. When students feel connected—to teachers, peers, family members, or mentors—they are more likely to adapt. It also gives them some sense of identity, in reference to those others. But these connections are not always easy to maintain or rebuild. In smaller middle school environments, students may have earned recognition for specific traits. They may have been "the funny one" or "the artist" or "the kid who helps everyone with math." High school can erase these distinctions. In a crowd of thousands, individuality fades, and with it, the very identity a student has used to survive.

This becomes even more precarious when identity is tied to performance-based roles like athletics. In many schools, being an athlete means more than playing a sport—it provides social status, daily structure, and peer admiration. Russell, Cottingham, and Barry (2018) explored this in their research on students transitioning out of competitive sports. They found that those with strong athletic identities reported greater stress and a reduced capacity to cope when that identity was no longer available. These young people didn’t just miss playing—they lost the role that told them who they were and how they fit into the social fabric.

The idea of "fitting in" isn’t just about making friends. It’s about having a narrative that ties daily actions to a sense of purpose. Jay Coakley (1983) described this identity breakdown as a "social death"—a term that captures the feeling of being psychologically present but socially erased. When students are cut from the team, aged out of roles, or otherwise displaced from their social position, their emotional reaction is often one of loss and invisibility. In environments where their previous role once gave them social capital, they now find themselves untethered.

Ambivalence often emerges in this void. It isn’t an obvious despair, but rather a quiet contradiction: a desire to live, competing with a sense that there’s no longer a meaningful self to live as. Adolescents in this state may still show up to school, engage in conversation, or even laugh. But beneath the surface, they are navigating a dangerous ambivalence—caught between who they were and an uncertain future self they haven’t yet imagined.

This inner conflict is especially hard to detect because it doesn’t always fit conventional markers of depression. But it can still lead to disengagement, risky behaviors, or self-harm. Ambivalence doesn’t always say, "I want to die." Sometimes it whispers, "I can’t see why I should keep going."

This is particularly true for student-athletes, whose self-concept is often singular and deeply embedded in performance. Higginbotham (2021) observed that many young male athletes interpret loss of athletic identity as a kind of personal failure, not only in sport but in masculinity and belonging. Their right to be respected, admired, or even socially included was contingent on their athletic role. When that role disappears, so does their perceived worth.

For students transitioning to college, the crisis can intensify. High school may have been a place where they held leadership roles, had a trusted peer group, or were known for a particular skill. College, by contrast, is a complete reset. Parker et al. (2021) found that student-athletes, in particular, struggled significantly with this reset when they no longer competed. Without that anchor, they had to reinvent themselves in environments where they were largely anonymous, unrecognized, and unsupported.

Even students who aren’t athletes experience similar ruptures. They may go from being a top student to someone lost in lecture halls. They may leave their long-term friendships behind. The environment they once navigated with confidence is replaced by one where no one knows their name. Again, the issue is not merely one of adaptation—it’s one of identity deconstruction. Without intentional support, that loss can spiral.

In some cases, the breakdown of identity becomes so severe that it disrupts a young person’s narrative coherence. Chandler, Lalonde, and Sokol (2003) introduced the concept of "self-continuity" to explain this. Their research on Indigenous youth in Canada revealed that suicide rates were astronomically higher in communities where young people could not meaningfully connect their past, present, and future identities. It wasn’t just trauma or lack of services—it was the absence of a coherent story that tethered them to life. When the thread of identity snaps, the risk of suicide rises sharply.

This speaks to something critical: connection doesn’t just mean having friends or joining clubs. It means feeling like your story makes sense—that who you were, who you are, and who you might become are parts of a consistent, valued self. Suicide becomes a possibility not because someone is "sick," but because they feel erased. They can no longer locate themselves in the social world.

When the only version of yourself you believed in disappears, what’s left? This question haunts many students in transition. Olaoshebikan (2015) referred to this condition as "identity foreclosure"—a state where individuals have committed to a single role without exploring alternatives. When that role is lost, there is no backup self to fall into. Life begins to feel both meaningless and unlivable, not because one is inherently hopeless, but because one is unmoored.

Lally (2007) demonstrated that athletes who had a chance to reflect on life beyond sport before retiring were far more successful in their transition. They were able to build new identities with confidence because they had imagined the possibility of change. In contrast, those who clung to a singular identity until it collapsed often experienced long periods of distress, confusion, and social withdrawal. This insight applies far beyond sports. When students are given space and guidance to imagine themselves in multiple roles, they become more resilient to change.

Connection, then, is not merely a social nicety. It is the soil in which identity grows. Students who feel seen, valued, and understood are far more capable of navigating the turbulent waters of adolescence. This connection must include emotional and narrative support that affirms students through their transitions, not just their achievements.

To build these supports, schools must stop treating transitions as academic events and begin treating them as existential ones. Teachers and counselors should be trained not just in study skills, but in identity development. Students should be invited to reflect on who they are, who they’ve been, and who they hope to become—not as a one-time assignment, but as an ongoing process.

Programs should prioritize mentorship, storytelling, and structured reflection. Wylleman, Alfermann, and Lavallee (2004) have long advocated for identity scaffolding—developmental support that evolves alongside the student. Instead of asking teens to reinvent themselves in isolation, we can offer them tools to carry their past selves forward, integrate their present, and author their futures.

Most importantly, we must name the truth clearly: suicide among youth is often the result of social erasure. It happens when someone loses the role that made them feel real, when their identity collapses and no one notices, when they begin to doubt whether they matter anymore. The remedy is not always more therapy—it is more belonging. More connection. More belief in the idea that even if you are no longer who you were, you are still someone worth knowing.

There is no simple solution to identity loss. But there is a clear direction forward: we must build social environments that are rich in meaning, flexible in role, and generous in how they hold young people through the chaos of becoming. When we do that, we don’t just prevent suicide—we help young people build lives they can recognize as their own.