Be Careful with the Strong Ones
The people who look “fine” are sometimes fighting the hardest battles.
This isn’t a neat post.
It isn’t polished.
And it sure as hell isn’t comfortable.
But suicide isn’t comfortable.
And if we keep trying to tidy it up into slogans and awareness days without talking about what it actually looks like in real life we miss the people who need us most.
So let me say this clearly:
Be careful with the strong ones.
The People Who Still Show Up
I’ve spent years standing in paddocks, shearing sheds, community halls, corporate boardrooms and burnt-out towns.
I’ve sat on ute trays.
Plastic chairs.
Hay bales.
Boardroom tables.
I’ve listened to farmers. Tradies. CEOs. Mums. Apprentices. First responders.
And here’s what I know:
The ones struggling the most don’t always look like they are.
They still show up.
To work.
To school.
To footy.
To the family BBQ.
They smile.
Shake hands.
Crack a joke.
They might even be the loudest in the room.
Then they go home, shut the door, and collapse under the weight they’ve been carrying all day.
I know that space.
The drive home when the bravado drops.
The shower where the tears come because no one can see them.
The 2am ceiling stare when the brain won’t switch off and the thoughts get loud.
That’s the space most people don’t see.
What Suicidal Thoughts Actually Look Like
When people picture suicide risk, they imagine someone standing on a ledge.
But most of the time, it doesn’t look like that.
It sounds like:
“I’m just tired.”
“I’m flat.”
“I’m empty.”
“I can’t keep doing this.”
Or it sounds like nothing at all.
Here’s the part that confuses people:
Many don’t actually want to die.
They want the pain to stop.
The noise to stop.
The pressure to stop.
The bloody heaviness to stop.
There’s a difference.
Understanding that difference is critical.
When someone feels suicidal, it’s often not about wanting life to end. it’s about not knowing how to keep carrying what they’re carrying.
That’s why telling someone to “think positive” or “be grateful” doesn’t touch it.
The weight isn’t logical.
It’s emotional.
It’s cumulative.
It’s exhausting.
My Own Quiet Collapse
I’ve spoken openly about my lowest moment, the stepping off the bucket moment.
From the outside, nothing looked dramatically wrong.
I was still farming.
Still functioning.
Still showing up.
But inside, I was drowning quietly.
And that’s what makes this so dangerous.
Functioning doesn’t mean fine.
Some of the strongest people I know are the most at risk because they are wired to push through.
They:
Listen to everyone else’s problems but feel like a burden for having their own.
Give hope to others while quietly losing it themselves.
Apologise for existing.
Survive the day for everyone else but don’t know how to live it for themselves.
They are capable. Reliable. Needed.
So nobody looks closer.
Strength Can Be a Mask
In disaster recovery, I see it constantly.
The bloke coordinating the clean-up.
The woman running the community hub.
The volunteer who hasn’t missed a shift.
The leader holding everyone together.
They are carrying their own trauma.
Their own loss.
Their own fear.
Their own exhaustion.
But because they’re “strong”, we assume they’re okay.
Strength can be a mask.
Laughter can be a shield.
Busyness can be avoidance.
Silence can be lethal.
The ones who hold everyone else together often don’t know how to let themselves fall apart safely.
And sometimes they don’t believe they’re allowed to.
“Check On Your Mates” Isn’t Enough
We’ve done a good job in Australia normalising the phrase “check on your mates.”
But we’ve accidentally turned it into a slogan.
A quick text.
A thumbs-up emoji.
A “you right?”
That’s not checking in. That’s ticking a box.
Real connection takes time.
It takes sitting in discomfort.
It takes asking twice. Then asking again differently.
Not:
“You right?”
But:
“How are you really travelling?”
“What’s been the heaviest part lately?”
“When was the last time you felt okay?”
And then listening.
Not to fix.
Not to compare.
Not to jump in with your own story.
Just listening.
Because sometimes what pulls someone back from the edge isn’t advice.
It’s being heard without judgement.
Capacity Before Crisis
I talk a lot about Capacity Before Crisis.
This is part of it.
If the first time we talk about suicide is when someone is in immediate danger, we are already behind.
Capacity Before Crisis means:
Building relationships before things fall apart.
Normalising hard conversations before they become emergencies.
Making it safe to say “I’m not okay” without people panicking or pulling away.
When communities build that capacity, people don’t have to hit absolute rock bottom before they speak up.
They know someone will sit with them.
Without judgement.
Without overreaction.
Without shame.
What to Watch For
This isn’t about turning everyone into a psychologist.
It’s about awareness.
Pay attention to:
The person who suddenly goes quiet.
The one who withdraws from things they used to care about.
The one who talks about being a burden.
The one who gives things away.
The one who seems oddly calm after weeks of visible distress.
Sometimes that calm isn’t peace.
It’s resignation.
And that’s why connection matters.
If You’re the One Carrying It
If you’re reading this and you’re exhausted from fighting your own head every day, hear me clearly:
You are not weak.
You are not dramatic.
You are not a burden.
You are tired.
Tired of carrying too much.
Too long.
Often alone.
And you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.
If you’re in Australia, Lifeline is 13 11 14.
That number isn’t weakness.
It’s connection.
And connection saves lives.
Not platitudes.
Not slogans.
Not “stay positive.”
Real connection.
A cuppa at the kitchen table.
A drive around the paddock.
A walk where you don’t have to pretend.
Silence shared without judgement.
Silence can be dangerous.
But connection?
Connection can pull someone back from the edge without anyone else ever knowing how close they were.
So ask twice.
Stay longer.
And don’t assume the strong ones are fine.
Because sometimes they’re the ones fighting the hardest battles in the dark.