Hope is a Heavy Word

I found myself thinking about this post for a long time.

Should I say something? Will it upset people? Offend them? Will they hate me?

For the past few years, I've fought what feels like a relentless battle against the giants of anxiety and depression, with hopelessness and self-isolation working the night shift.

The events that led me to this place? They're not the point. You may know me, or maybe you don't. But what matters is that they were real, they mattered, and they pushed me past the point where I should have stopped fighting. And still, I kept going.

As a former business owner, I look back on my almost sixteen years running a company, and it hurts.

I gave up more than I should have. Friends I was once close to--gone.

Colleagues I respected--distant. I missed events, holidays, and ordinary moments with the people I loved because I was chasing customer satisfaction and payroll deadlines.

And the one person I didn't look after was me.

It only took one thing to tip it all sideways. One moment that was out of my control when my focus was elsewhere.

Once loyal staff and customers told me, "We think your great, but we can't work with you anymore because..."

Some of you reading this know that story all too well.

I fought even harder after that. I gave more of myself, even as the tank hit empty.

I went without and told myself I could fix it, thinking it was my fault.

Every failure, my fault.

Every loss, my responsibility.

Each one a dagger, bleeding me out slowly.

There have been moments of help since. Glimpses of light. But underneath, there's a sense of loss that I haven't been able to define.

My ability to plan, to react, to think clearly, gone.

My trust in my own decisions was shattered.

Even buying groceries sometimes feels too heavy a task under financial pressure and self-doubt.

Was it all bad? No.

There were people who cared, who stood by me.

But when you're in the middle of the storm, kindness feels like static. Distant, hard to interpret.

You're too busy trying not to drown.

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm writing because maybe you've been there too, or are there now.

Your struggle may be different. A broken relationship. Addiction. Grief. Shame.

But this I want you to hear: your struggle matters!

I'm a slightly awkward guy. I struggle to engage, and I often can't hold eye contact.

Maybe I'm on the spectrum. I've never been tested.

But I'll smile at you. I'll listen. I'll make bad jokes, plan weekend BBQs, and help when asked.

I'll show up, even when I don't know how.

Robin Williams once said:

"I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it's like to feel absolutely worthless and they don't want anyone else to feel like that."

That one hits home.

Ask me how I'm doing, and I'll deflect with a joke:

"Oh, fine... just gotta mow the lawn."

Or, "Okay... but what's with all this rain?"

Occasionally, the mask slips.

Maybe more often than I think.

When I'm at my worst, I withdraw.

I'll ignore your calls--not because I don't want to talk.

I do. Desperately.

But... what if you're calling to tell me I've let you down?

What if you see me for who I really am--tired, broken, hollow?

I'll stare at my phone in a room full of people, pretending to read something important.

Not because I don't want to connect.

Because I don't want you to see the cracks.

To see that I'm pretending to be okay.

Pretending not to be falling apart over things I think shouldn't break me.

Can you see it? That I want to cry? To scream?

That I laugh too loud or talk too fast sometimes, because I don't know what else to do?

Some days, I have no idea how to move forward.

Even on good days, I'm just waiting for the next blow.

And when someone reaches out, it's not the first or second attempt that breaks through.

It's the constant, unrelenting kindness, the showing up, that starts to chip away at the darkness.

Sometimes, I don't need words.

I need your hand on my shoulder. A hug. Presence.

Sometimes, I need to cry, and not be told to fix it.

Sometimes, I need help making a choice. Not to be told what to do, but to be encouraged, supported, cheered on, even if it doesn't work out.

Can you see me? The quiet one in the crowd, smiling but not present?

Feeling invisible because this week's loudest drama gets all the attention, while I can barely breathe?

This part is hard to write. But it's real.

If I weren't here tomorrow, would anyone miss me?

Would they remember me kindly, or see me as just another failure who gave up?

These are the thoughts I still wrestle with.

Some days are better. Some worse.

But always there, somewhere beneath the surface.

Hope is a heavy word.

It means believing there's still something ahead that matters.

That the things I've lost can be made into something meaningful.

That I might feel joy again--real joy.

That I might laugh without needing a reason.

That I can become someone I'm proud to be, even if it's not who I used to be.

Do I have hope?

Yes. And no.

Yes--because I still have a role in the company I started, even if I'm not the boss anymore.

Because I have a boss now who seems to get some of this, and I think we could build something new, somehow, he and I can help me get financial once more.

Yes--because I have a family.

And my wife, above all, has walked beside me with more patience than I ever deserved.

I hope I can take her on the holiday we never had.

I hope I can be the husband she deserves.

I hope that someone sees through my mask and just... stays.

Not to fix me. But to be with me.

I hope that I can feel proud to be who I am.

Not who I was. Not who I should be. Just... me.

But this is a moment-by-moment fight.

Standing in the light one second, in the shadows the next.

I'm not okay. But I'm closer than I was when I started writing this.

Maybe you've felt some of what I've described.

If you have, please--reach out.

To someone. Anyone.

Don't stay in the dark.

I know it hurts. I know you don't want to be there. I don't either.

My heart aches for you. Truly.

I hope you find something that lifts you.

For me, it's been writing.

My stories have been a kind of therapy. A way through.

Find your thing. Art. The gym. Woodwork. Music. Something that gives back to you.

And if you're someone who's never felt this kind of weight but you empathise--please look out for us.

We're there, but not there.

We smile, but we're barely holding it together.

Don't let us slip away.

Be patient. Be kind. We might not open up right away, or cleanly. It might be awkward and messy.

But when we take that first step, with your help, we'll walk the next. And the next.

And we'll be the most loyal friend you've ever had.

I needed to get this out. It's been burning inside me.

Soon it will be September. R U OK Day falls on the 11th, of all days.

I always try to reach out to someone. To post. To ask.

But I wonder... do the ones who really need the question ever get asked?

I've smiled and cried while writing this.

It's been healing for me, and I hope, in some way, good for you too.

If this has touched you and you don't feel like you have someone to turn to, please reach out to me.

I might not be perfect, but I'll listen. I'll be here.

See you in the next story,

John Other