Each morning I would lift my head off the pillow to find that it was saturated with my tears (Picture: Tess Cope/Supplied)

It was 5.20pm on a cold, dark, wintery Monday night in the late 1980s, at the height of the ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland. 

I was just 22 and returning home from work to our family home when I was met with flashing blue lights and a police officer standing in our doorway.

The very doorway my father had arrived at some 20 minutes earlier. Two gunmen had ambushed him and before he could escape, he was shot 18 times.  

Dad tried to run for cover, but he had nowhere to go – an ambulance was called but he died on his way to the hospital.  

My heart sank but somehow the scene felt familiar. 

This had been the recurring nightmare that had woken me most nights for as many years as I could remember. 

Each morning I would lift my head off the pillow to find that it was saturated with my tears. 

Growing up during the Troubles meant I was well aware of the tension outside my front door. But to make matters worse, because of his job, Dad was considered a high-risk target. 

I’d grown used to hearing the fighting in the street and had been in buildings while bombs exploded, but this all combined with the knowledge that my dad could be attacked at any moment, only fuelled my nightmares – which always ended with him being taken without a chance to say goodbye.  

This time, I couldn’t wake up. My dad had been killed while he was still in his prime.

I was always anticipating another ambush and never felt totally safe (Picture: Tess Cope)

As I walked into the house that night, I was met by a swarm of people trying to console my hysterical mum. Still in her forties, it felt like her life had also ended that day.

My older brother was sitting on the stairs thumping the woodwork and sobbing his heart out. I had never seen him like this.  

A neighbour took me to the other side of town to find my youngest sister and break the news. I don’t even remember what I said – it was a whirlwind of grief.   

In the days that followed I tried to come to terms with what happened. In our faith, we keep the body in an open coffin for the few days between death and the funeral and we put Dad’s open coffin in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Our border collie, Prince – Dad’s faithful friend on many long walks – found his way upstairs and lay underneath his coffin for days. He seemed to know that his job was to accompany him and keep watch over the family, in the dark days to follow. 

These wakes are supposed to provide a cathartic moment. To create the space for family and friends to come and pay their respects and for the direct family  to have the comfort and care of their loved ones.  

But as I sat beside my dad, I couldn’t take it in. 

Each time I came home to our front door, I was faced with the bullet holes in the brickwork. At night, I relived the nightmare. 

In an attempt to finally move on, I decided the best thing to do was simply not talk about it (Picture: Supplied)

Looking back, I know that a huge part of me was in denial – as the months and years passed, I realised this was affecting other parts of life.  

And I now know that it has a name – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). 

The symptoms vary from person to person, but in those immediate few months, mine manifested as being completely numb inside and trusting no-one. I was always anticipating another ambush and never felt totally safe.  

Those feelings never faded either as those responsible for my dad’s killing were never officially identified or brought to justice.  

After a year of living with this, I arrived at what I thought was the perfect solution, a coping mechanism – leave the country and go to England, away from the scene of the trauma, to try and close off that chapter of my life. 

Quite simply, it felt like if I didn’t have to look at the evidence and didn’t have to talk about the trauma, or perceive it in any way, it wasn’t real.

My mother did not want me to leave. We argued about it for a long time, but my mind was made up. I needed to escape. 

It took 12 years of hard work to finally feel safe enough to discuss what happened all those years ago

Despite moving countries, however, I couldn’t escape the impact PTSD was having on me.  

My body was on constant alert. I would avoid being in closed spaces where I couldn’t find an exit, worried about who or what was lurking there. 

My subconscious was already ready to run, to exit, to leave. I rarely felt safe. Going to funerals was also a huge challenge for me – I have relived my dad’s funeral over and over again.  

In an attempt to finally move on, I decided the best thing to do was simply not talk about it. Very few people, outside of my closest family, knew about this tragic experience and I’d keep it that way.  

Of course, that was not a foolproof method and eventually, after signing up for some coaching training, I realised I couldn’t ask others to do their own work if I hadn’t done mine. I was finally ready to start the inner work of digging deep. 

In 2011, I discovered something called the systemic approach, which is a form of deep development work that involves getting to and confronting the root of a problem by unpacking a person’s history, including any past trauma.

It is by no means a quick fix, and it took 12 years of hard work to finally feel safe enough to discuss what happened all those years ago.

Now I have grown beyond the anger and most of the pain of my dad’s death and the trauma that followed.  

I’ve become freed from the symptoms of PTSD and I want more people to be able to say this. 

I now feel ready to talk more freely about it in the hope that I can help others face what needs to be faced rather than ignore it or run away, as I did. 

Instead of avoiding it – that trauma – I leant into it, with expert support. 

The systemic approach informs everything that I do, in my personal life and in my work with clients as a leadership coach. 

My clients may not have experienced the same trauma I did, but I know that doing the deeper work, looking beyond the surface level symptoms and getting into the root cause of the struggles can have a massive benefit for them in business, and in life.  

Reflecting on my dad’s killing, it’s important to note that at this tumultuous time in Northern Ireland, ours was just one of many who had their family torn apart. We are not the only people for whom grief has been all-encompassing.  

And while I would never have wished for this life experience, it has informed who I am.

Find out more about Tess Cope, Systemic Leadership Coach & Team Facilitator, here.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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I was just 22 and returning home from work to our family home when I was met with flashing blue lights and a police officer standing in our doorway.