​For this Pride Month, I’ve been reflecting on why celebrating our LGBTQ+ community matters to me.

For a long time, I didn’t feel able to talk openly about who I was. I kept things to myself, convinced it was something I could deal with later — when life felt safer, simpler, or more settled.

It took me years to realise that silence doesn’t protect us. It just allows the damage to spread quietly. Looking back, I’m certain my life would have unfolded very differently if I’d known earlier that it was okay to be who I was — and that I wasn’t alone.

That’s why Pride matters.​

And it's why, every year people from the LGBT+ come together to celebrate being proud of who they are. To show that no matter what - we are loved and we are worthy of love. And just because we might love someone of the same gender, or maybe we feel we were born in to the wrong body - it's OK. We are all important and we all matter just as much. It's about love, it's about feelings, it's about emotion and most of all it's about allowing ourselves to feel and be happy with who we are.
​
But it's so much more than this. The consequences of not doing this - of not displaying these open values of love and acceptance are real and serious.

But it doesn't have to be this way.

And that is the real message behind Pride and why so many companies, colleges and universities get behind the campaign every year. It's the lighter way to present what is ultimately anti-stigma, anti-bullying, a protective, preventative message. And it’s more than celebration. The consequences of silence and stigma are real.

These messages didn't get out there when I was growing up. I knew I was gay at the age of 11, when I started at an all boys high school in 1995. Well, I say I knew I was gay - looking back now I realise I was gay at that age but my young head was simply unable to make sense of the feelings and emotions I was experiencing at the time. I knew I was different, but I didn't know why; that there were others who felt like it too, or that it was OK to be that way. Anyway, thanks to the bullies I didn't spend too much time dwelling on the actual meaning of gay - as it was a term they threw around to describe anything or anyone they didn't like. If I'd made that association at the time, then that would have almost certainly doomed my high school future to 7 years of hell.

So, how did I know when I was 11? When I look back I have some very vivid memories of the time. Looking back, there were small moments of curiosity and connection that I didn’t yet have the words for.  But nothing ever happened. It all just stayed bottled up inside. I never opened up. I stayed in hiding.

When I turned 16 life took on a mysterious twist. Mainly this was due to changing schools for my A-Levels which forced me to meet a lot of new people and expanding my friendship groups. It also led me to invest more in friendship group at Explorer Scouts. Without knowing it at the time - a very high proportion of those whom I considered to be my best friends at the time - later also came out as gay. Interesting, eh?!

At the (again, all boys) grammar school, when I joined there where two guys who were definitely sparkling with glitter - yet they were so out and proud they were untouchable by the bullies - and no-one else seemed to care. They were very welcoming and I felt particularly comfortable around them. When I joined the school, I was sat next to another lad in form class who, like me had just joined from another school and we became very good friends. He came out a few years later and not only that, when we met for a reunion drink to reminisce a few years ago, he admitted to having a crush on me at the time! Big love back - if you're reading this, Mr R!

But even then, I was still in denial. I couldn’t admit to myself that I was gay, and that stayed the case well into my twenties.

I didn’t come out until I was 26 — not because I finally found the ‘perfect moment’, but because life slowed me down and I couldn’t keep avoiding the truth.
​
I'll leave you with two things. To better understand how harmful homophobia can be - watch this. Joe Bell, 2020, with Mark Wahlberg and Reid Miller.

And on a more positive note, if you're struggling - the new single Lewis Capaldi released on Friday called 'Survive' about his recent mental health recovery is truly inspiring.

If any of this resonates, know that support is available, and we should never feel that we can't ask for help. 
​
    For general LGBT+ help and support please contact these organisations.
    If you're having a hard time, please contact these organisations.

And remember, my inbox is always open. x

​You may be interested in my related blog - "Overcoming the double self-stigma of being gay and bipolar".

I was recently asked to contribute to a series of webinars organised by Bipolar UK around the relationship between Bipolar and Suicidal thinking, particularly in the LGBT community.

The Webinar took place on Tuesday 17 September 2024 and has now been published on Youtube. My contribution starts from 7:20 to 20:00 and then I return for the Q&A at the end from 52:36.

So, I've got a bit of a confession to make. The long and the short of is that whilst I have lived experience of both being bipolar and gay, I'm very fortunate that my experience has not included thoughts of suicide. So after enthusiastically agreeing to contribute to this session, I wasn't entirely sure what I was actually going to say.  But when I saw some of the statistics ahead of today's session, I had a realisation.

When I looked at the data, I realised that my own experience sits outside what many people face. I haven’t experienced suicidal thinking, despite living with bipolar disorder and being part of the LGBTQ+ community — two groups where the risk is significantly higher.

That raised an important question for me: why? What has been different about my experience — in how I think, the support around me, or the circumstances of my life — that may have helped keep me safe?

If it's down to the way I think or external factors, are these things that we actually have control over? Can we influence our thinking and our environment to make it safer so that we are able to avoid these terrible thoughts when we're unwell? And maybe there are things here that we can all learn from and apply to our own lives.

So, by way of context rather than credentials: I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my late teens. Since then, I’ve learned how to live well alongside a long-term condition, with extended periods of stability and a clearer understanding of what supports my wellbeing. Like many people living with a long-term mental health condition, it’s been something I’ve learned to understand, manage, and live alongside.

I mention this not to catalogue experiences, but to be clear that when I talk about bipolar, I’m speaking from direct, lived experience — not as a label, a metaphor, or something lightly worn. It’s a serious condition, and it’s shaped how I think about wellbeing, resilience, and recovery.

My most recent significant episode was several years ago. What mattered most wasn’t the episode itself, but what followed — the opportunity to apply what I’d learned, notice patterns earlier, and explore whether recovery could look different this time. That question became an important turning point for me. I wondered: would be possible to recover without dropping in to a depression? And could I do it faster than before? The conditions were good.

• I had space to rest and reset.
• I had practical support around me.
• And I’d learned enough over time to recognise what helps me stabilise.

This period helped me clarify what supports my stability and wellbeing, and how I can respond earlier when things feel off. I realised that by taking responsibility for my condition I do hold a lot of power for reducing risk and returning to a steady baseline more smoothly. There were some things I had to do.

• Learning to read my body. Knowing the early warning signs and knowing what to do when I spot them. 
• Dealing with shame and self stigma. It has been tough, but I learned that most of the stigma was from within. What I discovered that when I opened up and told people, was that they were understanding and appreciative of my honesty. Not only that, they often then shared that either they, or someone close to them, had been affected by mental health in some way.
• But mainly, it was about accepting who I am, and owning it. In recent years I’ve become more open about my experience in the right settings, and that openness has strengthened my confidence rather than undermined it. Now this was a big decision that I took a lot of time over, but it has done nothing other than grow my confidence. 

I was able to come through that period more steadily than I’d expected. Not because it was easy, but because I approached it differently. I focused less on “getting back to normal” quickly, and more on understanding what helped me stay balanced and rebuild confidence over time.

A few things made a real difference.

• Perspective and self-talk - I reminded myself that I’d been through difficult periods before and had recovered from them. When things felt uncertain, I returned to a simple thought: I’ve navigated this before, and I can do so again. That steadiness mattered more than optimism.
• Letting go of blame - I was deliberate about not getting stuck in guilt or self-criticism. I didn’t replay things I said or did while unwell. Where repairs were needed, I made them — but I didn’t punish myself. I also chose not to carry resentment, even where situations had been painful. Letting go wasn’t about excusing anything; it was about allowing myself to move forward.
• Supportive relationships - I was fortunate to have strong support around me. My partner, Jason, was consistently patient and grounding during that time. Friends also played an important role — not by treating me differently, but by including me, inviting me out, and helping me reconnect with ordinary life. One summer camping trip in particular helped me rebuild confidence simply by being myself again.
• Movement and routine - Regular cycling became an anchor for me. I spent long hours outdoors, discovered local parkland, and found a rhythm that helped me reset both mentally and physically. Over time, it became clear that having a reliable way to recharge mattered more than pushing myself to “do more.”
• Learning and reflection - I spent time learning — reading about bipolar and wellbeing, listening to other people’s experiences, and watching documentaries that helped me feel less alone. Alongside that, I began journaling regularly. Writing helped me process thoughts, notice patterns, and understand myself better.
• Pacing and stability - I focused on rebuilding routines that supported a steady baseline, rather than rushing back to everything at once. Giving myself time wasn’t a setback — it was part of staying well.
• Careful openness - Eventually, I began sharing parts of my story anonymously through blogs for the Mary Frances Trust. This step came later, once I felt ready. Writing for others helped me make sense of my own experience, while keeping appropriate boundaries.

And over time, those adjustments helped me feel grounded and back to myself. So, that's how it's been for me. There's a mix of elements there that have been key to my success for recovery and have helped me avoid suicidal thinking. Some are indeed probably down to luck, but I think we can influence many of the factors. 

Fundamentally, it’s about accepting what we can’t change, and focusing energy on the things we can influence — support, routines, and self-understanding. And that can be hard, really hard, and takes some time. We've gotta take that responsibility for ourselves and make changes to our lives that reduce our likelihood of illness and increase both our probability and speed of recovery when it does. It's about finding the right support, knowing ourselves better and making protective lifestyle changes.
​
Now everyone is here to learn more about the bipolar in the context of LGBT, and how it affects others. Next is to learn more about yourself. I want to know what's your story? What if you were asked to speak in this presentation, what would you say? And what's holding you back from doing so? If its feelings of shame and stigma, what could you do to overcome them? 

So that's all I wanted to say really.  Stay strong and know that bipolar does not need to define us. We can, and should, live full and enjoyable lives. So, don't let anyone stop you; particularly - you.​

On 30 June, at the close of Pride month, I was interviewed by That's TV South East which broadcasts across parts of Surrey on Freeview Channel 7 and includes local news. They approached me in response to my previous blog "​Finding Identity Beyond Stigma". They wanted to find out more about how I knew I was gay, how my mental health played in to it and barriers I've had to face, as well as the support organisations and groups that I've participated with.

Editor’s note: This is a long-form personal reflection written to explore identity, stigma, and growth over time.

I’m what they’d call a late bloomer when it comes to finding my sexuality.  It wasn’t until I was 26 that I started seriously asking questions about myself and seeking support. Interestingly, it coincided with a period where my mental health was under particular strain. I, like many people who ‘come-out’ gay, at any age, consider that I was probably always gay. I don’t think I turned gay at any particular point. My experience around the time I first ‘came out’ as gay was a period of enlightenment and discovery in my life. When thinking back over the years the evidence for it stacks up.

Looking back, there were plenty of signs — feelings of attraction and curiosity that I didn’t yet have the language or confidence to understand. As I got older I remember walking down the street and noticing good looking guys but completely miss the girls that my mates would be jeering at. At a time when my friends were finding girlfriends, I was just not all that bothered, but I didn't know why. Despite all of this, I just hadn’t put two and two together. There was little actual information being made available back then about what being gay was or what it meant. All I knew was kids at school just used it as an insult. So whatever it was, it must be bad and that means I can't be it.

So, the years went by. I had friends that had been brave enough to come out at earlier ages and I always felt very comfortable around them – never any sense that it was weird nor did I hold any form of stigma about them being gay. But for me being gay, well that was very different. I went to Uni, I graduated from Uni, I got a job, bought a house etc… Life went on. Yet, I still didn’t identify myself as gay. I had a huge mental block and it was easier just to ignore it and march on. Then, something happened and from an unexpected place I found myself questioning who I was.

That question became unavoidable during a period where life slowed me down and forced me to take stock. In the months that followed, I started to ask what I’d avoided for years — and it became a turning point in understanding who I am.

This turned out to be a fork-in-the-road moment. In hindsight, I think earlier acceptance of my sexuality might have spared me some of the turmoil that followed. At the same time, without being forced to pause and reflect, it’s just as likely those questions would have remained unresolved for years longer.

This hadn’t come out of nowhere. I’d just returned from a three-month work secondment in Dubai. I was living in a place where there was no visible LGBTQ+ community and very little tolerance for difference, which amplified my sense of isolation at the time.

The work placement was largely fine, although it was my first time being overseas for any prolonged period of time and I’d not travelled internationally for holidays more than a couple of times. Whilst it sounded like a great opportunity, I really didn’t enjoy it at all. I struggled massively with loneliness. Weekends seemed to drag and there was little to do. Sitting by the pool, shopping and going to restaurants was about it.

During the secondment, I found myself struggling with loneliness and low mood, which made day-to-day challenges feel heavier than they otherwise might have done. Towards the end of the placement, a relatively minor work issue became a source of anxiety for me — less because of the situation itself, and more because of the headspace I was in at the time.

It was only a few days before I was due home anyway and I had a plane ticket booked. Fortunately I managed to keep myself together to get my stuff packed up, to the airport and on a plane home. By the time I got home, I was very relieved to be back in around familiar surroundings. I felt safe to be home. Whilst this should have marked the start of recovery, it instead became a point where I needed to pause and reset. Over time, I’ve noticed that periods of sustained pressure can mask underlying strain. When that pressure lifts and things slow down, it can sometimes reveal how much has been going on beneath the surface. That’s what happened on this occasion, and it marked a point where I needed to pause and reset and get professional support. The experience was disorienting and unsettling, and it took time and support to regain a sense of balance.

What followed was a period of reflection and integration — a chance to reassess what mattered and how I wanted to live. While that pause created space for reflection, the questions themselves had been there for years; they simply became harder to ignore. I found myself thinking more deeply about how I experience confidence, identity, and self-expression, and how different parts of my personality show up in different circumstances. For the first time, I allowed myself to sit with a question I’d long avoided: am I gay? Despite years of hints and half-recognised signs, I still wasn’t sure — and accepting it felt daunting.

The first person I spoke to about it was someone I already trusted, Michael, who I’d had open and honest conversations with in other contexts. That discussion was straightforward and reassuring, and helped me see that the question itself didn’t need to be treated as a problem to solve, but something to understand. I was encouraged to seek out further support, which led me to organisations and communities where I could explore things more openly and at my own pace.

The first step needed on my coming out gay journey was to actually identify that there was something not usual about my sexuality and work out what it was. It was all to easy to kick the can down the road and not do anything, after all, I’d done that for the last 15 or so years at least (based on probably having my first gay thoughts at around age 11 when starting senior school). The major sticking point with me was definitely self stigma. From my perspective, being gay was something that very much only happened to other people. My bipolar episode was what was needed to kick me in to action in to dealing with these emotions. From the outside, it may have looked as though my bipolar episode had changed my sexuality. In reality, it simply stripped away the avoidance that had kept me from asking difficult questions about myself

Once I started asking questions, I met a lot of people via various gay and coming out support groups who later became some of my best friends and we explored the gay scene together. One of those groups was the Gay Outdoor Club, where on one outing I happened to bump in to no other than Michael, someone I’d previously had open and supportive conversations with. Suddenly a few things from our conversations slotted into place; he knew a lot more about the topic than he was letting on.

As a result of all this, I felt much less alone and that being gay was in fact as normal as being straight. For a long while I had a straight life (work, family, old friends who didn’t know) and a secret gay life that happened mostly at the weekends. In time, I built the confidence to tell people in my straight life and gradually allowed these lives to merge together. It’s a lot harder telling people you’ve known for a long time that you’re gay than telling new friends. I suppose it feels like there’s much more to lose. And this probably comes down to perceived stigma around being gay. But it’s far less now than it has been in the past. Civil rights campaigns have brought about equality and in time this has helped those identifying as gay to open up about it. This has probably lead to a public perceptions of homosexuality becoming seen as quite normal, common and is generally accepted. There’s countless celebrities who have made their fame off the back of it and have broken out of the gay world in to the mainstream which has certainly also helped.

I’ve found that coming-out is something that never stops, but it does get easier. I don’t go around telling everyone, but it’s not uncommon for heteronormative statements to come up in conversation with new acquaintances. I made the decision long ago that I’d always use the right pronouns describing dating activities and latterly, my partner, and to not be evasive in response to any direct questions. I knew that if I couldn’t be honest with others, I wasn’t being honest with myself. Sometimes I still find this difficult. I don’t know why, but being gay is still personal to me and sometimes it’s not something I want to go into as part of light chit-chat with someone I’ve only just met. But that’s just how it is.

With bipolar, at least there was a clear demarcation point in my life. I’d become very unwell after a period of serious illness and a formal diagnosis. But having someone tell you you’re a ‘thing’ doesn’t make it any easier to accept it. That’s a separate process I needed to undertake on my own. With my bipolar, it just seemed easier to hide. I felt ashamed of it. I definitely felt stigma towards it and telling others was and still is difficult. I’ve found that people don’t always know how to respond to conversations about mental health, particularly in professional settings. I suppose the same is true of being gay, but it feels more intense when it comes to mental health. It’s also not the sort of thing that comes up in conversation so often. This makes it easier to avoid than with sexuality. I have to intentionally bring it in to the discussion. But for me I apply the same rules as to being gay. If someone asks me about it, I’ll never shy away from giving honest answers. This means that being open about my mental health has been a more gradual and selective process, much like coming out in other parts of my life. There’s a few celebrities that have opened up about their mental health, and that’s a good thing. Having someone you can point to who has the same condition but also lives a perceivably ‘successful’ life helps normalise the condition in conversation.

I'm sure I'm far from the only one who is both gay and has a mental health diagnosis. If I were to draw a Venn diagram, the crossover is most likely quite large. In my case, I don't think being gay has triggered any consequential deterioration in my mental health; I knew about my bipolar first and I think it's my bipolar that has given me more pain in my life than my sexuality. That said, it was my bipolar that gave my mind the freedom to explore the possibilities of my sexuality in the first place.

For others, I know their sexuality can lay a heavy burden upon them. Particularly if parents, relatives and friends are far from accepting. The rejection can quite predictably lead to depression or in some cases even worse outcomes. I find this so sad and frustrating. People are what people are. It's hard enough to come to terms with ones sexuality or medical diagnosis without other people freaking out and projecting their insecurities and prejudices on to you. A little kindness and empathy from those close to you goes such a long way to helping provide time and space to deal with these things, to blossom in to your true self and then enable you carry on with with what you were doing before life threw you a curveball.

Finding yourself as gay and coming to terms with that can only lead us to experience the world in a different way than our heterosexual counterparts that haven't had to deal with all this stuff. We still live in a heteronormative society where being gay is still seen as different. But having done the 'self work' in dealing with all that comes with it can do nothing other than make us stronger and more compassionate people. The opportunities we get in life may also be different (despite equality laws) but there are now few things that gay people can't do that heterosexual couples can. All I can say is that being gay has perhaps complicated and delayed things a little in my life that would have been simpler and quicker had I not been gay. But overall I believe I've become a stronger, more resilient and more interesting person because of it.

Both experiences have shaped me in different ways. Not because they were easy or desirable, but because living through them required reflection, honesty, and growth.

To celebrate World Bipolar Day (30 March, Vincent Van Gogh's birthday, who was diagnosed with bipolar after he died) the Mary Frances Trust asked me some questions about my experience of Bipolar and I responded with some short videos.

You might be surprised to hear how positive I am today about living with bipolar disorder. It hasn’t always felt that way, but the story is more uneven than unrelentingly difficult. I was diagnosed more than twenty years ago, and over that time I’ve experienced a small number of serious episodes, separated by long periods of stability in which I’ve lived, worked, and grown in fairly ordinary ways.

Those episodes were significant and disruptive when they occurred, and they demanded time, support, and recovery. But they were not the constant backdrop of my life. Between them, I built a career, relationships, and a sense of self that extended well beyond the diagnosis.

What changed for me wasn’t the absence of episodes, but how I understood them and related to the condition as a whole. Over time, I realised that trying to “fight” or eliminate bipolar wasn’t realistic — but learning how to recognise patterns, reduce risk, and recover more intentionally was.

That shift became particularly clear around five years ago, during what turned out to be my most recent serious episode. At a time when several pressures converged, my mental health was affected. As my mood lifted and my thinking accelerated, I recognised familiar signs. This time, though, I noticed them earlier. I was more aware of how my thoughts and behaviour were changing, and for the first time I was able to engage with what was happening rather than simply be carried by it.

During that period, I felt unusually confident, creative, and energised. At the time, it felt positive — even empowering — although with hindsight I can see that it was still part of an unstable pattern. That sense of balance didn’t last, and eventually it became clear I needed more support and a proper reset. It was a clear reminder that feeling in control isn’t the same as being well.

During my recovery, I decided that I needed to learn from the experience rather than simply move on from it. That didn’t mean trying to harness or prolong elevated moods — living that close to the edge is far too risky. Instead, I wanted to understand my condition well enough to manage it responsibly, reduce the likelihood of further serious episodes, and accept it as part of who I am. That last part turned out to be the hardest.

What I came to realise was that I was carrying a great deal of self-stigma. I struggled to accept the diagnosis because I struggled to admit it — and that shame became tangled up with my sense of self. I’ve written elsewhere about my path to acceptance, but this was a turning point in recognising that avoiding the truth was costing me far more than facing it.

I spent a lot of time learning — reading books by clinicians and by people with lived experience, watching documentaries, and listening to others talk openly about their lives. Seeing how other people had learned to live well with bipolar helped me feel less alone. It also showed me that openness and responsibility could coexist, and that there was no reason to feel ashamed of being who I am.​

So, I decided I needed to go on a similar journey. This led me to begin writing more openly. I’d been writing journals to help me make sense of things and understand myself better for some time. The next step was to write something that other people would see. I started contributing blogs for the Mary Frances Trust. In July 2021, I joined the End Stigma Surrey mental health campaign as a Lived Experience Champion. Ending stigma mattered to me, but I also realised that the first person I needed to convince — and learn to live by those values — was myself. In October 2022, I launched this site and began publishing under my own name. It wasn’t an easy decision, and it took time to feel ready, but sharing my story has helped me — and, I hope, helps others too.

Over time, I’ve learned to live more peacefully alongside bipolar rather than fearing it or trying to fight it. I’m now comfortable talking about it openly, and I no longer live in constant fear of relapse. That doesn’t mean I’m complacent. It means I understand the signs, the risks, and the support I might need if I begin to struggle. Removing fear has made it easier to talk honestly — and that, in turn, makes it easier to stay well.

I sometimes reflect on how my life might have unfolded without bipolar disorder, but I try not to dwell on that. It’s one part of a much bigger picture, and with understanding and care it’s possible to live a full, ordinary life — including work, relationships, and day-to-day responsibilities. For that reason, I’m keen to challenge misconceptions about mental health and the assumptions people make about those who live with long-term conditions.

This post reflects where I am now, not a finished destination. Reaching a place where I could write publicly, maintain perspective, and speak with balance took time. It wasn’t something I’d have been ready to do a few years earlier. If you’re reading this and find yourself in a similar position, I’ve learned that self-acceptance comes before self-disclosure — and that timing matters. What feels right for one person won’t be right for another.

If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that taking responsibility for your wellbeing — quietly and consistently — is a real strength, even when it isn’t visible to others.

​But what if they're not?

It’s now over 20 years since I packed my bags, flew the nest and headed off to University and it’s got me reflecting on my first impressions of University and how they didn’t necessarily meet up with my expectations. I’ve written this blog to provide some balance to the “it’ll be amazing” narrative that often goes alongside the preparation and expectation of Uni life in the hope that it might provide some perspective for other young people embarking on or thinking about University.

In the years before going to university, I listened to those who had been before or those that were currently there. In a similar ways to how people curate their social media posts to be the edited highlights of their life, the descriptions of University life I was hearing were the same edited highlights and built a hedonistic dream in my mind. This, as we’ll see, all happened at a time when I was not only struggling with ongoing anxiety and wellbeing challenges that I didn’t yet have the language to understand. I believed in the dream.

University was the light at the end of the tunnel during my A-Levels. If there was ever two years of my life that I would never want to repeat again, it’ll be my A-levels. I’d done well at my GCSEs, well enough that it allowed me to move schools from the local Comprehensive to the Grammar school in the adjacent town. It had its benefits, but it was tough as well. I left all my friends behind and had to break in to existing and established friendship groups at the new school. Most people by that point had made their friends during their preceding years at school and weren’t particularly interested in me.

I distinctly remember my first day there dressed in my cheap suit from Sainsburys, new shiny black shoes and leather satchel style briefcase I’d got from TK Maxx to try and look grown up. The hot topic of conversation was GCSE results. Now, compared to my peers at my previous school, I’d done well with a smattering of grades across the spectrum. But then this all changed as I started listening in to the conversations others were having about their grades. It was all 11 A*. No one, it seemed, got anywhere near any smelly B grades. I gulped, and quietly hoped the wouldn’t ask me how I did.

Back at home, my brother who is two years older than me, had just received his A-Level results that summer. Let’s just say he didn’t do so well. He is actually really smart, a quick learner and I’d just spent the last 16 years of my life having to put up with him beating me at practically everything. If he couldn’t do A-Levels, what hope did that give me?

That was the start of a persistent sense of comparison and pressure. A seed of anxiety was planted. During this period I thought of little else other than ‘getting in to a good university’. So I worked. I worked so hard, studied twice, three times as much as I needed to – just to be sure – so that I would get those grades. I studied every night except Friday – that was Explorer Scouts night. I studied at least a day at the weekend. When I wasn’t studying I felt guilty that I should be.

I got seriously stressed before exams and I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep the night before. I was miserable and I hated it. Looking back, it’s striking how much pressure I was carrying at the time, even though I didn’t yet understand what was happening beneath the surface. But, I told myself, all this is only temporary. Once I’ve got in to University it’ll all be worth it and life will be better.

​Whilst studying for my A-Levels I also visited various Universities and met students that appeared to be having a great time enjoying their courses and Uni life. Also I recall family friends, relatives and other influential figures in my life reflecting on their own student experiences and waxing lyrical about how they were “the best years of their lives”. They’d yarn on about having little responsibility or commitment; long, free, sunny afternoons spent in the bar or how they met so many of their best friends at Uni. Some even met their now husband/wife partner while there. It was like Uni solved all their problems and was a euphoric oasis before the grind of working life started a few years later.

This to me, as someone who, at the time (and only now on reflection) was suffering with Generalised Anxiety Disorder for the past few years brought on my GCSEs and A-Levels, created a vison of pure nirvana – the final escape I’d been looking for.

But just like an oasis far away in a desert or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I hadn’t thought about (or wanted to think about) the fact that the oasis could be a mirage and the pot of gold may get further away the closer I got to it. But, to me, University was what all my hard work had been about and it was going to be amazing!

What’s nice about University is it’s an opportunity to make a fresh start. To embrace the person you are. You will be seen as the person you present yourself as today. No-one knows anything about you except what you wish to share. You can shake off character traits that you feel hold you back. You can let go of behaviours that are expected of you by your parents or school. You can really be who you are or who you want to be. Want to be known by a new nickname? Go for it! For some people, it can be a chance to be more open about who they are, in ways that might not have felt possible before.

So much of my hopes and dreams around University were based on it being that fresh start and meeting new people who you’ll form new friendships for life. I thought this would be quick and I thought this would be easy. At least, compared to my change to Grammar School – everyone was in the same boat – no-one knew anyone else and everyone wanted to make new friends. Did I ‘click’ with everyone I met? No, not by a long shot.

This was the part of my experience which was much harder than I thought it would be. For some reason I thought I’d immediately become best mates with everyone I met, certainly the 10 other people I shared a house with in my student halls. And, it’s here when the challenges started for me. I just struggled to find anyone in my halls I could connect with. I’d unwittingly found myself in a house with no-one who would be going to the same lectures as me.

Then there was the general chat: the courses people were doing in my house were sporty and for those that weren’t, football was all they wanted to talk about. I never enjoyed sport at school and I don’t ‘support a team’ or have any enthusiasm for it at all. I immediately felt like an outsider. I wasn’t part of the cool crew.

This was a setback for me and was a hard hitting ‘first impression’ of University life. A few stitches that held together my university dream were coming undone.

I’d just joined a University of c10,000 students. Most Universities are very big places, with inconceivable scale compared to school. My Grammar school, I think was about 800 pupils. This makes it a daunting prospect for finding friends. So many new people are around you who are all different in their own ways.

The first people you meet might not necessarily the ones you stick with, and that’s ok. You need to meet a lot of people before you find the ones that become you’re new besties. If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone in your halls. If you don’t, maybe you’ll be well matched with someone as a lab partner on your course. But maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll strike up conversation with someone after a lecture, or meet someone through a club or society.

What I learned was it’s best not to ‘expect’ to just be able to ‘replace’ your friendship group you had at home. Finding friends like those you’ve known for a long time will, I’m afraid, take time. But the best bit – you friendship group ‘back home’ is still your friendship group. It’s easy to get caught up in your new Uni life – don’t forget about your old friends. Dial them up from time to time. They’ll likely be going through the same struggles during their first few weeks, so catch up with them and share how you’re doing.

It’s odd how just having some familiar people around creates an easy feeling of company. You don’t need to be doing anything in particular or even talking. Just being there is enough. That’s often the case with family at home. You could spend time in your room but you knew you could just burst in to your brother’s room and interrupt whatever he’s doing or sooner or later you’d be getting together for lunch or dinner. Before going to Uni I always thought that people would leave their doors open and always be easy for a chat. But this didn’t seem to be the case.

After meals, people would either go straight to their rooms or head out. And if you didn’t want to go out drinking or clubbing with them (cos you weren’t part of the cool footie crew) you were left on your own, in your room. And there wasn’t much to do.

I’d go home for the weekend every few weeks. It was odd how going home for the weekend seemed to make me feel so much less alone. I wouldn’t necessarily ‘do’ anything when at home to occupy myself any more than I would while at Uni, but the familiarity and just having people around was enough so I didn’t feel isolated.

​We now live in an ‘always-on’ society. The issues that I faced with staying connected have largely been overcome by the advent of smartphones and wifi everywhere. But, even with the tech at your fingertips, it’s still possible to feel isolated in an otherwise connected world. These aren’t rules or solutions — just a few things I wish I’d been more comfortable doing at the time:

​Adapting to some elements of student culture came as a challenge for me too. I thought that maybe I’d enjoy clubbing, all night drinking and the like. But actually, I found it very confusing and learned not to like it and at the time I didn’t really know why. When you break down the fundamentals of what parties and clubs are about – they’re about meeting people. But not about meeting people to debate the hot topics of the week – no, it’s to dance, to have fun, and find someone to leave the club night with that you hadn’t arrived with. In short, people don’t go looking for friends, they’re looking for dates.

And what I hadn’t worked out, at the tender age of 18 when I started at Uni, was that I had no interest in girls. I also didn’t understand how I felt about guys. This made clubbing very awkward for me. I’d agree to go along with a group of friends. What I didn’t know is was at the back of their mind, they were looking for girls. I wasn’t. I wasn’t looking for guys either. I just went along. And as such I found night clubs not to be particularly interesting ways to spend an evening. Sure, I’d play along. I’d dance with girls as that’s what everyone else did, but I had absolutely no intent of making any moves on a girl. I was fearful, even, of anything happening. I didn’t know what to do or how to do it, or as it seemed, be very interested in finding out.

I didn’t think I was gay because I didn’t think I was different from anyone else. And I didn’t know how to make sense of my emotions, or lack thereof. Looking back – I had gay tendencies. Some signs were there but I didn’t know how to deal with them. Looking back, there were clear signs that my interests and attractions were different from those of my peers, even if I didn’t yet understand what that meant. It was a bit like football to me. In the same way I found myself with a group of people that bonded over talking about football – to which I had no interest – it was the same with girls – they’d all get excited chat for hours about them and I just didn’t really understand why, nor feel at all interested in contributing to the conversation. I just accepted it as one of those things. I didn’t understand how I was different or what it meant, nor was I able to process these thoughts. Sadly, I wouldn’t suss this one out until a good few years later, and well after University had finished.

As we got in to the second semester, I’d started to feel more comfortable with Uni life. I’d got used to taking responsibility for my daily living, and the mundane tasks of shopping, cooking and washing. I got more involved with clubs and societies and I formed a wider base of friends and was less reliant on those I’d been put with in my halls. I’d made friends across a number of different student halls as well as with people on my course. I’d also got involved helping out at a local Explorer Scout Unit that was round the corner from the University – somewhere that I really felt at home. They were very welcoming and I very quickly felt like I fitted right in.

I’d found a small group to live with as we moved in to year two and we’d be renting a house in the city together.

​From the start of term, I had this niggling feeling in the back of my mind that I was on the wrong course. I was doing Electronic and Electrical Engineering.

It was also what my Dad had studied, albeit not at University, and what my brother was doing too. But as we got in to the term, I felt no passion for it. Of course, a lot was changing at the start of term, and the general advice was to stick with it – you can’t drop out a few weeks in. And so I did. But this niggling feeling didn’t go away. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to talk to the Physics department. Physics was the subject I enjoyed most at school and it was always a toss up between studying Physics or Elec Eng. It was agreed that I could do some extra study during the summer holidays, and then continue in to year two at the start of the next academic year. This was a great relief, and felt like a good plan. But, I still had to pass my first year in Elec Eng.

As the end of the first academic year drew closer, I started burning the candle at both ends. I was studying hard – and previous anxieties around GCSE/A-level exams had returned. I would go out for late night parties. I would do all-nighters to get course work finished and the same for exams. I was feeling energised about life and my mood, at long last I was feeling good.

That was, until my world came crashing down around me after I’d packed up and headed home after the final exam (and probably final party!) of the semester. Only a few days later I found myself in a mental health ward where after a few weeks I’d been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Only later did I understand that bipolar disorder may also have played a role in how I experienced that period. Had this been happening to me, at a lesser extent from getting through my A-levels – and experiencing the relief and high, to then hitting some lows when faced with the realities at Uni? Then as I settled in, my mood started to improve, but then went too far? It’s difficult to say. But none-the-less, it’s possible that my Bipolar Disorder may have also played a role in the challenges I faced in my first year at Uni.

​I remember wandering about campus of an evening during my first year. Not really knowing where to go or what to do. I’d often ring home at one of the phone booths, or be checking my emails in the library, and then not be in any particular rush to head back to my room.

There was one sign that I remember seeing, again and again, but I failed to take action on it.

Now, I don’t remember quite what the wording was, or even the service it was advertising – only that it felt like it spoke to me. It described some traits that matched how I was feeling – low, isolated, lonely, overwhelmed, unsure of what you’re doing – and gave a phone number and said speak to your Students’ Union. I never did.

If you’re struggling, it’s worth knowing that support is there if you want it. Start with your Students’ union or your Universities student support services. It’s likely they’ll have a helpline or counselling service. If no-one used them, they wouldn’t be there. Genuinely – they’re waiting to help you if you need it.

I write this piece because I’m sure there’s others out there, like me, who are or who have struggled with adapting to University life. I’m also sure there’s others out there that feel like they’re ‘living the dream’ but from time to time will still have their doubts. The world is a big place, and finding your place in it can be difficult and confusing. Yet for so many they find themselves trying to work this out in unfamiliar surroundings, on their own with in sufficient information or support to guide them – at University.

There’s so much expectation put upon our young people these days, and the levels of pressure they are put under from their early teens through to their early twenties to do well at school, A-levels and University is immense. These are external pressures put on our young people by teachers, parents and society at large – to conform – to follow this ‘default’ path that is supposed to lead to fulfilment and happiness – but can’t possibly for everyone.

Unfortunately this neglects to consider the diverse wants and needs of each individual caught up in the process. There’s a lot to work out as you struggle with puberty, choosing your ‘options’ for GCSE, choosing your A-levels and learning to drive. As you get your first job and you try things like alcohol, your first smoke and have your first liaisons with girls – and try and work out whether you like it or not.

Choosing your degree subject feels like the biggest and most important decision you’ll ever make in your entire life, although it isn’t really. You’ll think it’s one that will affect the job you get and the life you lead for decades to come. It’s a lot to deal with and it’s too much to deal with at such a young age. It’s so hard to work out who you are or what you are, and sometimes you’ll have thoughts or feelings that don’t sit comfortably with you – which you may not understand or know why you get them. Outwardly everyone else might look like they’re ‘sorted’ and it’s just you in this wibbly wobbly mess – but everyone goes through it in one way or another – to find out who they are, what they want from life and how they want to lead their lives. It’s different for everyone and the fairly rigid educational pipeline many young people move through between their early teens and early twenties really doesn’t make it easy.

As I grow older, I’ve come to realise that I’m an ongoing project. One that changes every day. When I look back at the ‘me’ of twenty years ago at University, I see a very different person, as I do when I look at the me of ten years ago or even last week or yesterday. I’m always learning, changing, and evolving and making sense of who I am and my place on this planet will never stop. I write personal journals and entries to this blog because it helps me encapsulate my life experiences at different times of my life and I can look back at how I’ve changed. Yet as I approach 40, I’m still struggling with some fundamentals of who I am, what I want to be and how I should live my life. That’s how it’s always been, how it always will be and how I like it. If it stops, then I’ve probably stopped living.

University is a phase, not an end, nor a beginning. It’s a time-bucket of life where you’ll have a set of experiences. It doesn’t mark ‘the end’ of learning or of growing up and becoming an adult. It won’t solve all your problems and you’ll still have a ton of stuff to work through when it’s over. Enjoy it the best you can; prepare for uncertainties and difficulties; expect that at least at one point you’ll need to call on some emotional support from a helpline/chat service or some counselling.

Life has just thrown one hell of a lot at you all in one go – but you will get through it. And it will be fun, most of the time, just not all of the time.

​My advice is based on an experience 20 years ago. I'd be fascinated to hear stories from anyone who has graduated either before me, or more recently to see how the experience has changed over time.

Thursday 2 February was "Time to Talk" day. It's a campaign sponsored by the mental health charity Mind to encourage people to take a moment out of their busy day to pause and check-in with friends, family and colleagues about how they are feeling and ask about their mental health.
​
This year I supported the conversation in my role as a Lived Experience Champion for the End Stigma Surrey anti-discrimination campaign. This was the first time in my role as a Champion that I had approached members of the general public out of the blue to engage in discussions about mental health. This post shares some reflections from conversations I had that day, and two themes that seemed to make it harder for people to take steps to look after their mental health. These were having the time and the shame created out of stigma. But is this really what's stopping us or are these just lies we tell ourselves so we keep putting it off? Lets find out.

As an End Stigma Champion the most interesting conversations for me were the ones where I actually detected a note of stigma. During the day the most striking remark on the surface sounded like the mental health panacea we've all been looking for:

It was a striking comment, because it reflected a common belief that staying busy somehow protects us from mental ill-health — something my own experience has shown simply isn’t true.

What was particularly striking was that this remark embodied not just stigma towards others fighting against a bona fide medical condition but potentially also an element internalised stigma that may prevent this individual from allowing herself to seek support if she needed it. The feeling I got was regardless of what might be happening in her life she would never allow her self to identify as "one of those people".

But as we know, it doesn't work like that. Mental ill-health can affect anyone, regardless of background, circumstance, or how busy their life appears to be. It's just the same as any physical condition - it'll strike you down when you least expect it. In the same way we wouldn’t expect physical health concerns to disappear through avoidance, mental health struggles also tend to persist when left unaddressed.

What stayed with me was a sense that this was not an easy topic for her to engage with. I felt that if she were more open towards understanding issues surrounding mental health that it might allow her to take steps to improve her wellbeing and enjoyment of life, but it was clear to me she really didn't want to continue this conversation about something she clearly saw as affecting ‘other people’, rather than something she could relate to herself.

On balance, I think there is an element of truth in what she was saying. Keeping yourself active and occupied is no doubt good for your mental health. Not only that, poor mental wellbeing can indeed be ignored for a while - just like you can ignore persistent physical pain - but it's not advisable to do so forever. Persistent physical pain typically suggests something more sinister may be happening under the surface so its worth getting it checked out. It's the same with your mental health. Left unchecked and without seeking the support of charities or professionals, sooner or later it'll strike you down. But all too often asking for help just seems like a bridge too far - and stigma can sit behind this too.

Stigma from others can also stop people asking for help. This became clear when I spoke with another lady. She described how she had this "thing". She didn't really know how to describe it other than she knew she'd always felt like it and when it happens she just needs to hide her self away for a few days to get through it. She knew that it wasn't right and also that asking for help was the right thing to do. But what was stopping her was the expectation of others.

As she spoke these words there was clear relief running through her body. She'd clearly been keeping these powerful emotions inside for too long and to finally tell someone was a huge weight off her mind. I was humbled that she'd chosen to confide in me.

In her case it was close family members that had created a stigma about mental health and had prevented her from seeking the support she needed. As we spoke I took a moment to express how I have struggled with asking for help in the past. My case is slightly different in that I always think "I'm not bad enough" and that "it'll get better on it's own" but I used it as a way to try and show that she's not only one that finds it hard to ask for help and also to try and show its ok to do so.

​What was particularly challenging was how she found it so difficult to actually describe what was happening to her. It made asking for help all the much harder. Maybe all she needed to say is "there's something wrong and I don't know what it is" and let the conversation go from there. We talked about different ways of asking for help that might make this easier - such as by emailing a support service - which would allow her to take time to describe the feelings and emotions that are affecting her. The organisation might follow up with a phone call but at least it's got that awkward bit of trying to explain the problem out of the way.

​I know how tough it is to experience mental health difficulties and not know what it is. This reminded me of how difficult it can be to struggle without understanding what’s happening, particularly early on. I just didn't know what was happening to me and also whether or not I'd be like it forever. Understanding what was happening brought a sense of relief and opened up ways to seek appropriate support. It meant that I could find out more about the condition online, engage with others at support groups and learn about other peoples experiences from books, films and documentaries. All of these things helped me feel less alone by realising "it's not just me" and enabled me to learn new ways to become more resilient and live with the condition.

Throughout the day I had the opportunity to engage in a range of different conversations with people from all backgrounds. With some, the conversation remained quite superficial; others trusted me enough to share very personal fears and challenges - something that caught be quite by surprise. As much as I wanted to help, I couldn't. That's not for me to do; after all I'm not a counsellor or medical practitioner - in fact I have no mental health qualifications at all beyond my own hard fought experience.  And I found that difficult.

It made me completely call in to question the value I'm adding as an End Stigma Champion. If all I could do was start a conversation about mental health, what good is that when you identify someone really in need of support? Of course, I can signpost to supporting organisations, but I felt I should be doing more.

As the day came to a close I did come to one resounding conclusion which did, thankfully, reinforce the importance of what we do at End Stigma Surrey and make it all feel completely worthwhile.

Time to talk day is all about "making time" for your mental health. It's about making the conscious decision that your mental health is as important as your physical health and worthy of your time to look after it.  We all live busy lives and may often remark that we're "too busy" to do something. But most of us have more agency than we sometimes feel in the moment. When we're stuck in the monotony of the daily grind this may be hard to see; but we do. Everyone has choice over what we believe to be important and what we spend our time doing. 

If you think you're "too busy" to look after your mental health, take a moment to undertake a time audit of your day and identify some of the time sinks you're not "too busy" for. Many of us do find time for things that help us switch off, even when life feels busy. Even a short conversation about your wellbeing can make a meaningful difference. 

I know it's hard and that's why we put it off.  And that's not entirely your fault. Its the stigma surrounding mental health that makes this feel too difficult. And that's why we continue to campaign and raise awareness of the ubiquitous, yet too often unseen nature of mental health struggles.

Our End Stigma campaign is about helping people "make time" for their mental health and start a conversation about it.  Whilst this may be as far as we go in terms of providing support - this is the first step that's needed on a path to improved health and wellbeing. It is, therefore, the most important step. Without our campaign challenging societal stigma surrounding mental health and making it OK to talk about how we're feeling, those most in need would be left struggling on their own, without support. And it is for this reason that I feel what I do as an End Stigma Champion is vitally important. 

​It's about breaking down these invisible barriers to talking about wellbeing and mental health to enable progress to the next step of accessing professional help. We might just be the first link in the chain - but without it, there is no chain.

​Finding a few minutes a day for your mental health and wellbeing can be hugely empowering. When I was "too busy" to fit in anything else and every minute felt "double counted for" what I really needed was to find some zen like calm amongst all the craziness.

I needed to find small ways to create space in my life for change​. To do this I started meditating for just a few minutes a day.  It was hard to find the time but it started me on a path of restoring agency over my life. And it wasn't long before the benefits of this first step allowed me to make changes in other aspects of my life to further improve my wellbeing.

We fight stigma to make it ok for everyone to start their journey to improved mental wellbeing. Mental health affects a surprising number of people. But, because it's invisible everyone it affects thinks they're the only one. Add old fashioned attitudes that stigmatize mental ill health in to the mix and it creates feelings of shame that we want to hide from. If you're having a tough time mentally you just need to know that the way you feel is normal. By opening up you'll soon find friends, colleagues or new contacts who have felt the same way and when you do this you'll realise that stigma not the big issue you thought it was.

​So perhaps the question is: what small step might feel manageable today? What small action could you take today to improve your wellbeing that you'll thank yourself for tomorrow? It just takes a moment to decide you want to make a change and a few minutes to take that first step.

​If you're reading this and feel you need to talk to someone, the crisis support page on the Mary Frances Trust website has details of both local (to Surrey) and national organisations that exist for this purpose and are there hoping you'll pick up the phone. If you're local to Surrey, you can of course reach out to the Mary Frances Trust directly.

​Talking, we all do it everyday. Some people will use a thousand words when one will do; others chose their words more carefully. Talk is cheap. Talk is easy. But some topics come more freely than others. When it really counts; when it really matters; talking can seem like the hardest thing to do. But it's these conversations that can reap the most powerful benefits. Talk can be a real support — sometimes the start of feeling a little lighter, clearer, or less alone.

One of these difficult topics, particularly for men, is to talk about how we're feeling. I know people who will go to great lengths to avoid telling you how they really feel. They'll only give short, sharp, one word answers and show a desire to move the conversation on. Now, I get it. There's often a time and a place for these deeper sorts of conversations. Whenever we phone someone, or meet someone briefly in a corridor, we say 'hi, how are you', but in all honesty, in these situations we're just being civil, we're not really expecting anything more than 'yeah, sure, fine thanks'. But sometimes it’s worth pausing and making a little more space for a real answer.

Often, we don’t talk because we don’t want to feel like a burden. Similarly if someone knows you're going through tough times they might not open up to you because they don't want to add to your problems - when actually from their perspective they'd be only too pleased to talk to you - to realise they're not alone but also to share their own advice for getting through it. There's also that everyone wants to create an impression of being 'sorted' and having it all together. This then actually makes it much harder if your world starts falling apart. You don't want to admit to others that things aren't what they were but more than that, you don't want to admit it to yourself.

I've heard people say 'oh what's the point - talking won't change anything' - but change comes from inside. First you need to understand the complex and powerful emotional thing that's wrapped up inside you and sometimes the first step is simply giving it words, so it stops circling in your head. However, when life is tough and you're going through the wringer, talking can be a powerful tool to change how you feel, to process emotions and to put things in to perspective. And there's so many ways to do it. It doesn't have to be to another person and it doesn't have to done verbally.

Let's take an example. I'm the sort of person that ruminates. If you don't know what I mean by that then let me explain. Things happen day to day as they always do and I let certain situations cycle around in my head again and again. If you do this, maybe you also verbalise it - the classic 'talking to yourself' scenario? It steals your peace an enjoyment of life very easily. Ultimately, it’s treating a point in the past or future as more important than the present moment and you then live your life stuck there and completely miss your life in the the 'now'.

This was especially true for me during a period when work felt difficult and emotionally draining. I don't like confrontation. Yet, I'd often find myself thinking back over a conversation that was had that day and thinking about better responses to the arguments. I'd think 'I should have said this' or 'I should have said that' and I'd keep playing out different versions of the same scene again and again in my head. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I'd start imagining new situations that could happen and then let my mind run wild cycling through what I would say if they said 'this' or if they said 'that'. I'd do this all evening and sometimes also all weekend. I used to think that by doing this I'd be better prepared and would help me get my work done - but it's simply not true. By experimentation I found that by not thinking about work for a weekend and instead enjoying myself, when I went back to work I'd be recharged and have a fresh perspective - the answers came to me there and then much more quickly. I didn't need to be processing it all weekend.

This was something that I found difficult to discuss with anyone, least of all with my partner. I felt embarrassed bringing it up, because it was hard to explain clearly and felt bigger in my head than it might have sounded out loud. Not only that, it all just seemed too difficult to explain the context, even though really it would probably only have taken a few sentences. Talking to my partner was good for putting things in to perspective and it helped me to stop worrying about it. However, my ruminating was happening a lot so I needed to find other ways of dealing with it.

​One of my coping mechanisms was to start journaling. Very simply, I'd write down the narrative that was cycling around in my head. Once I’d done this, something shifted. Once it was down on the page, carefully written out and edited to be 'the best version of the conversation' my brain let me stop thinking about it. My anxiety levels dropped and I was able to return to the present moment again. I was able to enjoy what I was doing now - something that my rumination had stolen from me. And the reason for this was very simple. Once I had got it 'out' and down on a page it was there in front of me. I didn't need to remember it any more - because if I want to go back to it - I could just open the notes and there it was.

​But sometimes I wasn't in the mood to write or didn't feel like I had the time. Like for example when I’m in bed and want to sleep, but my mind won’t switch off - as it's got something spinning around again and again. For this, I started doing short videos in to my phone. I'd pause and think about what it was spinning around in my head and what I'd want to say. Then, I'd give myself no more than 3 minutes to say what was on my mind in to the camera. I'd say it, then watch it back once. It would have the same effect. Now I'd stored this memory on my phone, I no longer needed to store it in my head, and I was able to go to sleep.

​I've also had friends that say they talk to their pets, and this works for them. I guess it feels safe and unintimidating. Like a journal or a voice note, it lets you say what you need to say without worrying about an immediate response. But this does still provide a way for you to process those raw and powerful emotions by verbalising your thoughts and explaining them in a way you think your cat could understand.

Where I believe these techniques get their power is being able to say something, in the way you want to say it, without having to worry about somebody else's response. That in itself is quite is liberating. The point is that processing something on your own can be helpful — especially if you capture it in a form you can come back to later - in written or video form, or indeed to your cat, if she's listening carefully.

​I think the difference here is that sometimes when talking to someone else we find ourselves being more guarded. We don't want to say what's really bothering us, at least not at first. As a ruminator, talking to someone else about what's going on in my head creates the Russian Doll of all rumination situations: a conversation in a conversation. I'd have the original issue spinning around in my head, then before talking to someone else I'll start another conversation in my head about what I'd say to them about the first conversation. And that second conversation would also then start spinning around again and again as I work through each and every way that person could respond to what I'm saying and then what I'd say if they said 'this' or said 'that'. Who knew that simply talking to someone could become so difficult?

So this is why in so many cases we just don't do it. It's seems so much easier to bottle it up and try and ignore it. But, we can only do this for so long. This is why being a good listener matters when someone does choose to talk. At first they need to get the 'script' off of their chest. They've been practising what they want to say for hours, so it's important to let that just flow. Be open and nod encouragingly to let them say what they need to say. Only then when it feels like they've said what they had planned should you start responding to shape it in to a two way conversation.

Talking to friends or loved ones can be hard, mainly as you feel like you may be judged and you don't want to change the way they perceive you. Instead, it can be easier to speak to someone you don't know and I think that highlights the value of other forums. For example, I go to a local walking group called Walk and Talk for Men. It’s a national group that runs events all over the country. If you're looking for information specifically about the Surrey group then check out their Instagram page. What I like about this group is there's no pressure to talk about anything 'feelings' or 'mental health' related, but you just know that if you want to have that sort of conversation you can and you won't be judged. After all, everyone is there because they want to do something for the benefit of their mental health. The group changes a bit month on month so there's always the opportunity to meet someone new.

Another avenue if you, like me, find talking to someone you don't know a little easier are the many helplines that are available, such as the Samaritans. They can help you by being that good listener, by reframing your thoughts and helping you create some action steps for going forward. I always used to worry that these services were for other people and that I wasn't 'bad enough'. The trouble is, where do you set your threshold between what is just normal day to day stuff and actually accepting that there's something's not right here. And that's a difficult call. But if you've been reading my story about ruminating and it's sounding familiar then it may be worth giving a helpline a try — you won’t be wasting anyone’s time.

But in this modern world, speaking isn't the only way we can chat. Many helplines also offer instant messaging. Notably 'Shout' is a free, anonymous and confidential texting service. And for some reason, we often find it easier to chat with our fingers in this less formal way.

So, if you've go this far - you will have tried writing it down, making a recording in to your phone or speaking to your cat; you may have tried talking to a friend, or texting someone or even with a helpline - and perhaps you're not feeling any better? If you're still stuck in the position when all you can do is anxiously think about the same situations again and again then it's time to pause and take stock. If this pattern carries on for a while, it can be exhausting — and it can start to affect your wellbeing more broadly. Not only is this stealing the current moment from you - whatever you're doing in the now you can't enjoy - but it is also very tiring. It doesn't allow your mind to calm down and switch off. And the brain needs rest. If it's constantly thinking unpleasant thoughts and it can leave you feeling worn down or overwhelmed.

​The next step may be to reach out for some medical support. But that comes with it's own challenges. If you decide you do want to reach out for some support, even before doing it I’ve often felt a barrier in even making the appointment — as if asking for help is an admission that something is ‘wrong’. The thought process I struggle with is that by going to the doctor, I must by definition be ill. This never seems to be an issue when going to see them about a cold or a sore throat, but for some reason it becomes a barrier if the issue is mental health related. To go to the doctors and say you're struggling with stress, anxiety or depression means you need to first accept that its a problem; and that's a very hard first step. It can also mean challenging the assumptions we carry about mental health and who it affects. It can help to remember you’re not alone — many people experience periods of stress, anxiety, or low mood, and support exists for a reason.

​If there's one thing that you take from this, it is the power of talking to process your emotions. If you can find a way to do this, it can make a meaningful difference. Men in particular, statistically, find this more difficult but I hope this blog has given you some ideas to help you find a way to 'talk' that feels safe and comfortable for you. It doesn't always have to be to another person and it doesn't have to be using the spoken word so don't let these be barriers from stopping you working through what's going on and accessing any support you need.

They say never meet your heroes. I don't believe it. When making a big decision, such as whether to speak openly about something as personal as my experience of mental health, meeting someone who's walked that path, been there, done it and is proud of it makes the decision so much easier.

A few weeks ago I was at the launch of the End Stigma Surrey campaign. On running order to speak at the event was Sefik Villasante and I was very excited about the possibility to meet and chat with him.

I'd previously read his book, There's No Shame, and had been inspired by is story of recovery and by the way he'd taken the bold move to step away from a conventional career path and focus his work on improving mental health awareness and helping others as a speaker, facilitator, a writer and coach.

On stage, I watched as he described his persona as a 'gameshow host'. He was positive, energetic and confident. It was evident he felt no shame in sharing his story of surviving periods of profound mental ill-health and recovery. It was a reminder of how powerful openness can be when it’s grounded and honest. Yes, the issues are serious, but it's not all doom and gloom and we must always focus on the brighter side. Getting through it, recovery and living better lives. And, as with my own experiences, it was clear that periods of difficulty had shaped his perspective and direction.

Upon meeting him I was struck by his warmth and empathy and that even though we'd only just met we found a huge amount in common in a very short conversation. I opened up to Sefik about my desire to get my story out there and I shared my fears with him. His response was powerful and inspiring. He offered encouragement that stayed with me, about not letting fear define my choices:

These words had a profound impact on me. And it's true: having to keep my condition a secret is preventing me from showing up as my true authentic self in everyday life. At home, with my friends and with my colleagues. Far from this secret protecting me, I began to realise that keeping this part of myself hidden was limiting how fully I could show up in my life. This website is the product of that conversation.

Of course, there will be people who say this is the wrong decision I'm sure, and I’m sure there will be people who don’t understand or agree with that choice, but as Sefik says, I need to stop caring about them. I need instead to focus on the people who will respect my story, be able to learn from it and find strength for their own lives. These people, to me, have to be more important than any one else.

Seeing others speak openly about their experiences helped me realise that openness and credibility can coexist

This became the moment I decided to tell my story in my own words, and on my own terms.

​A few weeks ago I was delighted to have been asked to give a talk at the official launch of the End Stigma Surrey campaign in the Horton Arts Centre near Epsom. It was a perfect venue such an event as the Horton used to be the Chapel supporting the residents of the extensive mental health hospitals in the area that have subsequently closed and been redeveloped in to 'exclusive' apartments and houses. Importantly for me, this was the first time I’d spoken publicly about my experience of mental health. Prior to that, I'd only been open in small groups - small groups where everyone in that group has the same or similar credentials. However, even in a room of 80 or so people, it still felt like a safe space and that the audience were rooting for me and not judging me. My opening line was:

I owned the statement. It felt good to be able to say it without feeling like the audience would think less of me. But this shouldn't just be the case in a room of individuals from, or with an interest in, the mental health sector who understand what this means; it should be acceptable in daily life in just the same way as someone getting up and saying:

No-one would think any less of me for that, or think that I wouldn't be able to do certain things again once my leg has healed. Mental health deserves the same openness and fairness in how we respond to it.

I was notably careful of the wording. I said 'live with a mental health condition' rather than 'have a mental health condition'. That wording matters to me, because it reflects that this is one part of a much bigger picture. It does not define me. It does not limit me.

In my talk I spoke about the great improvements that have been made in recent years to promote good mental health and wellbeing in the workplace. I was able to give an example of a company where new policies have been put in place, initiatives such as Mental Health First Aiders had become established, how Wellbeing Hubs have popped up and Employee Assistance Programmes (EAPs) - which feature free counselling and access to GP services are available. Not only this, it's a workplace where mental health topics have crept in to the office vernacular. Mental Health days are being marked in the office with free cakes on 'time to talk day'; the Action for Happiness calendar is being sent round on a monthly basis; and mental health topics have become acceptable as 'Safety Moments' at the start of meetings.  A 'Safety Moment' for those not familiar with the term is traditionally a brief reflection at the start of a meeting to make note of something we can all do to help maintain the safety of ourselves or others in the office and on the Company's clients' sites. Here, it had become acceptable for this to now include topics relating to wellbeing and mental health.

This represents real progress, even if it’s been driven by a mix of human and organisational motivations. But more than this, getting mental health support right is not only important for profits, it matters to get the best from your workforce; it'll reduce sick days and improve retention of your best staff who may be silently facing burn-out and considering other options.

You may be thinking there's no more to do.  It would be easy to assume the work is done.​  However, being able to 'talk-the-talk' is one thing. Taking the right approach with individuals who are experiencing mental health difficulties is more difficult. It's more difficult because despite having all the right foundations laid, the right messaging in place and the right support from central HR functions - what matters on a day to day basis are the attitudes and beliefs of your individual managers. In my talk I went on to describe how this was where things can become unstuck.

After a period away for health reasons, I returned to work feeling ready to re-engage. What proved difficult was not the return itself, but the absence of a conversation about how best to support it. Unfortunately no sooner had I returned, then there was a reorganisation which removed me from my previous position. I was moved into a different role, reporting into a structure that felt like a step back for me. Importantly, this wasn’t a reflection of my capability or performance, but of uncertainty about how best to respond. At the time I remember it having a desperate impact on my wellbeing. I became angry and resentful. It affected my confidence and left me questioning my place at a time when I was still rebuilding.

It may have been that this manager thought they were protecting me. Quite reasonably they didn't want me to fall ill again. But what they did had the opposite effect. The most difficult bit for me was that it came to me as a 'decision from on high'. There wasn't any discussion about it or consideration of other support options. It felt as though the situation was handled cautiously, without an open conversation. What I needed most was a simple, open conversation — similar to how returns after physical illness are often handled, such as to:

• Start a conversation with the employee and involve them in the decision process.
• Ask the employee what support would help them do their job. After-all, they know thier job best.
• Offer up suggestions for things that could help but stop short of mandating them. Perhaps a mentor or a buddy from another team to provide support and advice. Reduced responsibilities is an option and may be right for some, but in my case it wasn't what I wanted: I'd put the effort in to getting well and I just wanted to crack on from where I left off.

I still don't know why this didn't happen. It seemed like such a simple and obvious thing to do. It was all that was needed in order to co-create an effective and tailored plan for my return to work would have benefitted both me and the organisation. I think it came down to a lack of confidence and understanding in how to handle mental health conversations well. That they simply hadn't taken the time to get 'on-board' with the broader and much more enlightened attitudes towards mental health and wellbeing that had been adopted in recent years by the company.

On the whole, the company had been good to me in providing support for my wellbeing and mental health over the years, so I don't want to be overly critical. They had done a lot right and I'd benefitted from their new policies and a broad range of individual support options available.  However, a year after my return to work didn't get my former role back and I concluded it was time for me to move on.

It was such a shame, because despite incredible progress in terms of mental health support it was the attitudes and beliefs of just one individual that showed me how uneven progress can be at an individual level​. Until we can change the hearts and minds of these individuals and talk about a mental health conditions in the same frank and non-biased way that we approach physical conditions there is still work to do in improving understanding and confidence around mental health. It also matters that we don’t underestimate the capability of people who have experienced mental ill-health. A point which was proven a few months after I left the organisation when a different manager from the company reached out to me wanting to encourage me to re-join. Turned out he, and my previous client had missed the impact I made on their projects and still had a big gap to fill with some projects that now needed turning around.

The advice I gave to conclude my talk was simple and easy to remember: 

I appreciated the encouragement.