Where I Find Myself This New Year
Where I Find Myself This New Year
By Michael P Lennon
The New Year has a habit of arriving loudly. Fireworks, countdowns, big statements made with confidence and usually forgotten by the time the bins go out. We’re told it’s a fresh start, a clean page, a clear line between the past and whatever we promise ourselves is coming next.
But that’s not how this one feels to me.
This New Year hasn’t come from a place of celebration.
It’s come from survival.
This time last year, I was in free fall. Not the dramatic kind you see coming, but the quiet one where everything still looks fine from the outside. I was heading, whether I admitted it or not, toward detention and hospital. Toward nine weeks in Holywell. Toward a point where my own mind went sideways and I could no longer pretend I was holding it all together.
There’s no pride in saying that. Just honesty.
At the time, I still thought I was coping. Still thought I could outwork it, outlast it, or joke my way around it. I’d spent a lifetime in uniforms — chef’s whites, funeral black — believing that if I looked steady, I was steady. If I kept moving, nothing could catch me.
Turns out the mind doesn’t care about appearances.
What followed wasn’t a single collapse, but a series of quiet realisations. That I was exhausted in ways sleep didn’t touch. That my judgement had slipped without me noticing. That the confidence I thought was strength had started to become recklessness. And that the silence I wrapped around myself — to spare others, to avoid gossip, to “keep the show on the road” — was doing more damage than any conversation ever could.
Holywell wasn’t an ending. It was containment. Safety. A pause I didn’t know how to ask for until it was imposed on me. Nine weeks is a long time when life outside doesn’t stop. No postman inside. No bills landing on the table. No expectations beyond turning up and staying alive.
Then you walk back out, and the world hasn’t waited.
That’s the part people don’t talk about. The bit after the crisis, when you’re technically “better” but nothing fits anymore. When your head is steadier, but your life isn’t. When you realise recovery isn’t a finish line — it’s the long, awkward business of learning how to live again.
This year, I’m still here.
That’s not a slogan. It’s a fact I don’t take lightly.
I’m still here despite the stigma that clings to words like “detained” and “hospital”. Despite the gossip that fills silences when people don’t know what to say. Despite the quiet judgement that can follow you into rooms you once felt comfortable in.
And I’ve learned something important in the process: none of that gets to decide your worth.
You are not a bill.
You are not your bank balance.
You are not the worst thing that ever happened to you.
Money can be made. Careers can change. Relationships can end and new ones can begin. I’ve had to accept that — painfully, slowly, and with more humility than I ever planned — including rebuilding the most important relationship of all: the one with myself.
That’s not something anyone prepares you for. When your mind has gone sideways, you don’t automatically trust it again just because professionals say you’re stable. You question your instincts. You second-guess decisions. You wonder which version of you is real — the one who thought he could carry everything, or the one who couldn’t get out of bed.
The truth is uncomfortable: both were me. One was unwell. One is learning.
There’s a strange freedom in admitting that. It strips away the act. It removes the pressure to perform recovery properly. It lets you be human again, which is messier than any uniform but far more honest.
We don’t help ourselves, culturally, by treating mental health like a scandal. Whispered about. Avoided. Reduced to rumours and raised eyebrows. That atmosphere doesn’t protect anyone — it just pushes people further into silence. And silence, as I’ve learned, is where things quietly fall apart.
I never believed I’d need charities or Holywell Hospital. I was the steady one — trained to cope, keep quiet, and not make a show of myself. That wasn’t strength; it was conditioning. Systems reward silence until you collapse, then act shocked when you do. I’m not ashamed I needed help. What’s shameful is a culture that only listens once you’re broken enough to be managed.
What I am ashamed of is how easily I judged others while assuming I’d be exempt. I took my mental health for granted and mistook silence for strength — like we all do. Society taught us that lie, and we repeat it until it’s our turn. Mental health isn’t a moral achievement, and breaking down isn’t failure. It’s what happens when endurance is demanded and care is rationed.
So here’s the plain truth, without drama or grand statements: help is available. Not just in emergencies, not just when things are already on fire, but earlier — when you’re tired, confused, overwhelmed, or pretending a bit too hard.
Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s not attention-seeking. It’s not failure. It’s maintenance. The same kind we accept without question for our bodies, our cars, our homes. The mind deserves at least the same respect.
If you’re reading this and thinking, that sounds a bit close to home, take it seriously. Not with panic, but with care. Talk to someone. Make the appointment. Send the message you’ve been rehearsing in your head. Drop the act before it drops you.
This New Year, I’m not setting resolutions. I’m setting boundaries. With work. With expectations. With the voice in my head that tells me I should be further along by now. I’m learning that progress is quiet, uneven, and rarely Instagram-worthy.
And that’s okay.
If last year took you to places you never expected to be — emotionally, mentally, or otherwise — and you’re still standing, that matters. More than any fresh start fantasy ever could.
Here’s a lighter, warmer version — same meaning, less weight, easy to land:
So, as the calendar turns again, I’ll keep it simple:
I wish you steadiness.
I wish you honesty.
And I wish you the sense to ask for help before you’re running on fumes.
Happy New Year — quietly, kindly, and one day at a time.
Michael P. Lennon
You’re not alone.
Support (UK & Ireland)
If you are struggling, you don’t have to manage it alone:
- Samaritans — 116 123 (UK & ROI, 24/7 listening support)
- Shout — Text SHOUT to 85258 (UK, 24/7 text support)
- PAPYRUS HOPELINE247 — 0800 068 4141 (UK, under 35s)
- Your GP / Primary Care Team — for ongoing support
- Emergency — Call 999 or 112
Disclaimer
This blog is based on lived experience and personal reflection.
It is not medical advice. If you are struggling or in crisis, please contact your GP, local mental health services, or one of the organisations listed above. In an emergency, always dial 999 or 112.
© Mindspire — Lived Experience Blogs
Fuel for the mind. Food for the soul.
https://www.mindspireblogs.co.uk/2025/10/finding-urgent-mental-health-support.html
Acknowledgement
I want to thank Derry Now for sharing my International Men’s Day piece and for giving space to honest discussion around mental health. That coverage helped the conversation reach far beyond me, and if it encouraged even one person to reflect, speak, or seek help earlier, then it mattered.
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