Post Number 1

The long road back to me

9 February, 2026

I turned 55 back in January of this year (2026), which means I’ve lived a little. Or a lot, depending on how you might measure such things.

Through all the ups and downs of what has been a pretty remarkable life, through all the successes, the many mistakes and missteps, the odd knife in the back, and the occasional epiphany, I’ve always tried to move forward, building on my past and the lessons learned and doing my best to hold on to my dreams.

Until I wasn’t. Until I realised I kept pushing those dreams aside because… ‘one day.’

Only, when you’re in your mid-50s, you realise one day had better be today and every day, because immortality is still the stuff of fantasy and science fiction, and at some point the days just run out.

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. Much longer drives than I was used to, and for me, long drives means a lot of time in my head.

That’s not a terrible thing for me. I’m an introvert who does a fairly good job of masquerading as an extrovert. I enjoy my own company, probably too much. But when you’re driving, there’s not a lot to do. And on this particular day I was sick of driving, and I realised I wasn’t just sick of driving, I was remarkably unhappy.

It just hit me. There wasn’t any triggering thought. I didn’t see anything that made the revelation drop. It just dropped. I didn’t pull over, or cry, or make any sort of exclamation. It simply settled over me so I decided to interrogate it.

At first, I thought it had to be because I was doing a job that 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, those dreams died pretty disastrously so I went to work in a factory for a bit to ground myself and get my head sorted, because the redundancy was a slap in the face and I wasn’t handling it well. Within a month I was head hunted for a job I said no to four times before giving in. It was a job that meant I had to go back to my roots as a mental health counsellor, and I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to go backwards. The person who headhunted me though, knew what strings to pull: farmers were taking their lives. Blue collar men were experiencing increasingly worse episodes of mental health, and they needed someone who ‘got’ them. So, I said yes. Writing is what my soul craves, but one of my biggest passions is helping men, like me, discover their own masculinity and find their place in our ever-changing world. A masculinity that isn’t a stereotype or someone else’s idea of how a man should behave – because often it’s those stereotypes and those expectations that kill men. First their soul. Then, sometimes, that spark that makes us all want to stay alive and keep living.

After realising it wasn’t my job, at least, not exactly, I realised it all came down to something my friends had been telling me for years: “you let your job swallow you.”

And I do. And this new one was. Just like all the others.

For reasons no therapist has been adequately able to explain to me, I feel like I have to give my life to other people and be of service. Even to my own detriment. I have an overwhelming, almost psychotic need to help people. Life is hard. I know that. My journey has been punctuated by bullying, betrayal, narcissistic family members gaslighting me at every opportunity, and more. I hate seeing people in pain because I know what it feels like to hurt… and if I can alleviate that, even if just for a moment, I feel like I’m doing something worthy. So, I give it my all.

Now, I was a ratbag in my younger days. As a child, I was angelic. Polite. Pious. Gentle. Kind. Sensitive. Loyal. 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 stupid 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’ve been making up for being that ratbag ever since. Some of the counsellors I’ve seen agree, some don’t. I’ve learned that finding the root of the issue isn’t always the answer to overcoming the issue, so I’ve let all of that go to the keeper.

The point is, that since changing from being a little shit (or in my case, a six foot plus shit who weight lifted and a massive chip on his shoulder), my need or desire or whatever it is to give and be there for others has meant that I’ve pushed aside my hopes and dreams. It means I’ve sabotaged and ruined relationships that could have been wonderful and hurt people who tried to love me, because wanting and needing someone was a distraction I couldn’t let myself indulge in.

I was present for strangers, but I wasn’t present for those who stuck by me or wanted to be with me.

As I fell into that hole of reflection, on that long drive, I realised I probably wasn’t the only person, male, female, non-binary, trans, or whatever, who felt that way.

So, in attempting to rediscover myself, I created this site. It was originally an author’s page, because I’d started to get back into writing, but, as I spoke to people as both a therapist and as a writer, I discovered I was right. A lot of people were experiencing similar emotions and thoughts and fears. They, like me, weren’t living authentically because they’d been swallowed by a role that they were expected to play.

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

Also, I don’t give a fat furry fuck what people think of me. So, being vulnerable doesn’t faze me. I’ve been criticised for being too muscular, too ‘inked,’ when I stopped weightlifting for a while I was criticised for being too fat. I’ve been criticised for being too skinny, too pale, too bald, having too long a beard, for being politically incorrect, for apparently being ‘toxic,’ for not being ‘toxic’ enough. I’ve been criticised for having a penis, for being single, for not wanting children, for being too sensitive, for not being sensitive enough… and so on, and so on. Can you see why I just don’t care anymore? All I can be is me and I just want to be authentic. Not the version of me you, or anyone else wants.

Turns out, people are kinda vibing with that, and I’ve had some pretty cool feedback on socials, and also from clients in therapy who are craving that level of freedom and that level of self-exploration that transcends the expectations of others.

Since starting this whole thing up and posting about stuff, one of the most interesting things for me has been how fascinated people are by my handle. “Boots Still On?” Why??

Well, it’s 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.

My Nan and Pop on my Mum’s side, whenever I was knocked down, would ask me if my “boots were still on?” It was both a literal and figurative thing. If I said yes, then my Nan would say “we’ll you’re ready to keep stomping forward, and to kick some asses if you need to.”

It always stuck with me. I got my first pair of work boots when I was ten – the joys of growing up in a strictly blue collar family, and I never looked back.

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 10, 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.