JANE GREEN

losing mum

Mum took her own life in February, after a long and painful battle with her mind for her mental health.It was the ending we, as a family, had always dreaded—and though it can’t be said that it came out of nowhere, the shock and pain of losing someone you love so deeply in this way is devastating beyond description.For her, though, the experience of gradually losing control to extreme anxiety, fear, and intrusive thoughts—the near-constant sense of distress she lived with, day after day, year after year—must have been even harder than what we’ve faced in these past few months.If deep psychological pain wasn’t already enough of a burden, she also carried the weight of embarrassment and shame.Embarrassment about what this put us through as a family, and shame about what people might think when she couldn’t function like everyone else.For me, my sister Jess, and my brother Jacob, it feels like mum’s mental illness has overshadowed most of our adult lives.And now, that frustration has suddenly turned into grief—and overwhelming guilt about what we could have done better to support her, or didn’t do to prevent this ending. And we didn’t get to say goodbye. The final memories are horrendous.For my dad, David, he’s lost his life partner—and his sense of direction—in the most painful way. After carrying this with my siblings for many years, we were relieved when he stepped into the role of her primary support in the final months before she died. Now, he carries a terrible weight of responsibility for what has happened.Outside of our immediate family, I know Mum was loved by so many. And while she didn’t let anyone in on the true depth of her distress, I sense that those close to her felt it—and shared the same paralysing sense of hopelessness that comes when you can’t help someone you care about overcome their demons.

her illness

Mum suffered from extreme depressive episodes in the last decade of her life. She was diagnosed with Bipolar II and was also likely living with Borderline Personality Disorder.The cyclical crises caused by her illness made it impossible for her to function. Her mind would become completely overrun with intense feelings of worthlessness and pain—so much so that, in those moments, she experienced everyday life as a kind of hell. Each time, the downward spiral couldn’t be stopped until she was admitted to the Nightingale Hospital in London for 30-day stays.The first couple of times she came out optimistic and rejuvenated, determined to grow and learn how to avoid triggers, set boundaries, and find balance. But in reality, each subsequent stay chipped away at her confidence, wore her down emotionally, and exhausted her mentally.The impact the cycles were having—not just on her, but on the lives of those she loved—ate away at her. She also feared the physical toll that multiple breakdowns were having on her body.In the end, she couldn’t trust that her mind would function well enough to even take part in milestone family occasions—and that must have been a terrifying way to live.But mum chose to live another day thousands more times than the one time she chose to end the pain. In fact, I suspect she may have lived with psychological pain her entire life. I’m grateful that in some of her darkest moments—like when she lost baby Abigail when I was a child—she found a way to go on.She raised us, loved us intensely, got to know our life partners, and saw us become independent adults.I’ve come to realise that not everyone whose parent faces extreme mental health crises is as lucky.

Why the NYC marathon

Mum’s marathon time in 2007 was a phenomenal achievement for a first-time runner. She only took up running in her mid-30s and had never gone beyond a 10K until she began training.It was the one time a selfless and devoted mother truly put herself first—and we were so proud of her.I remember waking up early to take the Staten Island Ferry with her to the start line. Then I raced across town (on the subway!) hoping to catch a glimpse of her along the way. Without GPS tracking back then, it wasn’t easy—but I managed to spot her in the Bronx. And the whole family made it to Central Park to greet her at the finish line.Up until the illness took over in the last decade, mum ran almost every day—a fast 7 miles around Hyde Park from home and back.She used to say that after 20 minutes, all her worries wilted away. In retrospect, running was her medicine—for all the swirling, building noise in her head. It was her mindfulness practice. It was when she was most at peace—the intensity she lived with beautifully channelled into motion.In the painful first week after her death, the idea came to me to run the race I so positively associate with her.And much like how mum ran to settle her busy mind, the training has been medicine for my own pain and grief in the months since she died.I can feel her running beside me—and I feel her at her very best.

SUICIDE & FAMILIES

Nothing really prepares you to deal with a suicide in the family. It’s a horror we all hope to never live through. Statistically, people who lose a loved one to suicide have a 2- to 5-fold increase in their own risk of dying by suicide.In the past months, I’ve learned that suicide can present itself as the only way to regain a sense of control when someone feels completely overtaken by their own thoughts. If real life is fully experienced as a fiery hell—and that’s what mum was going through—then suicide appears to be the logical escape.In her final moments, she felt so worthless that she truly believed everyone was better off without her.But what would have devastated mum most—her true self—is knowing the pain we now carry. As difficult as things could get when she was unwell, I'd take that life back a thousand times over losing her like this. The distorted reality created by her illness didn’t allow her to connect with how this choice would affect the people who love her so much.That’s why I believe the best way to honour her is by supporting an organisation that help families and friends navigate the aftermath of suicide.

WHAT IS NAMI

I was given my marathon place—and the opportunity to honour Mum in this way—by NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness.NAMI offer free zooms to people in my situation—people bereaved by suicide—and, having been on multiple calls since mum died, that support has been critical for me in the past months.I’ve connected with many people who share similar stories, similar pain, and the same unanswerable questions—along with the intense, often contradictory emotions of guilt and anger.I’m lucky to have friends, family, and a therapist wife I can talk to, but the truth is, only a few people can truly understand this kind of loss through lived experience.Support for bereaved family members is just one part of what they do—NAMI is a full-spectrum mental health charity.I can’t even begin to imagine what others, less fortunate than us, go through when they’re suffering from a pervasive mental illness and have the will to keep going, but not the resources to get help and stay alive for the people they love.Charities like NAMI provide those critical services so that no one has to face that kind of struggle alone.So—no different from the usual fundraising clichés—know that whatever you're able to give, big or small, can make a real difference for someone out there who's suffering. It would also mean the world to me personally.

Mental health

I wanted to use this opportunity not just to fundraise, but also to bring some understanding to mum’s death—understanding that even close family and friends might not have, or might feel too afraid to ask about.I realise that in sharing this, some of it might be triggering. If you're experiencing anything similar to what mum went through, please know that help is available—and that someone is ready to listen.In the UK, call Samaritans on 116 123.
In the US, call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline on 988.
In Mexico, call la Línea de Vida on 800 822 3737.If you’re not in crisis but live with difficult emotions or a complex inner world—as most of us do—please do seek out the support you need.I’m deeply proud of mum for how many times she showed up at the Nightingale Hospital, determined to confront her illness again and again.Being there meant surrendering to the reality of losing control and acknowledging that she needed help. She worked hard to build a new way of living and to face the difficult memories from the past—and worries about the future—that kept her so stuck.I’m especially proud that, in her final months, she was truly trying to make meaningful changes she hoped would bring her more inner peace as she grew older.It wasn’t to be, but I’ve wondered since how different mum’s life might have been if, were it not for so much stigma around her about seeking therapy and psychiatric support, she had started the work much earlier in her life.So I urge you to work through any shame or judgment—whether it comes from within or from others—if you suspect you might need to face these things. Because the truth is, you never know what kind of hell the difficult thoughts might lead you to down the road if you don’t.It breaks my heart to a million pieces that my mum spent her final moments in a desperate, frightened, and tortured state of mind. There is nothing but compassion for anyone who experiences that kind of inner turmoil.Love to you all,
Sam
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