72 | The Weaving Resumes: The FLOW of Life in Motion

In this episode, we return to Ari a month after her attempt — not at an ending, but at a continuation. This is FLOW, the phase of living in motion.

FLOW does not promise smoothness. It promises awareness. It helps us notice how life breathes after survival — imperfect, uneven, yet alive.

We explore the four strands of FLOW:

• F – Fluctuations in mood and risk: recognising that ups and downs are not failures, but early signals to listen to.
• L – Learning from setbacks and successes: turning survival into lived wisdom, and spotting the small strategies that already help.
• O – Openness to support and change: recognising when to reach out, and building a circle of safety that feels possible.
• W – What If / If Then planning: rehearsing safety through concrete steps, so the next wave does not overwhelm.

Through Ari’s story, we see how these strands begin to take shape: some days heavy, some lighter, but now with more awareness and preparation. FLOW reminds us that life after survival is not a return to “before,” but a rehearsal of life as it is — tender, resilient, and ongoing.

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Transcript

Welcome back to PROTECT where we are diving deep into STEPS for HOPE — where we walk alongside the story of suicidal distress not just as a crisis to prevent, but as a thread to understand.

In this series, we’ve followed Ari — through pain, through planning, through survival… and now, into movement.

Let’s briefly trace where we’ve been this season:

In Episode 1, we introduce you to Ari and Steps 4 HOPE .

In Episode 2, we met Ari in FABRIC — where life began to wear thin. Her sense of self was fragile. Belonging loosened. Hope faded into silence.

In Episode 3, we stepped into THREAD — when suicidal thoughts first appeared. Not as a plan, but as a whisper: Would it be better if I weren’t here?

Episode 4 brought us into NEEDLE — the phase where ideation tightened into intention. Safer options slipped away, and a plan took shape.

In Episode 5, Ari crossed into TIP — the rupture. The suicide attempt. The moment the needle pierced. And the moment she survived.

Then in Episode 6, we arrived at MEND — the tender space after survival. Where stitching begins. Where pain is honored not as weakness, but as a mirror to meaning.

And now, we reach our final step in this sequence:
 FLOW — the phase of living again.

The FLOW Framework – Life in Motion

Life after survival is not static. A loom doesn’t rest after repair — it keeps weaving. In the same way, recovery isn’t about stitching a tear shut once and for all. It’s about living with movement: the ups, the downs, the ordinary days that carry both risk and resilience.

This is the heart of FLOW — the phase of living in motion. It doesn’t happen in the emergency room, or even in the first few days after an attempt. It happens in the weeks and months that follow, when people like Ari are trying to make sense of being alive, while life itself keeps moving around them.

FLOW has four strands. They help us notice what shifts, what holds, and what might prepare someone for the future:

F – Fluctuations in Mood & Risk

In MEND, we talked about emotions in motion — the guilt, relief, anger, numbness that rise and fall after an attempt. But those movements don’t stop after the first week. They continue. They become part of daily life. And that’s where FLOW begins.

Because emotions don’t sit still. Some mornings feel almost normal. Others feel unbearably heavy. And risk moves with them — tightening and loosening like thread through a loom.

So instead of asking, “Are you safe now?”, FLOW invites a different stance: curiosity.
“What was last week like for you? Were there days that felt lighter — or days that caught you off guard and felt harder?”

By stepping into this gentle exploration, we help a person trace their own rhythms. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe alcohol. Maybe a sudden conflict, or even something small like a cancelled plan. Fluctuations often carry patterns — and patterns become early warning signs.

From a stance of trauma-informed care, we ask with softness, not suspicion. “Have you noticed small signs that your thoughts are beginning to spiral — even before they become overwhelming?” That question honours awareness instead of demanding certainty.

Sometimes, the answer will be vague. Sometimes the person might say, “I don’t know. I just wake up and it’s there.” Here, radical acceptance helps us lean in: “That makes sense. Some days feel heavier without reason. Can we sit with that, and notice what it feels like in your body when it happens?” Naming the unfairness, without rushing to erase it, often reduces shame.

And yet, alongside the hard days, there are often quieter moments of resilience — times the person surprised themselves. So we ask solution-focused questions:
 “Was there a day recently where you thought, ‘I’m coping better than I expected’?”
“What did you do differently that day?”

These small wins are not trivial. They are threads worth naming, because they often become the foundation of future safety planning.

Narrative therapy reminds us that the story of suicide is not the only story a person carries. When we ask, “Can you describe a time recently when you felt more in control, even just a little?”, we’re not denying the struggle. We’re helping weave an alternative chapter — one where survival has already left a trace of competence.

And then we gently turn toward risk itself:
 “Have your thoughts of suicide been happening more often, less often, or about the same as before?”
“When those thoughts show up, do they feel as strong as they once did, or a little different?”

These aren’t yes/no questions. They’re invitations to map intensity, to place markers along a shifting coastline.

Because suicidal risk isn’t a static label like “high” or “low.” Research tells us those categories miss more than they catch. Risk moves. It builds imperceptibly, then sometimes shifts suddenly — a cusp moment, a tipping point. That’s why fluctuations matter. They help us spot the bifurcation zones — the points where stability teeters toward collapse.

And when we name them, they don’t just become our map — they become the person’s map too.

So fluctuations are not failures. They are invitations. Invitations to notice the rhythm of distress, to learn the early signs, to rehearse how to respond before the cloth tears again.

With reflection, self-monitoring, and flexible planning, fluctuations become more than something to endure. They become threads of awareness, agency, and ultimately, resilience.

L – Learning from Setbacks & Successes

In MEND, we sat with the first stirrings of meaning — the attempt reframed not as “weakness,” but as a reflection of unbearable pain, and sometimes of values hidden in that pain. We also noticed emotions in motion: the guilt, the relief, the numbness that moved like tides.

But those questions don’t end when the hospital bed is behind you. They continue into FLOW. Because every setback, every near miss, every hard day carries lessons. Not moral lessons — but survival lessons.

So we begin gently:
 “When you think about the past few weeks, were there days that felt especially hard… and others that surprised you by being a little easier?”

That question isn’t about measuring progress. It’s about helping someone see their own rhythm. Because setbacks are not just slips backwards — they’re data. They show us what strains the thread, and what stitches hold it.

Sometimes a person says, “I don’t know. I just got through.” And that’s where we slow down.
“Can you walk me through one of those heavy days? Step by step. What happened first? And then what? Was there a moment — even a small one — where you chose to do something different?”

This step-by-step recall, told in detail, is not interrogation. It’s respect. It’s what narrative work calls thickening the story: honouring the tiny, often-overlooked actions that kept them here. Maybe they called a friend. Maybe they took a walk. Maybe they simply waited an hour. Each is a stitch. Each is worth naming.

From here, we can bring in radical acceptance:
 “It sounds like part of you hated that day, and part of you still found a way through it. Both are true. Can we hold both?”
This doesn’t demand optimism. It simply acknowledges that survival happened — and that’s a thread we can use.

Solution-focused questions help strengthen that thread:
 “What did you do differently that helped this time?”
“What’s something you did this week that steadied you, even just a little — something worth remembering for next time?”
When people name these moments themselves, they’re more likely to repeat them. It’s reinforcement born of lived wisdom.

And then, ACT invites us to take one step further: toward values. Often, what helped wasn’t random — it was tethered to what matters. The person called their sister because connection matters. They took a walk because nature still matters. They drew in a sketchbook because creativity matters. These aren’t coping tricks. They’re values in action. And naming them transforms survival into direction.

So we might ask:
 “Looking back, was there anything in those moments that felt like it touched something important to you — something that gave it meaning?”

Here, post-traumatic growth isn’t imposed. It’s simply noticed: the awareness that enduring can seed insight. Not because suffering is good, but because it reveals what mattered enough to fight for.

We can also validate the setbacks themselves:
 “When things got worse again, what made it harder?”
This isn’t blame. It’s clarity. Because identifying what strains the weave is as important as identifying what strengthens it.

Finally, we invite reflection on movement over time:
 “Do you feel you’re bouncing back more quickly now than before? Or does it still take time?”
“Have you surprised yourself with any new strategies — things you didn’t expect to work?”

These aren’t checklist questions. They’re scaffolds for self-efficacy — the quiet belief: “I’ve coped before, I can again.”

Because setbacks are inevitable. But they do not erase resilience. They offer rehearsal. And each time a person comes back from the edge, they leave behind a trace — a stitch — that can be used again when the cloth begins to fray.

So learning is not about telling someone what they should do. It’s about helping them discover what they already did, what they already carry, and how those threads can point toward the values that still matter.

That’s how relapse becomes rehearsal. That’s how surviving becomes living forward.

O – Openness to Support & Change

In MEND, we saw how survival often brings questions about belonging: Who showed up? Who pulled back? Who do I dare tell the truth to?

FLOW builds on this. Because openness — to support, to change, to the possibility of being held — doesn’t arrive all at once. It is something to be practised, often clumsily at first, like relearning how to knock on a door you once thought was locked.

One of the hardest steps after a suicide attempt is reaching out. Shame whispers: Don’t burden them. Don’t make it worse. They’ll think less of you.
And self-protection adds another voice: If I stay quiet, at least I can’t be rejected.

That is why we don’t ask, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
 Instead, we ask with curiosity and compassion:
 “When things start to tighten again, what helps you know it might be time to reach out?”

Motivational Interviewing teaches us that change begins with ambivalence. A person might say, “I don’t want to bother anyone.” Rather than contradicting, we lean in:
“On one hand, you don’t want to burden them. On the other, a part of you reached out last time with that small emoji. What was it like when they replied, ‘I’m here’?”
This gentle reflection helps the person voice their own reasons for connection. The goal isn’t persuasion. It’s evocation — drawing out what already matters.

We can also normalise ambivalence:
 “It sounds like part of you wants to stay quiet, and another part longs for someone to notice. Both can exist together. Can we explore what each part is trying to protect?”

From there, we explore readiness. The Transtheoretical Model of Change reminds us that openness has stages. Some are still in precontemplation: not ready to ask for help. Some are in contemplation: thinking about it, but fearful. Others are preparing, or even stepping into action. Wherever the person is, our stance is pacing, not pushing.

We might ask:
 “What would make it easier to ask for support, especially before things get too heavy?”
“Who in your circle feels safe to turn to — not to fix things, but just to sit with you?”

And we explore step-up / step-down readiness:
 “Are there moments lately when you’ve felt closer to the edge than usual?”
“If that happens again, how would you know it’s time to bring in more support?”
Equally important:
“Are you finding things a little more manageable now than a few weeks ago?”
“What’s one sign that tells you it might be okay to take back a little more independence?”

These questions don’t just build awareness. They build language. And language is power — it gives a person words for when the thread begins to tighten again.

Sometimes openness doesn’t mean a phone call or a long conversation. It might mean a signal — an agreed emoji, a phrase, a look that says, “I’m not okay.” That is enough to let someone else lean in.

And openness isn’t one-sided. It also requires those around the person to receive them with authenticity, to show they are safe to lean on. Connection is co-created. A person risks reaching out, and someone else risks showing up. That mutual courage is the weave that holds.

Openness, then, is not about forcing disclosure or demanding change. It is about creating conditions where connection feels just safe enough to try. Where asking for help is no longer framed as weakness, but as wisdom.

When the thread begins to tighten, reaching for more hands to hold it is not surrender. It is survival. And it is one of the bravest acts a person can attempt.

W – What If & If…Then Planning

The final strand of FLOW is about preparation. Not because we expect someone to stay in crisis forever, but because we know distress returns. Not as failure, but as part of being human.

What happened once can happen again. But this time, we prepare. Together, we imagine the “what ifs,” and we rehearse the “if…then.”

It begins gently:
 “If things started to spiral again, what might be the first sign you’d notice — inside yourself, or around you?”
Often, people pause here. They’ve never been asked to notice so closely. But naming those early signs — the sleepless nights, the urge to isolate, the skipped meals — turns vague dread into concrete signals.

From there, we widen the picture:
 “If you hit another rough patch, what do you think might help you through — even just a little — next time?”
“If something unexpected disrupts your routine, like a cancelled appointment or a sudden conflict, how might you respond differently now?”

These conversations aren’t scripts. They’re lifelines. Specific rehearsals that can be reached for when clarity narrows.

Examples often emerge:

• “If I don’t sleep for two nights, then I’ll call my GP and take my PRN as prescribed.”
• “If I start cancelling all my plans without telling anyone, then I’ll send my sister the yellow heart emoji — our agreed ‘yellow light’ signal.”
• “If I feel overwhelmed at work, then I’ll take a walk at lunch and message my peer support buddy.”

Each is practical. Each is woven from lived experience.

Here we also revisit safety:
 “If suicidal thoughts spike again, then how will you reduce access to the things you might use? Who could you tell, and what would you want them to do?”
This is hard, but vital. Because preparation without means restriction is a net with holes.

Solution-focused approaches fit beautifully here. We’re not inventing a brand-new plan out of nothing. We’re asking:
 “What helped even a little before? How might we reuse that next time?”
This turns setbacks into blueprints. Every past survival strategy becomes a stitch in the net.

And because shame often silences, we explore small, realistic pathways for openness:
 “If you felt too overwhelmed to explain everything, then what signal or phrase could you use to let someone know you need help?”

By rehearsing these tiny responses, we create what psychologists call “muscle memory.” In the heat of crisis, when cognition narrows and it feels like there are no choices left, the body remembers: If this, then that.

But planning isn’t just about danger. It’s also about values. So we might ask:
 “If you noticed yourself sliding again, then what could help remind you of what matters most to you — the thing worth stitching into tomorrow?”
For one person, it might be a child’s photo. For another, a dog waiting by the door. For another, a line of poetry tucked into their phone. These anchors transform “safety plans” into “meaning plans.”

Finally, we talk about rhythm: stepping up or stepping down support.
 “If things get harder, then how will you know it’s time to ask for more help?”
“If things begin to ease, then what sign would tell you it’s safe to take a little more space?”
This builds autonomy — not just waiting for clinicians to decide, but helping the person trust their own signals.

Because the truth is: What If & If…Then is not about eliminating crisis. It’s about rehearsing agency. So that when life’s thread pulls tight again, it doesn’t snap — it adjusts.

That is how FLOW prepares us for tomorrow. By turning uncertainty into preparedness, fear into foresight, and vulnerability into shared safety.

Ari’s Story 

FLOW doesn’t promise smoothness. It promises awareness. It helps people notice their fluctuations, learn from what’s already worked, open themselves to connection, and plan for the next tug of the thread.

This is not closure. This is continuation. A rehearsal of life.

With that in mind, we return to Ari — a month on from her attempt.
 Still here. Still mending.
 But now, beginning to live in motion.

A month later, Ari is still here.
 Still mending.
 But also… moving.

The loom has not stopped. It never truly does.
 This is FLOW — not a return to before, but a rehearsal of life.
 A rhythm. A breath. A becoming.
 The fabric is still tender.
 The embroidery is imperfect.
 But it breathes.

F — Fluctuations
Some mornings, Ari wakes with a clear head, almost surprised by her own steadiness. Other mornings, the weight sits on her chest before she even moves.

She has started noticing patterns. Two nights without proper sleep makes her brittle. Skipping breakfast sharpens the edges. A tense message from her mum can drag her under faster than she expects.

But she also notices softening: how a walk around the block loosens the knot in her chest, how drawing for ten minutes steadies her breathing, how hearing her friend’s voice — even for two minutes — shifts her mood.

This isn’t failure. It’s forewarning. It’s self-awareness in motion.

L — Learning
She begins to look back differently.

Last week, she almost reached for pills again — the thought sharp, familiar. But instead, she called the helpline. The voice on the other end didn’t solve anything. But it held her through the hour. And that was enough.

She remembers another night when she told herself, “If I can just wait until morning, maybe it’ll feel lighter.” And it did.

These are not victories to boast about. They are stitches. Quiet, ordinary acts of endurance that she now names as survival strategies.

The attempt — once unspeakable — becomes part of the story she is learning from, not just surviving.

O — Openness
This part is harder. Shame still whispers: Don’t burden them. Don’t let them see.

But Ari has made a small pact with her sister. On hard days, she sends a yellow heart emoji. It means: sit with me, no questions asked. Sometimes her sister comes over. Sometimes she just replies, “I’m here.”

It isn’t perfect. Sometimes Ari wants to push everyone away. But slowly, she is learning that letting someone in doesn’t mean giving up control. It means not carrying the whole weight alone.

W — What If & If Then
Together with her therapist, Ari has begun rehearsing for the next tug of the thread.

What if sleep slips again?
Then she’ll call her GP before the spiral deepens.

What if she cancels too many plans in a row?
Then she’ll text her friend the agreed phrase: “yellow light.”

What if thoughts of disappearing return while she’s at work?
Then she’ll step outside, take a short walk, and message her sister before going home.

These aren’t scripts. They’re lifelines. Woven from her own lived knowledge. So that when the next wave comes, she already knows where to reach.

The conversations in FLOW echo earlier ones.
 But the tone has changed.

In MEND, Ari was learning to hold the tear.
 In FLOW, she prepares to weave forward.

The same themes — emotion, support, direction — reappear.
 But now they are grounded in lived experience.
 They come not just from pain… but from wisdom.

This is not closure.
 This is continuation.

And so, the tapestry resumes.
 What once was frayed is now re-formed.
 Not seamless. But strong.

The colours are deeper.
 The lines more textured.
 The cloth is hers again.

And so is ours.

Because we, too, are weavers.
 We, too, have known rupture.
 Have held silence.
 Have walked beside those whose threads were near breaking.

To support another’s healing, we often need to touch our own.
 Not to centre ourselves — but to stay real.
 Present. Human.

Because empathy doesn’t live in distance.
 It lives in resonance.

Relational safety — the kind that holds a person through darkness — isn’t made by checklists.
 It’s made by presence.
 By bearing witness.
 By saying: “You matter. Even now. Especially now.”

Closing Reflections — Ending with FLOW

So, where does this leave us?

We’ve now travelled with Ari — and with the STEPS model — all the way from the silent strains of FABRIC, through ideation in THREAD, into intention with NEEDLE, across the rupture of TIP, into the fragile pause of MEND, and finally, here, into FLOW — life in motion.

FLOW reminds us that healing is not a finish line. It’s the weaving of life as it is lived — fluctuations, lessons, connections, and plans stitched into the days and weeks that follow survival. It’s not closure. It’s continuation.

And perhaps that is the heart of STEPS: not a rigid sequence, but a way of understanding the shifting landscapes of suicidal pain and recovery. A language to notice where someone might be. A map to help us ask the right questions for the moment they are in.

As we close this episode, I invite you to pause with FLOW. To reflect on what it means to live forward, not in a straight line, but in rhythm — a thread tugging, loosening, weaving again.

Because while Ari’s story carries on, this part of our series is also reaching a natural pause. Before we turn toward values and the HOPE framework, our next episode will be a summary — a moment to step back, to reflect on all six phases together, and to consider how STEPS as a whole can guide our practice, our presence, and our care.

Until then — thank you for walking alongside Ari, and alongside this model.
 Your presence matters.
 Your listening matters.
 And sometimes, the most powerful act is simply to stay with the thread as it moves.