‘A conversation can save a life’

By Rose Rowkins, suicide prevention trainer.

My grandma, Edith, was born on International Women’s Day in 1920. Of course, 8th March wasn’t International Women’s Day back then; the UN didn’t officially establish it until 1975.

But Grandma was a powerhouse, in her quietly confident way, as many women of her generation were. Stepping out of the shadows – and out of their homes – to keep the wheels turning, and the home fires burning, through those war-time years.

When the war was over, women were expected to shrink back behind the curtains. But the battle for women’s rights was fully awoken, and there was no going back.

Grandma knew a thing or two about equity and would call out inequity like a woman born of a different time. She spoke her mind with an honest tongue, sometimes brutal but always kind.

I was her only granddaughter, and she was my biggest cheerleader, along with a huge dose of Methodist humility. “Shine bright…” was her message, quickly followed by “…but not too bright!”

Over the years I have questioned that second part about not shining too bright – but I appreciate Grandma’s intention. Humility and gratitude were in her bones, and I hope also in mine.

I have come to understand that maybe she was saying something like this: While we shine our own offerings to the world, we must also shine our light on others. For me, this is what International Women’s Day is about, and why this feature is so important.

I am so proud to stand, live and work beside these 17 great women of Sussex – and of course, countless others who could have filled many thousands more pages.

And now I can say – at last without shame – that I am proud too of what I do, as a Mum (raising a boy to be an active ally in the society we all want to see) and as a Trainer, equipping people with the tools and confidence to talk about suicide, on a mission to reduce the number of people who are dying by suicide, one conversation at a time.

Three quarters of people who die by suicides are male, but notably, in 2023, the suicide rate for females rose to the highest it had been since 1994. Women are statistically at their highest risk of suicide between 50 and 54 years (almost certainly linked to the menopause) and, heartbreakingly, suicide is the leading cause of direct maternal death between six weeks and 12 months after birth.

A conversation can save a life; I’ve experienced this first hand from both sides, including countless conversations as a Samaritans volunteer in the early 2000s, on Brighton beach at 3am when running our city’s Safe Space project, and as a counsellor at the Young People’s Centre on Ship Street and at domestic abuse charity Rise.

I believe we can all learn when and how to talk about suicide – and we must.

Because most people who die by suicide haven’t spoken to a doctor or counsellor. As friends, colleagues, parents, even strangers, we can all learn to start the conversation, by moving from a place of fear (‘What if I say the wrong thing?’, ‘What if I make things worse?’) to a place of confidence (‘I know what I’m looking out for, and I know what I can say/do’, ‘I’m not afraid to talk about suicide’)

We can all make a difference.

April 2025 marks ten years since I became a suicide prevention trainer; another reason why this feature is personally so timely for me. Over the past decade, I’ve trained thousands of people to talk about suicide, in both hemispheres, from Wandsworth Prison inmates to leaders at TikTok and everyone in-between.

One of Grandma’s life lessons has even found its way into my training:

“Remember,” she would say, “We have two ears and one mouth for a reason. Keep that ratio in mind. We should be listening twice as much as we speak.”

This is a point I’m careful to make when describing the life-saving power of listening, especially to someone in pain. Because hearing someone’s pain, moving towards discomfort not away, reaching in – this is how we help someone to feel less alone, and to feel HOPE.

And really, that is the business I’m in. The business of HOPE, which some say could stand for: Hold On, Pain Ends.

Because it does. Pain ends, just as everything does. This too shall pass. My Grandma died of Covid aged 101 – wise and witty to her last breath.

As I honour my Grandma this month, I honour all women, cis and trans, in every shape, size, colour.

Here’s to strong women.

Here’s to women who don’t feel  strong right now – but are stronger than they know.

Here’s to sitting with each other in our pain.

Here’s to laughing until we cry.

Here’s to honouring our ancestors.

Here’s to finding our tribe.

Here’s to HOPE.

Let’s all learn to lean more on our sisters. Together, we are mighty.

www.starttheconversation.uk