Each November, a campaign built around facial hair quietly carries a heavier purpose: to make space for the conversations men most struggle to begin. This year, two Irish musicians — Steve Garrigan of Kodaline and Glen Power of The Script — stepped into that space, offering not advice but testimony, sharing what anxiety and isolation have cost them and what speaking openly has given back. In a country where male suicide claims lives at a rate that shames silence into complicity, their willingness to say 'I struggled and I asked for help' is less a gesture of awareness than an act of quiet cour
The Script and Kodaline stars open up on anxiety, mental health for Movember
Steve Garrigan experienced debilitating anxiety and panic attacks severe enough to force him to cancel performances.
Happiness isn't really happiness unless it's shared
Mark
So Steve Garrigan had to cancel a show because of anxiety. That's a pretty concrete consequence. How common is that?
Mimi
It's more common than people realize, but it's rarely talked about publicly. Performers especially face this—the pressure to show up, the fear that cancelling will damage your career or reputation. That's part of why Garrigan's openness matters.
Luke
The article doesn't give us numbers on how many performers or men generally experience this. We know it happened to Garrigan in 2016, but we don't know if it's one incident or ongoing, or how it compares to others' experiences.
Mark
He says talking to friends and family helped. But he also went to therapy. Which one actually fixed it?
Mimi
Both, probably. The talking broke the shame—that's what he emphasizes. But therapy gave him the tools. He learned coping mechanisms. It's not either-or.
Luke
He doesn't say he's "fixed," though. He says he accepts it and can deal with it when it happens. That's different from being cured. The article could be clearer about that distinction.
Mark
Glen Power talks about walking in nature and calling friends. That sounds almost simple compared to therapy.
Mimi
It is simpler, but it's not less real. He's describing what works for him in the moment. Connection is his medicine. Not everyone needs formal therapy, though some do.
Luke
We don't know if Power has ever had therapy or if he's only ever used these informal strategies. The article doesn't say. We're comparing two different people's approaches without knowing their full stories.
Mark
Why does Movember matter if these guys are already talking about their mental health?
Mimi
Because they're the exception. Most men aren't talking. Movember creates permission—a month where it's expected, where it's the point. It gives a framework for a conversation that would otherwise stay private.
Luke
That's true, but the article doesn't give us data on whether Movember actually changes behavior or saves lives. It's an assumption that awareness campaigns work, and sometimes they do, but we don't know that here.
The Pulse
- Steve Garrigan's anxiety reached a breaking point in 2016 when a panic attack left him physically unable to perform, forcing a show cancellation and cracking open a secret he had long carried alone.
- The terror of a panic attack — a body convinced it is dying, a mind unable to override the alarm — is invisible to others until it isn't, and the shame that follows can be as debilitating as the episode itself.
- Garrigan's turning point came not from pushing through, but from speaking: first to friends and family, then to a therapist, slowly replacing shame with understanding and panic with coping tools.
- Glen Power frames the same struggle through a different lens — when darkness arrives, he walks, he calls someone he trusts, and he insists that human connection is not comfort but survival.
- Both musicians are pointing toward the same wound: the silence that surrounds male mental health in Ireland, where stigma and isolation quietly outpace every other threat men face.
- Support lines, email services, and therapy are available to Irish men right now — and what Garrigan and Power are saying, together, is that reaching for them is not weakness but the only honest way forward.
Each November, a campaign built around facial hair quietly carries a heavier purpose: to make space for the conversations men most struggle to begin. This year, two Irish musicians — Steve Garrigan of Kodaline and Glen Power of The Script — stepped into that space, offering not advice but testimony, sharing what anxiety and isolation have cost them and what speaking openly has given back. In a country where male suicide claims lives at a rate that shames silence into complicity, their willingness to say 'I struggled and I asked for help' is less a gesture of awareness than an act of quiet courage.
Every November, men grow out their facial hair for Movember — not for fashion, but to force a conversation that too often stays buried: prostate cancer, testicular cancer, and the quiet crisis of male suicide. This year, two musicians who have lived through their own mental health struggles chose to speak plainly about what that experience actually feels like.
Steve Garrigan of Kodaline knows what it means to have anxiety take over completely. In 2016, it became impossible to hide — he was on the ground, unable to move, and a show had to be cancelled. His drummer found him afterward and admitted he finally understood what Garrigan had been describing. Anxiety is invisible until it isn't. Garrigan describes the sensation with precision: it can feel like a heart attack, like dying, and the fear is entirely real even when the danger is not.
What changed for him was talking. He started with friends and family, bracing for judgment, and found support instead. Therapy followed, then understanding, then techniques for managing panic in the moment. 'I accept it now for what it is,' he says, 'and when it does happen, I can deal with it — because I went and got help.' The path was neither quick nor simple, but it was real.
Glen Power of The Script arrives at the same truth by a different route. When darkness comes, he walks. He calls one or two people he trusts. He believes humans are not built for isolation — that happiness, as he puts it, isn't really happiness unless it's shared. Community, in his view, is not a luxury but a necessity, something the pandemic has made undeniable.
What both men are describing, without clinical language, is the antidote to the silence that kills. Garrigan's willingness to say 'I was ashamed' and then 'I got help anyway' is not a small thing. Power's insistence on connection is not sentiment — it is survival. For Irish men seeking support, the resources exist. The question is how many will listen.
Every November, men across Ireland and beyond grow out their facial hair for a reason that has nothing to do with fashion. Movember exists to push a conversation that too often stays buried: prostate cancer, testicular cancer, and the silent crisis of male suicide. This year, two musicians who have lived through their own mental health battles decided to speak openly about what that struggle actually feels like.
Steve Garrigan of Kodaline knows what it means to have anxiety take over your body completely. There was a day in 2016 when it became impossible to hide. He was on the ground, physically debilitated, unable to move through what his mind was telling him was happening. A show had to be cancelled. His drummer, Vinny, found him afterward and said something that cut through the shame: "I had no idea what you were talking about but I get it now." Until that moment, Vinny hadn't understood. Anxiety isn't visible until it is, and then it's unmistakable.
Garrigan describes the sensation with precision: "It can feel like a heart attack. You may think that you're dying if you've never experienced it before. It's very very scary." For someone in the grip of a panic attack, the body is sending signals of mortal danger. The mind believes them. The fear is real even when the threat is not. He wouldn't wish the experience on anyone.
What changed for Garrigan was talking. Not performing, not pushing through, but actually speaking about what was happening inside him. He started with friends and family, expecting judgment or distance. Instead, he found support. He went to therapy and began to understand the roots of his anxiety. He learned techniques to manage panic in the moment. Over time, acceptance replaced shame. "I accept it now for what it is," he says, "and when it does happen now, I can deal with it and that's because I went and got help." The path out wasn't quick or simple, but it was real.
Glen Power of The Script approaches his own mental health differently, though the principle is the same: connection matters. When darkness creeps in, he walks. He calls one or two people he trusts and talks. He believes humans are not built for isolation. "We need each other," he says. "Happiness isn't really happiness unless it's shared." In his view, community is not a luxury—it's a necessity. The pandemic, he notes, has made this clearer than ever. We are more alike than we are different. We are all in the same boat, and we all need each other.
What both musicians are describing, without using the language of public health, is the antidote to the silence that kills. Men in Ireland die by suicide at rates that dwarf other causes of death in their age group. The stigma around mental illness, the belief that talking about struggle is weakness, the isolation that comes from suffering alone—these are the real killers. Garrigan's willingness to say "I was ashamed" and then to say "I got help anyway" is not a small thing. Power's insistence that we need community is not sentimental; it is survival.
For men in Ireland seeking support, the resources exist. Phone lines are open Monday through Friday. Email support is available. Therapy is possible. What Garrigan and Power are saying, in their own ways, is that reaching for those resources is not failure—it is the only way forward. The conversation Movember tries to start is the one these two musicians have already begun in their own lives. The question now is how many others will listen.
Notable Quotes
It can feel like a heart attack. You may think that you're dying if you've never experienced it before. It's very very scary.— Steve Garrigan, describing what panic attacks feel like
I accept it now for what it is and when it does happen now, I can deal with it and that's because I went and got help.— Steve Garrigan, on learning to manage his anxiety
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