Essay
One Day At A Time
Losing my brother to suicide has left me taking life one day at a time, finding comfort in small moments and in the people who quietly show up. This is a personal reflection on grief, suicide bereavement and mental health, and on what it means to support someone without having the answers. It is also about vulnerability in leadership and making room for people to be human when life is difficult.
On April 22nd, I lost my brother to suicide.
Writing that down still feels surreal. There’s a numbness that lingers, one that doesn’t fade with well-meaning words or timeframes or the quiet ticking forward of the calendar. I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing because in the past, being open about mental health has sparked conversations I never expected, and maybe—just maybe—it helps someone else feel a little less alone.
Right now, I’m just taking life one day at a time. Some days feel manageable. Others, I find myself holding onto memories, replaying old conversations, and wondering what I missed. But even in grief, I’ve found moments—small ones—that remind me of the good.
Those moments matter. They help.
What’s also helped is recognising who I can lean on. Not everyone shows up. But some do, without needing to say the perfect thing. They just show up. And that matters more than I can put into words.
I’ve learned (again) that we all carry unseen battles. We all present masks—sometimes even to the people closest to us. It’s why I’ve stopped trying to always “fix” others or expect myself to have answers when someone is struggling. Sometimes, it’s enough just to be there. To ask how someone’s really doing—and listen. Really listen.
If you’re reading this, here’s what I’d ask: reach out. Not just when you sense someone is struggling, but as a habit. Don’t underestimate the impact of a message, a coffee, a moment of eye contact. The best support I’ve had in the last couple of weeks hasn’t come from big gestures, but from quiet, genuine presence.
Leadership, to me, is about showing up with vulnerability. It’s about creating space where people can be human, not just ‘resilient’. And it’s about recognising that even strong, capable people—especially strong, capable people—might be holding on by a thread.
I don’t know what next week will feel like. Or next month. But I do know I’ll keep showing up. For myself. For the people around me. For him.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
Originally published on Linkedin, 2 May 2025. See the original.