Yes. Tell them

Silence is overrated. You deserve better, and so do they

Disclaimer: This article is produced for entertainment and informational purposes only. It is not a substitute for the help of a licensed mental health professional or therapist.

If you, or anyone you know, is struggling, seek help immediately from the Samaritans or local emergency services.

It’s been a year.

Since I got the news, anyway.

And I found, this week, that my grandfather drifted back into my thoughts.

A moment of regret so powerful that I had to stop what I was doing.

Put on the song that accompanied his final farewell.

And let the tears come.

From this, the sudden and unapologetic return of grief.

I’ve learned how to minimise regret.

It’s deceptively simple.

And the bravest thing you can do.

Will you join me?

It’s time.

The inciting anniversary

I’ve been fortunate in many ways.

Over the course of my some thirty years, I’ve not experienced loss on the scale that many other people have.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve taken the passing of my grandparents especially hard.

My maternal grandmother some ten years ago. My grandfather last year, which was arguably even harder.

And I think there’s a straightforward reason why:

‘Someday,’ he’d say, with me sat on his knee, all wide eyes and some messy first attempt at a novel. ‘We’ll see your name in lights, won’t we?’

It’s hard to overstate how much of an impact this had on me.

Here was someone that I didn’t see all that much. Geographically distant as the moon in the mind of a child.

And yet he had would tell me this multiple times.

Every play I was in, the stories I’d write.

He didn’t need to see the evidence, even though he did.

The confidence was there. Always sincere.

And it gave me something to aim for.

A timeline.

A ‘Someday’ that I was determined for him to see.

And the real tragedy was that I squirreled this away as some kind of secret.

I kept the impact his words had on me to myself for a long, long time.

The male silence reflex

There’s a moment where you think you’ll say it.

Where the rest of the party has gone to the bar, and you’re standing with a friend of many years in a comfortable silence.

It’s the perfect time to tell them.

What you admired about them the other week.

What you’ve always noticed, but they can’t see about themselves.

But the silence is so comfortable.

You don’t want to risk it.

Besides, then you wonder about whether they’ll take it wrong.

So you don’t dare.

For reasons you claim are brave, really.

Stoic.

And then, when someone does return with your beer.

You’re right back into the moment.

It’s gone.

Thank God.

Saved, you think, by the bell.

I almost did the stupid thing.

And told them how I care.

Courage is greater than permission

Except that’s not true, is it?

If you were saved by killing the moment with silence, you wouldn’t feel it.

The pang of guilt.

So you push it down.

A wisecrack will do.

Or your Roman Empire, to demonstrate your expertise.

Anything to distract from the moment you felt a chink in the armour.

And started to hide again.

Think again

You’re sharing the light

But here’s the thing.

If it was so brave to hide.

If it was heroic to muzzle yourself.

Why does it feel like cowardice?

Taking the chance is always the fight that requires your strength of spirit.

Because, when you do take the risk, you’ll see their face light up.

Even if they crack their own jokes at the discomfort.

As many of my dearest friends have over the years.

They’ll start to do the incredible thing, and begin to believe it.

The embers your faith can kindle will become flames.

But only if you give them oxygen.

And a voice.

You were never built for scale

Simplicity as a saving grace

‘I always appreciated that,’ I said. ‘It had such a positive influence on me.’

‘Because I knew you would,’ he said.

‘But I haven’t, grandad,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

‘You will,’ he said. ‘You will.’

As I said before, I have been fortunate.

I did get to tell him before he passed about what his words had meant to me.

My regret was thankfully smaller.

That I didn’t join in the chorus by more than a murmur as he left us for the final time.

That makes this, the hardest of things, not necessarily easier, but more bearable.

And I want that for you.

So whoever it is.

Whomever in your life doesn’t get told enough.

Appreciated enough.

Tell them.

Before you can’t.

You won’t regret it.

And neither, I’m sure, will they.

Warmest regards

Your author

Stuart Found