Andy's Man Club Saved My Life

Ryan is 36, a plumber from Newcastle. He started attending Andy's Man Club two years ago.

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I want to start by saying something that might sound strange: I nearly didn't go.

I sat in my car outside the venue for twenty-five minutes. I had the engine running. I told myself it was stupid, that it wasn't for me, that I'd feel like an idiot. I nearly drove home three times.

I'm very glad I didn't.

Before the Group

The two years before I found Andy's Man Club were the worst of my life. My dad died suddenly — heart attack, no warning. Six weeks later my long-term girlfriend left. I threw myself into work, which meant I was barely sleeping, barely eating, and drinking most evenings to switch my brain off.

I wasn't talking to anyone. That's the thing about being a bloke — or at least, about being the kind of bloke I was brought up to be. You don't talk about it. You get on with it. You don't burden people.

By the time I found out about Andy's Man Club, I was in a very dark place. I'd been having thoughts about not wanting to be here anymore. Not a plan, not yet, but the thoughts were there and they were getting louder.

A mate mentioned the group in passing. He'd seen it on social media. I looked it up, found a local group, and spent two weeks telling myself I'd go next week.

Walking Through the Door

When I finally went in, I was expecting something clinical. Leaflets. A facilitator with a clipboard. Men sitting in a circle talking about their feelings in a way that felt foreign and uncomfortable.

It wasn't like that at all.

It was just blokes. Sitting in a circle, yes, but just blokes. A builder, a teacher, a lad who worked in a warehouse, a retired police officer. All ages. All backgrounds. And they were just... talking. Honestly. About real things.

The facilitator — a volunteer who'd been through his own stuff — explained the rules. What's said in the room stays in the room. No judgement. No advice unless it's asked for. You only share what you want to share.

I didn't say much that first night. I listened mostly. But I heard men saying things I'd never heard men say out loud before. About fear. About grief. About feeling like they were failing. About not wanting to be here.

And nobody flinched. Nobody laughed. Nobody told them to man up.

What Changed

I went back the next week. And the week after. Within a month I was talking — really talking. About my dad. About the relationship ending. About the thoughts I'd been having.

Saying those thoughts out loud, in a room full of men who nodded and understood, did something I can't fully explain. It made them smaller somehow. Less overwhelming. Like they'd been living in the dark inside my head and bringing them into the light took some of their power away.

I also started to realise I wasn't alone. Not even close. The things I thought made me uniquely broken were things half the men in that room had felt too.

Two Years On

I still go every week. I've become a regular. I've seen new lads walk in looking exactly how I looked — terrified, uncertain, ready to bolt — and I've watched them open up over the weeks that followed.

I've also, with the support of the group, started seeing a therapist. Something I never would have done before. The group gave me the language and the permission to take that step.

I'm not going to say everything is perfect. Grief doesn't work like that. But I'm here. I'm present. I'm talking.

If you're a man who's struggling and you've never talked to another man about it — I get it. I was you. But I'm asking you to do what I did: sit in the car park for twenty-five minutes if you need to, then walk through the door.

It might be the most important thing you ever do.

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Find your nearest Andy's Man Club group at andysmanclub.co.uk

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