A Journey Kept Close to the Heart
Even now, nearly twenty-five years later, writing those words still carries a weight that is difficult to explain. Suicide leaves behind a silence that can feel deafening. It changed my life forever.
Francis was not just my brother. In many ways, he was my guardian, friend, and the closest person to me growing up, as well as my only sibling. Before I was even born, our family had already experienced devastating loss. Our father died when Francis was just three years old, and my mother was six months pregnant with me at the time and really struggled with this throughout her life.
Looking back now, I realise that grief had already entered our home long before either of us understood what grief really was.
After Francis died, I found myself completely lost.
One of the hardest parts was feeling like I had nobody I could truly talk to who understood what suicide grief felt like. Inside your own mind, there is a loneliness that is hard to describe. It can feel like the world keeps moving while you are standing still.
Navigating the Quiet Spaces of Grief
At the time, I also carried the heavy burden of not telling my mother that Francis had died by suicide. I worried constantly about how the news would affect her health. I felt I had to protect her from collapsing under the weight of another unimaginable loss.
At the same time, I was trying to protect my own family — my wife Michelle and our two young boys at that time. I wanted to be strong for them. I wanted to shield them from the darkness I was carrying. Deep down, I think I believed that if I kept going and stayed silent, I could somehow outrun the grief.
But grief does not disappear when ignored.
For years after Francis died, I struggled. There were mornings where simply putting my feet on the floor felt like an achievement. Nights were often worse. I found it hard to sleep because my heart would pound with hurt and sorrow.
People often talk about grief as sadness, but grief is also exhaustion. It is fear. It is numbness. Sometimes it is simply surviving one hour at a time. And grief is also the memories that I have of Francis.
Eventually, after many failed attempts to cope on my own, I went for counselling. Not by choice at first — I took the advice of my family — but deep down I knew it was in my best interest, even though I was still reluctant to go.
I remember thinking, “Why am I going over there to do these sessions? I have done nothing wrong.”
Finding the Courage to Seek Support
Eventually, after many failed attempts to cope on my own, I went for counselling. Not by choice at first — I took the advice of my family — but deep down I knew it was in my best interest, even though I was still reluctant to go.
I remember thinking, “Why am I going over there to do these sessions? I have done nothing wrong.”
On my first day, I really found it hard to drive over an hour each way on a Thursday afternoon when I felt I could be doing something better, and anything felt easier than this.
I went to reception and told the receptionist I was there to see the counsellor. She introduced herself and thanked me for coming over. We entered a small bright room and she asked me why I was there.
I answered honestly, “I don’t know, but everybody around me feels I should be here.”
She then went on to explain confidentiality and told me that if I said anything that may harm myself or anyone else, she would not be able to keep it confidential. To be honest, that did not sit well with me at the time. I was just trying to keep my head above water and move forward.
The Value of Just Being Present
I didn’t feel like speaking that day — or for seven weeks after that.
I sat in the chair in the room and made a bit of small talk, mainly about the weather. The sun was shining into the room as I watched the cars passing on the road below. I wondered, “Was I the only one going through this?”
When the hour was up, I thanked the counsellor and left. That was the way it continued until the seventh session.
A Moment of Connection
Then one day, while driving to Letterkenny, I passed a jogger on the road. He was wearing headphones while the sweat was running down his face.
That day, when I went into the session, the counsellor asked me how I was and whether I wanted to speak about anything or just have an hour to myself.
That was the day I finally said, “I know why I am here.”
She asked me why.
I said, “It’s the first time in my life I wished I was the jogger on the road instead of being me.”
As she said herself, “We can start there.”
I went into that room on the first day not able to talk. It went from that to pacing up and down the floor of the room, talking about the things that hurt me the most.
But those silent sessions mattered.
What I understand now is that healing does not always begin with talking. Sometimes it begins with taking time out of the chaos just to breathe.
Rebuilding Day by Day
Over time — and I mean a long time — life slowly began to change.
Not suddenly.
Not perfectly.
Gradually.
I stopped focusing on surviving the next hour and started focusing on rebuilding the next day.
I concentrated on my health. I concentrated on my family. I concentrated on my home and making sure there was stability for the people I loved. I wanted my children to feel secure.
Deep down, I think I was trying to make sure my own home would not experience the same instability and hardship that shaped our childhood.
Little by little, I went from existing to living again, and whatever I could do today to make tomorrow easier became my way of coping.
That does not mean the grief disappeared. It never fully leaves you. There are still moments, dates, songs, or memories that can stop me in my tracks. But grief changes shape over time. The memories become less about the ending and more about the life that came before it.
Remembering with warmth
Today, when I reflect on Francis, I no longer only see tragedy.
I see my brother.
I see two boys growing up without a father, trying to navigate the chaos together and the bond we carried through every difficult chapter of our lives.
And I also see something else now — hope.
If there is one thing I would want anyone reading this to know, it is this: no matter how dark grief feels, healing is possible. Not quick. Not easy. But possible.
There was a time I believed that things might not get better. I believed silence would always be part of grief. But slowly, through support, through family, through persistence, and through allowing myself to live again, I found my way back.
I really feel that, 25 years later, part of my purpose now is to help people who are at the beginning of this journey — to be there in whatever way I can, offering support through both my lived experience and understanding of suicide grief.
Finding Community and purpose with HUGG
As I began looking into organisations where I could support others affected by suicide bereavement, HUGG was the one that connected with me most. It is a community of people with lived experience of suicide bereavement who understand the loneliness and complexity of this kind of grief without needing it explained.
Being around people who truly “got it” reminded me that healing does not mean forgetting. It means learning how to carry the loss while still allowing yourself to live fully again.
Looking back now, I realise that this connection and understanding was the very thing missing from my own journey through suicide grief all those years ago. That is why becoming involved with HUGG and volunteering with the organisation means so much to me today. If sharing my story can help even one person feel less alone, then something hopeful can still grow from loss.
The Gentle Return of Hope
You do not have to have everything figured out today.
Sometimes hope begins with very small things:
Putting your feet on the floor.
Going for a walk.
Answering or making a phone call.
Sitting in counselling even when you cannot speak.
Allowing someone to sit beside you in your pain.
And one day, without even noticing when it happened, you realise you are breathing differently again. You are laughing again. You are remembering your loved one with warmth instead of only heartbreak — maybe still with a tear.
Francis will always be part of me. Losing him changed my life forever and changed the person I was. But loving him also shaped my life forever.
And maybe that is what hope truly is — not forgetting the pain, but learning that even after unimaginable loss, life can still hold meaning and love.
Even in the deepest silence, hope still finds a voice.
Matthew