Josh was 29 years old when he took his life, and his little boy was only ten months old. He had been struggling with his mental health for more than ten years, but he hid almost all of it from me and from the people who loved him. He was living in Dorset and I was in Nottingham, so we didn’t see each other regularly — and that distance meant he slipped through the cracks with me in ways that still ache to admit. His suicide came out of the blue. I was devastated. I always believed he was grounded, happy, and doing well. He had worked for the police and later retrained as a personal trainer and fitness instructor, work that suited his kindness and gentle determination. After he died, I found videos of him announcing a plan to run 365 marathons in 365 days for Dorset Mind and Portland YMCA — a huge, impossible challenge that now looks so clearly like the pressure of undiagnosed bipolar. He completed seven half‑marathons before his doctor stepped in and stopped him. I had no idea any of this was happening. He kept his suffering hidden, and the reality of what he faced only emerged after he was gone. Josh was sweet, kind, funny, and full of warmth. It was a joy to call him my son.