Trigger warning: This piece discusses attempted suicide. If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please contact the Samaritans on 116 123, or text SHOUT to 85258
It was the summer of 2021 when I had what I can best describe as one of my worst mental breakdowns. For years, I had been physically battered, ridiculed, and bullied… and it all seemed to catch up with me in a random instant. Between grand trips to distant lands and behind the squares of Instagram, my days were often plagued by deep bouts of debilitating depression. I could barely focus, gained weight, lost interest in my job, and spent many a night screaming into my pillows, tearing my hair out in the mirror. I was unrecognisable and at my worst.
It’s almost become the norm to suffer in silence, particularly in the UK. We seldom speak about our feelings; the moment we do, we’re either dubbed weak or “woke” by the anti-progressives. I live in a country where mental illness, particularly in men, is a malady best kept hidden away in cerebral cobwebs, in the pages of novels, or on the television. We’re somehow afraid to express how we feel or seek help publicly through fear of appearing weak. So many young men, as a result, grieve alone, and the worst happens. Yet, nobody talks about it openly. Instead, they shy away from it, change the subject, or bow their heads in a deep, disapproving, uncomfortable silence.
And so here I am confessing the things usually reserved for my therapist’s notepad. A few months after my initial breakdown, I found myself alone in a London hotel room, planning to end my pain – and had it not been for turndown, I would have succeeded. Instead, days later, I left the hospital I had woken up in a muddled haze. I was seriously ill, and after spending so much time compartmentalising distant traumas and repressing my thoughts, I was finally admitting it. The question since then for me was: how do I deal with it?
Travelling has always been my tonic, and after years of grafting, hustling and fending off the odd shitty boss, I am privileged enough to do it as a full-time job. Exploring the world has always opened my mind to all sorts of perspectives beyond making new memories and meeting new people. I often look back at my travels when I’m most down and remember those moments when I was exposed to entirely new ways of living and their positive impacts on my life.
But most of all, travelling has proven to be my most empowering act of self-care. Booking a trip to somewhere far-flung has brought me focus, purpose and the ability to unpack and come to terms with my past, even at the worst times. Whenever things got too much, I needed to physically transpose myself into a different location to reset my mind fully.
After reaching my lowest point, I decided I needed a trip entirely focused on doing what I enjoyed best, with no meetings or obligations. So a friend and I headed to the happiest place on the planet: Disney World Florida. Full of anxiety and depression, the constraints of adulthood lifted as soon as we stepped foot into the parks: I could throw an epic tantrum anywhere I liked, queue jump after a quick coffee run, sit unjudged as I scoffed breakfast with Mickey at the Four Seasons Orlando; wolf down hot dogs; scream at the top of my lungs on rides at Universal Studios, and nobody would care. It granted me travel’s greatest gift: freedom.
Dazed, confused, and thoroughly exhausted after five days of running around the place, I spent the last night at the Magic Kingdom for one last glimpse of the fireworks show. As I watched the sparkles explode in the air, a voice echoed through the park: “you are the magic.” It may sound cliché, but after all the pain and trauma I’d experienced, it touched a nerve. I vividly remember a tear welling up in my eye and I silently broke down in a crowd of thousands. Looking back at all the planning, adrenaline and excitement spent here was, in retrospect, cathartic. I left energised and inspired, and that’s what the crux of travel for me is all about: going to places that help grow a positive mindset even when your world is turning to shit.
When travelling to less serotonin-fuelled destinations, I find that exploring places to the point of physical exhaustion helps me fully reset. I often stamp pavements in great unexplored cities until I’m ready to drop, and find it boosts my mood and helps me forget my woes. Leaving my daily life behind, even just temporarily, and trying out new things helps me break negative cycles, pushing my brain out of its damaging state. In Portugal, I learned to surf (I was terrible but loved it); went mountain biking near Mont Blanc (I hated it, but did it); trekked up Lion’s Head in South Africa; paraglided off a mountain; hiked 40km on my lonesome in the Plitvice Lakes; went on a doors-off helicopter ride over NYC, and scaled glaciers in Iceland – all things I would never have done had I not forcibly pushed myself to burst my bubble.
Going places and doing things completely out of my comfort zone helps challenge me mentally and physically. However, I am aware that these things are not necessarily accessible to many people, and even if they are, I am not suggesting that adrenaline-boosting travel can cure maladies of the mind. Still, these adventures personally enabled me to distance myself from the most negative aspects of my daily life and more importantly, helps grow my confidence when it was at its lowest. But sometimes, it’s the simple pleasures that can help just as much as the terrifying experiences. For example, I picked up long, rambling walks as a hobby while spending distant summer months in Italy. I often find brisk strolls can solve some of life’s greatest problems. They offer the valuable time needed to reflect and process our mighty afflictions to the soundtrack of “me time,” or a melancholy Adele number.
Eventually, the health freak in me found himself deep in the blissfully quiet pleasures of the Scottish Highlands. I walked through the sleepy village of Braemar and found a trail that led up a hill riddled with purple heather. An hour or so later, with that distinct feeling of accomplishment, I found a spot and collapsed on a patch of open grass in the sodden rain. It was silent. In a trance, I watched the mist whirl over the precipice, slowly curving its way down to the town. Then, deep in thought, I suddenly got up and ran across the hill screaming “fuck you!” on loop. It was liberating. I let it all out in privacy and with only the landscapes (and squirrels) as company. It was deeply cathartic.
I’ve often found a healing tranquillity to nature in a foreign place that invites us all to find some form of newfound epiphany. Author Cheryl Strayed’s mother sums it up well: “there is a sunrise and a sunset every day and you can choose to be there for it. You can put yourself in the way of beauty.” The power of screaming at Disney, crying under the fire-lit skies of Italy and discovering myself in other countries, reminded me that there’s so much more to the world than my past problems. The places I visited tested my limits, helped me resolve my traumas, gave me new perspectives and eased my everyday stresses. Of course, I am in no way suggesting that travel is the antidote to all mental health struggles, but in many ways, travelling the world made me want to live longer when I didn’t want to. And that’s been its greatest gift.
If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please contact the Samaritans on 116 123, or text SHOUT to 85258