I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve suffered from asbestos poisoning over the years.

Every time I walked into my therapist’s office, there was that smell of old carpet that reminded me of my grandma’s house. A smell that’s baked into the walls. The carpet itself is a dull, tired blue, stamped with the footprints of everyone who’s walked this corridor before me, and dotted with coffee stains from therapists past and present who went for a refill before their next session and never quite made it back in time.

It’s not just the smell, though. It’s the feeling.

Outside, it could be the brightest day, the kind where staring into the sky feels dangerous. But the moment I step into the centre, all of that disappears. The light drops. The air thickens. Whatever joy you were carrying with you stays behind the door.

The muffled sound of cars rushing past, dogs barking somewhere in the distance, mums having their afternoon gossip at the cafe down the road — all of it vanishes instantly, before you even have time to take a proper breath.

It’s a word so many people, for so long, seem to be allergic to. Because if you go to therapy, it means something is wrong with you. Something needs fixing. And you hope — desperately — that you’ll only have to go once. You turn up, get handed a manual on how to recharge the batteries, and pray those batteries last the next seven years.

When I was first diagnosed with depression at 17, I remember feeling like my life was ending before it had even begun.

I thought I was a broken teenager, about to become a broken adult.

On the day I was diagnosed, all I wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and pretend the day never happened. Actually, I wished the year never happened. I wanted to go back to when I was eight and didn’t have a care in the world. Back when I could ride my bike straight into the back of a parked car, break my nose, and still think I was invincible.

Which I did once.
And thankfully, my nose stayed intact.

But at 17, I could miss the bus to school, misjudge the amount of sugar I wanted in my coffee, and feel all the hope and joy leak out of me — like I had a permanent hole in my heart.

Therapy didn’t even feel like an option back then. I only started going because my school counsellor insisted, worried things would get worse if I didn’t.

The shame peaked on the day of my first appointment.

I was dragged out of class with a note from the teacher, summoning me to the counsellor’s office to collect my referral letters. The whole room went quiet. A few gasps. No one said a word, but I could hear it anyway.

“Oooh… he’s in trouble.”

I didn’t tell anyone I was going to see a therapist. Not my parents. Not my best friend. I let people think whatever they wanted. I was too busy trying to protect the image of being that kid at school — the one who played guitar, the one who was going to have a successful music career.

That year, I missed 23 days of school. And when I did show up, it was usually for half a day. Some so-called friends called me a dropkick. Others questioned whether I cared enough about school at all.

They didn’t know what was going on.
And I didn’t know how to tell them.

I still remember that first session like it was yesterday. The clinic had that faint bleach smell of a place trying to stay clean, even as time quietly caught up with it.

And yet, when I walked out, I felt lighter. Like something had shifted back into place. For a moment, I felt like a teenager again — like maybe I’d be okay heading into adulthood after all.

And yet, when I walked out, I felt lighter. Like something had shifted back into place. For a moment, I felt like a teenager again — like maybe I’d be okay heading into adulthood after all.

That being said, I didn’t go back for my second appointment until I was 19.

And for the next eight years, I cancelled more sessions than I attended. I convinced myself that as long as I could play guitar, perform, and teach my students, life would be fine.

Eventually, the medicine I clung to stopped working.
It was well past its expiry date.

I wanted to share this because there are two sides to therapy, and most people only ever see one of them.

There’s the intimidating side. The one where you sit face-to-face with a stranger holding a notepad, in a four-by-four cubicle decorated with picture frames from Kmart in the 1980s, while the air conditioner leaks what you hope is water — but probably isn’t.

The idea of opening up about your struggles, your inner demons, the self-loathing, the dark thoughts — it’s terrifying enough with someone you trust. Doing it with a stranger feels impossible. Especially when you convince yourself they don’t really care, because they’re being paid to listen anyway.

At least, that’s what movies teach us to believe.

I can’t tell you what your experience will be. But for me, the journey to therapy was always more intimidating than the session itself.

It took eight years, two seizures, a complete breakdown, and a long stretch where I thought about killing myself every single day before I finally went back. And even then, I didn’t do it alone.

During one appointment, my GP pleaded with me to see someone. For a moment, she was no longer my GP. She was a mother begging their child to stop.

I hesitated.
Until she said something that took the weight off, just for a moment.

She told me to treat it like checking in with a friend.

Like texting someone and saying, “Hey mate, I’m not doing too well. Do you mind catching up for a coffee?”

My therapist always offers tea or coffee, which helped. More than I expected it to.

Because like any good friend, if they care, they’ll listen. They’ll sit with you when you’re about to fall apart. And when the moment’s right, they’ll tell you the truth you don’t want to hear — the kind you need.

My therapist now is like that.

She’s been doing this for decades. She’s helped hundreds of people. And for that one hour, none of that matters. Not the room. Not the carpet. Not the psychology books from Nietzsche and Carl Jung filling the shelves.

And just like with friends — if it’s not working, you’re allowed to walk away. It’s probably harder to break up with a friend than a therapist anyways.

(You can hear me talk about why I’m no longer scared of therapy in the video below)

I run a lot these days. For me, that’s another kind of therapy.

Almost every run starts the same way. My legs feel like tree trunks. Every breath feels heavy, like I’m inhaling all my doubts and insecurities at once and trying — desperately — to let them go.

The first kilometre is always the hardest. Every step is a negotiation with myself not to turn around and go back to the couch. I’m not trying to be impressive. I just tell myself to move and do my best.

After that first kilometre, things lighten slightly. By the third or fourth, I trust my body will keep going. I feel the wind pass through me. I stop running against it and start running with it.

By the fifth kilometre, I might stop. Other days, something kicks in — a small surge of belief I thought I’d lost forever — and I keep going. Anything after five is a bonus.

Therapy isn’t as poetic as running. But it works the same way.

After each session, I feel a small amount of hope return. Sometimes it lasts hours. Sometimes days.

I’ve learned not to expect life-changing breakthroughs every time. Some sessions are routine. Some are just maintenance. Like some runs, you don’t feel great afterwards — but you still show up.

And if you keep coming back, maybe that lighter feeling sticks around longer.

Maybe it stays.

And because I’ve felt it before, I know I can feel it again.

That room doesn’t feel as dusty as it once did.

The footprints on the carpet remind me that everyone who’s walked in before me walked out with something — even if it was small.

One day, I might leave a session smiling.

One day, I might finish a run convinced I’m ready for the 2032 Brisbane Olympics.

I think we all know which one’s more realistic.

Therapy helped me find language for the exhaustion I felt the moment I woke up. For the hopelessness that made life feel unlivable.

It gave me a place to unload the self-hate and pain instead of burying it and pretending it wasn’t there.

And it helped me believe I could make it through the day. And then the next. Not just for myself or my career — but for the people I love.

I’m not saying therapy is the answer for everyone.

But I do want to encourage you to reach out. Start with a friend. Or ask someone you trust who goes to therapy to recommend a therapist they believe in.

The more we talk about it, the less frightening it becomes.

Thank you so much for reading today’s newsletter. Today’s topic was a heavy one, but one I’ve wanted to share with you for a long time.

Therapy isn’t something to be scared about. Sure it seems frightening, degrading, and embarrassing, especially if your perception of therapy is based off movies.

But real therapy is simpler and in many ways, more boring that it looks.

It’s simply a conversation before you and someone else. And even though that someone else is paid to listen, at least they are listening. If they’re a good one, then you’ll notice it.

So if you found today’s newsletter helpful for your own therapy journey, I’d love if you could share it with a friend you know who is also on their own journey.

Simply click the button below and refer my newsletter to them. The more you share, the more we can destigmatise therapy for everyone, not just musicians and artists.

P.S. If you’re a long time reader and my newsletter has helped you in your mental health/music journey, please consider upgrading your subscription which costs less than two coffees a week.

If you decide to upgrade, you’ll get an exclusive first look at the full drafts where your input, questions and feedback will shape the final outcome of each newsletter.

You’ll also get access to audio versions of each newsletter, done by me, not an AI bot, and podcasts where I have conversations with fellow musicians and friends about their mental health challenges as musicians.

You’ll get also get access to audio versions of each newsletter, done by me, not an AI bot, and special video podcasts where I have conversations with fellow musicians and friends about their mental health challenges as musicians.

Here’s a sneak peak at what you get, with one of my audio newsletters from earlier this year.

But even if you’re a free subscriber, you’re already supporting me, and I’m grateful for that.

So I’d love for you to forward it to a friend or fellow musician who might find comfort in it. The bigger our community, the more we can help artists around the world share their mental health stories and feel less alone.

Check out my latest video where I talk about how therapy saved my mental health (the second part to the first video I scared)

And you can also listen to my latest podcast episode where I talk about how I rebuilt my life in 2025 after my breakdown in 2024 (including going to therapy):