Post Number 1

Finding my way back to me

9 February, 2026

A few months ago, around August of 2025, I had a wake-up call. It wasn’t because of anything huge – I didn’t survive a car accident or start a new relationship; I didn’t do anything more than accept a new job that took me on long drives across regional New South Wales and Victoria, and for the last six years my life has been full of long drives because of the work I do, so I didn’t think anything of it. But, these long drives were double what I was used to, which meant I could only drown out my own brain through listening to podcasts and singing very badly to songs that I love, for so long. At some point, I had to just stop, focus on the road, and let my thoughts wander.

And through that process, I realised I was remarkably unhappy and I didn’t know why I was bothering to get out of bed anymore. I wasn’t suicidal, at least, I don’t think I was, but nothing seemed to matter anymore.

At first it was because I thought I was doing a job I wasn’t that into. For years I’d been trying to move sideways into emergency management, and in early 2020 succeeded in doing that. After being made redundant in mid-2025 because of funding hiccups, I was head hunted for a job I said no to four times, before caving in, and that job meant I had to go back to my roots as a mental health counsellor. I didn’t want to do that.

After pulling that thought apart it turned out it wasn’t the job. I loved being back on the frontline. I’m good at it. It was something else, and it all came down to something friends had been telling me for years: “you let your job swallow you.”

And I do.

No matter what it is, I feel like I have to give my life to other people and be of service even to my own detriment.

Now, I was a ratbag in my younger days. As a child, I was a freakin’ angel. I was the kid you could dress in all white, sit in a mud pit, and I’d still home clean.

As I hit my late teens and early 20s, I went off the rails. Alcohol, gangs, just shit. I was pulled out of that by a youth worker who told me to use my ‘powers for good, not evil,’ and I think I might have been making up for being a ratbag ever since.

I probably need therapy for that!

Over the years, my need to give and be there for others has meant that I’ve forgotten what I want and what I need. My hopes and dreams faded into the background, and I ruined relationships that could have been wonderful and hurt people who tried to love me. I was present for strangers, but I wasn’t present for those who stuck by me despite how accidentally ignorant I could be.

As I fell into that hole of reflection, other stuff came up too. I’m a people pleaser, who hates being a people pleaser and actually resists it but resists it in weird ways.

By way of explanation, I’m a big lad. I shave my head because (thanks DNA) I’m slowly going bald, I have a long beard because I love beards, and I’ve always avoided work where I had to wear a suit because I hate suits. I’m also covered in tattoos, drive a light truck, and favour dogs that are sweet by nature but look like they’d eat your face for the sake of it. I rode motorbikes before I learned how to drive and love Harley’s. I’m an accidental stereotype just because I like what I like. Which means people tend to find interesting ways to ‘have a go’ because people can be… pricks and they make all sorts of assumptions without ever bothering to get to know you. Their opinion matters more than the truth.

Over the years I’ve been told I have too many tattoos to be a manager or a counsellor. I look like every other toxic male because I lift weights and look the way I do. I look unprofessional because I always get around in jeans and boots. The list goes on. And on. It’s gotten so long over the years.

I’ve acted out against that by getting more tattoos, growing my beard long enough to make a biker envious, and by steadfastly sticking to my favourite pants and footwear – while also trying to please everyone by just being the best I can be at everything I do and slavishly sacrificing ‘me’ to make everyone else accept me and respect me and stop judging me despite the way I look and act.

Stupid. I know. And a mental health professional who has been mentored by literally the best in the business, I should have known better.

So, in attempting to sort myself out, I created this site. It was originally an author’s page, because I’d started to get back into writing because I love it. It’s my passion. But, as I spoke to people as both a therapist and as a writer, I discovered a lot of people felt a little directionless and had given up on being authentically ‘them’ because of outside influences and distractions and the judgements of others

I thought to myself, maybe if I’m just honest and out there it might help someone. And, it seems, I am addicted to helping people.

Since starting this whole thing up and posting about stuff on Instagram and Facebook, the big question for most people (and it’s one I’ve had for probably twenty years) is “why “Boots Still On?” Why boots.

Well, both are a bit of a war cry. And a lot of a story.

The simple version is the war cry. It means I’m still standing, I might be battered but I’m moving forward, and I’ve still got my boots on, which means I’m still fighting and I’m still willing to face the challenges ahead.

The longer version is, I like boots!

I grew up working class poor. My family fought for every damn thing they ever had and though we never had much at all, we were able to enjoy a roof over our heads and food on the table most of the time.

The men and women in my life worked themselves to exhaustion to try and make sure that my sister and I, and our cousins never wanted for anything. We did want, but for insignificant stuff that didn’t matter, like action figures and comic books and all of that. But, the stuff we didn’t care about but the adults did, we didn’t want for.

Everyone worked hard so I could attend a private boys’ schools. I didn’t always have the newest uniform, but I had a uniform. I was safe, I felt loved, and though I was raised by all women the men tried their best to spend time with me when they were home because they all worked away as truck drivers, miners, and construction workers. It didn’t happen a lot, but when it did, I cherished it.

From a young age, boots became a symbol of hard work and of people who did what they said they would do. The men in my family wore big, heavy duty work boots, the women in my family wore work boots, and when I was 11, I was given my first pair to go hunting and camping in.

Work boots meant business, they meant determination, they meant the difference between eating and starving, and they meant toughness. Not what people might describe as ‘masculine toughness,’ just toughness in general. The women who raised me were tougher than any man I’ve ever met.

Quick funny story that I love: A man raised a hand to my grandmother once, when I was a little boy, and she grabbed the nearest object which just happened to be a metal skillet and back handed him. He flew backwards and hit the deck. She quickly told him if he ever raised a hand to her again, they’d never find his body. He shat himself and ran. I can’t remember where it was, maybe a restaurant kitchen? Not sure anymore, but that has stuck with me and I love it. I probably should mention that I don’t condone violence, but I secretly really love my man for putting that person in his place.

In my family you didn’t take shit. You would give the shirt off your back to someone if they needed it, and you’d give everyone a second chance, but if anyone tried to harm us, we’d put you down.

That probably makes my family sound horrible, but they weren’t. Yeah, my uncles could be a worry, but we were just fighters. Lower working-class fighters who never made it off struggle street despite everyone’s best efforts.

So, from a very young age, boots were a symbol of strength and determination for me.

As I got older, I got a lot of crap for wearing them and stopped for a while, but then one day, while trying to break up a fight between a gang that was doing its best to take apart a young person who had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I ripped all of the ligaments in one foot and like the true blue Aussie male I am, didn’t go anywhere near a doctor despite the fact my foot was the size of a football for a week.

Years later, because I’d developed a limp, I eventually went to a physio who, after scolding the crap out of me for being so careless, told me I could either get surgery or do exercises every day of my life and make sure I wore footwear that supported my ankle. They were the only two ways I’d be able to have any sort of normal mobility.

In my experience, there is nothing more comfortable than an Aussie work boot. And, I have since learned, there is no footwear out there that provides better support. Whether it’s Blundstones, Oliver’s, Steel Blue, Redback, Mongrel, Wide Load, or any other brand, Aussie work boots are built tough for tough environments, and they’re built to keep you comfortable all day and supported and safe. I barely limp now, unless I try and wear sneakers or dress shoes! Then I can barely walk for a few days.

So, ‘Boots Still On’ has a few meanings for me. The hard simple truth is boots mean something to me. I like the feel of them when they’re on, and I kinda have to wear them these days because I was pretty careless with my own wellbeing.

My boots remind me of where I come from and they keep me grounded. I’ve enjoyed remarkable success in my life and it would be easy for me to get carried away and have a big head. My boots remind me I’m a working class lad from a working class family that taught me values that still mean everything to me. They also remind me to slow down, move with care, and support myself.

For those of you always asking… mystery solved!

Boots Still On.

And yep, I’m wearing them right now as I write this.