Location: Dover Harbour and the English Channel (May 2022)

The last few years had been kind to me. I’d met TJ, got engaged, and achieved life goals that once felt out of reach after my accident. For the first time in years, I felt like my world was coming together. But for my Dad, life had become a daily struggle. He was locked in a long-running battle with anxiety and depression – an invisible war fought in the quiet of his mind. Every day, he faced demons that seemed to taunt him, pulling him further from the promise of better days.

As a family, we tried everything we could to break through. We told him repeatedly that there was so much to live for, so much to hope for. Yet, no matter how hard we tried, our words didn’t seem to reach him. I felt powerless, as if I was banging on a door only he could open. The vibrant, gregarious man I had grown up with had become a shadow of himself. He still showed glimpses of the Dad I knew – a laugh here, a warm smile there – but those moments were fleeting, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Deep down, I held onto hope that he could turn things around.

One evening, TJ and I planned a date night, and I asked Dad if he’d look after Murphy. He loved our dog, and Murphy adored him. Parking on his driveway, Murphy bolted from the car, tail wagging furiously as he bounded toward Dad.

“I’ll pick him up in a couple of hours,” I said.

“That’s fine, Son,” Dad replied, ushering Murphy inside.

Dinner with TJ was overshadowed by conversation about Dad – his struggles, our helplessness, and my gnawing fear of what the future might hold. I found solace in the thought of Murphy’s unconditional love being a balm for Dad’s troubled mind.

Later that night, as I arrived to collect Murphy, Dad seemed unusually flustered, almost eager to rush back inside. As Murphy jumped into the car, I felt a strange compulsion to say something.

“Dad!” I called out through the open car window. He stopped and turned, his eyes locking with mine.

“I love you, Dad,” I said with conviction, my voice unsteady but firm.

His face softened. “I know, Son. I love you too.”

Those were the last words we ever exchanged.

The next afternoon, my phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. It was my sister, Eve.

“Everything okay?” I asked casually, though the tremor in her voice sent a jolt of unease through me.

“Darren,” she said, her voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What’s happened? Is it Dad?” My heart raced, pounding in my chest like a drumbeat of dread.

Eve hesitated, then spoke the words that shattered my world. “He’s gone, Darren. Dad’s gone.”

The rest of the call was a blur. I wanted to hang up, needing to be alone. Grief hit me in waves – first disbelief, then anger, and finally a crushing sadness. My mind replayed our last conversation on a loop. Those final words of love, which I clung to for comfort, also stung like salt in an open wound. Could I have done more? Should I have stayed longer?

Eventually, I stumbled over the words, “I’ve got to go, Eve. I’d rather be on my own for now. I’ll call you back in a little while.” Despite her insistence that I shouldn’t be alone, I ended the call. At the time, it didn’t feel selfish or like a failure as an older brother who should have been there to comfort his sister. My mind had instinctively shifted into self-preservation mode, desperate to block out the noise and deny the reality crashing down around me. A minute or two later, still staring at the same spot on the kitchen floor, the tide of emotion overwhelmed me. Tears streamed down my face as the gut-wrenching heartbreak settled in: I would never see Dad again. The realisation that my last words to him – perhaps the last words he’d ever heard – had been “I love you, Dad” made the pain more unbearable.

Then, sadness gave way to anger. It surged through me, raw and consuming. I was furious at the world for taking him and at him for succumbing to his demons. My fingers tightened in my left hand, my gaze locked on the square windowpane of the kitchen door. A visceral urge bubbled up: I wanted to hurl my fist through the glass, to hear it shatter into a million pieces. The smash would mirror the state of my heart, chaotic and broken. But I didn’t give in. I wouldn’t let the demons circling overhead take hold. That night, I cried myself to sleep in TJ’s arms.

In the weeks that followed, I searched for meaning in the loss. Not knowing how to deal with the trauma of losing Dad, a part of me shut down and tried to distance myself from the hurt. The unintentional and regretful consequence of this was how it left Eve dealing with so many aspects of Dad’s passing on her own. As her older brother, I should have taken that burden from her, but I didn’t – it’s something I look back on with significant guilt. I should have done better. A month after Dad’s passing, I found myself on the river, rowing past the boathouse where Dad used to call out to me. The balcony was empty, and for the first time, I truly felt the weight of his absence. But in that silence, a spark ignited. I couldn’t bring Dad back, but I could honour him by turning my pain into purpose. I finished my training session an hour or so later, and as Colin jumped out of the support boat and walked along the pontoon towards me, I posed an important question…

“Colin, do you think I could row across the English Channel?” I inquired as if it wasn’t the most bizarre and unexpected question. Colin’s startled expression made me realise I’d caught him off guard.

“Well, in principle, I don’t see why not,” came his response with a bemused smile.

From that moment, a new chapter of my journey began – not just as an adventurer, but as an advocate for mental health. For Dad, for me, and for anyone fighting their own battle, I wanted to show that even in the face of adversity, it was possible to find strength, purpose, and connection. Six months later, that commitment was about to be tested in a way I’d never imagined as we prepared to row across the world’s busiest shipping lane.

On May 7^th – Dad’s birthday – my team of ocean rowing rookies assembled under a cloudless sky at Dover Harbour. The team consisted of six individuals whose lives had each been touched by mental health and suicide. As I looked around, the iconic white cliffs of Dover came into view. Memories of ferry rides with Dad surfaced – marvelling at these same cliffs. His absence felt poignant but somehow comforting, as though he were alongside me.

The harbourmaster’s clock struck 09:00. It was time to put our oars in the water and leave the jetty behind. Mike jumped into position at the bow, ready to cox us through the channel and back. The boat slipped quietly from its mooring, gliding over the still, turquoise water toward the harbour walls. Each stroke of the oars sent ripples across the mirrored surface, the only disturbance in an otherwise tranquil scene.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mike warned with a wry smile. “It won’t be this calm beyond the walls.”

We fell into rhythm, ingraining the movements Mike had drilled into us: reaching for the catch, dropping the blade, keeping our grip light, pulling back with outstretched arms, then bending to finish. It was a process – a disciplined interplay of individual effort and team synchronization. When we nailed it, the boat surged forward, cutting through the water with ease. When we didn’t, progress felt sluggish, like rowing through treacle. Success depended on unity.

Beyond the walls, the water came alive, the gentle rise and fall of the swell breaking the rhythm of our strokes. The boat pitched unpredictably, and I relied on the straps of my adapted seat to stay upright. Each stroke felt like a battle to regain coordination, yet we pressed on, determined. Through the morning haze, the famous white cliffs of Dover emerged, stirring memories of my childhood in East London. I pictured Dad and me watching World War II documentaries, his enthusiasm spilling over as we built model Spitfires and Hurricanes together. I recalled standing with him on the deck of a ferry to Calais, both of us awed by the cliffs and their significance. He would have loved to see this moment. In a strange way, I felt his presence beside me, a quiet reassurance.

Dover shrank behind us, just a speck on the horizon. Two hours in, we’d covered seven miles. Approaching the middle of the channel, the dots of marine traffic resolved into colossal cargo ships. This was the busiest shipping lane in the world, a fact we grasped fully only now. From his perch at the bow, Mike called out warnings as wakes from passing vessels sent powerful waves toward us, rocking the boat and testing our composure.

“There it is!” Mike shouted, pointing ahead. “The cardinal marker. That’s our turnaround point.” The black-and-yellow buoy marked the midpoint between Dover and Calais.

My Garmin read three hours and 11.5 miles. My hands, blistered and raw, gripped the coarse wooden oar as we sighed with relief. Turning the boat, we paused briefly to refuel and hydrate. As we pushed off for the return leg, the initial excitement of departure was replaced by the grind of endurance. Every muscle ached, and the strain was beginning to show.

Halfway back, disaster struck. A sharp crack came from behind me. My seat wobbled and the strap securing my torso loosened. Without the support, I struggled to keep my balance as the boat swayed beneath me. Reaching back, I tried in vain to tighten the bolts and straps. Five miles to go, and I was barely holding it together.

“Guys, my seat’s broken!” I shouted, frustration thick in my voice.

Mike assessed the damage. “It’s not salvageable, Darren. You’ll have to sit this out.”

But stopping wasn’t an option. “I’m not giving up,” I said firmly. My teammates knew this journey was deeply personal, and their silence spoke volumes of their understanding. I adjusted as best I could, bracing myself to keep rowing. The tide fought us mercilessly, dragging our boat off course. “Dig in!” Mike urged. With every stroke, we clawed our way back toward the looming harbour walls. Fatigue burned through my body, but I kept pulling. “For Dad,” I thought, the words propelling me forward.

Finally, the massive stone walls welcomed us back into the calm waters of the inner harbour. A surge of adrenaline carried us the final stretch. Shouts of joy and relief erupted as we crossed the finish line. Exhausted, I slumped forward. The cheers of supporters on the jetty grew louder as we neared the dock. As the boat came to rest, I glanced back at the cliffs and felt a quiet peace. Dad would have been proud. Perhaps now, I could move forward.

Mindset Reflection:

Losing Dad was the most heart-breaking experience of my life. One moment telling someone how much you love them, and the next hearing the news that they’ve taken the decision to end their life. The shock is disorientating. The grief is overwhelming. And almost immediately, your mind begins searching for answers that simply don’t exist.

You replay every conversation. Every moment. Every missed opportunity. You ask yourself the same unanswerable questions: Could I have done more? Should I have said something different? It’s easy to torture yourself with those thoughts, becoming trapped in an endless cycle of heartbreak and regret.

In the weeks following Dad’s death, I lived in something close to denial. I wasn’t truly processing what had happened, and I certainly wasn’t showing up for my little sister in the way I could, and should, have done. Psychologically, I did the very thing I had been warned against after my climbing accident: I locked everything away and tried not to think about it.

It was as if I had learnt nothing from my own recovery. Back then, I had begun to heal by talking openly about how I felt and leaning on those around me. This time, I did the opposite. My walls went up. I withdrew from the very people I should have moved closer to. Looking back, I know I should have done better.

It wasn’t until four weeks later, rowing along the quiet banks of the River Severn, that the moment of clarity I needed finally arrived. There was nothing I could do to bring Dad back. Nothing I could do to change how I had responded in the days after his death. But there was something I could still do: I could honour him by helping others facing the same silent battle he had fought.

That realisation became the spark for a new idea – rowing across the English Channel to raise awareness and support for charities providing vital mental health services. It was a way of turning grief into something constructive. A way of ensuring Dad’s story, and the pain our family had experienced, might help someone else find the support they needed. Likewise, that’s why I decided to begin sharing my story on stages as a Keynote Speaker – in the hope that, one day, I’d speak to my Dad again and save his/their life.

From feeling lost and unsure which direction to turn, I suddenly had a compass bearing to guide me through the difficult weeks that followed. It didn’t make losing Dad any easier, but it gave me a form of constructive action through which I could begin to channel my grief, rather than avoiding it. Having a sense of purpose doesn’t remove the pain of loss. But it does give that pain somewhere to go.

Purpose is a tremendously powerful source of motivation. When life feels chaotic and our sense of meaning or identity begins to unravel, it is purpose that restores direction and structure. Without it, we can drift – struggling with motivation, battling indecision, and feeling increasingly disconnected from the things that once gave our lives meaning.

At a fundamental level, we all want to feel needed. We want to know that our actions matter and that we contribute something of value to the world around us. It’s when we commit ourselves to a purpose greater than our own immediate concerns that those deeper needs begin to be fulfilled. When we have a purpose greater than ourselves, we can better weather life’s storms.

So, the question you may be asking yourself is: “What constitutes purpose, and what could it look like for me?” For me, I no longer tie purpose to a single goal – whether that was climbing Everest or qualifying for the Paralympic Games – because committing all our hopes to one outcome can leave us lost if things don’t go as planned. Instead, I focus on a broader set of values and objectives that guide how I want to live a happy and fulfilled life. For me, this means prioritising adventure, challenge, making a positive impact, and building meaningful connections with those around me.

Consider what your own ‘mission statement of purpose’ might be, and how it could guide you through the moments when adversity strikes and motivation begins to wane. Then commit to it through small, purposeful actions. Purpose isn’t something we discover once and then forget about – it’s something we choose to live through the decisions we make every day.

Your mission statement should be powerful enough to stir action, strong enough to carry you through difficult moments, and meaningful enough to keep you moving forward when life feels uncertain.

For me, that purpose began the day I decided to honour Dad by turning grief into action. I couldn’t change what had happened, but I could choose how I carried his memory forward.