The Way Home Project

Tag: writing

  • What the River Showed Me

    What the River Showed Me

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry — Shoalhaven River, South Coast NSW

    Written one week into a solo road trip through places that once felt like home. I didn’t know what I’d find. What I discovered was part grief, part clarity — and part unexpected freedom. This one carries both ache and awakening.

    ⸻

    I’m sitting on the banks of the Shoalhaven River.

    One week into my two-week solo journey along the South Coast of New South Wales.

    When I started this trip, I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with being alone for this long. I didn’t know what memories would surface, or whether I’d feel like a failure returning to my old stomping grounds. I didn’t expect the emotional terrain to be so jagged. Or so revealing.

    The lows? They came from where I didn’t expect.

    Time with my parents felt draining. Their growing negativity, their outdated views — especially around work, mental health, and what they think I should be doing — it hit me harder than I anticipated. Dad went on about how people just need to “get on with it” and return to work when they’re struggling mentally. As if that ever worked.

    Then there was the moment Eva told me, almost guiltily, that they’d booked a trip to Germany and wouldn’t be here for my 50th birthday. No photos of me in their home. Plenty of my sister and her kids. It’s not even the absence of acknowledgment that hurts the most — it’s knowing they discussed it, made the choice, and never thought to ask how that might land.

    Being back in familiar places didn’t help.

    The house I grew up in — run down, unrecognisable.

    The family friends’ house where I played tennis as a kid — abandoned, broken.

    Even the memories seemed tired.

    So yeah, the past wasn’t waiting for me. It had moved on. Or maybe it had always been like this, and I’m only seeing it clearly now.

    But then… there were the highs.

    Walking Loki and Lucy along the beaches of Jervis Bay.

    Swimming in crystal-clear water.

    Fish and chips in a little harbour while dolphins cruised past.

    Dinner with kangaroos hopping nearby.

    Arguing with a kookaburra who refused to laugh at my joke.

    Taking spontaneous detours, following instinct instead of itinerary.

    I felt something return to me — confidence, freedom, presence.

    A trickle of joy where there had only been weight.

    It reminded me of the camping trip I took while working on Lizard Island.

    Unencumbered. Clear.

    It’s the last time I remember feeling that kind of lightness.

    Even in the early days with Karina, camping always came with stress. Chronic illness doesn’t take holidays. Even joy came with conditions.

    But here — now — I could finally just be.

    No roles. No managing. No hypervigilance.

    Just the road, the dogs, the ocean, and me.

    The question I asked myself before this trip was:

    Is this me? Is this something I want to build into my life going forward?

    The answer is yes.

    Absolutely yes.

    ⸻

    ✦ Reflection

    This wasn’t a holiday. It was a reckoning. The past didn’t offer comfort — but the present did. The river didn’t give me answers, but it held space for me to find them. I’m not running from pain anymore — I’m learning to make peace with the parts of life that didn’t turn out the way I hoped. And that peace — even in moments — is enough to build on

  • When I Finally Told the Truth

    When I Finally Told the Truth

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry – Shared During Peer Support

    A moment of reflection during a peer support session triggers an unfiltered truth: how do you go from being driven and high-functioning… to not caring if you live or die? This is the story of what I discovered when everything inside me stopped — and how a 17-year-old cat helped me move again.

    It was my second peer support group meeting. I had my cup of tea, was watching the dogs sleep, and had taken care of all the daily tasks I had set myself. I was calm, not stressed. But when it was my turn to speak, what came out was:

    “I don’t know how I got here. I really don’t. How did I go from being highly functional and ambitious to not caring whether I live or die?”

    It wasn’t said for dramatic effect. It was simply the truth. And it stayed with me long after the session.

    To understand how I got to this point, you need to understand a few things:

    I was raised German. That’s not a nationality, it’s a code. We don’t quit. We solve problems. We keep going. It doesn’t matter what happened — we figure it out, carry on, and keep moving. Efficiency and productivity are proof of character. Emotions are irrelevant to outcomes.

    So when my body started breaking down and my nervous system began to collapse, I didn’t know what was happening. I just thought I was lazy. Soft. Failing. I didn’t realise I was burning through the last scraps of survival instinct.

    The worst part? Everyone around me thought I was doing okay. Even I thought I was doing okay. It was only when I stopped — truly stopped — that I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I felt joy.

    It all hit me the day after my wife died. That night, I lay on the couch beside Pearl, my 17-year-old cat, who had been with me through everything. She stood on my chest, purred gently, and looked at me with those ancient, knowing eyes. I could barely move. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stared at the ceiling, hollow.

    That was the moment I realised I wasn’t functioning. I was performing.

    I had been surviving on habit, structure, and responsibility. But inside? I was gone.

    And yet, in that moment of stillness, something shifted. Pearl curled up beside me. The dogs snored softly. And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I had to do anything. There was no one to impress. No one to fix. Just breath and presence.

    I’m still walking the slow road back to myself. I’m still figuring out what peace feels like when you didn’t grow up believing you were allowed to have any.

    But if you’re reading this and you’ve found yourself asking the same question: How did I get here? — know this:

    You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re just tired from holding up the sky for too long.

    And there’s a way back. It starts with stopping. It starts with telling the truth.

    Even if it’s just to a cat.

  • The Cost of Going Back

    The Cost of Going Back

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry — Post-Corporate Reckoning

    Written during a stretch of intense internal questioning. This entry holds the weight of everything I feared, everything I was conditioned to believe, and the quiet truth I was beginning to uncover — that survival is not laziness, and peace is not cowardice.

    If there are two words that describe how I feel right now, they’re “overwhelmed” and “defeated.”
    “Exhausted” is not far behind.

    The truth is, I’m still reeling from the realisation that my return to that vocational world — in any form — is officially off the table. It’s not theoretical anymore. There’s no back door. No pivot. No quiet reintegration. That chapter is closed.

    And yes, there’s grief.
    But what’s catching me off guard is how loud the internal questioning has become.

    Am I giving up too easily?
    Am I being lazy?
    Am I just afraid?

    Or — and this is harder to believe — am I actually doing the right thing?

    The emotional toll of even imagining going back into that environment is enormous. I feel it in my chest, in my breath, in my focus. Just thinking about those systems — the metrics, the emotional load, the performance loops — and my whole body tenses like it’s bracing for impact.

    The part that’s hardest to reconcile?

    I used to thrive there.
    And now, it would crush me.

    So I keep circling the core questions:

    • Would going back re-traumatise me?
    • Is walking away an act of failure — or the first real act of self-protection I’ve ever made?
    • Are these the choices of a good man… or someone taking the easy road?

    I’ve sat with all of it — and what keeps rising is this:
    Returning would not be a comeback. It would be a collapse.

    The environment hasn’t changed. The systems haven’t softened. And no amount of nostalgia or loyalty can justify re-entering a space that my nervous system now recognises as unsafe.

    Even those supporting my recovery — medical, personal, professional — have echoed that this isn’t avoidance. It’s discernment.

    So what am I grieving, really?

    Maybe I’m mourning the man who could keep pushing.
    The one who could operate at all costs.
    The loyal one. The high-performer. The anchor.
    He served me well. But he doesn’t exist anymore.

    And in his place is someone quieter.
    More fractured, maybe. But more whole.

    Someone who’s starting to understand that leaving a structure doesn’t mean abandoning integrity — it means returning to it.

    ✦ Reflection

    There’s no blueprint for this. Only presence. Only truth. I didn’t walk away from a job — I walked away from an environment that made wellness impossible. And in doing so, I chose peace over pressure. That has to count for something.

  • How Did I Get Here?

    How Did I Get Here?

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry — Date Unknown

    Written during a week when everything seemed to rise at once — grief, anger, guilt, exhaustion. This is the kind of entry that doesn’t answer anything, but it asks the questions that demand to be honoured. It’s not a breakdown — it’s the surfacing of a long-unspoken truth.

    ⸻

    How did I get here?

    That question has been looping in my head — not once, but constantly. And every time I ask it, I feel a cascade of emotion: disappointment, anger, frustration, guilt. But also something quieter underneath — a kind of shock. Like I’ve just woken up and realised I’ve been sleepwalking through a war zone.

    So what does “here” even mean?

    It’s this state of mind I’m in — fractured, stretched, exhausted. I used to be someone who could regulate emotions. Who could compartmentalise, process, stay calm under fire. I had to be, especially with Karina. She was volatile, unpredictable — often emotionally aggressive. If I didn’t keep myself together, it would’ve all collapsed.

    So I became a master of emotional control.

    For her. For the promise I made. For God.

    But now…

    Now it feels like I’ve lost the map to that control. My emotions are running the show. I get triggered so easily. I’m scared of how fast it shifts — like a pinball machine where every light is flashing and I can’t find the flippers anymore.

    And that makes me angry. Because I prepared for this.

    I had ten years to see it coming.

    I knew the end was going to be brutal.

    So why does it feel like I’m failing now?

    The anger is sharp — but it’s not just about now.

    It’s about every moment I held it together while Karina fell apart.

    It’s about doing everything right and still ending up here — raw, alone, directionless.

    I feel guilty too. Because I know how hard I worked. I know how long I held the line. And still I whisper: Shouldn’t I have done better?

    But maybe the truth is this:

    • The last five years weren’t just difficult — they were unrelenting.

    • Home dialysis, cancer, heart disease… there was no break. No buffer.

    • I was exposed to full-spectrum trauma every day, and I had no room to process any of it.

    That wasn’t preparation. That was survival.

    And survival doesn’t leave you whole — it leaves you spent.

    I’m beginning to see that trying to emotionally analyse my way out of this might be doing more harm than good. Maybe I don’t need to dissect every feeling right now. Maybe I just need to feel it. Let it pass through without trying to diagnose it.

    I’m not spiralling.

    I’m surfacing.

    And yes, it’s messy.

    ⸻

    ✦ Reflection

    This isn’t about emotional weakness. It’s about emotional debt. I carried more than most people ever will — and now my system is trying to metabolise it. Maybe I didn’t fail to prepare. Maybe the preparation was never supposed to protect me from feeling this. Maybe it was supposed to carry me to the other side — and now I’m here