A walk in the forest, a furry butt rub, a stark reality

A crisp Sunday morning in early October called for a walk in the South Downs, an area southwest of London filled with woods, dappled sunlight cutting through the tall trees—the pines, elms, and oaks that companionably share the space with the critters inhabiting the undergrowth or flapping noisily amongst their branches. As for us humans trampling the soft leaves, I sometimes think I hear their resigned groaning, the kind an adult would utter when observing the playing (and drama) of children.

I, for one, cannot resist bending down to pet a cute dog, its tongue lolling, its nose picking up scents I only dream of... or maybe not, given the propensity for dogs to roll in all sorts of... stuff.

And this is how I came to meet Koda (with a 'K', I am told by his owner, so clearly it's important) and Rosie, two black cocker spaniels with fur as soft as silk, wagging butts, and welcoming smiles. A sucker for dog stories, I asked what brought her and the two pooches to the woods. "They're search dogs, and we're training." In my naivety, I imagined truffle hunters, but alas, it was not to be. The owner belongs to a group of volunteers who use these dogs to 'search' for people—people who have disappeared, who are missing, who are lost.

Intrigued, I asked, "There are people everywhere. Surely the dogs will keep 'finding' someone and expect the ubiquitous chicken treat in return?" The answer was that the reward was given for finding people who were... still. Notwithstanding the possibly embarrassing encounter with lovers in the woods in... ahemm 'delicate situations', what the dogs are meant to search for, and what they find, is altogether more ominous.

"We look for people with cognitive or mental issues and young suicidal men."

The detail stunned me. A heart-stopping moment. A cold feeling of dread.

Young.

Suicidal.

Men.

The pervasive and still oh-so-insufficiently and inadequately discussed plight of men who make a deliberate decision to die because their life does not have meaning. To feel so alone, so dejected, so desperate that you take yourself into the depths of a forest, away from humanity, to die because life is so unbearable—knowing you might not even be found, because who would care enough to look? Those final moments when one's existence dissolves into nothing... those men must be terrified and yet also crystal clear that this is the only choice they have, because living feels unbearable.

The latest research on suicide trends in the UK, published in September 2025 by the House of Commons (Suicide Statistics), shows a stark picture of male suicide compared to female suicide. On average, three times as many men decide to end their lives as women.

And yes, there's the age-old 'men don't talk about their problems because they don't want to look weak or will only talk when the problem is resolved' belief that still pervades because it is, in part, true. But what are we doing, as a society, to change this? Men might not talk, but when they do, does anybody actually listen?

Women are friends, colleagues, sisters, wives, and mothers of men and boys. Are we women so naïve and wilfully blind as to believe that a man is always "ok," has his life all sussed out, and isn't struggling to make sense of it all?

Do we really believe that only women navigate in a dinghy in the middle of the ocean while men are just sipping whiskey on the luxury liner of life? Because the truth is we're both on the same rudderless rowboat at the mercy of the waves of existence, and we can only survive it if we row in the same direction, watch out for each other, and take turns at the helm to let the other rest and regain strength.

There are fantastic organizations out there that work tirelessly to be a safe port for men who are overwhelmed and looking for direction. To name only a few, in no particular order or preference, one can reach out to Being Mankind, Men's Minds Matter, and Andy's Man Club.

You have nothing to lose and a life to regain. Give it a try