It was 2022, and my dad had just died from a rare blood disease. In the aftermath, I quit my PhD and moved back to London from Brighton. I coped by keeping incredibly busy. I regularly informed friends “I’m fine, actually”, as I threw myself into a new job in communications, went clubbing every weekend, picked up a side hustle selling secondhand clothes and got suspiciously invested in my gym routine. If I could just keep busy, I thought, perhaps I could drown out the growing tidal wave of grief.
And it worked, until it just didn’t any more. I began to burst into tears randomly – during a work meeting, at the gym, on my commute – and everyone around me would politely pretend they didn’t notice the 28-year-old man weeping on the tube at 8.30am. I tried to push through it, but my ability to keep up with my own life was faltering, and all of it – the clubs, the job, the gym – suddenly felt unbearably loud and overwhelming.
