Quietly Sitting Outside the Cave…
This week I heard that a very dear and old friend of mine had taken his own life. This wasn’t someone I had seen face to face for years, nor someone I called weekly. He was one of those “check-in” friends, the ones who drift in and out of your days, like a comforting melody you always recognise. We shared photographs of grandchildren, updated each other on house moves and career paths, and sometimes shared a photo of dinner and laughter. We always talked about meeting up again. He often invited me to visit, something I promised to do, something that was still on my list.
I know he had family and friends far closer to him than me, and I don’t claim ownership over grief for his passing. But it has affected me profoundly. There’s a deep sadness in my soul that will take time to shift. And I wonder, did I ever tell him how his messages lifted my mood? How he made me laugh? How just a simple hello from him could make my day a little lighter? I found myself scrolling through old messages, searching for something I might have missed, a sign, a clue. He was one of the last people I’d have expected to make such a huge and irreversible decision. A permanent solution to what was, perhaps, a temporary problem?
Life can feel impossibly hard sometimes. We find it difficult to reach out, to share emotions, to send that quiet SOS.
This news came as my own family marked the first anniversary of losing another loved one in the same way. Two men, both loved, both choosing not to see another dawn. It leaves me wondering, how does someone reach the point where tomorrow holds no light, where hope feels too far away to touch? As happens after any loss, I’ve been replaying memories. I’m sure everyone who has lost someone this way does. Could we have stopped it? Could we have helped more? Should we have told them, really told them how much they meant to us?
Neither of these men were alone in the world. They had families, children, friends. They were loved, cherished, remembered fondly. And yet, here we are, holding the pieces of something we can’t quite make sense of. I don’t have the answers. I never will. But I do know this: it has made me pause. To look around me and really “see” people. To ask myself, who might be quietly struggling? Who needs to hear that they matter today? It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s just a message, a small word of kindness, a reminder that they are loved.
Because that’s what weighs heavy on my heart, both of these men, I loved. Not in a romantic or dramatic way, but in that gentle, enduring kind of love that friendship carries through decades. Both told me, in their last interactions with me, that I was beautiful. I didn’t say it back. And they were both beautiful, each in their own quiet, quirky way. We grew up together, from tender teenage years into our 50s. Those long friendships are so precious and perhaps, too often, we take them for granted.
I understand that when someone makes this decision, they are in a very dark place , one we may never see. But I do wonder if they truly realise that ending their pain doesn’t stop the pain; it only transfers it. It ripples outward, multiplied, shared by all who loved them. Some people say taking your own life is selfish. I don’t agree. I think it takes unimaginable courage, and I think it comes from a place of deep, misguided despair.
So, if there are three things I want to share from my heart, they would be these:
1. Make the call. Send the message. Share the song.
Let people know you thought about them today. Remind them they matter. Even if they don’t want to talk, let them know you’re quietly sitting outside their cave, waiting when they’re ready.
2. When you lose someone this way, know it’s not your fault.
Let yourself grieve. Feel every emotion. Only through that, can you find a fragile kind of peace that lives on the other side of something so indescribably painful.
3. Know that you are loved. Truly, deeply, wholly.
You matter, not just to those closest to you, but to people you might not even realise are carrying your light in their hearts. You are not alone. None of us are. We’re all in this together.
If this piece changes even one person’s story, then it will have cast its magic spell.
If You Need to Talk or you’re struggling right now, please reach out — there is always someone ready to listen.
You can contact Samaritans free of charge at 116 123 (UK & ROI), 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
You are not alone. Someone is always sitting quietly outside your cave, waiting for you. 🌿
