Naomi Judd, the steel-magnolia voice behind The Judds’ harmonious reign over country music, ended her life with a single gunshot to the head on April 30, 2022, just one day before her induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame. At 76, the singer—whose duets with daughter Wynonna topped charts for nearly three decades—left behind a legacy of twangy triumphs and a family fractured by fame’s underbelly. But it was the release of her autopsy report that peeled back the glamour, revealing a toxicology cocktail of mental health meds, a cryptic suicide note, and whispers of family rifts that her daughters and widower fought tooth and nail to keep private. As a new Lifetime docuseries, The Judd Family: Truth Be Told, airs this month—three years after her death—the probe into those final hours stirs fresh debate: Was Naomi’s end a cry for mercy from her demons, or a final finger-point at the kin she claimed to cherish?

The autopsy, conducted by the Williamson County Medical Examiner’s Office and made public in August 2022 despite frantic family pleas, painted a stark portrait of a woman besieged by her mind. Discovered unresponsive in her Leiper’s Fork farmhouse around 10:57 a.m., Naomi was rushed to Williamson Medical Center, where she was pronounced dead at 12:35 p.m. The cause: a self-inflicted wound from a nearby firearm, with the bullet’s path confirming intent over accident. Toxicology screens detected multiple prescription drugs—venlafaxine for major depression, bupropion for bipolar disorder, and trazodone for PTSD—levels consistent with ongoing treatment but not overdose. “She had a significant history of anxiety, depression, and bipolar disorder,” the report noted, citing family input on her “recent life stressors” and prior suicidal ideations. No illicit substances, no foul play—just a matriarch overwhelmed.

But the report’s true gut-punch? A “note with suicidal connotations” found inches from her body, alongside the gun. Scrawled on a Post-it-style pad, its contents—leaked via police files in January 2023—read like a dagger to the heart: “Do not let Wy come to my funeral. She’s mentally ill.” Wy, shorthand for Wynonna, Naomi’s eldest and musical heir, was barred from the send-off in a missive that blamed her daughter’s own battles with addiction and emotional turmoil. The note, deputies scribbled, hinted at isolation: Husband Larry Strickland was touring Europe, leaving Naomi “alone” in the sprawling home dotted with unsecured firearms—a detail that chilled investigators, given her history of threats. “She threatened to kill herself a half a dozen times, guns were involved,” one deputy’s hasty jotting read, painting a prelude of locked doors and desperate pleas.

The family, reeling from the spotlight’s glare, moved swiftly to shield the scene. Daughters Ashley Judd and Wynonna, alongside Strickland, petitioned Williamson County courts in August 2022 to seal photos, videos, and interview tapes, arguing release would inflict “significant trauma and irreparable harm.” A temporary order granted, but the autopsy’s public status in Tennessee cracked the door. “The day we lost our matriarch was our most excruciating,” they stated post-release, framing Naomi’s foe as “unfair”—PTSD and bipolar, conditions “millions of Americans can relate” to. Yet, when Radar Online published bloodstained crime-scene snaps and the note’s excerpt in 2023, fury erupted. Ashley, in a Guardian op-ed, decried the “retraumatization,” linking it to suicide contagion risks. “We can avert misery and death for others,” she wrote, pushing for Tennessee’s “Naomi’s Law”—a 2023 bill limiting non-criminal death records, now shielding families from graphic leaks.

Naomi’s descent wasn’t sudden; it echoed a lifetime of hidden fractures. Born Diana Ellen Judd in 1946 in Ashland, Kentucky, she fled an abusive home at 16—pregnant with Wynonna after a brief marriage to Michael Ciminella, later annulled. Single motherhood followed, then nursing school in Nashville, where a patient’s music-biz dad demoed her and Wynonna’s harmonies, birthing The Judds in 1983. Hits like “Mama He’s Crazy” and “Why Not Me” netted Grammys and 14 No. 1s, but 1991’s hepatitis C diagnosis—contracted via a needlestick—forced retirement at 45. She beat it with interferon, but mental scars festered: Childhood sexual assault at 3, per her 2011 doc; rage-fueled gun threats against exes, as Ashley detailed in her memoir.

By the 2000s, Naomi’s candor on depression aired publicly—”My brain hurt, it physically hurt,” she’d say—but privately, demons raged. Ashley found her that fateful morning, post-shot but breathing, holding vigil for 30 minutes till paramedics arrived. “I told her, ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Mom. I’m OK,’” Ashley recalled in the new docuseries, Naomi’s eyes locking in relief before she ascended the stairs. Hours later, the shot. Strickland, abroad, learned via call; Wynonna, prepping for the Hall of Fame, shattered onstage days later, voice cracking through “Love Can Build a Bridge.”

The note’s sting lingers, exposing Judd fault lines. Wynonna, 61, has battled substance abuse and weight demons, once freezing Naomi out amid tour tensions. Ashley, 57, the activist actress, inherited the advocacy torch, but family lore brims with secrets: Paternity whispers around Wynonna (rumors of Naomi’s high school overlap with Charlie Jordan, Ashley’s bio-dad); generational trauma from predatory uncles, per Naomi’s brother Mark in the doc. “I grew up in a family of secrets,” Naomi confessed in 2011, her first memory an assault blurring into adulthood’s gales.

Post-death, the Judds rallied. Wynonna’s 2023 tour honored Naomi; Ashley’s therapy unpacked rage from “Sister’s paternity” machinations. Strickland, 70, the Elvis backup vet married to Naomi since 2011 (after her 1989 divorce from Ciminella), guards the estate—daughters curiously omitted from the will, per leaks. The docuseries, directed by Alexandra Dean, unearths tapes hidden in cabinets—early demos evoking “raw emotion”—and confronts the violence: Naomi’s gun pulls on exes, a latchkey Ashley amid stardom’s rush.

Experts contextualize the tragedy. Dr. Christine Moutier of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention warns against graphic details’ contagion, crediting the Judds’ push for reform. “It retraumatizes survivors,” she says, noting Naomi’s meds aligned with standard care, not causation. Bipolar’s grip—manic highs crashing to suicidal lows—affects 2.8% of Americans, per NAMI; PTSD from trauma, another 6%. Naomi’s openness pre-death—”Fans see rhinestones, but that’s not all”—aimed to destigmatize, yet her exit amplified the irony.

As Truth Be Told streams, X buzzes with empathy over exploitation: @CountryTruthFan posts, “Naomi’s note breaks me—love twisted by pain.” Wynonna tells the series, “We were forced together” by loss, forging sisterly steel from shared shards. Ashley adds, “Her brain hurt”—a refrain echoing from farmhouse to fame.

In Nashville’s neon glow, Naomi’s shadow looms: A queen dethroned by inner wars, her note a final, flawed plea. The autopsy didn’t just confirm death; it cracked open a vault of vulnerabilities, proving even rhinestone royals bleed. As her daughters reclaim the narrative, one truth endures: Mental illness claims silently, but stories like Naomi’s scream for safeguards—and grace.