There are some questions in life that you eventually have to accept you'll never be able to answer.

Ours all begin with the same person.

Rob.

Toby’s brother and Phoebe’s brother-in-law.

Four years on, we still find ourselves replaying conversations, retracing our steps and wondering whether there was something we missed. Did he think he'd be a burden? Was he embarrassed? Had he been struggling for longer than anyone realised? Was there a moment where one conversation, one phone call or one different decision could have changed everything?

We don't know.

We may never know.

What we do know is that we can't change what happened. But we can do everything we can to help stop another family asking those same questions.

That's why we're participating in Trek for CALM. A challenging 30K trek, completed in a single day, in aid of suicide prevention.

Last year, Toby took on the trek alone. This year, Phoebe's coming along for the challenge. We're doing it together, carrying Rob's memory with us every step of the way.

Before we tell you about the trek, though, we'd much rather tell you about the man we're walking for. Because if all you remember about Rob is the way we lost him, then we've done him a disservice.

If you'd met Rob, you'd probably have remembered him. Actually, scratch that. You almost certainly would've remembered him.

He had the sort of laugh that carried across a pub, the gift of the gab, and a knack for making complete strangers feel like old friends.

He loved football, barbecues, Britpop (though he was partial to a little Blink 182 and Fatboy Slim), karaoke and the sort of nights that always ended with one more pint than originally intended. He'd probably have told you he had a bit of Liam Gallagher, Tom Hardy and Caleb Followill about him: a bit of swagger, confidence and effortless cool.

The rest of us would probably have described him as somewhere between Danny Dyer, Bez and that bloke from DIY SOS: unfiltered, all heart, and always ready to help, even if he wasn't quite sure how.

The thing people remember most about Rob wasn't what he did. It was how he made them feel.

He didn't care what your job title was, how much money you earned or where you'd come from. Whether you were the CEO, the cleaner in the CEO's office, the regular at the end of the bar or someone struggling on the street, everyone got exactly the same respect.

Everyone mattered to him. He always had time for people, and even if he didn't know how to help, he'd somehow make you feel like everything would probably be alright.

But then, on 31st July 2022, our world changed forever.

Rob took his own life.

None of us saw it coming.

The hardest part of grief isn't always accepting what happened. Sometimes it's accepting that you may never understand why.

One of the hardest things for us to process is that Rob himself never seemed able to understand how someone could reach the point where suicide felt like their only option.

A few years before we lost him, one of Rob's close friends took his own life. Rob struggled to understand it. He couldn't understand why somebody wouldn't ask for help, or how anyone could ever feel there was no other option.

At the time, those conversations came from frustration, confusion and sadness. Looking back now, they carry a completely different weight.

Sometimes we wonder whether he was trying to understand something in others that he was struggling to understand in himself.

We'll never know.

And that is one of the cruellest parts of losing someone to suicide. The questions don't always have answers.

But what we've learnt is that grief doesn't stop life moving forwards. It simply means you carry the person with you as it does.

Rob has a daughter who he adored beyond words. One day she'll hear stories about the dad who barbecued at what he considered to be Olympic level, who always had the phrase “If you don’t believe me, Google it!” stored in a holster ready to take down anyone who dared challenge one of his many bizarre facts (did you know crisps always expire on a Saturday?), and who always found a way to turn an ordinary moment into a story.

She'll hear about the time he backflipped into the creek fully clothed just to prove he still had it in him, before climbing out, wringing out his shirt and sitting down under the summer sun with a pint.

And she'll hear about the time he somehow managed to convince a merch seller at a cashless Liam Gallagher gig to take £40 cash and pocket it for herself in exchange for two T-shirts simply because, well... as we said earlier, he had the gift of the gab.

Our little boy proudly carries Rob's name as his middle name, and one day he'll know exactly why.

They'll both know who Rob was.

Not simply how he died.

Over the last four years, Rob has remained a huge part of our lives. He's there in family stories that somehow get funnier every time they're told, in playlists that still get played in the car, in favourite pubs, in photographs and in conversations that always seem to find their way back to him.

He'll always be part of our family.

After losing Rob, we had to find ways of learning to live with something that couldn't be fixed.

Grief doesn’t just belong to the person who has lost someone; it affects everyone who loves them too. Phoebe supported Toby through every step of losing Rob, helping carry a weight that neither of them ever expected to have to hold.

Toby reached out for counselling and suicide bereavement support. Not because it could explain why. Nothing can.

But because learning to live without answers is easier when someone helps you carry the weight.

That's one of the reasons CALM means so much to us. Their work reminds people that asking for help isn't weakness.

It's courage.

Since Rob died, we've tried to make sure his name continues to do some good.

In 2024, together with family and friends, we organised a memorial football tournament in his name. What started as a small community event grew into something much bigger, with support from Manchester City, Manchester United and West Ham, alongside thousands raised for suicide prevention.

What stayed with us most wasn't just the money raised. It was seeing how many people wanted to stand behind the same message: suicide prevention matters, conversations matter, and nobody should feel they have nowhere to turn.

Last year, Toby was fortunate enough to take part in the inaugural Trek for Tomorrow, now rebranded as Trek for CALM.

He came home talking less about the miles he'd walked than the people he'd met. People who had lost parents, partners, children, friends and siblings. People who had struggled themselves.

Everyone had a different story, but everyone had the same reason for being there: to make sure fewer families experience what theirs had.

There were steep climbs, aching legs, plenty of laughs and, of course, the all-important pub stop. But what stayed with him most were the conversations. Honest conversations. The sort of conversations we don't have often enough.

One of those conversations was with Danny Jones (you know, the handsome one with the northern accent from McFly).

What struck us wasn't simply that he was there. It was how present he was: taking the time to listen, understand why people had come, and make sure the purpose of the event never became secondary to the event itself.

Sometimes simply listening is the most important thing you can do.

That's why we're back.

Together this time.

And because every fundraiser deserves a little jeopardy, Toby has agreed to wear a weighted vest for the entire trek.

Raise £1,000 and it'll weigh 10kg.

Raise £1,500 and it'll become 15kg.

Raise £2,000 and he'll carry 20kg for all 30 kilometres.

The vest isn't there just to make the walk harder. It's there because every extra kilogram represents something so many people carry every day without anyone else ever realising: the invisible weight of struggling.

The difference is that, at the end of the trek, the vest comes off.

For somebody battling with their mental health, it often doesn't.

We know we can't change what happened to Rob. We know we'll probably never get the answers we've spent four years looking for.

But we can make sure his story continues to start conversations he never got the chance to have.

If sharing Rob's story helps even one person reach out, ask for help, or helps one family avoid the questions we'll spend a lifetime asking ourselves, then every mile, every blister and every kilogram will have been worth it.

So this September, we'll walk for Rob.

For his daughter.

For every family still searching for answers.

And for everyone who's still here, carrying a weight nobody else can see.

Thank you for taking the time to read our story.

And thank you, from both of us, for supporting CALM.

Toby and Phoebe x

A message from CALM:

We're Campaign Against Living Miserably

(CALM), and we're a suicide prevention

charity. We've got loads of tools and resources to help people find the support they need, including a life-saving helpline for people who can't see a way forward, have lost someone to suicide, or are

worried about their friends or loved ones.

£12.20 is enough to fund one potentially

life-saving call.