Eleven Years On: What I’ve Learned About Men, Suicide, and Staying Alive

There’s something about this time of year that still unsettles me.

Even now. Even with the life I’ve built since. Even after all the work I do supporting other men.

December pulls me back eleven years, to a time when everything I thought defined me fell away. I had resigned from my job. On the outside, it looked like a positive decision. On the inside, it felt like total collapse.

What followed wasn’t just uncertainty, but emotions I didn’t yet have language for: shame at no longer knowing who I was, isolation that cut me off from other people’s “normal” lives, a deep loss of purpose, and guilt for feeling like I was letting people down. Threaded through all of that were overwhelming suicidal thoughts that felt frighteningly logical at the time, a way out of psychological pain I didn’t know how to carry.

I shared some of this recently at the Male Suicide Research event in Manchester. What struck me was how familiar it sounded in the room. Different stories, different details, but the same emotional landscape. Men who didn’t necessarily want to die, but who desperately wanted the pain, pressure, and sense of failure to stop.

That’s why conversations about male suicide matter so much to me, especially at this time of year. Not as statistics. Not as headlines. But as lived experience.

Why December can be so hard for men

December has a way of amplifying what many men already carry. Financial pressure. Work stress. Family expectations. The unspoken pressure to be grateful and okay, even when you’re not.

For some, this season carries an empty chair. The strange split of the world looking festive while your body remembers loss. If you’ve lost someone to suicide, those waves can arrive without warning. You’re not ruining the season by feeling what you feel. You’re responding to something that mattered.

For others, the pressure keeps stacking. Money. Deadlines. Family dynamics. Social comparison. Even in company, loneliness can still creep in and convince you you’re on your own with this.

Male suicide sits at the crossroads of many things. That’s what makes it hard to talk about, but also why it matters that we talk about it properly.

Why men die by suicide (without neat answers)

Male suicide rarely comes from nowhere. It tends to grow in the gap between what a man feels and what he believes it’s acceptable to say aloud. Suicide is often the end point of a narrowing.

• A narrowing of options.

• A narrowing of hope.

• A narrowing of connection.

Within that narrowing, some patterns appear again and again.

Shame and silence

The everyday kind that says: 

• I should be able to handle this.

• Other people have it worse.

• If I say it out loud, I’ll become a problem.

Disconnection

A man can be busy, surrounded by family, socially active, and still feel emotionally cut off. When men don’t feel safe to bring the truth of what’s going on inside, they often lose connection to themselves too.

Feeling trapped

• By debt.

• By roles.

• By shame.

• By the belief there’s no way out.

Often the mind doesn’t want death, it wants an end to pain.

Coping that works… until it doesn’t.

Many men are experts at functioning. Yet functioning isn’t the same as being okay. Survival strategies can keep a man going, until they quietly stop working.

That’s only part of the picture though. This isn’t just about why men die. It’s also about what helps men stay alive.

What actually protects men

If suicide is the end of a narrowing, protective factors widen the world again.

Community that fits the man

Belonging matters more than advice. For many men, real connection happens through shared activity: walking, cold water, training, fixing, building, volunteering. Side-by-side, not face-to-face interrogation.

Feeling safe enough to speak

Men talk when it’s safe, not when they’re told to. That safety might come from a mate, a group, a partner, or a therapist. Too often, it’s missing in the workplace - and that's something which needs addressing.

Knowing your warning signs

Suicidal crisis isn’t just cognitive. Sleep collapse, agitation, numbness, withdrawal. Spotting these patterns early makes action possible.

A plan that doesn’t rely on motivation

Simple, practical plans matter. Who to message. Where to go. What helps the body come down even slightly. Which services to contact if risk increases.

Purpose and values

When men lose connection to what matters, they drift into survival mode. Reconnecting with values, even in small ways, can be enough to keep a man alive for another day.

Why the workplace matters

For many men, work is identity, structure, and worth. When that’s shaken, the impact can be profound.

That’s why the BSI Suicide Prevention in the Workplace framework feels like an important step forward. Not a quick fix, but a way of helping organisations move from good intentions to confident, compassionate action.

It’s about noticing warning signs earlier and creating cultures where men don’t feel they have to carry everything alone. I’m looking forward to delivering training to help organisations implement these standards in practical, human ways.

A December pause

This month can amplify pressure in ways that are hard to explain. Money worries. Family dynamics. Work stress. Comparison. Loneliness, even in a full house.

So here’s a question I often share with men:

If your life were a rucksack, what’s in it right now that you haven’t told anyone you’re carrying?

If you’re struggling, you don’t have to wait until it’s “bad enough”. Start with one honest message to one person. And if you don’t have that person, reach out to a service built for this.

Male suicide isn’t just a mental health issue. It’s about connection, shame, community, culture, and practical support.

If this piece resonates and you’d like support, or you’re looking to bring these conversations into your workplace, you’re welcome to get in touch.

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