\n<\/p>\n
S<\/span>ix months ago, I was driving past John Lewis on the M40 with my wife and stepdaughter, Raye\u2019s I Know You\u2019re Hurting playing on the stereo, when I realised I was crying. It was the third time I\u2019d listened to the song, but it was the first time I\u2019d really heard it. It was as though the lyrics were speaking directly to me: \u201cI can see you standing on the edge \u2026 You give when you have little left to give.\u201d<\/p>\n Music had made me emotional before, but only ever because of the melody or the arrangement or the orchestration. I have worked in music since I was 21, and as a recording and mix engineer, I\u2019ll listen to a song all day, taking it apart to work out how to make it better. After listening to a song 200 times, it inevitably loses its meaning, and over the years, I\u2019ve become desensitised to the power music can have. But this time, for the first time, it was the lyrics that brought me to tears.<\/p>\n I had been struggling with my mental health for two decades \u2013 almost half a lifetime. But I hid it, scared to admit it to my family, even to myself. As Raye sings: \u201cAnd you hide it so well, you do.\u201d The last few years had been especially difficult with Covid, a divorce, becoming a stepfather to teenagers and turning 50. I\u2019d invested so much time into my career \u2013 working 80-100-hour weeks at its peak \u2013 but I questioned what my legacy would be when I look back on my life. I\u2019d sit in silence, a face of thunder, wallowing in self-pity. My family would ask: \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you?\u201d And I\u2019d bite my tongue, not knowing what to say, just knowing I needed to do better.<\/p>\n