I was six months away from getting married when I received a call telling me that my brother Scott was in the hospital with a suspected overdose. By that time, it wasn’t uncommon to hear that he was in the hospital, but I knew as soon as I heard my usually stoic dad crying on the phone that something was different. 

We’d already lost my cousin Jimmy to a heroin overdose, and I felt this kind of hot, tingling sensation going down the back of my neck: it was all too familiar. Still, when we got to the hospital, there was reassurance that things might be OK. It was only when my dad came down to meet me from my brother’s bed side that he gave the confirmation I’d been dreading: “It’s the same as Jimmy.”

Growing up, my brother and I were really close. We had one of those classic big brother, baby sister relationships where he was always taking care of me. He was technically my half-sibling – my dad was married once before he met my mum and had my brother and one of my older sisters – but we all grew up together so I never saw him that way. Despite our age gap, he always showed up for me, and he was the funniest person I’ve ever met: a big, muscly man who loved working out as much as he loved eating McDonald’s.

It was when he was prescribed pain medicine for a knee injury he suffered while playing racquetball that things first began to change. It’s a very common story, but he started relying on the medication a little bit more than he probably should have – and then when his wife suffered from bad postpartum depression after the birth of his second child, he started drinking more, too. However, it was when his business partners bought him out – effectively kicking him out – that he really began to spiral. He went from drinking to using heroin pretty quickly, and his wife ended up getting addicted soon after, too. I watched the life just leave him. It was like the person I knew wasn’t there anymore, and our whole family dynamic was completely destroyed.

At the time, I felt like I was grieving. I was a big pusher-downer back then, and I remember just crying a lot and feeling numb because I didn’t know how to express my emotions. Soon enough, I began to rely heavily on my work – I was a hairstylist at the time – to get through the day. I would work really, really long hours and leant on the eating disorder I’d been struggling with for 13 years to give me a sense of control. It was awful. In fact, it was one of my darkest times. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the day we lost Scott, though. I remember it very clearly. My (then) fiancé and I were about to order sushi when my mum rang me in a state of panic. I couldn’t tell how serious it was because she can get quite worked up, so I gave my dad a call, and that was when we rushed to the hospital. My brother’s brain had swelled because of a lack of oxygen, and his organs were shutting down. The next day his life support was turned off.

The most beautiful thing about my brother’s passing was that I was able to be with him. In fact, the whole family crowded around his bed, and I had my head laying on his chest when I heard his heart stop. I think most people would assume that was quite a traumatising experience, but for me, it was a special moment.

I didn’t cope at all in the immediate aftermath; I downed red wine and Nyquil to numb me for a solid three months because I didn’t know what else to do. What I had experienced was traumatising – not only had I lost my brother, but I’d watched the people I love the most lose someone, too. How do you process so much pain? Without any healthy coping mechanisms to rely on, I threw myself back into work, because it was the only familiar place I could turn when the rest of my world was falling apart. 

But I wasn’t OK. I was suffering with anxiety and suicidal ideation and was disassociating all the time. I also felt a lot of loss and abandonment and feared that what happened to my brother and cousin was hereditary and would happen to me too. On the outside, I don’t think anyone knew what was wrong – I had a successful career and family life – but on the inside, I was devastated all the time. 

It took about two years for me to shake off that impulse to numb myself. No one in my family was talking about it or feeling anything, so I didn’t feel like I had a safe space to express my grief. I was just on autopilot, and it took a lot of crying and journaling to get myself to a place where I felt able to do that. My main motivation was trying to honour my brother, because I knew he wouldn’t want me to live the way I had been since his death. 

During that time I went to a mindset healing retreat, and it was there that I realised how much work needed to be done. Going into it, I told myself I was fine, but I ended up breaking down during the first activity. Everything I’d been holding inside me just came out, and I cried hysterically for four or five days straight. Afterwards, I knew I needed to dive headfirst into my healing journey – and I took my experiences from the retreat and founded a coaching business.

Setting up my business stemmed from realising I had a lack of tools to feel my emotions, as basic as that sounds. Feelings are meant to be felt, but when, like me, you don’t know how to do that properly, you end up spiralling – especially if you’ve experienced multiple traumas. I thought I couldn’t be the only one who didn’t have those tools, so I went to school to study neuro-linguistic programming (NLP) and began to transform my life. My outside world looked no different, but my inside world was a brand new place – it was like entering Disney World. I went from the depths of hell to actually feeling good; I overcame my eating disorder and stopped disassociating. 

Since then, I’ve been able to build a team of coaches and help lots of women transform their lives, and it’s been truly amazing. For me, it all stems back to a moment I had in the hospital with my brother before his life support was turned off. At the time, I had a bracelet with a little silver pendant and leather straps, which were imprinted with the words “Be the change you want to see in the world”. I took that bracelet off and put it on my brother’s wrist, and he was cremated with it. And I feel like that quote has followed and inspired me ever since. 

I didn’t realise it until I started healing, but for me ‘being the change’ has meant being the change in my internal world. When you work on yourself, the external world changes – everything looks and feels different – and you end up having a ripple effect on those around you. Now, for example, my relationship with my husband has improved, and I’ve got the tools to teach my children how to handle and express their emotions. My relationship with my family has become so much better, too, and the world just keeps getting brighter. And I get to watch my clients be that change for their families, too. It’s pretty cool.

At the end of the day, none of us know how much more time we have. It’s pretty sobering to think about, but this experience has imprinted that in me, and inspired me to do the things I’ve done. I always say you don’t want to look back on your deathbed and say you wish you had done more and loved more or hadn’t been so angry or sad. You want to look back and say, “That was a good fucking ride. I was proud of myself. I faced scary stuff, and I did it anyway.” 

At the end of the day, you just don’t know how quickly life can change, and it’s never too late to grow. I think if my brother had had the chance to change, he would have; he just didn’t have the tools. But it’s everyone’s right to be happy – and I want everyone to know it is possible to change. 

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Images: Jamie Sea