By Wayne Murphy
There was a time in my life when I didn’t think I’d make it through another day. I grew up in foster care, living through years of pain that no child should ever have to face. When I became homeless as an adult, it often felt like the world had turned its back on me. I had no one to turn to, no sense of safety, and no belief that things could ever change.
My younger brother went through the same pain. We shared the same trauma, the same memories that still visit me in flashbacks and nightmares. Sadly, he lost his battle and took his own life. Not long after, my best friend also died by suicide. Losing them both within such a short time broke something inside me. It’s a pain that never really leaves, but it has become the reason I keep fighting — for them, and for the part of myself that still wants to live.
There are still days when the thought of suicide crosses my mind. It’s not something I hide from anymore — it’s something I face. I describe it like strong currents and rough seas: sometimes I get pulled under, but I fight my way back to the surface. When I feel those waves coming, I remind myself that I have numbers I can call, people who care, and reasons to stay. I don’t drink, I don’t take drugs, and even when I’m scared — truly scared by years of memories and loneliness — I remind myself that suicide isn’t the answer. I’ve come too far to let the sea take me now.
What stopped me from following that same path was the few people who refused to let go of me. My small circle of friends, my loving fiancée Noreen, and my kind landlady — they became my anchors. When my mind was at its darkest, their kindness reminded me that not everyone turns away when life gets messy. They gave me reasons to stay, and for that I’ll always be grateful. I’ve learned that family isn’t only about blood — it’s about who shows up when you need them most.
But the truth is, recovery isn’t just about being surrounded by good people. It’s also about doing the hard work yourself. Healing takes patience, courage, and honesty — especially with yourself. For me, that journey involves ongoing psychology sessions and bereavement counselling. It’s about learning to sit with my memories instead of running from them, and reminding myself that help is always just a call away. Asking for help isn’t weakness — it’s one of the bravest things you can do.
Every day, I try to live with purpose. I keep a routine because structure helps quiet the chaos inside. I wake up, get out on my bike, and cycle for as long as my mind needs to settle. Being outdoors gives me a sense of freedom I never had as a child. Cycling has become my therapy — it clears my head, helps with my social anxiety, and reminds me that I’m still here and still moving forward.
I’ve also learned that it’s okay to have bad days. Some mornings the flashbacks hit harder than others. Some nights the nightmares leave me wide awake until sunrise. But I’ve stopped punishing myself for that. Healing isn’t about forgetting what happened — it’s about learning how to live with it. When things get heavy, I remind myself of the small victories: getting through another day, making it to an appointment, or opening up to someone I trust. Those are all steps forward.
One of the biggest changes in my life has been talking about my story instead of hiding from it. Last year I went on radio to speak about mental health, grief, and recovery. I was terrified before going on air, but afterwards I realised something powerful — when we share our pain, we give others permission to share theirs too. Silence feeds shame, but conversation breaks it apart. If my story helps even one person feel less alone, then none of my pain has been for nothing.
My message to anyone struggling is simple: you don’t have to do this alone. There’s always someone willing to listen — a friend, a neighbour, a counsellor, or even a stranger on a helpline. I know how hard it can be to make that first call. I’ve been there, frozen with fear and doubt. But reaching out doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’ve decided to live. And that’s the strongest decision you can ever make.
I still have a long road ahead — more counselling, more self-work, more healing to do. But even on the hardest days, I remind myself that there’s light somewhere. My brother and my best friend will always be part of me, and I carry their memory into everything I do. My goal now is to turn pain into purpose — to help others see that no matter how dark life gets, there’s always a way back. You just have to keep walking towards it.
If you’re struggling right now, please reach out — help is always available. You can contact Samaritans free on 116 123 or Pieta on 1800 247 247. You’re never alone, even when it feels that way.
About the Author:
Wayne Murphy is based in Galway. He speaks openly about mental health, loss, and recovery to encourage others to seek help, speak out, and keep going one day at a time.
