We’ve Become Used to Losing People. We Cannot Become Comfortable With It.
This Mental Health Month, awareness has to become action and lived experience has to lead to change.
Earlier this year, I wrote a blog called “We’re Starting to Accept Suicide as Normal. And That Should Terrify Us.”
It has become the most downloaded blog I’ve written this year, and while I’m grateful it reached people, I wish the subject wasn’t so familiar to so many of us.
The piece began with a conversation at home with my wife after hearing about more lives lost to suicide. Somewhere in that conversation came the words, “Maybe we just have to accept that this is normal now.”
I understood where those words came from. When you keep hearing about another person, another family, another community trying to make sense of a devastating loss, it can wear you down. You find yourself wondering how we can talk so much about mental health and still have so many people struggling to find a way through.
But understanding that exhaustion doesn’t mean I’m prepared to accept the conclusion.
The frequency of suicide cannot become a reason to stop believing we can do something about it. We can acknowledge what is happening without deciding this is simply how life is going to be.
That is why I’m revisiting it now, during Mental Health Month.
Because I don’t want October to finish with us having shared a few posts, put up some posters and told people to reach out, without asking whether anything has actually changed for the person who is struggling.
If we’re encouraging people to speak up, we’d better be prepared to listen—and do something with what we hear.
I Walked Away From the Farm. I Couldn’t Walk Away From What Was Happening Inside Me.
My understanding of mental health began long before I stood in front of a room as The Unbreakable Farmer.
It began with drought, flood, financial pressure, the breakdown of a family farming business and eventually walking away from the farm. Each brought its own weight, and together they took me somewhere I never imagined I would go.
Farming had been part of my life since I was a teenager. It was how I earned a living, but it was also how I understood who I was. When I walked away, it felt like I had unclipped my identity and left it hanging on the gate.
The farm was gone from my everyday life, but the pressure, the loss and the way I was speaking to myself came with me.
That is something we don’t always understand about people going through a major change. The event might be over, the decision made or the door closed, but inside them there can still be a hell of a lot going on.
I was still a husband and a father. I still had people who loved me. Yet I struggled to see my own worth, because so much of it had become tied to something I could no longer hold onto.
My self-talk became another weight to carry. When you are already struggling, being your own worst bully can make it harder to tell someone what is happening. You start judging yourself before anybody else has even had the chance to listen.
I reached a point where I attempted to take my own life.
I say that plainly because it is part of my story, and because I’m still here.
The life I have today is one I couldn’t see from where I was then. Rebuilding took time, and looking after my mental health remains part of my life. Calling myself The Unbreakable Farmer doesn’t mean I’m beyond struggling or needing support.
My experience doesn’t explain everybody else’s. But it has taught me that somebody can be loved and still feel desperately alone, can have people depending on them and still struggle to see their own value.
And it has taught me to take distress seriously, even when the person carrying it looks like they’re holding everything together.
Who Can You Tell When You’re Not Okay?
Mental Health Australia’s theme this October is “Together We Thrive”.
I like it. But I want us to think about what “together” actually feels like for someone who isn’t travelling well.
Who can they ring when they don’t have the energy to pretend? Where can they say something honest without worrying it will become tomorrow’s gossip? Who will listen without telling them how much worse somebody else has it?
There is a difference between knowing plenty of people and knowing there is somebody you can be honest with.
In the communities and workplaces I visit, and in the recovery conversations I’m part of, that difference matters. Being surrounded by people doesn’t automatically mean you feel connected to them. You can be in the middle of a busy workplace, a family gathering or a community event and still feel you have to keep the hardest parts of your life to yourself.
So when we say “reach out”, I think we need to ask another question.
What are we asking people to reach towards?
Somebody with time to listen? Support they can afford and access? A workplace where being honest won’t make them feel their job is at risk?
Or are we asking them to take the enormous step of admitting they need help, then leaving them to work out the rest?
Together has to mean we make room for people when their lives are messy, when they have less to give and when they need more than a cheerful “How are you, mate?” on the way past.
Sometimes that means a phone call or a cuppa. Sometimes it means helping with an appointment, transport or a practical problem that is making everything harder.
And sometimes it means coming back after the first conversation, because support shouldn’t disappear once somebody has finally found the courage to speak.
How Much More Can Someone Carry Before We Notice?
This is why I keep talking about Capacity Before Crisis.
I know what it is to keep pushing because stopping feels impossible. There is work to do, money to find, family to look after and a voice in your head saying you should be handling it better.
You can become so focused on getting through that you stop noticing what getting through is costing you.
That is why I’ve developed a fractured relationship with the word resilience. I understand its value, but I’m concerned when it becomes another expectation placed on somebody who is already carrying too much.
How many times can we tell people to bounce back without asking what they are bouncing back into?
If the same pressure is waiting for them, something else needs to change too.
When I talk about capacity, I want us looking earlier at what people are carrying, what is draining them, what helps replenish them and what support is available.
My Unbreakable Wheel of Wellbeing helps open that conversation across the different parts of our lives. It gives us somewhere to begin when everything feels tangled together, whether that is connection, our environment or another area that needs attention.
But no wellbeing tool makes an unmanageable workload manageable on its own. No amount of positive self-talk pays an overdue bill or makes an unaffordable appointment affordable.
The person needs support, and the pressure needs attention.
For a leader, that might mean acting on what people are saying about workload. For a community, it might mean noticing who has stopped coming and whether cost, transport or exhaustion is keeping them away. For a service, it means looking at what happens when someone asks for help and cannot get it.
We cannot keep asking people to carry more while doing so little to lighten the load.
You Asked If They Were Okay. They Said No. Now What?
We’ve spent years encouraging people to ask, “Are you OK?” But I reckon plenty of people are still frightened of the answer.
“No, I’m not.”
That is the moment many of us think, “Shit. What do I say now?”
We care deeply, but we feel underprepared. We think we need answers, advice or something that will make the situation better straightaway.
You don’t have to become a psychologist in that moment. You can slow down, take the answer seriously and give the person room to tell you more.
And when the first answer is the familiar “I’m fine”, you can gently make room for something more honest rather than treating that as the end of the conversation.
“You’ve seemed a bit quiet lately. How are you really travelling?”
“What has been the hardest part?”
“What’s been happening for you?”
The aim is to understand, without pushing someone to share more than they’re ready to.
This is where I use TING: Think. Inquire. Notice. Guide.
Think about how you approach the conversation. Have you chosen a time and place where you can listen properly? Are you ready to hear an answer that might be uncomfortable?
Inquire with genuine curiosity. Ask questions that give someone room to explain what is happening, rather than escape with a yes, a no or a nod.
Notice what they’re telling you, changes in how they’re travelling and anything that needs another question. Don’t assume you know what a change means; ask.
Guide them towards appropriate support. That might mean helping make an appointment, sitting beside them while they call or working out the next step together.
You don’t need perfect words. You need to be present enough to hear the answer and willing to follow through.
If you’re concerned someone may be thinking about suicide, ask directly: “Are you thinking about suicide?”
Asking does not put the idea in their head. It makes room for them to tell you what is happening.
If they say yes, take it seriously and help them connect with appropriate support. If there is immediate danger, call 000 and stay with them if it is safe to do so.
A conversation can be an important beginning. What happens after it matters too.
You Can Care Deeply. You Cannot Carry This Alone.
I want to be careful about something here.
If you have lost somebody to suicide, nothing in this article is suggesting you failed to ask the right question, missed something you should have seen or didn’t love them enough.
People can be deeply loved and supported and still die by suicide. There is no perfect conversation that guarantees an outcome, and nobody should be left believing another person’s life was theirs alone to protect.
This work needs more than one caring mate.
It needs accessible services, practical support, people with the right skills and a willingness to share the responsibility of care.
The person doing the supporting needs someone checking on them too. The partner, parent, workmate or community member who keeps making themselves available can also become exhausted, frightened or unsure what to do next.
If that is you, getting advice and support is part of caring. You’re allowed to need help with this too.
Don’t Just Applaud Our Stories. Let Them Change Something.
World Mental Health Day on 10 October carries the theme “Lived Experiences Heard: Real Voices, Real Change”.
That means a lot to me, because lived experience has shaped nearly everything I do today.
I don’t share the hardest parts of my life because my story matters more than anybody else’s. I share them because hearing something real can give another person permission to talk about what is happening in theirs.
But I also want those stories to influence what happens next.
If somebody tells us they couldn’t afford support, that needs to inform decisions about access. If they felt dismissed when they finally asked for help, we need to examine how we respond. If a workplace is wearing people down, we need to act on what they are telling us.
There is a responsibility that comes with inviting people to share their lived experience. We have to listen to the parts that challenge us, including the parts that suggest our service, workplace or way of doing things needs to change.
That is how being heard becomes more than being given a microphone.
When October Ends, Who Will Still Be Checking In?
Mental Health Month gives us an opportunity to start conversations, learn something and take stock of how we are travelling.
But I’ll be more interested in what we’re still doing in November.
Will we make the follow-up call? Will the person who spoke up still feel supported? Will the workplace act on the pressure people identified, or will everyone be expected to get back to business as usual?
And will we recognise when we are the one who needs help?
Because you can be the person everyone turns to and still need somebody to turn to yourself.
If that is you, you don’t have to wait until everything falls apart. “I’m not travelling well and I need some help” is enough to begin. You don’t have to arrive with a polished explanation of what is wrong.
Throughout October, I’ll keep talking about connection, capacity, loneliness, self-talk, listening and help-seeking. There are more blogs, practical resources, wellbeing tools and podcast conversations on The Unbreakable Farmer website if you want to go deeper or find something to help start a conversation.
But I don’t want this piece to finish at the bottom of a screen.
Think about someone you’ve been meaning to contact, someone who has gone quiet or someone carrying more than usual. Make time for them. Ask how they’re really travelling, listen to the answer and work out the next step together.
And if the person you’re worried about is you, let someone know.
I’m still here, living a life I once couldn’t imagine. That doesn’t give me all the answers, but it gives me a reason to keep speaking, keep listening and keep believing people deserve a chance to see beyond the place they’re in.
We may have become used to hearing about lives lost to suicide. I refuse to become comfortable with it.
What I want us to get used to is taking each other seriously, before someone reaches breaking point, when they ask for help and in the weeks and months that follow.
That is what I want us carrying out of October.
Support is available. If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 000. For crisis support, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or the Suicide Call Back Service on 1300 659 467. You can also speak with your GP about support and ongoing care.