The Way Home Project

Tag: healing

  • 🔧 What Nearly Rolling My 4WD Taught Me About Recovery

    🔧 What Nearly Rolling My 4WD Taught Me About Recovery

    The look on my two Border Collies faces, Loki and Lucy, said it all:
    “WTF, Dad?”

    Let me take you back about ten minutes earlier.

    I was exploring The Gorge in northern NSW near Grafton, parked at the top of the campground, when I spotted what looked like a promising side track — something that might take me closer to the waterfalls feeding the Clarence River. It was a little overgrown, sure, but I figured I could handle it.

    What I didn’t realise until it was far too late… was that I wasn’t on a track at all. I was following two cow paths. Parallel, deceiving, and utterly inappropriate for a vehicle the size of my MU-X.

    A few tense metres later, the car was perched on a 45-degree bank angle, teetering dangerously close to the river’s edge.

    Loki and Lucy had been sleeping peacefully in the back. That is, until the sudden lurch. Loki barrel-rolled across the back seat, almost flattening Lucy in the process. His weight, combined with the vehicle’s lean, made things worse — and for a moment, I genuinely thought we were going over.

    So I did what any calm, rational off-roader would do:
    I climbed out… and sat on the side step like a human counterweight.
    And I waited.

    An hour, to be exact — until a nearby station hand arrived to winch me out of trouble.

    Plenty of time to think.
    Plenty of time to feel sheepish.
    Plenty of time to notice two very unimpressed Border Collies in the back.

    But in that unexpected pause, something shifted.
    Because while I sat on that sidestep, trying not to breathe too heavily and reflecting on the chain of decisions that led me here, I finally had clarity on something else:

    The Recovery Points Conundrum.

    🔩 The Vehicle Problem

    My MU-X came fitted with a factory bull bar. Looks great. Sturdy enough. But here’s the kicker: Isuzu, in their wisdom, designed it so that rated recovery points couldn’t be fitted.

    So for the past year, I’d been stuck in this decision spiral:

    • Do I rip off the perfectly good bull bar and spend $5,000 installing a new one just to add rated recovery points and a winch?
    • Or do I risk continuing my adventures without the right gear, hoping for the best?

    What started as a $500 upgrade had turned into a $5,000 existential crisis — all because the gear didn’t match the journey anymore.

    And in that moment — stuck, humbled, and held in place only by physics and dumb luck — I knew:

    You don’t compromise on recovery.
    Not in vehicles.
    Not in life.

    🧰 What Belongs in Your Recovery Toolkit

    That day forced me to reflect not just on my 4WD setup…
    But on the human recovery points I’d needed through my carer journey.

    So here’s what I now believe should be standard issue — not just for off-roading, but for anyone navigating long-haul care, grief, healing, or rebuilding:

    🏥 1. A Consistent General Medical Practice

    Gone are the days of one family doctor for life. But consistency still matters.
    Find a GP clinic that knows your history, respects your story, and won’t make you retell your trauma every visit.
    This becomes your baseline record keeper — your map of the wear and tear you’ve endured.

    🧠 2. A Therapist (Like You’d Choose a Mechanic)

    When I left home, my Dad said:

    “Dom, make sure you know a reliable plumber, electrician, and handyman.”

    Great advice. But you know what I wish he’d added?

    “And find yourself a bloody good therapist.”

    A therapist who’s in your corner — no agendas, no judgement — is one of the best recovery tools you’ll ever invest in.
    But here’s the key: consistency.
    Stick with one long enough that they know the terrain of your story better than you do.

    🛡️ 3. An Income Protection Policy

    Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
    The carer journey will take a toll on your health — physical, mental, emotional.
    And when it ends (because it always does), your body and mind will collapse in ways you didn’t expect.

    An income protection policy, linked with your GP and therapist, becomes your financial recovery point.
    It buys you space to heal.

    🐾 4. An Active Dog Breed

    Sounds random? Stay with me.

    I got Loki at the apex of my wife’s illness — not because I needed a pet, but because I needed a vice-free companion.
    Something that forced me out of the house without guilt. Someone who didn’t ask questions, just stayed beside me.

    Loki was my anchor. Lucy joined later, forming a team that still knows when I’m spiralling before I do.

    A loyal dog won’t fix your life — but they’ll stand next to you while you pick up the pieces.

    ⌚ 5. An Apple Watch (or Something Like It)

    In the later years, when I couldn’t do anything for myself — not sleep, not cook, not even feel — I could still close my three Apple Watch rings.

    • Stand every hour in the Emergency Room
    • Burn calories carrying dialysis boxes.
    • Walk the farthest car park just to take the stairs to her hospital room.

    Every time I closed my rings, I got a little firework show.
    And for 1,458 consecutive days, I had something that said:

    “Yes, today was hell. But you still did something for you.”

    Those little victories mattered more than I can explain.
    They kept me in the fight — quietly, stubbornly, beautifully.

    🌱 Why I’m Sharing This

    Because I promised myself I wouldn’t tell others how to live or heal.

    But I will share what helped me survive.

    And maybe, somewhere in here, you’ll find a tool, a truth, or a moment that resonates with your own path.

    Because recovery doesn’t just happen.
    It’s not passive.
    You don’t stumble into peace.

    You build it.
    One recovery point at a time.
    One dog walk. One therapy session. One stand ring.
    One moment where you decide not to keep driving toward the edge — but instead… to pause, assess, and gently back your way into safety.

    🛻 This Isn’t the End of the Road — It’s Just a Wiser Way to Travel.

    This story — this moment stuck on a hillside with two grumpy border collies, a tipping 4WD, and an hour to think — wasn’t a crisis.

    It was a pivot.

    The kind where the old wiring might still flare, but now there’s backup.
    Where the lesson doesn’t cost you the car — just the illusion that you could keep pushing without consequence.

    So maybe that’s what recovery really is:
    Learning to drive your life differently.
    With better tools.
    With rated recovery points.
    With companions who don’t ask you to explain, just sit quietly and wait with you — even when they’re giving you side-eye.

    🚧 The Way Home Is Still Being Built

    This reflection might mark the close of one arc — the recovery years, the survival days, the ache of collapse.

    But this project?

    It’s not finished.

    Because I’m not finished.

    There are still pages to write.
    Meals to share.
    Tracks to explore.
    Truths to uncover.
    And a peace to live from — not chase.

    So I’ll keep writing.
    Keep walking.
    Keep building recovery points — not just in vehicles, but in conversations, kitchens, quiet mornings, and moments of presence.

    And if you’re reading this, still wondering where your recovery starts?

    It might be right here — with one honest inventory…
    … and the courage to admit it’s time to install the recovery points you’ve been avoiding.

    We don’t go back to who we were.
    But we can learn to live forward — on our own terms.

    One firework at a time.

    — Dom 🐾🛠️🔥

  • The Walk I Never Got

    The Walk I Never Got

    Field Notes from the Edge

    Journal Entry — Date Unknown

    Written during a weekend away, when the silence gave me space to feel. What surfaced wasn’t dramatic — it was quiet, and that’s what made it powerful. This isn’t about a loss in the traditional sense. It’s about the things I never got to live. And the grief of that is real too.

    This weekend has stirred something I didn’t expect.

    I gave myself permission to breathe — really breathe — for the first time in what feels like years. A sunrise with freshly brewed coffee. A bike ride from Coolum to Noosa, café stops and all. A slow wander through the Mooloolaba Aquarium. No dialysis machines, no timelines, no guilt.

    And yet… the grief came anyway.

    Not the sharp kind. The quiet kind. The kind that wraps around your chest and whispers, “Look at what you never had.”

    Because I realised this:
    I never got to walk down the beach, carefree, beside the woman I loved.
    I never got to pour a glass of wine, sit on the deck, and just be with her while music played.
    I never got to go on a casual ride, holding space without holding pressure.

    And I don’t know what to do with that.

    I’ve spent so long trying to make sense of the big stuff — the end-of-life support, the systemic betrayals, the collapse of everything I once held steady — that I never let myself grieve the absence of the small. The gentle. The simple.

    What does it say when I could carry someone through medical hell, but not carve out one ordinary sunset together?

    It makes me question everything. If I couldn’t create that — the basics of joy and companionship — how can I believe I’ll ever build something more meaningful? If I failed at simple, what right do I have to dream of complex?

    People tell me I expect too much.
    But are these really high expectations?

    • A relaxed walk on the beach with someone who chooses me
    • A sense of emotional belonging in my own family
    • A quiet life that still makes a difference

    I don’t think that’s asking the world.
    I think that’s asking to live.

    What haunts me is that I did the hard thing — I stayed. I cared. I bore witness. I held the line.
    But I never got the gentle version.
    And it breaks me a little more each time I see others get that without even realising what they have.

    If someone were to ask me the one thing I truly desire, it’s this:

    A relaxed, carefree walk on the beach with someone who loves me, for the rest of our lives.

    That’s all.

    Reflection

    This grief sits in the quiet places — in the absence of something I never fully held. And that deserves space too. I don’t need to justify it, fix it, or turn it into a lesson. I just need to name it. And keep walking

  • The Pumpkin That Broke Me

    The Pumpkin That Broke Me

    ✦ Journal Entry – Grief in the Kitchen

    A simple act of roasting vegetables turned into a grief trigger I never saw coming. What followed wasn’t just sadness, but waves of shame, anger, and collapse. This is the story of the moment I realised healing doesn’t always begin in a therapist’s office — sometimes, it starts with a burnt pumpkin.

    Cucurbita moschata, Kürbis, citrouille, calabaza, zapallo — or simply, the humble pumpkin.

    Karina used to make an effortless dish with it. Fresh pasta, roast pumpkin, sundried tomatoes, roast capsicum, and a light Roma tomato sauce. Simple. Warm. Comforting. It was my favourite meal, and my relationship with pumpkin was rock solid.

    Until the day it broke me.

    Three months after Karina passed away, I decided to throw a pizza party. Something to bring people together, get me back into hosting, and honour the kind of gathering Karina loved. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t use fresh ingredients or homemade dough. So that morning, I did it right. I made the dough, prepped the toppings, and even heard her voice in my head giving gentle instructions.

    Everything was going well.

    Until I pulled the pumpkin out of the oven.

    What I expected was golden, soft, glistening pieces, just like Karina used to make. What I got were withered, partly burnt chunks of vegetable. And something in me cracked.

    A wave of sadness hit first. Deep and hot. It ached.

    Then came the anger. Anger at myself. Not just because I couldn’t cook pumpkin properly, but because I couldn’t save my wife. The shame followed, fast and brutal. What would my friends think if they saw me like this? I couldn’t even cook a simple vegetable, let alone handle life.

    I shut down.

    I hid under the covers for three days.

    Since then, I’ve learned a few things about grief. It doesn’t follow stages. It doesn’t care about timing. And it loves to amplify chaos. I now think of emotions like traffic lights — they’re signals, not threats. They can overwhelm you when they glitch, but they can’t actually hurt you.

    When everything blinks orange, I do what I’d do at a broken intersection: slow down, stop, scan, proceed carefully.

    Sometimes I still emotionally shut down. But I always restart.

    Usually thanks to my two border collies.

    Grief doesn’t resolve neatly. It lingers. But I’m walking the rest of this road with a little more softness, a little more awareness. And with each step, I keep reminding myself:

    Even broken pumpkin is still food. Even a broken heart can keep going. And even collapsed moments can still cook up connection.

    Sometimes, that’s enough to keep going.