Hi I’m Niamh, I was one of Ty’s many friends. I was asked to speak today, not because I have the right words, I don’t think any of us really do, but because I’ve fought this battle and chosen life. I wanted to speak today because if sharing a bit of my own experience can help even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it. Losing Ty showed us how deeply mental health struggles can hide behind a smile and how important it is that we talk about them openly, without shame. I don’t have all the answers, but I know that speaking up, reaching out, and reminding each other that life is still worth choosing, can make a difference for us, and for everyone still fighting quietly.
A few years ago, I went through something that completely broke me. One single moment caused the utmost of pain and trauma. I stopped going to school for a while. I couldn’t face people. I couldn’t even face myself. It felt like everything I thought I knew about who I was, had been torn away. There were days when I didn’t see the point in continuing. Days when I thought about ending it all, and that’s hard to admit, especially standing here, remembering someone who did. But that’s the truth of it. I was tired. I was hurting. I didn’t think I’d ever feel okay again. But somewhere in all of that pain, something very small, told me to hold on. Not because I knew how to fix things, not because I was suddenly brave or strong, but because I didn’t want my story to end.
I know that kind of darkness. I’ve felt what it’s like to wake up and not want to. I’ve had moments in my life where I didn’t think I’d get through. Where trauma, fear, and pain made me want to disappear. But I also learned, slowly, that life can hold both pain and beauty at the same time. That even after being broken, we can find reasons – small ones at first – to stay.
I started reaching out. Slowly, awkwardly. To friends, to family, to people who listened even when I didn’t have the words. They found me help, but it didn’t work, more problems began, and everything was getting worse every day. But I continued to fight. I found help in a place that specialised in my trauma. Over time my depression began to feel lighter, I began to be able to get out of bed. I began to learn that choosing life isn’t about being happy all the time, it’s about choosing to believe there can be more than the pain. And every day since then, I’ve had to make that choice again and again. Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s not. But I’ve learned that healing isn’t about forgetting what broke you. It’s about learning to live with it, to carry it, in a way that doesn’t crush you.
Mental health isn’t something you can see from the outside. So often, it hides behind a smile, behind jokes, behind the words “I’m fine.” But those two words “I’m fine” can hold so much more than we realise.
When we think about Ty, we think about how much light he carried, how many people in this room he made laugh, how much he gave to everyone else. And I also think about the pain he must have carried quietly, the weight he didn’t want to burden anyone with. I wish he could see us all here now, how much we miss him, how much he mattered, how much love surrounds his name.
If there’s anyone here today who feels like they’re where I was, or where he was, please, please hear this: You are not alone. You don’t have to carry your pain by yourself. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to still be figuring things out. I used to think survival meant being strong all the time, now I know it means staying, when everything in you wants to go. It means choosing life, even when it hurts, to believe that you deserve to be here.
Let us honour Ty by being kind and caring for one another, by speaking openly about our pain, and by reaching out when the weight feels too heavy to carry alone.
Thank you
