For the past three years, I’ve walked into a room on a Monday night, pulled on a black and white AMC t-shirt, and, along with other facilitators (we have several now) tried to hold space for other men. I care about them. I care about the group. For a couple of hours a week, I feel like I have a clear purpose.
And yet, if I’m brutally honest, my own mental health hasn’t magically improved because of it. And although I support AMC massively, that troubles me.
It’s helped with the loneliness, a bit, yes. But it’s also brought a different kind of weight.
This isn’t a criticism of the organisation (any organisation) or of peer support services. It’s a personal reflection for anyone who has found themselves thinking:
“Why am I still struggling when I’m one of the facilitators blokes come to for support?”
If that’s you, you’re not on your own.
The Quiet Cost Of Caring
Some weeks are better than others. You leave the session feeling lighter, proud of the lads for talking, proud of yourself for showing up.
Other weeks, you hear stories that sit on your shoulders for days.
You drive home with someone’s words replaying in your head. You wake up on Tuesday still carrying their pain. You find yourself worrying about a bloke you barely knew months ago or a year ago as if you’ve known him all your life.
Sometimes what you hear hangs over you all week, and here’s the hardest bit to admit: you have nobody to reach out to in the same way they have you.
Not because there is literally nobody in your contacts, but because:
You don’t want to “burden” your family or friends with what you’ve heard. And a lot of it can’t be discussed for obvious reasons.
You feel you “should be able to handle it” as a facilitator.
You’re scared that if you speak up, someone will tell you to take a break – and you’ll hear: “you’re not coping, you’re weak, we’re better than you!” That’s what I heard the last time it was said to me in a very cold way; “I’m better than you!”.
It’s not nice being on the receiving end of that. Being told to “step back” when you’re already doubting yourself doesn’t always land as kindness. Sometimes it sounds like: “you’ve failed the test.” That stings.
When The Shirt Becomes Your Skin
Here’s something I’ve had to confront in myself.
I love the group. I love the routine. I love the sense of purpose. On a Monday night, I know who I am:
- Someone who turns up.
- Someone who listens.
- Someone who’s needed.
That feeling is powerful. It can also be dangerous if you start to believe that this is the only version of you that matters.
When your identity wraps itself tightly around being “the strong one in the t-shirt”, it becomes very hard to say:
“Actually, I’m not OK.”
“That session really got to me.”
“I need to just sit in the circle as a member rather than lead the group for a while.”
Because if your whole sense of worth is tied to being the helper, any crack in that role can feel like a crack in you.
Has It Helped My Mental Health?
If I look at it honestly, the answer is mixed.
Has it made my mental health “better”? No, not really. I still have the same low spells, the same doubts, the same heavy days. Lots of heavy days. Days with tears in my eyes constantly. Days I wish I could actually speak to someone.
Has it made me a bit less lonely? Yes. To some degree. Having familiar faces, looking forward to seeing the men, small wins and shared struggles matters. Feeling part of something matters.
But connection on its own isn’t a cure-all. Sitting in a circle listening to other men talk about their pain doesn’t magically dissolve your own.
Sometimes it amplifies it.
And that’s OK to say out loud.
We Have To Look After Ourselves Too
Here’s the bit that many of us in facilitator or “helper” roles are rubbish at: looking after ourselves with the same compassion we offer everyone else.
You’d never call a bloke weak for saying he needed a break. For turning up as an attendee rather than a facilitator. For admitting that some weeks are too much.
You’d probably respect him more for being honest. I hope you would instead of making him feel inferior.
Yet when it’s you, suddenly the rules change. You tell yourself you should “man up”, “crack on”, “cope like a proper facilitator”.
It’s bollocks, frankly.
If you want to keep showing up for others long term, you have to start applying your own advice to yourself.
What Looking After Yourself Might Actually Mean
Self-care gets thrown around as a fluffy term. In this context, it’s very simple and very practical.
It might mean:
Taking a planned break. Not as punishment, not because you’ve “failed”, but because your head and heart need time to settle. A pause so you can stay in the game, not drop out completely.
Turning up without the facilitator shirt. Sitting in the chairs, not as a facilitator. Answering the questions instead of asking them. Letting yourself be “one of the lads” and not the one holding the room together.
Having your own outlet. Whether it’s a trusted mate, a partner, a counsellor, or another peer space (oh the irony) that exists just for you. Somewhere you can say, “This story is sticking with me,” without feeling like you’re breaking confidentiality or breaking character.
Putting in small boundaries on a Monday. A short walk afterwards. Writing a few lines about what is yours to cary and what isn’t. Allowing yourself a quiet half hour before you go back into family mode. Tiny rituals that tell your brain: “The session’s over, I can put some of this down now.“
None of that makes you less committed. It makes you sustainable.
You’re Not Failing If You’re Struggling
If you’ve read this far and felt a little uncomfortable, maybe a bit seen, this part is for you.
You’re not failing because some stories stick with you. Because you feel drained on a Tuesday. Because your own mental health hasn’t shot through the roof just because you’re helping others.
You are human.
The fact you feel it deeply is the same reason you’re good at what you do. The skill isn’t to stop feeling. The skill is to stop carrying everything alone.
A Quiet Invitation
If you’re a facilitator or regular volunteer and any of this rings true, consider this a gentle nudge rather than a lecture.
Ask yourself:
When was the last time I checked in on my own mental health with the same honesty I encourage in others?
If I had to, could I show up next week without the t-shirt and sit as a regular member, without shame?
Who is my person, or space, or professional, where I can offload some of what I hear?
If the answers make you wince a bit, maybe you are at a crossroads.
- It’s OK to step back for a bit.
- It’s OK to ask for support.
- It’s OK to change how you’re involved, so you can protect your own head and heart.
The men you care about need you well, not wiped out.
And you, whether you believe it yet or not, deserve the same care you keep turning up to give everybody else.
What Questions Are You Really Asking? (FAQs for Peer Support Facilitators)
Is it normal to feel worse after facilitating a peer support session?
Yes, and more common than people admit. Absorbing other people’s pain without having your own outlet is draining work. Feeling heavy after a session doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong, it means you’re human and you’re genuinely present for others.
Does volunteering or facilitating improve your own mental health?
Sometimes, yes. The sense of purpose, community, and belonging can help. But it’s not a substitute for addressing your own struggles. Connection helps with loneliness. It doesn’t automatically fix the rest.
How do you deal with vicarious trauma as a peer support facilitator?
Start small and practical. A short walk after a session, a few minutes writing down what belongs to you and what doesn’t, and having at least one trusted outlet of your own. If stories are regularly staying with you for days, that’s a signal to talk to someone, whether that’s a supervisor, a counsellor, or another trusted person.
Can a facilitator sit as an attendee in their own group?
That depends on the organisation and its safeguarding guidelines. In many groups, temporarily stepping back into the participant role is encouraged as part of looking after yourself. It’s worth having that conversation openly rather than quietly burning out.
What support is available for Andy’s Man Club facilitators?
Andy’s Man Club has internal support structures for its facilitators, including check-ins and access to guidance from the wider team. If you’re a facilitator feeling the weight of the role, the first step is reaching out to someone within the organisation rather than trying to manage it alone.