I left the theatre after watching Dear Evan Hansen, and I haven’t been able to shake the thoughts and emotions it stirred in me. It’s not just a powerful show — heavy, honest, and raw — it’s a mirror. A soft whisper and a loud cry all at once, reminding us of something so deeply human: none of us want to be alone. None of us want to sit in silence, hoping someone — anyone — will notice. We all have that longing to be seen, to be found, especially when we fall.
What struck me most was how often we try to hide the parts of ourselves we think are broken. We tuck them away, hoping no one will notice — maybe even hoping we’ll forget they exist. But they don’t just vanish. They sit quietly in the shadows, waiting for us to gather them, to dust them off, and say: You still belong. Because when we stop running from the cracks, when we honour even the fractured parts of ourselves, we find something unexpected: wholeness. Not perfection — but completeness. Messy, human, and real.
But let’s be honest — that’s not always easy. Acknowledging the parts of ourselves we’ve ignored is one thing. Sitting with them, working through them, and integrating them into who we are? That’s something else entirely. Healing is uncomfortable. It’s painful. And sometimes, it feels easier to pretend those pieces don’t exist. But the truth is, the hard thing is often the right thing. If we do the work — if we allow ourselves to feel, to process, to rebuild — we begin to move through life with a sense of completeness that doesn’t rely on others. We no longer need constant validation from the outside, because we know we are whole from within.
Still, I understand the pull — that desperate need, that ache to belong, to be seen… to be found. I see it in the men I work with. I see it in myself. Sometimes, we do reckless things, make clumsy choices — sending a message in the dark, crying out in silence — all in the hope that someone will notice us, include us, care for us.
It made me think of Fenix, the community I’m building, and why it matters so much to me. I hope it’s becoming a place where men can show up just as they are — no masks, no pretending, no pressure to have it all together. A space where they feel they belong, where broken pieces are welcome at the table, and where someone will sit with them in the silence until the weight lifts.
It also reminded me of something I’ve spoken about before: giving someone eight minutes. Eight minutes of listening, being present, showing up. Eight minutes to remind someone: You matter. You are seen. It can make all the difference. Because sometimes, it’s one phone call, one message, one small moment that pulls someone back from the edge — stopping them from making a life-altering, irreversible decision. The show touched on that too: the reality that suicide often happens when someone feels unseen, unheard, and completely alone. And sometimes, simply being there for someone at the right time is all they need to take one more step forward.
We forget how powerful our presence can be. We don’t always need the right words. We don’t need to fix anything. We just need to show up. And maybe, just maybe, if we all became a little better at catching each other, if we reached out before the silence became too loud, we’d all feel a little less alone.
So I want to leave you with two questions I’m asking myself tonight:
Who in your life needs to feel found right now?
And when will you let yourself be found, too?
Because we all need each other. More than we sometimes realise.
