I really wish I could show him who I am now
Two young men from Liverpool — nineteen and twenty years old, friends since childhood — have carried their bond across twelve thousand kilometres of unfamiliar terrain, and in doing so, have stumbled into something larger than a television competition. On BBC's Race Across the World, Jo Diop and Kush Burman navigate a continent without phones or comfort, but it is the interior journey — grief spoken aloud, vulnerability met with unexpected tenderness from strangers — that has made them worth watching. Their story is, at its quietest, a reminder that the courage to be honest about loss can become an unlikely gift to others carrying the same weight.
- The race strips contestants of every modern convenience — no phones, scarce cash, roads that vanish entirely in Mongolia — making each decision feel genuinely consequential.
- In a Kazakhstani judo gym, Kush broke open on camera, speaking about his stepdad Matt's suicide during lockdown when Kush was just fourteen, a moment of grief that had never been aired so fully even within his own family.
- Watching that footage back with his family was hard — the conversations about Matt had always stayed light, anchored in funny memories, and this was something rawer and heavier than any of them were used to.
- The public response overwhelmed him: waves of messages from viewers who had lost someone to suicide, strangers finding in his honesty a mirror for their own unspoken grief.
- Through all of it, Jo's steady presence — built on years of knowing each other at their worst — has been the quiet architecture holding the journey together.
- Fame has arrived gently, in the form of autographs at a basketball game, and both young men seem to be meeting it with the same clear-eyed philosophy: live your own life, not a performance of someone else's expectations.
Jo Diop and Kush Burman are nineteen and twenty, childhood friends from Liverpool, and the youngest pair on the current series of BBC's Race Across the World — a competition that sends teams across twelve thousand kilometres from Europe through Asia to northern Mongolia, with no mobile phones and barely enough money to get by. The prize is twenty thousand pounds. They've become fan favourites, though Kush notes with some amusement that his own friends haven't followed the episodes nearly as closely as their mothers have.
The race is brutal by design — rough sleeping, unreliable maps, impossible financial choices. But the moment that defined their journey came in Kazakhstan, at a judo gym, when Kush found himself overwhelmed by memory. His stepdad Matt took his own life during the pandemic lockdown. Kush was fourteen. On camera, he spoke about wishing Matt could see who he'd become — and the rawness of that moment aired intact. Watching it back with his family was difficult. The conversations about Matt had always stayed light, built on shared jokes and fond memories. This was the weight underneath those stories, the feelings that don't fold neatly into an anecdote.
What followed surprised him. People who had lost someone to suicide reached out in enormous numbers. Strangers found something in his honesty that mattered to them in ways he hadn't anticipated. Kush wanted this interview to serve as a collective thank-you — the vulnerability that had frightened him had instead become a bridge to others carrying their own grief.
Having Jo beside him through that moment made all the difference. The two have known each other long enough to understand how to sit with each other's worst days, and both say that history means difficult moments on the road don't catch them off guard. If they win, they'll split the money equally — Jo has his eye on new trainers, a holiday, and eventually helping his mum buy a house; Kush is thinking about more travel, more gap years. The lesson they're taking from all of it is simple and hard-won: do things because you genuinely want to, not because someone else expects it of you.
Jo Diop and Kush Burman are nineteen and twenty years old, childhood friends from Liverpool, and they're the youngest pair competing on the latest series of BBC's Race Across the World. The show sends teams of travellers across twelve thousand kilometres—from Europe through Asia to northern Mongolia—with no mobile phones and barely enough money to survive. The winners take home twenty thousand pounds. They've become fan favorites, though Kush notes with amusement that his own mates haven't quite kept up with the episodes the way their mothers have.
The race itself is brutal by design. Contestants navigate without reliable maps, sleep rough, and make impossible choices about where to spend their limited funds. In Mongolia, where Jo and Kush are headed, there are no roads to speak of. The maps become almost useless. Both young men have found ways to decompress during the grueling journey—basketball games, evenings of Mongolian throat singing—but the real story emerged in Kazakhstan, at a judo gym, when Kush found himself overwhelmed by memory.
His stepdad, Matt, took his own life during the pandemic lockdown. Kush was fourteen. On camera, Kush spoke about wishing he could show Matt who he's become since then, and the moment aired with all its rawness intact. Watching it back with his family was difficult. Kush told the BBC that conversations about his stepdad usually stay light—funny anecdotes, shared memories—but this was different. This was about the weight underneath those stories, the feelings that don't fit neatly into a joke.
What followed surprised him. The public response was overwhelming. People who'd lost someone to suicide reached out in waves. Viewers who'd experienced similar grief found something in his honesty that mattered to them. Kush says the messages and comments have been so numerous he wanted to use this interview as a kind of collective thank-you. The vulnerability that scared him—the exposure of it—has instead become a bridge to strangers carrying their own losses.
Having Jo there through that moment made all the difference. The two have been in each other's lives long enough to know how to sit with each other's worst days. Jo says they've both seen each other at their lowest points, so when difficult moments arrive during the race, they're not blindsided. They know how to pull each other back from the edge. Kush describes Jo as someone who understands what he needs to hear, someone whose presence itself is a kind of steadiness.
Their newfound fame doesn't seem to trouble them. Kush signed his first autographs recently—three boys at a basketball game asking if Jo and Kush would put their names on something. The moment felt surreal and sweet to him. If they win the prize money, they've already decided to split it equally. Jo wants new trainers, a nice holiday, and then to save toward helping his mum buy a house someday. Kush is thinking about more gap years, more travel. Both are clear-eyed about what they've learned: there's no rush. Do things because you actually want to do them, not because someone else expects it of you. If you want to travel, travel. If you don't, that's fine too. Just make sure you're living your own life, not performing someone else's version of it.
Notable Quotes
I really wish I could show him who I am now— Kush, speaking about his stepdad Matt
There is no rush, don't do anything for anyone else. If you want to go travelling, do it. If you don't, that's also fine. Just make sure you're not just doing things for the sake of it and you actually enjoy what you're doing.— Kush, reflecting on lessons from the race
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
When Kush broke down at that judo gym, did he know the cameras were rolling, or did it catch him by surprise?
He knew they were there—that's the nature of the show. But I think the surprise was how real it became once he started talking. You can prepare yourself mentally for a moment like that, but grief doesn't always cooperate with preparation. It just comes.
The response from viewers must have been strange. Suddenly thousands of people know something deeply private about you.
It was strange, but also clarifying. Kush says the messages from people who'd lost someone to suicide changed how he felt about sharing it. It stopped being just his pain on screen and became something that connected him to other people carrying the same weight. That's a different thing entirely.
Jo and Kush seem unusually mature for nineteen and twenty. Is that just editing, or do they actually have that kind of grounding?
They've known each other since childhood. That kind of long friendship teaches you things about yourself and about how to be with another person. They've already been through hard things together. The race is just the latest chapter.
What do you think they'll actually do with the money if they win?
Jo's clear about wanting to help his mum eventually. Kush wants to keep moving, keep exploring. But both of them seem more interested in the freedom the money represents than the money itself. They want to choose their own path, not have one chosen for them.
Do you think the show changed them?
Twelve thousand kilometres with no phones, no safety net, and a camera following your worst moments? Yes. But I think what changed them most was having to sit with their own grief publicly and discovering that vulnerability isn't weakness—it's connection.