A rugby mate messaged me last night in the group chat and asked if he could drop me a private message; he said it had been a bad few days, but I didn’t realise then the real impact of his words until I opened my DM box.
He told me that we’d lost one of our own. A veteran Royal Marine; someone who was working security for his company. A man who had served his country with honour, quietly going about life with that typical no-fuss, helpful attitude. Last weekend, he died by suicide.
It knocked the wind out of me.
You never expect the messages like that. You never expect the strong ones, the dependable ones, the ones who always had the backs of those around them to be the ones quietly suffering. But that’s the thing about pain. It doesn’t always show itself. It doesn’t shout. Sometimes, it just quietly carries itself in silence until it can’t anymore.
He was one of the good ones. A man who had already given so much in service, not just to his country, but to the people around him. Loyal to the end. Steady. The kind of bloke who just got on with it. When he left the Armed Forces, he didn’t stop being a Royal, he just took that strength and loyalty into whatever came next. Even in civilian life, he served.
My rugby mate, one of the good guys who’s always looking out for others and employs a few veterans, had heard that something wasn’t right. He reached out. Sent a message. Tried to open the door. But it was too late. And now he’s left with that heavy, gut-wrenching grief that comes from wondering what more he could have done.
He’s heartbroken. He’s angry. And above all, he’s devastated that he couldn’t make a difference in time; he tried. He did what we’re always told to do. He reached out. He cared. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we just can’t contact someone who’s already decided to go quiet. It doesn’t make the love or the effort any less real.
To my mate who tried: please know this: what you did mattered. The world needs more people like you. You showed up when it counted, to give him a job, to chat with him, to have tried to get in touch. That’s more than some ever do.
This is the brutal truth of death by suicide. It doesn’t just take a life, it breaks the hearts of everyone left behind. And it reminds us that we need to be louder about mental health. More open. More present. Especially with the ones who seem “fine.”
Today, we remember him not just as a Royal, but as a human being. One who gave so much, who meant so much, and who many wish was still here today. His life mattered. His story matters. And his memory will not be forgotten.
If you’re struggling, please reach out. You are never alone.
Photo by Lidia Nikole
