We’re moving soon. The room we’ve been using at Louth Andy’s Man Club has served us well, but it’s getting tight. We’ve been getting a dozen or more men through the door regularly, and the space just doesn’t have much give left in it.
On top of that, there’s some uncertainty about the building itself – the owner might be closing, which would leave us scrambling. It’s not a crisis, not yet, but it’s one of those things you feel in the background.
I think we’ll be fine, though. I’ve got somewhere in mind. I’ll be speaking to the manager of the building soon and, as that happens to be my wife, I’m fairly confident the application won’t be rejected.
But that’s logistics. That’s next month’s problem.
Right now, sat here, I keep thinking about this past year or so. What we’ve seen. What we’ve heard. What some of these men have carried through the door on a Monday night.
Some of it has been heavy. Properly heavy. The kind of things you don’t expect to hear in a draughty room over a cup of tea, but there they are, spoken out loud, often for the first time.
Men who came in angry, practically vibrating with it. A few weeks later, same bloke, different energy. Still carrying stuff, but lighter somehow.
We’ve had men sit there doubting themselves completely – convinced they were somehow the problem, that they were weak, that they shouldn’t be there. And they’ve turned out to be some of the strongest people in the room.
That’s not me being sentimental. That’s just what happened.
And then there’s Question 2. Every session, every man, same question: “Any highlight from your week?” It sounds simple. It is simple. But you’d be surprised what it does. Some weeks it’s small things – a decent night’s sleep, a walk, a conversation with a kid. Sometimes it’s bigger. And sometimes the whole room lifts a bit. Just like that.
We’ve also had banter, laughs, and enough tea to float a small vessel. Biscuits, obviously. Cakes and pies dropped off by local businesses who just… wanted to help. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed. It matters more than people probably realise.
So this feels like the end of a first chapter. Same group, same purpose, different room. Pastures new, as they say.
And despite the odd headache along the way, I am so damn pleased that me and the other facilitators have been there every week to open that door and put the kettle on. It’s not nothing. Some weeks, for some of the men who walk in, it might be everything.
If you’ve ever sat in a room like this, or you’ve thought about it and not quite made it through the door yet, this is written for you as much as anyone. The men who’ve walked into that room this past year didn’t have it easy. Neither do a lot of us. But they came. They sat down. They talked, or they just listened, and that was enough.
I’m still here. And so are you. Whatever’s going on, that counts for something. Keep going.
This post is part of a wider collection of reflections and nostalgia pieces I write from time to time – moments worth putting down somewhere before they disappear entirely.