When the Prince of Wales spoke about the importance of discussing suicide prevention in his recent short film, his words struck a chord that reverberated deep within me. As a royal correspondent, I’ve covered countless stories about Prince William’s mental health campaigns. But this time, something was different. His message didn’t just resonate as a journalist—it reached me on a deeply personal level, compelling me to open up about a part of my life I’ve never shared publicly before.
Last week, I watched William’s eight-minute film ahead of its release. In it, he spoke with people who have lost loved ones to suicide, including Rhian Mannings, whose husband died by suicide just five days after their one-year-old son passed away from a seizure. Their story was heartbreaking—an unimaginable double tragedy that left me struggling to process the depth of pain she described.
And then, came William’s words—simple but powerful:
“The best way to prevent suicide is to talk about it. Talk about it early, talk about it with your loved ones, those you trust, your friends.”
Those words have echoed in my head ever since. Because while I’ve written openly about my struggles with depression and anxiety in the past, there has always been one chapter I’ve kept hidden. Until now.
The Night I Nearly Gave Up
On April 23, 2016, I reached my lowest point. I was a university student, seemingly thriving on the surface—bubbly, sociable, full of energy. But beneath that façade, I was drowning in a darkness I didn’t understand. The sadness was relentless, the exhaustion unbearable. Every day felt like wading through thick fog with no light ahead.
That night, I decided I couldn’t keep going. The pain had become too heavy, too constant. I didn’t see a future beyond the numbness. What followed is a blur—the chaos of my flatmates finding me, the flashing lights of the ambulance, the bright glare of A&E. I remember paramedics attaching cords to my chest, the sharp sting of needles, the taste of bitterness as I tried to stay awake while vomiting up the toxic mixture I’d taken.
At one point, when I tried to move beds, my legs gave way beneath me. That’s when the panic hit. I remember thinking, What have I done?
In the days that followed, I was monitored constantly. Nurses checked on me every thirty minutes. I was physically stabilised, but emotionally shattered. After a psychiatric assessment and reassurance from my parents that they would keep me safe, I was discharged—not back to my university flat, but back home to recover.
Healing in Silence
Over the next few months, I began to heal. I threw myself into bowls, a sport that offered distraction and structure. Eventually, I returned to university, graduated, and resumed my life. Outwardly, I was fine again. But inwardly, that night remained locked away—a scar I refused to touch.
My friends and family never spoke about it, and neither did I. Maybe we didn’t know how. Maybe we thought pretending it never happened would make it disappear. In truth, I carried that silence as a shield—proof that I’d “moved on.”
But as Prince William’s film reminded me, silence can be its own kind of suffering.
When the Darkness Returned
Nearly a decade later, I found myself revisited by the same darkness I thought I’d left behind. This summer, after a particularly stressful period at work, I began to notice the familiar signs—racing thoughts, exhaustion, panic attacks, and eventually, the same feeling of despair I’d once known too well.
My beloved sport, bowls, which had always been a refuge, became a source of anxiety. I developed what athletes call “the yips”—a mental block that stopped me from releasing the ball. I’d stand frozen on the green, my body refusing to cooperate. It was humiliating and frightening.
But this time, I chose to do things differently.
I didn’t hide. I reached out—to my boyfriend, my best friend, my parents, my doctor, and even my boss. I took time off, found a new therapist, adjusted my medication, and allowed myself to be honest about how bad things had become. And slowly, the light began to return.
Finding Strength in the Struggle
Today, I’m proud to say I’m still here—and still fighting. I still have moments of panic, and days when the weight feels heavier than usual, but I know how to manage it. I’ve learned to spot my triggers, to rest when I need to, and to ask for help when it feels impossible to cope alone.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that survival doesn’t mean never struggling again—it means continuing to choose life, even when it feels unbearable.
Writing this is painful. There’s a vulnerability in sharing something so personal, especially as someone whose job involves reporting on others’ lives. But if even one person reads this and feels less alone, then it’s worth every uncomfortable moment.
The Power of Speaking Out
That’s why Prince William’s work on mental health is so vital. His willingness to have difficult conversations—about grief, loss, and suicide—reminds people that it’s okay not to be okay, and that talking truly can save lives.
When the heir to the throne sits down with survivors and bereaved families, he strips away the stigma that so often surrounds mental illness. He uses his platform not to preach, but to listen—and in doing so, he empowers others, like me, to finally speak our truths.
Moving Forward with Hope
I’ll never fully understand why depression chose me. I had a loving upbringing, a good education, a supportive family. But mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t need a reason. What matters is learning how to live with it—how to shrink it down until it no longer consumes you.
Depression, to me, feels like an inoperable tumour. It may never disappear completely, but with care and courage, I can stop it from growing. And with help—from loved ones, from professionals, and from voices like Prince William’s—I can keep it at bay.
To anyone reading this who is struggling: please reach out. Speak to your doctor, your friend, or even a stranger who will listen. You don’t have to carry it alone. There is help, there is hope, and there is life beyond the pain.
As for me, I’m endlessly grateful—to my family, my friends, my colleagues, and to the prince whose words gave me the courage to finally speak my truth.
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