A journey through loss, survival, and finding purpose

The Beginning

I grew up on a farm in a small New Zealand town with my mum, dad and younger brother. Life seemed simple and idyllic — motorbikes, sport, freedom and a close-knit community. There were plenty of happy memories. But from a young age, I also felt different.

Whenever my brother had friends over, I felt like an outsider — constantly feeling excluded, whether it was real or not. I became incredibly competitive across motocross, rugby, soccer, squash, tennis and cross country, trying to prove myself. Losing was unbearable; winning offered a fleeting sense of acceptance.

At 11, I drank an entire bottle of wine and ended up in hospital. Looking back, I don't see it as a simple teenage mistake — it was the start of a search for identity and a way to escape difficult emotions. Alcohol and smoking became normalised after that. When we moved schools, I became whatever I thought people wanted me to be. Sport became my identity, because I didn't know who I was outside of it.

Loss and the Move to Australia

At 12, my family left New Zealand and moved to Rockhampton, Australia. At the time I hated it — everything felt foreign and overwhelming — but there was excitement in starting again. During this time, my cousin became one of my closest friends. Then he took his own life.

That experience changed me forever. Seeing the pain left behind for his family exposed me to grief and trauma at a very young age. I didn't understand it then, but I believe it taught me something about resilience and survival. The searching only intensified.

Around 15, my family moved again — this time to Albury-Wodonga. A family friend gave my brother and me a motorbike each, hoping to pull us toward something better. But the cycle continued. That same year I took my parents' car for a drive, lost control within 100 metres and nearly drove through someone's wall. Nobody was hurt. I received a warning and was sent home — and for a teenager already pushing boundaries, that almost felt like permission.

The Crash That Changed Everything

At 20, after a night of drinking, my friend Tao and I decided to go fishing early in the morning. On the drive home, less than four kilometres from home, I glanced down for a second. I lost control of the car and rolled it.

Tao was seriously hurt and was flown to intensive care with bleeding on the brain and spinal injuries. I came away with relatively minor injuries. When his father came to see me in hospital, I was terrified of what he might feel toward me — but he showed me nothing but compassion. I still struggle to understand how someone carrying so much pain could care about my wellbeing. That moment stayed with me.

Not long after, we were told Tao would likely face permanent injuries. Instead of facing those emotions, I reverted to my usual coping mechanism. I numbed myself.

Facing Consequences

Two days before my 21st birthday, the police came. I was charged with dangerous driving causing grievous bodily harm. In the courtroom, Tao's mother stood and told the court she didn't believe jail was the answer, and that she held no hatred toward me. That level of forgiveness still resonates deeply with me. The judge disagreed, and I was led away.

Inside the holding cells, reality hit hard. For the first time in my life, I genuinely didn't want to be here anymore. In that darkness, I closed my eyes and prayed — not even fully understanding who or what I was praying to — simply hoping for some form of salvation. I was sentenced, and when I heard it, I felt a strange relief: the uncertainty was finally gone, and I knew what I had to face.

Prison was a hard place. I lost my grandmother and another young friend while I was inside, and once again, I wasn't there. Even in that environment, I found myself slipping back into old habits and avoiding the truth.

After Prison — Still Searching

When I was released in August 2009, I hoped I had paid my debt and could finally move forward. But freedom didn't magically fix anything. The drinking returned, and so did the running — because even after prison, I still didn't know who I was.

Rugby league gave me something I needed: identity. Tao and I were later invited to speak at schools and seminars about drink driving, and to appear on the national SBS programme Insight. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of purpose — like some good could come from everything that had happened. We won premierships in 2012 and 2013. From the outside, life looked successful. Inside, I was still lost.

By late 2015 and into 2016, my long-term relationship ended, I broke my leg three games into a rugby return, and my finances bottomed out. I was diagnosed with depression. For the first time, thoughts of ending my life felt real. Then, in June 2016, I met the woman who would later become my wife — it felt like someone had been placed in my life who could love me at a time when I didn't know how to love myself.

Rock Bottom

In December 2019, something inside me collapsed. For a period, the thought of not being here no longer felt fleeting — it felt real. My future wife stayed beside me through it, barely moving, as I struggled to hold myself together.

Somehow, I survived that period. Deep down, I knew something had to change — that continuing the way I was would eventually cost me everything. The doctors prescribed medication. I hated how it made me feel, but by then I had accepted the belief that maybe something was fundamentally wrong with me.

A New Search — Golf, Therapy and the Loop

I searched online for answers — yoga, meditation, mental health experts — desperate to understand what was happening in my head. I jumped from one therapist to the next, feeling like all I was being told was to accept myself and be happy. Easier said than done.

Golf became my new obsession. I committed completely to chasing a lower handicap. It gave me something to focus on and an identity to chase — but the loop continued, up one minute and down the next. Around 2020, chronic back pain took hold, and stronger painkillers came with it, pulling me into dark places. After consulting three surgeons I committed to surgery, only to be told I'd have to wait another twelve months. Those months were some of the hardest I'd known.

When the surgery finally went ahead, I flew interstate alone as my wife was pregnant. Waking up in overwhelming pain, I rang her in tears, and she got on the next flight to be by my side. The recovery was a hard battle of rehab — and I was still trapped in the same mental loop.

Charlie May — A Reason to Keep Going

The highlight of 2021 was knowing we'd meet our first child the following year. The pregnancy scans became checkpoints — moments I held onto when everything felt impossible. After a long labour, we met Charlie May. I will never forget holding her for the first time. I had true purpose. All I could think was: I just want to be everything this girl will ever need.

We married in November 2022. My mind still fought me on the day — the attention, the anxiety — but that same year I also reached a goal I'd worked obsessively toward on the golf course. It reminded me that when I commit to something, I can achieve it, even through years of mental struggle. In December 2023 we welcomed our son Lucas Maddox, and in 2025 our third child, Phoenix Gray, arrived. Through all the dark days, coming home to my wife and children was the light I could always find.

Running Toward Something

In late 2024, I finally walked into the gym I'd driven past for two years. I started classes, got fit, and began winning the battle in my head more often. In May 2025, on a family holiday, I took up running. I'd never really run before. I started with 5km and just kept adding — 10km, 18km, 40km. Running became a new way to test my mind.

Then I crashed. At 22km of a planned 48km run, everything hurt, and my dad came to pick me up. In my mind, I had failed — and it was hard to accept. But instead of spiralling, I reached out to a coach, structured my training, and set a bigger goal. When injuries forced me to shelve it, I kept going anyway.

NLP — The Turning Point

On a family holiday in late 2025, I made a last-minute appointment with a practitioner who spoke to me about NLP — Neuro-Linguistic Programming. I'd never heard of it, but given everything I'd tried over the years, I was open to anything. The cost scared me, and so did the conversation I needed to have with my wife. On the long drive home I sent her the website and waited. She looked across at me and said, “If you think it's going to help you, just go.”

Those words shifted everything. Seven days away turned out to be life-changing. It opened me up to understanding that the thought patterns I'd been running my whole life could be changed — that my mind didn't have to work against me forever. I came home clearer and more open than I had ever been. With the support of my psychiatrist, I worked through a careful, responsible plan to take ownership of my own health.

Why This Story Matters

I share this not for sympathy, but because I know I'm not alone in it. The behaviours, the searching, the numbing — they show up in workplaces and homes every day. Behind high performance and a strong work ethic, people are often carrying things they've never spoken aloud.

Tao's family showed me compassion when I expected condemnation. My wife stood by me when I didn't know how to stand for myself. My children gave me a reason to keep fighting when I had no other reason left. I've been at rock bottom. But I've also learned that the mind can change — that patterns built over decades don't have to define the rest of your life.

If this story can open a conversation — about mental health, about resilience, about what it means to truly belong — then something meaningful has come from all of it.