‘Time Together’ at St Martin-in-the-Fields

I want to tell you about a conversation that changed my life, and is a big reason why I join you at this service here today. Today would have been my mother’s 94th birthday: but it isn’t, because 40 years ago she died after a 15-year journey with cancer. I was 18 and bewildered; coming to terms with a terminal illness that goes on forever was one thing; but the transfer to grief and loss was another.
To make sense of it I reached out to my school friends. But how could they understand? Yet one of them did. I heard about Steve. I hadn’t seen him for a few months, but I took courage and called. ‘I heard about your mum,’ I said. ‘Yeah,’ he grunted. ‘I wondered if you’d like to meet for a drink,’ I ventured. ‘Why not?’ he replied.
He told me how one morning his mother sent his dad off to work, gave him a hug, and then set off from her house in Bristol, my hometown. But that morning she didn’t go to work. Instead, she walked half a mile, laid down her briefcase, and jumped to her death from Clifton Suspension Bridge. He said the words matter-of-factly. I was in awe of how he held it together. Then I told him my story. Of how my mother told me when I was five that she might not come home. And again when I was eight. And again when I was 15, though with more finality this time. And how still she did. Until eventually, painfully and agonisingly, it was over.
I reflected, ‘So, they’re two very different stories.’ And then Steve said words I would never forget; even today, 40 years on. ‘But don’t you see – they’re not different stories. Your mum died of a terminal illness. My mum did too. She lived on the edge, on the membrane between life and death. For years we wondered if we’d get a phone call. Finally we did. Your mum’s death and mine may look very different. But they both hovered for years between death and life – and finally gave in.’
I was awestruck. I still am. An 18-year-old boy with such clarity and insight. Somehow he brought the unspeakable into our lived reality, and made it something we could speak about with what I would now call the solidarity of grief. We found something with each other that night that gave us both meaning and truth.
And it’s that same something that created this service nine years ago. We come here with different stories. We each have unique pain and isolating grief. But in surprising ways we have the same story. A story of a powerlessness we all share. A story of an emptiness that feels like it will never resolve. Yet as we search for meaning and truth, we find ourselves here together, today. And we’re grateful for one another, because we’ve found something surprising, profound, and transformational.
It might not be faith; it might not yet be hope; it might not be meaning, truth or consolation. But what it is is the soil out of which some or all of those things may eventually grow. It’s a human experience chiselled in adversity and fostered in community. It’s what we call solidarity: the solidarity of grief.

Thank you for sharing your time with us here today by coming to this service for those affected by suicide, be it through having lost someone in the most tragic of ways or through having struggled with thoughts of suicide yourself.
This may be your first time and you are very warmly welcome. You are with others who understand your pain and sadness, even though they may be complete strangers.
This may be something you come to every year. Those people will have spotted that I am not David Mosse and there is no way he would be dressed to imitate the tulip logo on the front of your programme, as I am.
So what’s happened? This year, after running the event since 2015, David handed the reins to me and my team at Olly’s Future. I little suspected this when I offered to help with last year’s service. I’ve made a few slight changes, with David’s support and encouragement, however, in essence, this is still the event he created.
I would just like to take this opportunity to thank Larissa Peace who has given so much of her time in helping me with the arrangements.
Firstly, the service now falls as close to World Suicide Prevention Day on September 10th as possible. In fact, we now have a World Suicide Prevention Week from September 3rd to the 10th, so our service coincides nicely and will continue to do so. Covid played havoc with the dates of the service over the past few years.
There is also a slight name change from ‘Time To Talk’ to ‘Time Together’. One reason for this was that I wanted to recognize the shared connection in simply being together and being part of a group that understands the greatest depths of suffering to humankind—deeper than words. Also, some people just don’t want or have the energy to talk.
My hope is that this service gives you a moment to pause and to look into your heart and reflect on your experience through hearing the testimonies, poems, exquisite music, and through silence. I hope it also gives you a chance to contemplate the enormity of all that you have faced, the insights that you have gained and perhaps, somewhere in amongst that, the blessings that you have been granted.
This year we also invited you to make a spiritual gesture by placing either a rock or rose on the altar or else lighting a votive candle to represent the three themes of the service. The rock signifying ‘Lost’, the candle symbolising a light at the end of the valley of grief, and a rose representing ‘hope and healing’. I hope those who did this drew comfort from their actions.
My husband Chris and I lost our beloved son Oliver on February 14th, 2017, two days before his 23rd birthday. Our love for him continues as strong as ever. We are not really parted and his dear friends are now our friends. However, I mourn the lost years, especially now that so many of his friends are finding partners to settle down with and have got engaged or, in one case, married.
Each of us will try to process our feelings of loss and perhaps thoughts of suicide in our own way.
For me, I have found I am most lost when I am caught up in the busyness of my life and forget to ask God for help. I have also, at times, found myself thinking of suicide—wanting desperately to be with my son again.
I’ve been in the darkness of the valley at times, but through prayer, I have seen the light far off.
The final theme of this journey—found—has come to me as a great sense of purpose in the work of Olly’s Future and of reconciliation for what has happened and my faith. It has also come in the wonderful friendships I now have with Oliver’s friends and a far greater awareness of the transience of life and of what really matters. The words of Julian of Norwich are often in my mind—‘All Shall Be Well and All Manner of Things Shall Be Well’.
I have also learnt that we do the best we can with the knowledge, experience, and understanding we have at the time and I would urge everyone to accept that.
My faith has helped me but this may not be your experience at all. Everyone’s path to healing is equally unique and valid.
All of us here are connected by a sense of loss or by suffering. But I would suggest there is something even greater at work connecting us. It is love. If it were possible to see this, we would look around us today and behold the most magnificent array of hues filling this church, representing all the nuances of love. Quite similar, in fact, to the tulip on your programme.
At the End:
Thank you to all who have made this service possible and, in particular, all of you who chose to spend your time with us today in this beautiful church.
I would also like to thank Rev’d Sam Wells and Sian………. .It’s been a great pleasure getting to know you as I’ve felt my way through this first year. Also, thank you to Music Director Michael Earis for putting this delightful programme together and the Events Team for the reception that follows.
Thank you to members of the enchanting St Martin’s Voices, soloists and performers.
Thank you also to the speakers for their honesty and courage – and it does indeed take courage – in sharing their stories. Thank you, Olly, Amandip, James, Mike, Harald as well as the readers Larissa and Ella.
I would like to thank Larissa Pearce again for all her hard work and tenacity. We have made a very supportive double act.
I’d also like to thank my team at Olly’s Future and my trustees who supported me in wanting to take on the running of this event as part of our work. Please do say hello to Charlie and Oskar after the service, as well as Ella, Matthew, Rose, and Rusty who will be downstairs. They are all so dear to my heart.
Thank you also to the wonderful charities that are supporting this event. Please do go and see their stalls after this service.
Thank you to all of you for being here and to those who have made a donation already. Please do make a donation towards the considerable costs via the envelopes in the pews or the card readers. if you can towards the considerable costs for this service all of which go towards the cost of the venue, reception, musicians, etc. Any money left over will go towards next year’s service.
And finally, I want to thank David Mosse for having the vision and desire to create a service for those affected by suicide. It’s important we acknowledge his beloved son Jake who was the reason for this service in the first place. This is his legacy.
Please do join us for tea, coffee, and a chance to meet one another. Just follow everyone outside.

You can only stand there in disbelief when someone is taken from you so suddenly, how could you have known that would be the last time you’d see them? My friend Darragh had plans, and with no doubt he would have been successful in any field he ended up in as he was an incredibly intelligent man.
I’d known Darragh since we were 13, we met in school in our hometown of Newbury and became friends through endlessly quoting our favourite tv shows. Only to find out we lived down the road from each other.
The name Darragh comes from the Irish Gaelic word for ‘Oak Tree’, he loved his Irish roots and this would show through his favourite band ‘Fontaines D.C’ to his favourite Irish Novelist ‘James Joyce’. Darragh was an avid reader. For the last few years of his life he was studying Politics and international relations at LSE and had just completed his degree with first class honours. Unfortunately, it was not long after that Darragh had taken his life at the age of 26.
I sometimes imagine his smiling face and brilliant laugh sitting next to me when I meet up with our friends, but am reminded so quickly that there is an empty chair at the table and that I would never see my mate again.
In the days after Darragh had passed, I couldn’t stop thinking to myself, why has this happened? Could I have prevented it? What if I knocked on his door and took him for a coffee? Was I really there for him? I thought we would have more time… more time to help him? But really there was no time…
These questions will play on my mind forever, but deep down I know that any one of his friends and family would’ve dropped everything to help him and I believe he knew that. Even if it was just for a moment of laughter to take his mind off things.
His family and friends will always remember that beautiful light that once shone from Darragh, as he’s left that in our hearts forever.
Now, I’d like to play a song that I wrote for Darragh shortly after he had passed.
I call this song ‘Alternate Reality.”

The coffee’s on, a phone goes off the message hits the room
With your name, but not from you
A neon light hurts my eyes
I stare out of the window
Let the tears roll down my cheek
As I just knew
My mother asks if I’m okay
I cried I lost my friend today
Is there an Alternate reality? where you’re still here with me
We could talk about your problems
And get the help you need
Is there a way to wake up from this life as if it were a dream
This world isn’t real to me
Another day, another hour another passing stranger makes me think of you
The way you walked
I see you stood there smiling like
a young oak tree, With roots so deep and leaves that caught
more sunlight than the rest
Why are the best?
Always the first ones to fall
Sometimes the storm is far too strong
Is there an Alternate reality where you’re still here with me
We could talk about your problems and get the help you need
Is there a way to wake up from this life as if it were a dream
This world isn’t real to me
An Alternate reality where you’re still here with me
We could talk about your problems and get the help you need
And find a way to wake up from this life as
If it were a dream
This world isn’t real to me.
NOTE: Josh has given his permission for his testimony and lyrics to be included.

Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
This is how the heart makes a duet of
wonder and grief. The light spraying
through the lace of the fern is as delicate
as the fibres of memory forming their web
around the knot in my throat. The breeze
makes the birds move from branch to branch
as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost
in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh
of the next stranger. In the very centre, under
it all, what we have that no one can take
away and all that we’ve lost face each other.
It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured
by a holiness that exists inside everything.
I am so sad and everything is beautiful.

It’s very hard to tell people that someone you love took their own life, which is why sometimes when I have to explain how I came to be widowed in my early forties I say my husband died in the pandemic – which is true. My husband Owain Morgan worked as a lawyer for the Welsh Government and in early 2020 he had just been promoted into a managerial role. Unfortunately, just as he was beginning to find his feet, Covid hit, and very soon an alarming series of demands began to land on his desk (now our dining-room table) as he became responsible for drafting new legislation to deal with the pandemic. Not only the scope of the new laws but the speed with which they were introduced was completely unprecedented and his workload in those early weeks of the first lockdown quickly became impossible. To make things worse, he was someone for whom lockdown itself was immensely difficult to cope with; he would ordinarily have dealt with the stress by heading off on a long walk in the mountains or by the sea but this was now out of the question.
Soon he suffered a breakdown which left him unable to work at all for extended periods, and there ensued several nightmarish months as he struggled with severe anxiety and depression that followed. It was horrible for him and for me and the children too, and we felt isolated and powerless at a time when medical appointments were hard to come by and we couldn’t call on the support of family and friends. During these months there were a few terrifying crises but other periods when he seemed much better and I always assumed we would make it through our own personal ordeal just as I knew the pandemic couldn’t go on forever. By the spring of 2021 I was, like many other people, beginning to feel optimistic again and that Easter we even managed a week’s holiday to a different part of Wales. During that week away Owain seemed more like his old self than he had for a long time and by the time we arrived back home I was daring to hope that we were through the worst. He had a meeting with his boss scheduled for the following Thursday to discuss returning to work, and when he mentioned that he didn’t know how he was going to get through the next few days I suggested some ideas for things we could do to fill the time. I didn’t realise that when someone who has previously felt suicidal begins to seem better that can be a danger sign, and I completely failed to understand the import of his words. The next morning he went out for a walk and smiled and waved at me as he left, and that was the last time I saw him alive.
There were many things I found unbearably difficult in the days following Owain’s death: first of course having to tell our children, and then his parents; then seeing him for the final time at the undertakers on the day which as it happened was also our 18th wedding anniversary; having to plan his funeral around the restrictions which meant that many of our friends couldn’t attend, and then seeing the news reports headlined “Government lawyer who wrote Covid laws found dead”, as if he was somehow to blame. I was told many times not to blame myself, but while I don’t feel responsible for the decision he made I will never be free from the guilt of not being able to save him. There is also the guilt of remembering the times I was angry or impatient with him during those final months when he behaved in ways which were totally irrational or irresponsible; perhaps it was easier to be angry than to accept how unwell he must be to act so completely out of character. I still find the grief of widowhood very hard to bear: it means trying to deal with heartbreaking loss without the love and support of the one person who could have made it easier. Losing your life partner at a relatively young age also means mourning the loss of the future you had planned together, but because of how he died I began to question our past together too. For nearly 25 years I had believed him to be happy but I began to wonder whether I had been wrong, and whether I had somehow missed signs of a vulnerability to depression that I had never suspected. What I find hardest of all to accept is that he will never see our children grow up – they are now teenagers and have already changed so much since he died. He would be so proud of them and I’m afraid they will never understand quite how much he loved them.
Now that over three years have passed, I realise that many of you will be less far along this path than I am and I wish that I could say something consoling or reassuring about how the journey gets easier. So far this has not been my experience – I feel every day that passes to be another day which my husband should be here to experience with me, but isn’t… because I could not help him to find an alternative way out of his despair. I’ve heard suicide described as “a permanent solution to a temporary problem”, words which are trite and banal but sum up for me the tragic waste of a life lost this way. Not long after I was widowed, an older colleague told me how as a young woman she had lost her father to suicide – something she had never told her own children, because it is so hard to admit that someone you love took their own life. She also told me that I would become a stronger person as a result of what I was going through, and reluctantly I admit she was right. In the past few years I have somehow survived pain that I would never have imagined I could endure, and also achieved things I would never have attempted before. I feel that I am carrying a very heavy burden and I don’t believe it will ever get lighter; all I can say to anyone who feels the same is that as time goes on you adapt and grow stronger, and find that you become more accustomed to the weight.
Note: Catherine has given her permission for her testimony to be included in the book.

Then
Beth was just 17 when she died by suicide. The world lay at her feet. She had a wonderful life to live, full of singing, dancing, and laughter. What happened to my happy little girl with all her dreams and ambitions? I will never know. Unless I see her on the other side, that is.
She was there one minute, then gone the next. I was shattered in an instant of realization that she could not be saved. I thought I had done a pretty good job, as a father, of equipping her for life, but had not thought to protect her from her own mental health. I had failed and wanted to die with her. The world changed into a colourless, alien landscape. Everything that should have been familiar was different. Family and friends were unrecognizable and unreachable. Time seemed to stand still in a silent scream of agony.
How could this horror happen to my family? Suicide only happened to other people.
I was desperate and I knew it, but some sort of self-preservation kicked in. I shunned alcohol in the knowledge that it would cloud my mind and lead to certain death. A contrary decision as I was certainly suicidal, and with great clarity had made plans to take my own life.
All the early stages of grief were playing out. Denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. This was truly a world of darkness, but as time moved on, as it always will, I began to see a few chinks of light.
Rather than hold my feelings in, as maybe a stereotypical man would, I needed to talk and learn about what had made Beth do something so terrible. My time was filled with courses on Mental Health, Suicide Prevention, and hours of research on what happens when you die. Is the end of life a black hole or is there something beyond? My spiritual beliefs now bring me some comfort.
In the early days, friends and relatives bore the brunt of my nocturnal rantings. Then new people started to come into my life. They had experience in all aspects of suicide. Maybe not intentionally, but somehow, I was reaching out. These individuals often remained faceless due to covid, but understood my pain and could empathize with the visceral emotions of heartbreak that were now part of my very being. They all played a huge part in saving my life.
Finding a purpose to carry on became clearer and gradually I started to refocus. My beloved family needed me. I was learning to carry my grief, but seeing them bent double with theirs was unbearable. I could not make things worse by taking my own life. My philosophy was now ‘I will die one day, so why not put up a fight in the meantime.’
Indeed, I wanted to pick a fight, and the cause was there in front of me – to Prevent Young Suicide and stop other families going through this immeasurable pain. It sounds noble, but I needed this challenge as much as it needed me. 3 Dads Walking, with Andy and Tim truly came at the right time.
Now
Survival is now the name of the game and other bereaved parents I am sure will resonate. I have put up defences to protect myself from the memories of my little Beth who I love so much. I will never revisit family holiday pictures of Majorca, Mexico or Disney. It is almost as if thinking of those happy times will destroy me.
Life now has purpose; I have jobs to do. Yet I still feel empty and incomplete. I suppose I always will. Gone is the strong firefighting dad I was before. Deep sadness is very much part of my world. Even though I find myself laughing from time to time and surely, I can be forgiven for that. 
Indeed, why would I not be sad? My youngest daughter Beth died by suicide, and I miss her, so much.

The light that nurtures the rose…
I’m Thelma Ridgway, mother of two amazing children, one I hold in my arms, the other I hold in my heart.
Today’s service particularly resonates as my husband Ian and I always feel that Penny our daughter and first born, now 25, is the quintessential English rose. We adore her.
Our second child, a son, Lee Jason Shaun Ridgway, our beautiful millennium boy, joined us in 2000. He was born on our wedding anniversary which thrilled us. He radiated joy and became known as Sunshine at home. He was absolutely brilliant.
As he grew, he lived life to the max showing such will and determination. A force of nature, excelling in all aspects – kind, sensitive and popular. We were awed by his sheer enthusiasm, we still are. How he illuminated the day of everyone he encountered, such fun, so caring our shining supernova, truly a star. A beacon exuding love and laughter with a gorgeous cheeky smile. We felt he did everything bigger, brighter, harder, faster … and he did. We cherished him.
Sadly, everything changed when Lee aged just 16, tragically ended his life. We were devastated. We had no idea he was struggling, he hid it so well. The light that had completed our family had faded and so did we…
Eight years on, with his angelversary just days ago, I’ve learned so much about heartbreak and how to navigate it. With lots of support and the passing of many seasons, those terrifyingly dark days, where we battled the storms of anguish, slowly subsided and the sun began to flicker and shine again.
Penny named a star for her brother in the Auriga constellation. We set up two causes in his honour – Lee’s Sunshine Fund, raising money for Papyrus and Lee’s Sunshine Legacy, an advocacy offering hope to other families seeking support.
The main thing I’ve learned though is that Lee hasn’t really left because energy never dies. I feel his presence and aura in the everlasting force and golden glow of the sun. He’s always there, omnipresent behind the clouds, iridescent in emerging rainbows and beaming brightly when the rays majestically break through. It’s wondrously soothing and gloriously healing.
Though still missing him desperately and loving him endlessly, we know our aptly named sunshine boy Lee truly is the light that nurtures our precious rose. Penny is now thriving … blooming again … and so are we.
I hope our story offers some comfort, that love, and light are indeed eternal. If you sometimes feel those elements are elusive just wait awhile, let their luminescence find you because they will, there can be brighter times ahead.
I’d like to say a few words about the Sing Their Name choir who welcomed you earlier and have one more song for you.
The choir formed last year under the compassionate and encouraging guidance of Adele Owen and Dan McDwyer our fantastic Musical Director and we meet weekly to rehearse. We hope our singing brings hope to others and would love to see more Sing Their Name Choirs form around the country as we know just how beneficial it’s been to our own unique and differing journeys.
As a group of suicide bereaved people from Greater Manchester we find solace, connection, friendship, healing, and hope through singing. Together we pay tribute to our lost loved ones through songs that poignantly resonate but also uplift us. Each of them…our sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, partners, so many family members and dear friends. We think of them now and forever more…
We wear our badges with the treasured faces of our loved ones on our choir tee-shirts close to our hearts as we continue to sing proudly in their names.
Singing is very therapeutic however we’re more than just a choir…
We’re also a band of grief warriors who’ve made close bonds which remain long after the words have been sung. Part of a vital peer support network where we collectively weather the tide of loss as it ebbs and flows. When tears fall like pouring rain, we take shelter together under that protective umbrella of joint understanding. There’s laughter too, lots of it, amongst the sunny smiles and warm hugs. Our unity is awesome. It helps to know we’re not alone.
A reminder for everyone here. You are not alone.
Note: Thelma has given her permission for her testimony to be included in the book.

Grief is love, with nowhere to go,
So I planted it deep, then helped it to grow.
Watered with tears and nourished with pain,
Minimal sunlight and buckets of rain.
Little by little it started to sprout,
The roots moving slowly to find a way out.
“You have to go through it,” the blossoms would say,
The ones up above, guiding the way.
I heard voices singing, an uplifting song,
But here in the dirt, the road felt too long.
I was stuck in the mud, but determined to fight.
Push out of the darkness, and follow the light.
“We’ll throw you a lifeline, we’ll give you a rope,
It’s made out of courage, endurance, and hope.”
The rope were their roots, that were strengthened by time.
“Take hold of our roots, they will help you to climb.”
“I don’t think I’ll make it, I’m in so much pain.”
“But love conquers all,” they tried to explain.
“They are your reason to keep climbing high,
To push through the dark times and reach for the sky.”
“A loved one has left here, they chose to depart”
The answer came back, “They live on in your heart.
Pay their love forward and give it to others,
Support those who need it and share in their struggles.”
“There’s a fighter in me,” I shouted at last,
“I’ll keep moving forward and cherish my past.”
The music got louder, it sounded so sweet,
I joined in their song, as I rose to my feet.
We sang for our loved ones, we stood side by side.
We sang out, united, with passion and pride.
So grief isn’t love with nowhere to go,
By gifting our love, we blossom and grow.
Support one another, in spite of our pain,
Connecting our voices, to ‘Sing Out Their Name’.
Note: Permission to use the poem in the book is being sought from the family of Catherine McCusker, as she has sadly died.

In March this year a person I deeply admired, younger than me, ended her life. At the inquest a month ago both her husband and her psychotherapist testified that they had no idea something like this was coming. She was immaculately efficient, fiercely funny, highly disciplined, rigorously honest, and universally loved. Within minutes of the news becoming known, people were searching for understanding, comprehension, and consolation. I spent much of the rest of the day on zoom with those who hoped I could offer some insight, explanation, or comfort. I couldn’t. I could only offer one thing: companionship. I wonder if many, perhaps most of us who gathered an hour ago for today’s service were likewise looking for understanding, comprehension, or consolation. But the one thing I most hope you’ve found, during and after this service, is companionship.
The person I much admired was called Anna. I couldn’t attend her funeral, but I scoured the words people had said about her to find understanding, comprehension, and consolation I couldn’t conjure up for myself. One put it succinctly: ‘Alongside a deep humility … lay an incapacity to recognise in herself the gifts that others saw in her so abundantly, or to show towards herself anything like the depths of love that others felt for her.’ Those words actually helped me a lot. It wasn’t blaming Anna: it was just naming the truth that she for reasons no one seems to know got into a place of having an inexplicably low opinion of herself. The same person said another beautiful thing: ‘Dying so young, she leaves an influence as immense as her loss is now unfathomable.’ That summed up her legacy perfectly. Another friend said a similar thing differently: ‘The extravagant and unconditional love of God she showed to others, she sometimes found harder to see belonged to her too. Her story about herself was sometimes different from the one we gratefully related. … Those who got close to her will recognise this fragility in her. We loved her for it, but she doubted it was loveable.’
Six months later, this is what I’ve learned from the loss of Anna. I’ve learned again how fragile and precious life is, and how we do well to cherish those we care about and tell them what they mean to us while we have the chance. I’ve learned that you can never fully know what’s in another person’s heart and soul. I’ve learned how a person’s words about love, about life, about God, about hope, can mask their most profound doubts about everything. I’ve learned how the immense good and beauty a person can offer in their life is not lessened by the last thing they did. I’ve learned that there are some questions in life to which no one has the answer, and to which, however much we ask, we’ll never receive an adequate reply. 
But most of all, I’ve learned what I learned that first evening after the news about Anna broke: the solidarity of companionship. Anna created a community, even after her death: all who admired her found through her a language to express what they most valued in life. They lost her, but in a paradoxical way, they gained each other. And that points to something important about what we’re doing together today. We’re a community brought together by tragedy and near-tragedy. Everyone here has chosen not to seek solace alone, but to find understanding, comprehension, and consolation in companionship. Insight may be elusive; explanations may never be forthcoming; sadness may never end. But companionship is a precious gift; maybe the most precious of all. Answers may be hard to find: but perhaps the best place to look is one another.

Thank you for sharing your time with us here today by coming to this service 

for those affected by suicide, be it through having lost someone in the most 

tragic of ways or through having struggled with thoughts of suicide yourself. 


This may be your first time and you are very warmly welcome. You are with 

others who understand your pain and sadness, even though they may be 

complete strangers.


This may be something you come to every year. Those people will have spotted 

that I am not David Mosse and there is no way he would be dressed to imitate 

the tulip logo on the front of your programme, as I am.


So what’s happened? This year, after running the event since 2015, David 

handed the reins to me and my team at Olly’s Future. I little suspected this 

when I offered to help with last year’s service.  I’ve made a few slight changes,

with David’s support and encouragement, however, in essence this is still the 

event he created.


I would just like to take this opportunity to thank Larissa Peace who has given 

so much of her time in helping me with the arrangements. 



Firstly, the service now falls as close to World Suicide Prevention Day on 

September 10^th as possible. In fact, we now have a World Suicide Prevention 

Week from September 3^rd to the 10^th, so our service coincides nicely and will 

continue to do so. Covid played havoc with the dates of the service over the 

past few years.



There is also a slight name change name from ‘Time To Talk’ to ‘Time 

Together’. One reason for this was that I wanted to recognize the shared 

connection in simply being together and being part of a group that 

understands the greatest depths of suffering to humankind – deeper than 

words. Also, some people just don’t want or have the energy to talk. 


My hope is that this service gives you a moment to pause and to look into your 

heart and reflect on your experience through hearing the testimonies, poems, 

exquisite music, and through silence. I hope it also gives you a chance to 

contemplate the enormity of all that you have faced, the insights that you have 

gained and perhaps, somewhere in amongst that, the blessings that you have 

been granted.


This year we also invited you to make a spiritual gesture by placing 

either a rock or rose on the altar or else lighting a votive candle to represent 


the three themes of the service. The rock signifying  ‘Lost’, the candle 

symbolising a light at the end of the valley of grief, and a rose representing 

‘hope and healing’. I hope those who did this drew comfort from their actions. 


My husband Chris and I lost our beloved son Oliver on February 14^th, 2017, two 

days before his 23^rd birthday. Our love for him continues as strong as ever. We 

are not really parted and his dear friends are now our friends. However, I 

mourn the lost years,  especially now that so many of his friends are finding 

partners to settle down with and have got engaged or, in one case, married. 



Each of us will try to process our feelings of loss and perhaps thoughts of 

suicide in our own way. 


For me, I have found I am most lost when I am caught up in the busyiness of 

my life and forget to ask God for help. I have also, at times, found myself 

thinking of suicide – wanting desperately to be with my son again. 


I’ve been in the darkness of the valley at times, but through prayer, I have seen 

the light far off. 


The final theme of this journey – found – has come to me as a great sense of 

purpose in the work of Olly’s Future and of reconciliation for what has 

happened and my faith. It has also come in the wonderful friendships I now 

have with Oliver’s friends and a far greater awareness of transcience of life and 

of what really matters. The words of Julian of Norwich are often in my mind –  

‘All Shall Be Well and All Manner of Things Shall Be Well’. 


I have also learnt that we do the best we can with the knowledge, experience 

and understanding we have at the time and I would urge everyone to accept 

that.


My faith has helped me but this may not be your experience at all. Everyone’s 

path to healing is equally unique and valid. 


All of us here are connected by a sense of loss or by suffering. But I would 

suggest there is something even greater at work connecting us. It is love. 

 If it were possible to see this, we would look around us today and behold the 

most magnificent array of hues filling this church, representing all the nuances 

of love.  Quite similar, in fact, to the tulip on your programme.












At the End:



Thank you to all who have made this service possible and, in particular, all of 

you who chose to spend your time with us today in this beautiful church. 

I would also like to thank Rev’d Sam Wells and Sian……….         .It’s been a great 

pleasure getting to know you as I’ve felt my way through this first year. Also 

thank you to Music Director Michael Earis for putting this delightful 

programme together and the Events Team for the reception that follows.

Thank you to members of the enchanting St Martin’s Voices, soloists and 

performers.


Thank you also to the speakers for their honestly and courage – and it does 

indeed take courage –  in sharing their stories. Thank you Olly, Amandip, 

James, Mike, Harald as well as the readers Larissa and Ella. 


I would like to thank Larissa Pearce again for all her hard work and tenacity. 

We have made a very supportive double act.





I’d also like to thank my team at Olly’s Future and my trustees who supported 

me in wanting to take on the running of this event as part of our work. Please 

do say hello to Charlie and Oskar after the service, as well as Ella, Matthew, 

Rose and Rusty who will be downstairs. They are all so dear to my heart. 



Thank you also to the wonderful charities that are supporting this event. 

Please do go and see their stalls after this service.


Thank to all of you for being here and to those who have made a donation 

already. Please do make a donation towards the considerable costs via the 

envelopes in the pews or the card readers.  if you can towards the considerable costs 

for this service all of which go towards the cost of the venue, reception, 

musicians etc. Any money left over will go towards next year’s service.


And finally, I want to thank David Mosse for having the vision and desire to 

create a service for those affected by suicide. It’s important we acknowledge 

his beloved son Jake who was the reason for this service in the first place. This 

is his legacy. 


Please do join us for tea, coffee and a chance to meet one another. Just follow 

everyone outside. 

An Awkward Question
There’s nothing more important than your family
I wish held my brothers hand through the agony
Schizophrenia, man it baffles me.
Mental health is a war zone, and it battles me


My brother had demons in his head, was that consequential?
Or did he just fall victim of his, own potential


Bro had a laugh that was warm and a heart that was pearly
Never been on-time, but in the next life, he went early


In this cruel cruel world, he’s the one chosen
But now he rests, and I’m the one Frozen


The reason he did that, I guess we’ll never know
Can’t hold that against him, like Elsa gotta “Let it go”


See finding something to blame, just don’t help with the pain.
Cos when you complain, you just go through it again, then next week it’s the same.


See suicide ain’t a sprint it’s a relay
Pain get’s passed on and you re-play
It’s fucked ay…


But death gotta be easy cause life’s is hard
But the struggle with death, is what makes life dark


Scars get deeper than you wouldn’t believe
Same time the pain, I don’t want it to leave


It’s all that I am and I can’t get a rest
Same time, I don’t wanna get it off my chest


Message after message on my phone
Meantime I’ve never felt more alone


Friends lookin’ out for me, but nobody see’s me.


We went through school at a similar age,
But when we speak now I’m on a different page.


Nothing feels the same in conversations,
I watch myself give impersonations, 


You start off numb then your bubble gets burst,
I’ve got envy for those that haven’t been cursed.


Is he really hurting or on the fence,
If she’s not in pain, then I’m taking offence.


Today it sounds ludicrous,
But I used to be humorous,


Facetious kid, l would to take the piss
I feel anger now, and I’m new to this.


Depression’s come before, 
But I’ve never been this raw
10 emotions in an hour, my life’s a see-saw


Man I think I’m going mad again,
It’s like I’m happy for a second then I’m sad again.


My eyes burn from the crying and my brain hurts from panicking
My mind’s on the dark side, friends call me Anakin


If I look around, I’ve got no reason to feel bitter
But the feeling that I’m weak, just makes me feel shitter


Swamped everyday like I’m 6 feet deep
I’m so tired, I’m beyond sleep


Small talk, how are you, that’s an awkward question
The feeling of grieving’s complex to mention


I feel happy, sad and angry at any one time
The easier response is to just say I’m fine


Olly Lavy

I am Amandip Sidhu and I am also bereaved by suicide.
My older brother died in November 2018, he ended his life due to immense work pressures without any help or support available. He was a doctor, caring for others in a stretched system trying his best. He was unable to go on. 
His story is tragic in that for all his life he was revered and respected for his achievements and personality. He was the “go-to” person where if you needed something, he was the person to turn to. He was cultured to devote his life to helping others but in the end, did so in a state of immense distress and pain. He worked hard for his patients, colleagues, friends and family but yet he could not speak openly about the difficulties he faced being a doctor. It was only until he was forcibly signed off work sick due to stress and anxiety where he opened up about his state of mind which proved to be fatal and too late… 
He tried reaching out for help, but there was nothing that could respond to him and keep him safe. He felt alone, isolated and exasperated. His suffering could only be eradicated by the thought of ending his life to escape the torture he was enduring. Immersed in a world where he could not live happily in his environment, nor adapt himself to assimilate into the world around him, the paradox that emerged grew to engulf and ultimately consume him. 
I write this today, some years on from his passing still not believing the way in which he departed this Earth. I say to you all, fellow bereaved by suicide, to reflect on our loved ones state of mind and how deep their suffering truly was.
I started a charity called Doctors in Distress to advocate for the protection and maintenance of positive mental health in doctors and all healthcare workers. Our health system appears to have become a psychologically unsafe space to work in, where adverse mental health and exposure to continued and dangerous levels of stress are an occupational hazard. Society must remember that our caregivers are also human. Disease does not discriminate, and nor should we. 
Of my (and all of yours) pain I can only say this:
“Grief is a substance which we all must consume at some time in our lives.
It is forcibly ingested into us, and we cannot control our reaction to the poison that enters our mind and body.
What makes things easier is knowing that their suffering has ended. The person is gone and is now at peace, their wish was granted. 
The acceptance of that is an antidote to the poison of grief, a state of tranquillity is inevitable.”

Leah, my wife of 14 years and mum to our two beautiful boys, Ollie and Harvey,  took her own life on 1^st May 2020. 3½ years ago now. She was 44 years old. 
The most tragic and desperately sad day, but not completely unexpected. 
Leah had decided from a very early age that every day should be challenged.  Sitting still was not an option. There was a whole world out there waiting to be  discovered. New people to meet, new tastes to savour. Every day needed to be  filled with excitement, adventure and drama. Never really settling for life’s  somewhat tedious routine. And everyone she met couldn’t help but be touched  by this magnetic energy. 
But lying beneath this fun-loving exterior was a deeply troubled soul. Her  childhood had been very traumatic. Daughter to an alcoholic. She would recall  drunken fights between her father and older brothers, with her mother seemingly  offering little support. Clearly, deep emotional damage had been done – and trust  in anyone or anything could never last. 
But there was something strangely attractive about these fragile insecurities. We  had met 20 years ago and quite apart from being drawn to this beautiful and fun loving, spontaneous girl, I had this overwhelming desire to try and heal. To  provide unconditional warmth, love and security. And despite regular explosive  outbursts towards me, I wanted to stay the distance.  
Bringing our first son into the world came with it an unexpected tragedy. Infected  with a virus during birth caused him severe brain damage, ultimately diagnosed  with tetraplegic cerebral palsy. Devastating.  
Our second son was born two years later – thankfully healthily without any such  complications. But this was the start of Leah’s slow downward spiral. A wonderful  focus and commitment around the boys’ upbringing continued to be interspersed  with long dark periods of deep lows, depression and heavy drinking. This became  the pattern. Sobriety followed by rehab. Year after year. Including one attempt to  end it all. I did my best to shield the boys, but in trying to protect us all I started to  normalize this erratic, dysfunctional behaviour. It wasn’t until early 2018, many  years later, that I had the courage to face reality and to start the emotional  detachment. 
Slowly realizing that I was no longer going to be there to pick up the pieces, and  with both of us recognizing that we needed to separate, Leah moved away from  the family home. I continued to support her the best I could, but she was quick to  get in with the wrong crowd and soon lost her focus on the boys.
Strangely, this new-found resilience and emotional detachment enabled me to  secure a significant work promotion. Hugely liberating and yet utterly exhausting,  in equal measure.  
Those last months of 2019 and early 2020 thankfully brought some peace to  Leah’s life. She seemed to be working hard on her sobriety and we were able to  enjoy Christmas Day together. Mother’s Day in March 2020 was the last day we  saw her, as lockdown was announced the next day. Not being able to see her boys  tore at her deeply. All her demons seemingly returned to haunt her. 5 weeks later  she drew her last breath. 
The first month was a blur of emotions. Huge sadness followed by anger. How  dare she.  
And yet after the funeral, there was a strange sense of relief. For her and for us.  
Those early months were obviously not easy. But the boys have been incredibly  mature. Unbelievably so.  
Harvey, then only 10, said to me ‘I know I should feel much sadder than I do, but  Mum’s been living away for over a year now and I just don’t see her much’. Ollie,  then 12, was equally matter of fact, but this was because of his limited cognition.  The school had helped prepare a beautiful ‘social story’ explaining using easy  
words and pictures that his mummy had been very sick and had now died. He  could remember her by thinking of her favourite colours, or singing her favourite  songs. He still has this story in his school bag – to look at whenever he needs. 
We celebrate her life on Mother’s day and the anniversary of her passing.  
How am I? Well, I’ve been able to take a complete step back from my career so I  can fully support my boys. They give me such strength.  
I still sometimes wake up and expect her to text or call. 
I’m working hard to get proper balance back in my life.  
But the skies are clearer and the road ahead, I hope, less traumatic.  And sharing my story with you today is bringing yet further closure. Thank you.

The fragrance of a rose induces a sense of nostalgia for me of happier days and childhood.  Whether carried as a button hole on my schoolboy blazer for a family wedding or drawing me in with scent into grandma’s garden.  The roses represented light, security and innocence.  Often over the past two and a half years I have asked myself:  Where have the roses gone?

I look back to the 20th February 2021 and wonder what I must have been thinking as I went to bed and closed my eyes.  Did I give thanks for the good fortune that life had granted me?  Did I give a thought to the blessings of a wonderful family and a good home?  In all honesty – I can’t remember.  But I do remember the call at just after 3 in the morning from my son’s fiancée and I do vaguely remember the two hour drive to their home through a grim, wet, February night.  And when we arrived I remember seeing a pair of old shoes on the lawn that had been used by my son Ross just two days earlier to dress a snowman for his three -year-old son Charlie.  The snowman had melted and all that was left were the shoes.  On a day such as that – the scene spoke of unbearable loss and the fragility of life.  

But inside the house Ross had left a letter full of loving farewells to his family and urging Charlie to be brave.  The police took it away but when we eventually got it back Ross spoke to me for one last time and his words went straight to my heart.  He said:  “Please fight for mental health.  The support is just not there.”  After ten years of suffering with depression my son had asked for therapy, been put on a six-month waiting list and died two weeks into the wait.  As he faced his last moments he recognised a cause to be championed in a world that he would not be part of.

I now think of the immediate aftermath as my driftwood days…when I lost all direction and hope.  I filled the void by trying to find any scrap of solace; I stroked the leaves of a tree planted in our garden 31 years earlier to celebrate Ross’s birth.  I went to throw a rose into the Derbyshire river where he swam as a boy and as a teenager and I watched as the yellow flower floated to who knows where.

But in the fog he kept whispering the words:  “Please fight for mental health” and in the grief the words began to give me direction.  In every sport we celebrate physical prowess with an incalculable number of symbols…trophies, medals etc.  But where were the symbols for mental well-being?  At the very heart of our society – where were the conversations about the something that robs us of so much promise, potential and Hope?

The Baton Of Hope – so beautifully designed and created by goldsmiths and silversmiths to the royal family Thomas Lyte – was carried through 12 cities in twelve days of Summer this year.  In one year we have created a Workplace Charter encouraging employers to play their part in a more compassionate society.  We have helped to establish new connections, new groups and much greater interest in a subject that for generations has been overlooked or even ignored.  Almost a thousand baton bearers walked through the streets in what was endorsed by the Prime Minister as the biggest suicide prevention initiative the nation has ever seen.  But our journey has just begun.  

Different people see different things in the Baton Of Hope.  Some see an upward spiral leading to a swirl of semi-colons representing the belief that with positive action we can create a future for those who are at risk of losing hope.  

Inside the darkness of the handle are inscribed the words of Desmond Tutu:  Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”

To me the Baton represents an unfolding flower.  A symbol of love and compassion. A new golden rose.  From Ross’s final words…  Fresh hope. 

Reading by Ella Jarvis


Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,
Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the altar of the heart.
Your mind always sparkled
With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our soul’s gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.


John O’Donohue

Opening Address – Time to Talk 2022
David Mosse

Thank you for coming to this Time to Talk service, for all who are affected by suicide.

Coming here may have been difficult for you, because facing suicide is difficult. So much in our society recoils from speaking of suicide. This is what brings loneliness and isolation to those who feel suicidal, as well as to those in grief after suicide. That’s why we’re here, today: to know we are not alone.

I’ve discovered that a mutual empathy brings together those who have experienced being suicidal and those experiencing the trauma of loss through suicide.

Indeed, in the turmoil of sudden and traumatic loss, many bereaved by suicide, have a powerful sense in themselves of the overwhelming pain and the loneliness that made the person they loved wish to die. I know I felt a shadow of his pain, after the death of my son Jake 12 years ago.

Those are terrible moments of darkness, fragmentation – being scattered into pieces  – and existential threat. These are also, commonly, moments of trauma which are without words or voice. 

We might say that those we love who killed themselves acted out what they could not put into words; what they could not speak, or tell… and this leaves us with the echoing question, why, why?

The aloneness and silence of suicide, and of its grief, is why we come together now in this service: to bring words, voices and music.

We are meaning-making animals. Our very being depends on the sense we can make of life. Suicide throws everything into confusion. We are in disbelief.

Suicide almost always comes as a sudden shocking event, that nobody truly foresaw. Even if we knew of a loved one’s despair, we never expected this to actually happen. But we often forget this. Consumed by our own sense of responsivity and guilt, we forget that we really didn’t know what was going to happen.  

I have realised something recently about what happened to me after Jake’s death, which I think many share. Immediately I heard, I was so overwhelmed with disintegrating confusion that I couldn’t think. But very quickly, I grasped for sense with a story of what happened that placed me at the controlling centre. Of the many spinning wheels that aligned to produce this tragic death, I homed-in on the bit that shouted, ‘I should have done something…’ The many ‘if only’s followed … and the searing guilt..’ 

Guilt is the way we (I) cope with intolerable, suffocating powerlessness, as we try to take control over what is utterly beyond us – something that cannot unhappen, but cannot be accepted. It can be calming to blame oneself. Neuroscientists even tell us that we can be addicted to the feeling of guilt. But then beyond the almost unscalable mountain of my parental responsibility lay the field of others’ fault – the failures of attention and care.

Self-blame, the blame of others, and the struggle against meaninglessness, are processes of grief after suicide. 

In my journey with grief, I have been helped by listening to the stories of others, hearing things that help my own sense-making. And  through compassion for others, I have come to blame myself less.

Suicide brings a double grief: grief for the loss person who has gone, but also grief for the manner of that death. This second grief, for suicide, can be so overpowering that it crowds out the quiet sadness of loss – maybe for years.

Last Monday, I was at the wedding of one of Jake’s best friends. I was touched to be invited; in a way representing him. I felt Jake’s presence, and his absence, in my body. I knew that whatever he had done in his life, and wherever he had travelled, he would have been there at that exact time, at that wedding. As Jake came up in the speeches, and I witnessed the enduring impact he is having on young lives 12 years on, I felt the sadness of his absence; but something else too. The tears that came to me were for him the wonderful person that he was, but not about his suicide. I could feel how he was loved and continued to matter deeply to his friends.

My journey of grief after suicide began with the bewilderment of death beyond the reach of love.. At that wedding, and more often now, I feel love beyond death.

The structure of this service follows our journeys after loss, through the high-sided valley of grief and pain towards something found. What I have found is my son in my heart less shaped by his suicide. Wherever you are, I hope that in this service you find something to help you on your journey.

Suicide is the biggest taboo in our culture, because death is the stripping away of everything that matters. The loss of breath, of our body, of relationship, of consciousness, of memory, of hope, of identity, of capacity, of strength, of life, of love. To die at your own hand is all of these things, but with some added pain. It’s a fearful statement of the utter loss of confidence in life, and in love. And to those around you, even if not intended that way, it can be experienced as a profound and unanswerable form of rejection.
Death poses the most disturbing question of all. And that is this. Is life, is this energy and activity and awareness and thought – is all this the most real thing? Or is there something, deep down, beneath it all, that is truer, more permanent, more eternal than life – something called… nothing? It’s the most troubling question, because if nothing is more real than this something, then everything around us is no more than a kind of long-term illusion, a perpetual mirage – which is here today, and perhaps tomorrow, but gone the next day, never to return. It does your head in. It makes you wonder if the reason people keep busy is to avoid ever thinking something like that. It makes you wonder what would become of any of us if we allowed ourselves to sit and think like that for a long time.
And it’s this question that’s at the heart of the Christian faith. And the strange thing is, tucked away in a relatively obscure book in an unfindable section of the Old Testament, lies the answer. Towards the end of the Song of Songs are the five words that sum up Christianity. ‘Love is strong as death.’ Or, some say, ‘Love is stronger than death.’ When all things are said and done, and death has done everything it can do, there’s still love – fragile, maybe, battered, certainly, but abiding, nonetheless. Life is more than nothing. Just before those words, we read, ‘Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm.’ The central moment in the Christian faith is when a man more or less had those words tattooed on his arm and went to die in such a way that his arm was exposed to the world. And he was utterly isolated. Deserted and betrayed by his friends. Apparently abandoned by God. Practically no one was there, besides people mocking him. 
And what his death proclaims is what we’re gathered here to affirm. Which is that, however bleak suicide can be, however isolated, sad, forsaken and neglected a death can be, however much a person taking their own life can seem to obliterate life and relationship and hope and everything, at the end of time, love is stronger than death. It’s just five words. Love is stronger than death. 
This, I sense is the motivation of most of those who organise around the prevention of suicide. It’s the inspiration for most people who work in mental health support and create opportunities for those who feel they have nowhere to turn and life is hopeless. It’s the conviction underlying this service. It’s a mission statement for life. It’s what we’re saying by going downstairs and reaching out to a stranger and listening to their story. It’s not something to shout. It’s something to whisper. It’s a way to live.

How do we go on?  We, who have lost our precious sons and daughters, our brothers, sisters, partners, parents and friends? 

When my son died, I felt the years ahead would be wasteland stretching before me until we could be reunited. Oliver – Olly to all his friends – died on February 14^th, 2017, two days before his 23^rd birthday.  He left behind his bereft family – me, my husband Chris and our older son Samuel – as well as a small but loving wider family and more friends than for a lifetime.  

He was a beautiful, bright star. Oliver’s great sense of fun and bounding energy would light up a room. His charisma and warmth drew people to him instantly. He was intelligent and knowledgeable beyond his years, but he also loved to party and play sport.  He was a mean jazz singer and could salsa like no other. He was a role model to his friends and yet he was also humble, downplaying his talents and always putting others first.  He was an old soul, loved by everyone who knew him.

There’s an award at UCL, where he gained a first in History six months before he died – but it’s not for History. It’s the Oliver Hare Altruism Award and it’s a testament that he is remembered as a humanitarian and for the compassion he always showed. He left a lasting impact on so many, simply through being kind. 

I marvel at how much he did in his short life. During his gap year he kept journals of all his adventures, writing on long haul flights across continents, lying on rickety beds in hostels, under makeshift tents in the Amazon jungle, on endless bus rides across Bolivia, Chile, Peru and Argentina, on beautiful beaches in Australia and upon breath-taking mountains in New Zealand. He was the lead for a jazz show at the Adelphi Theatre which still lives on in our memories for the joy it brought.  At 18, he won an economics prize to become the Apprentice to the World Traders Livery Company – a four-year role which saw him rub shoulders with the great and the good in the city of London and dine at the Mansion House. 

At Christ Hospital School where he went from 11 to 18 years of age, the World Traders established a prize in memory of Oliver for the Best Musician of the renowned marching band which Oliver led as Drum Major through the streets of London for the Lord Mayor’s Parade and at events such as the opening at Lord’s Cricket Ground. 

He spoke French, Spanish and was learning Mandarin when he died, shortly after returning from his third trip to Shanghai, where he was working with the British Council. 






Oliver seemed to go downhill in a matter of five weeks on returning to England for the Chinese New Year. In early January 2017, he saw a doctor and described feelings of depression and anxiety for the first time. A few weeks later, he was prescribed Citalopram by another doctor over the phone. It was the first time he’d been prescribed an anti-depressant and after just four days of taking the SSRI, he was gone. 

I felt a sense of precognition before Oliver died which is hard to explain. It were as though a greater power was at work and for a long time afterwards, I felt as though I had one foot in this world and one foot in the next. 

Because of Oliver, my belief and trust in God and an afterlife have grown.  I now have a greater insight into life and death than I thought possible and a deep sense of purpose through the work I do in Oliver’s memory. 

So, to come back to my question – how do we go on? My answer is this. We do, because we must. It is we who keep the light burning for them in this world. We, who keep their spirit alive, no matter how hard that may seem. We light the candle and guard the flame. And we do this through love, for our love for them never dies. 

It was an outpouring of love that led to our charity – Olly’s Future – being formed. Some of Oliver’s dearest friends are the trustees and support me, as Chair, in our suicide prevention work to save further young lives from being lost.  Our motto is ‘Love and Light’, reflecting the qualities Oliver brought in abundance to this world. We are his future now. Our promotional video features Oliver singing a song recorded at that Adelphi Theatre show in 2015: ‘LOVE is all that I can give to you’. Could there be another more fitting song? 

At my son’s funeral, the vicar told the vast congregation that it were as though ‘Storm Oliver’ had suddenly arrived and overwhelmed us all. He said that, in time, the tumultuous seas and hurricane winds would subside and we would see before us a new landscape. Nothing would ever be the same again. It has taken five years to arrive at this place.

Samuel has brought Diana into our lives and we now have a grandson, Magnus, and they have another baby on the way – this time a daughter. 

The piece of music you are going to hear next is called ‘Sea of Solitude’ and is the fifth movement of a Sinfonia composed by Jonathan Brigg, dedicated to Oliver. It seems to perfectly reflect the sorrow but also peaceful acceptance after the storm when we see the dark clouds part and the light beginning to shine again. 

I am truly blessed to have been given the gift of being Oliver’s mum, despite his short life.  I thank God for the time Oliver was with us. He taught me and so many others such a great deal and he continues to inspire us to do good. 


Ann Feloy  3^rd September, 2022.

A year ago today I was busy in the kitchen, preparing for a family visit, the first since we’d moved into our new house. As I buzzed around, humming to myself, drinking my morning coffee, I had no idea that by teatime my world would be shattered. 
My 17-year-old son Leo took his life at just before 2pm on 3^rd September 2021 – making today the first anniversary of his death. On that terrible day I lost a son, my other children lost a brother, my husband a stepson. Leo was also a grandchild, a godchild, a cousin, a nephew, a pupil, a team-mate, a friend. The waves caused by his suicide fanned outward like a tsunami in the days that followed the news, encompassing not only those who knew him, but also those professionals who, in various ways, had to deal with the aftermath. Even our cat and dog were left confused and anxious. 
We’ve had the nightmare of investigations, an ongoing inquest procedure, lawyers and police and insensitive bureaucracy. We’ve had to face what would have been his 18^th birthday, and just recently, the day he should have received his A level results. There have been been the public holidays, the private anniversaries, the silly little everyday reminders that trip you up when you’re least expecting it. Oh, the agony of his shoes in the cupboard, his coat on the hook, his favourite food on the supermarket shelf! Much of it has seemed unreal – it still does – and no matter how many memorial plaques I fix, trees I plant, and visits to his grave I make, there’s a large part of me that still hasn’t grasped that he’s not going to walk back through the door one day. 
In fact, there’s a large part of me that feels…unmade. Dislocated, dissolved. Scattered into pieces, blown to the four winds, like litter on the side of the road. I don’t know how to gather myself in again. 
I’ve had to grapple with devastating guilt, endless questions, utter bewilderment. The most devastating and unanswerable question in the world – why?  
There’s been horror, anger, fear, and a sense of loss that at times I’ve only been able to express in screams or the wordless sounds of deep, deep keening. The earth has seemed out of kilter, and I’ve lived outside of time. Future doors have been slammed shut, present moments are altered profoundly, and even my sense of the past, and what was true and reliable and real, has been rocked to the core. The pain has been physical, emotional, mental, spiritual. I’m not really sure how I’ve survived the past 12 months. In fact, there were times when I didn’t think I would – or should. 
But here I am. Here I am knowing that I’m not alone. That seems to me both utterly tragic and strangely comforting. That there are others – people like you – who are walking a similar path. There’s no doubt that the unfailing support of my husband, the love of my family and friends, the forbearance of my colleagues, and the kindness of complete strangers has helped me to hold on. It seems to me in this, the worst of human experiences, that whilst we may feel powerless, we can hold a light for one another when the way ahead seems dark. And I hope we can hold a light for those who are in such a lost place themselves that they feel they cannot stay. 
When you lose someone to suicide, all their potential seems to disappear. At least, that’s how I saw it at first. Now I sense that I have inherited Leo’s life – his potential, his character, his gentle soul. I will guard it and cherish it, carry it within me as I did when I carried him before he was born. And I will look for its reflection in the faces of those I meet, loving them as I have loved him.   
Three days after his death, I wrote a blessing for Leo, my gentle boy who loved the golden evening light and the stars in the night sky. My words have now been put to music by Ali Willis and published by Encore Music. Andrew and his choir are going to sing it now – and I offer it as a blessing for you, and especially for those whose lives you carry in your heart. 

You decided to leave us but we can never leave you,
not in our minds,not in the inner recess of our wondering hearts,
nor in the long twilight horizon where you will always walk
in our memory.
Above on the mountain the lark will rise from the summer grass
to the sky above your home and the song it sings
will forever carry the mystery of your going.
You turned away from all our help,so that we have to
ask for your help now, not in answers but in asking
the difficult and beautiful questions your life bequeathed.
We are still not sure if you ever asked for the helping hand,but still we hold
our hands out now to take yours in ours,to reassure you in the quiet of the morning
or the silence of the night and in all the day to come when in our minds you still need our care
to help you go on where we can’t go,to see you safe beyond the quiet line
of our understanding.
To walk with you now arm in arm with our regrets
and our affection that one last mile along the way you
wanted to go, the quiet in which we wave
goodbye, only the sign of our secret promise to you, the continued
and helpless testament of our unspoken love.