WATCH: 'I was down with the devil' – Offaly rugby coach opens up about his inner demons

To those looking in, Bernard Westman appeared to have it all. A devoted father of two, a respected rugby league coach and a man who had travelled the world through sport, he seemed to have plenty to be thankful for.

But behind the scenes, the Tullamore man was fighting a battle few knew about.

So how does a man who once seemed to have the world at his feet find himself in such a profoundly dark place? And how does someone begin to find their way back?

To understand Bernard's journey, it is necessary to go back to the beginning.

Bernard describes his upbringing in Tullamore during the 1990s as something of a fairy tale.

“I had your fairy tale upbringing, loving parents. I am the youngest of five, and there is nothing I would change about my childhood,” he says.

He was, in his own words, “sports mad”, spending much of his youth around the GAA club, rarely without a hurl or a ball.

His ability was apparent early. He represented Offaly at underage in both hurling and football before taking up rugby at the age of 12. From there, his sporting ambitions carried him to Leinster Youths, before progressing into rugby league and eventually travelling internationally with the Irish side.

It was a life built around competition, camaraderie and the pursuit of excellence. There was always another fixture, another training session, another target.

When his playing career eventually gave way to ordinary family life, Bernard found himself with two young children and a welcome opportunity to be at home.

“Normal life came in, which was great. I had two beautiful kids. To spend time with them and not be travelling around the world was unbelievable because they were small ages.”

But the sporting instinct had not disappeared. The buzz, the sense of belonging and the structure of being part of a team remained difficult to leave behind.

He returned to coaching in Tullamore and discovered a new passion. Coaching qualifications followed, as did opportunities to work with Ireland's under-16 and under-19 rugby league sides. His ambitions took him overseas once again, eventually bringing him into the senior Rugby League World Cup coaching set-up.

Yet the demands of international coaching came at a cost. With Holly and Ben approaching 9 and 10 years of age, Bernard became increasingly conscious of the time he was spending away from home.

He made the decision to hand in his notice with Rugby League Ireland. It was a decision taken for the right reasons, but one which would have consequences he could not have anticipated.

“I had a massive void. I had loads of time on my hands. Going from a very busy, professional schedule to looking at your 10-year-old playing 40 minutes on the sideline. That is when the head started to go.”

The transition was more difficult than he expected. The professional environment, the daily routine and the sense of purpose which had shaped so much of his life were suddenly absent.

There was no single moment when everything fell apart. Rather, Bernard says, the darkness crept in gradually.

Covid brought isolation, and with it a growing sense of disconnection. He no longer felt part of a sporting organisation that had given him so much of his identity.

Then came a loss which would leave a lasting mark.

In January 2024, one of his closest childhood friends, with whom he had played sport from their underage days, died.

“I was with him three weeks prior to that,” Bernard recalls. “That really caught me off guard. It caught a lot of us off guard. And I never dealt with that.”

The grief remained largely unprocessed, adding another weight to an already heavy burden.

Looking back, Bernard can recognise the gradual accumulation of circumstances which brought him to breaking point. But recognising the signs and knowing how to respond to them are two very different things.

Eventually, his mental health deteriorated to the point where he needed urgent help.

His journey towards treatment began in circumstances he describes as being almost beyond comprehension. His brothers brought him from Galway to Portlaoise, where he spent nine days before moving to Cuan Mhuire.

He remembers saying goodbye to his brother and believing he might never see him again.

“I went from trying to take my own life to being in the back of the car with my brothers, and I thought I would never see them again or my children.”

For a man whose life had been defined by movement, travel and the pursuit of the next challenge, this was a journey of an entirely different kind.

At Cuan Mhuire, he found himself among 14 strangers, each arriving with their own experiences and struggles.

The early days were spent detoxing, allowing his mind and body to begin to slow down. For Bernard, there was an immediate and unfamiliar feeling, relief.

“The feeling I felt there was self-relief, and I got a bit of hope that I am safe now,” he says. “I did not want to take my own life, but I had intentions of taking my own life. That is the reality. That is where I was.”

By the third week, the programme moved into group therapy. Facilitators encouraged residents to examine their lives, beginning with childhood and the experiences which had shaped them.

The process was confronting. Bernard remembers being struck by the number of men who had grown up without the stable childhood he had enjoyed.

He describes the programme as spiritual, having been developed by Sister Consilio some 60 years ago. Its emphasis on routine, discipline, meditation and self-examination appealed to the sporting mentality he had carried throughout his life.

There was structure again. There was purpose.

The residents rose at 6am, ate breakfast, meditated and attended group therapy, where they were encouraged to speak openly about the experiences they had spent years keeping to themselves.

Of the 14 people who began the programme alongside him, just five completed the full 12 weeks.

“People relapse for various different reasons,” Bernard says, acknowledging that recovery is rarely a straightforward journey.

He speaks with enormous gratitude about the people who helped him along the way, particularly the voluntary facilitators whose work left such an impression.

“I will always be grateful. Them walls are powerful. All the facilitators there are amazing.”

His appreciation has since brought him back through those same doors, this time as a volunteer, hoping to offer something to others who find themselves where he once stood.

It is a striking change of perspective for a man who once measured progress in fixtures, results and international appearances. Now, the victories are quieter.

A good day. A walk. A conversation. The ability to recognise when things are becoming difficult and to say so.

Bernard stresses: “I do have bad days. I am not going to lie to you. Cuan Mhuire has given me the tools to deal with that.”

He has learned to slow things down. Meditation, prayer, exercise, eating well and remaining present have become part of his daily routine. He has also learned not to conceal the difficult days from those closest to him.

“If I am not having a good day, I go out, I walk, I listen to music. I speak to my parents and tell them straight out, ‘I am not having a good day today.’”

He does not pretend to have found a permanent escape from depression. There are still days when it arrives without warning, when the old feelings return and he must remind himself of the tools he has learned.

But he no longer believes he has to face them alone.

Faith has also become an important part of his life. He attends Mass almost daily, goes to meetings and regularly returns to Cuan Mhuire to volunteer. He has also invested in counselling, determined to give his recovery the same commitment he once gave to his sporting career.

“I am doing my recovery right because I only get one shot at this. I am doing everything in my ability.”

He is conscious, too, of the people, places and things which can bring back difficult memories. When he left treatment, he made the decision to replace his old wardrobe, recognising that even familiar clothes could carry associations with painful periods of his life.

It was part of a wider lesson: recovery requires an awareness of the environments and relationships which can pull a person backwards.

“The three things you learn is people, places and things. If you go back to the same people, you will do the same things.”

There are protocols, he says, which can be put in place to help protect that progress. For Bernard, maintaining those boundaries is not about rejecting his past, but about understanding it.

Since publishing his social media post and sharing his story, Bernard has been inundated with messages from people thanking him for speaking openly. Some have told him that his words have encouraged them to seek treatment at Cuan Mhuire themselves.

For Bernard, the response has been humbling. His message is simple, ask for help before the weight becomes unbearable.

He recommends starting with a GP, who can help direct people towards the appropriate support. He also highlights the work of organisations such as Pieta, and the importance of recognising that there is a person at the other end of a helpline who can listen and help.

One of the most valuable things he believes he has learned is how to listen.

“I am not a qualified counsellor by any means, but I have worn the T-shirt. I know what it is like to be in their shoes.”

During his own treatment, he discovered the value of being heard by someone who understood.

As he approaches six months since the episode which brought him so close to losing his life, Bernard says the direction of travel has been positive. He still has his difficult days, but he has learned to take them as they come.

“My biggest lesson is that you can come back from anything. I thought there was no coming back. Where I was, was a dark, dark place.”

He recalls a time when he was someone who loved life, only to find himself in a place he describes as being “down with the devil”.

Now, he speaks about the future with a renewed sense of possibility. His journey, he insists, is far from over. In many respects, he feels it is only the beginning.

There is no final whistle in recovery, no trophy waiting at the end of a prescribed number of weeks. There are good days and difficult ones, setbacks and small victories, and the ongoing work of learning how to live well.

But Bernard has found something he feared he had lost, hope. And for anyone carrying a burden he has one final piece of advice.

“Don't carry that burden, that heavy rucksack. Take one stone out at a time and it will get lighter eventually.”

A 24-hour helpline if available from Pieta House offering crisis intervention support for anyone struggling with mental health issues.