They Stayed
When unbearable pain was met with compassionate presence.
A gentle note before you read
This week’s reflection includes a personal experience of suicidal thoughts and mental ill health. Although the focus is on hope, empathy and recovery, I know this may be tender territory for some readers. Please read with care, and feel free to come back to it when the time feels right.
I’ve been reading the ancient story of Job this week.
Two things struck me.
The first was his astonishing honesty. His whole world has fallen apart, and he doesn’t pretend otherwise. He tells the truth about his pain. He questions. He laments. He cries out. He doesn’t tidy up his emotions before bringing them to God.
The second was his friends.
We’ve even given them a name in our language: Job’s comforters.
At one point, Job describes them as being like a seasonal brook—full of rushing water in winter, but dry when travellers most need a drink. They promised relief, but when the heat came, there was nothing there.
As I read those words, I found myself unexpectedly thinking back six years.
It was during the COVID lockdowns. I was working in the NHS when unresolved trauma resurfaced with overwhelming force. My mental health deteriorated rapidly and eventually I had to be sent home from work.
There came a point where I became actively suicidal.
Looking back now, I realise just how unwell I was.
What I realise now is that I wasn’t alone.
I had an extraordinary counsellor and an amazing friend.
My counsellor was experienced, wise and deeply empathic. She recognised the seriousness of where I was, helped me put a safety plan in place and asked me to promise that I would tell her if I was no longer safe. The trust we’d built over time meant I could tell her things that felt impossible to say out loud. Her calm presence and practical guidance became part of what carried me through the darkest days of my life.
My friend had earned my trust long before I ever needed it. She had shown me, over and over again, that she could hold my deepest fears without judgement. When I eventually found the courage to tell her how desperate things had become, she didn’t panic. She didn’t lecture me. She didn’t try to explain my pain away.
She simply stayed.
Years later, I came across Brené Brown’s wonderful little animation about empathy. She describes the difference between standing at the top of a hole shouting helpful advice and climbing down to sit beside someone in the darkness.
Brené Brown illustrated video on Empathy
The first time I watched it, I smiled through tears.
Because that was exactly what my counsellor and my friend had done for me.
They met me there.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve been thinking differently about Job’s friends this week.
Before they began explaining his suffering...
Before they tried to answer questions nobody could answer...
They simply sat with him.
For seven days.
I wonder whether that was the kindest thing they ever did.
As I look back now, I can see something that I couldn’t see then.
Hope didn’t begin when my circumstances changed.
Hope began when I discovered that unbearable pain didn’t have to be carried alone.
As I sit here writing these words six years later, I remain profoundly grateful that those dark days did not have the final word.
Perhaps you’re carrying something you’ve never quite dared to say out loud.
If you are, I hope you find someone safe enough to tell.
Or perhaps someone has trusted you with their pain.
If they have, don’t worry about finding the perfect words. Your presence may matter far more than you realise.
I’ve come to believe that kindness isn’t always knowing what to say.
Sometimes kindness is simply refusing to leave.
The greatest gift my friends gave me wasn’t a way out of my pain.
It was the certainty that I wouldn’t have to sit beside it alone.
If this reflection has resonated because you’re struggling with thoughts of suicide or you’re worried about your own safety, please don’t carry that burden alone. If you can, tell someone you trust today—a friend, a family member, your GP or a mental health professional. You matter, and help is available.
If you’re in the UK or the Republic of Ireland, the Samaritans are available 24 hours a day by calling 116 123, or by visiting www.samaritans.org.