Every person's is unique, says Layne Stretton.

"That's why you have to be there as long as that journey takes; through all the ups and downs, all the pain ....," he explains.

Layne knows well the long, pock-marked road of grief.

Last Friday night, dresesd in a yellow jumper to honour the memory of his brother, he shared a little of that journey at the first Corryong Spirit - A Survivors of Suicide & Friends event.

He began with a story about a "tubby little Shetland pony" called Henry.

It was 2002 when an English racehorse named Jardines Lookout took a 36-hour trip across the world to race in the Melbourne Cup.

He finished 7^th.

In 2003 he ran again, this time finishing third behind the great mare Makybe Diva.

"It's not such an interesting story," Layne remarks to the 400 or so people gathered by fire pits and flickering candles at Attree Park.

The interesting part is the story off the track - of the relationship the leggy thoroughbred shared with a short, stout pony, who accompanied him to Australia to race.

"Such was the bond the pair had, they were inseparable," Layne explains.

"Jardines Lookout just couldn't function without Henry being there."

In 1998, Nathan Joel Stretton took his life at the age of 21.

"... and I collected my Henry," his brother reveals.

"He travels with me wherever I go.

"I started with one little pony called Suicide and I collected a whole herd of others."

Many of these ponies were "wild", causing "enormous trouble for myself and my family", Layne says.

"I collected isolation, loneliness, dissatisfaction with my partner, drinking more, smoking more and getting fired from a few jobs...

"You see I hadn't found a way to deal with the grief of the first little pony - and I collected all the rest!"

Layne says he'd give up everything to have things as they were before the pain of losing his little brother (there's nine years between them).

But that's not how it works.

In 2014 Layne went back to see Cheryl "in her lovely counsellor office".

"She started asking me all sorts of hard questions - we did sand therapy - and for the first three sessions I did nothing but cry," he admits.

"I cried because of the pain and the guilt and the frustration I had carried for 15-odd years.

"Eventually it was Cheryl who helped me to find the words to express the grief of someone lost to suicide."

When Nathan died "there was no normal anymore".

It was, indeed, as if a life switch had been turned upside down.

"Suicide grief changes you at your very soul level," Layne says.

As a woman at one of his workshops describes it:

My eyes see the world differently now, my ears hear the world differently, and my heart processes the world differently.

"All the foundations you have built to explain what life is ... just disappear," he adds.

And Layne has had to grapple with his own regrets and self-recrimination.

Weeks before his brother died, Melbourne-based Layne flew to Sydney for work, where Nathan lived.

He met his brother and sister for lunch at Darling Harbour but abruptly cut it short to return to the office.

By his own admission, Layne was "too busy", preoccupied, distracted with work.

It happens.

It was, in many respects, "an unremarkable moment in time".

It would be the last time he saw Nathan.

"(It was) one moment when I realised all my priorities were askew," Layne reflects.

And it's one of the reasons why, some 15 years later, he went back to a counsellor.

Nathan's death "completely and utterly splintered my family", Layne says.

"We can't talk about this subject.

"There's too much blame, too much recrimination, too much pain ... to talk about this."

And yet that's the "very antidote", he insists.

"We have to be able to talk about this subject," Layne says, his quiet voice ringing out across the crisp Corryong evening.

In the intervening years he has worked with countless people helping them to "unpack" their own stories of suicide grief.

Their Henry.

He has felt driven to delve into the complexities of the way society deals with suicide and the profound impact it has on individuals, families and communities.

It's also seen Layne work tirelessly to research and deliver suicide prevention programs "with sensitivity in complex and diverse environments".

Open dialogue is a critical component of Layne's role as the head facilitator for Roses in the Ocean, a leading Australian organisation to support those with a lived experience of suicide.

He knows the importance of finding your voice, of finding a way to make sense of something that is so fundamentally incomprehensible.

"If you don't talk about things, you end up in complicated grief," he warns.

"And the thing about complicated grief is that it goes on for a very long time.

"It stays with you like a Henry ... and you never get over it."

With the gentle wisdom of his own lived experience, Layne urges the Upper Murray community to embrace and hold close its survivors of suicide.

The anguished families of three beloved sons.

Of their determination to create an event for the community to remember and reflect on the devastating loss of the past few years.

To come together to shine a light into the darkness.

To those who sat alone, weeping quietly, their stories unknown but their grief shared in the solace of a safe space.

To the friends, family and community, earnest yet often awkward and ill-equipped in their efforts to show they care.

Stigma that leads to silence ... and shame.

Layne's measured words a balm to troubled souls as he explains support for those stricken by suicide "must be unconditional and it needs to go on for a very long period of time".

"You can't assume the normal that existed before suicide will return," he says.

"But we have to learn to express our stories and to talk about what we are experiencing and feeling."

His advice to people struggling with how best to support those bereaved by suicide is to show up - and to put up.

"Allow the individual to grieve in a way that meets their needs, not yours," he says.

It's in the wisdom of our stories that Layne believes hope and healing can follow unimaginable tragedy.

On Friday, August 12, he was joined by 'The Unbreakable Farmer' Warren Davies, who spoke of learning his mental health lessons the hard way, on stage at Attree Park.

Against the backdrop of sizzling sausages, children playing noisily and the young mates of those lost gathered shyly in the shadows, both men spoke of the importance of connection and community.

There were handshakes, hugs, and hand-written notes on a red tree.

A community where there's immense love amid immense loss.

Love that lives on.

For Layne it's about keeping alive memories - "they are as crisp now as the day he died".

He wears yellow (he once had a yellow car).

It's his way of honouring the memory of Nathan.

"If you can find an anchor the memory can never fade," he says.

"For me it's the colour."

And every time he speaks, Layne says he honours his brother and the stories of everyone lost to suicide.

"He's the inspiration and I'm just the conduit voice for him," Layne says.

"They are not statistics - my brother is not a statistic.

"I wear yellow to remind myself of that every single day."