When Was the Last Time You Felt Better?

Do you ever think about what “feeling better” really means?

If you’ve had dark periods or lived through depression, do you ever forget what happiness even feels like — and wonder if that past version of yourself was just a dream?

I’ve been having those thoughts this year. They hit me hard after a recent therapy session. (I’ll tell you about that in a moment.)

I’m not writing this to be one of those “If I can get through my depression, so can you” pep talks. That’s never been my style.

I’m writing it because I want to be honest about what the road back has actually looked like — and what it’s been like trying to rebuild my music career and reset my life.

The short version?
It’s been like Sydney weather. One day feels like picnic weather. The next, you’re wondering if all those swimming lessons you had as a kid are going to save you in the downpour.

And the one thing that’s kept me afloat? Hearing other people’s stories — the triumphant ones, the painful ones, even the boring ones. They all helped me feel less alone.

Maybe this one will do that for you too.

It’s been ten months since I had a seizure that left me with a black eye and a chipped tooth.

It wasn’t my first collapse in a GP’s office, so at first I thought I’d just fainted. But this time was different.

This time I was four months into anti-depressants. Three months into feeling some hope again after years of suicidal ideation.

So when I woke up being wheeled into an ambulance, it felt like a dagger to the chest. Or worse — a dagger to the mind.

I’d worked so hard to claw back passion for my career, my guitar, my students, my life. To suddenly feel betrayed by my own body again — it was brutal.

The seizure was serious, yes. No history of epilepsy, nothing in the family. But what broke me more was the message underneath it all: five years of fighting to get better… and still, not this time, mate.

That was November 7th, 2024. Today it’s September 23rd, 2025.

Let me catch you up on what’s been happening.

Since then, I’ve shut down my music school.
Cut my student list from 35 to 10.
Taken a steady part-time job in law enforcement.
Gotten back to 100% fitness for the first time since 2022.
Even revived my YouTube channel to talk about mental health and play guitar again.

I haven’t gigged this year. But I’m slowly falling back in love with music.

I’ve had more doctor’s appointments in the last 12 months than in my entire life combined. At this point, I could probably teach a class on heart health, sleep cycles, and brain chemistry. (LinkedIn guru style, right?)

But all of that is the surface. What you really want to know is: how am I feeling?

So let me take you back to that therapy session.

My therapist had me do one of those mood scales — 1 to 5, depression, anxiety, stress. I filled it out, handed it over, joking to myself that this was one of the few “exams” I’m guaranteed to ace.

She scored it, looked at me, and asked:
“Brian, how do you think you’re doing now?”

“Same old, I guess. Doesn’t feel much different,” I muttered.

She set the paper down. Uncrossed her legs. Took off her glasses.

““Brian,” she said. “Ten months ago, right after your seizure, I marked you in the severe category. Any higher and I would’ve had to refer you to a rehab centre.”

“Oh… well… that’s nice to know,” was all I could muster.

Then she leaned forward, set her clipboard down, took off her glasses, and said softly:
“You’re making progress, Brian. You are getting better.”

I don’t feel better yet. But hearing her say it out loud, that I’m getting better, was like someone opening a window in a room I didn’t realise was suffocating me.

That session was in August. Since then, I’ve been trying to move through life as if things are better.

I can see it in my routines.

I wake up at 6am because my cat demands breakfast. I crawl back to bed for a cuddle with my girlfriend. By 7:15am, we’re both up — her for work, me for coffee.

I log into my job at 8:45am. Run at lunch. Play guitar between emails. Write newsletters like this one in the little gaps.

It’s not glamorous, it’s unsexy, but it’s steady. It’s peaceful.

And in between it all, I still dream. I still imagine going back on tour, booking flights, playing bigger stages, maybe even sharing one with Tommy Emmanuel again.

The difference is, music now feels less like a job and more like a way to connect. To tell my story.

I won’t lie to you. I still have dark moments.

Four times this year I’ve thought about ending my life.
I’ve stared at the pills in the cupboard, counted them, wondered how many it would take.
I’ve driven down empty roads and thought about how, where, I could crash so I wouldn’t hurt anyone else but myself.

Those thoughts might never go away completely. I may always walk that tightrope.

But I also know this:
I don’t just want to survive anymore.
I want to live. To feel every shade of human emotions and experiences — even the darkest ones.

Because if I accept the dark, maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the kaleidoscope, I’ll find happiness again.

And I hope you do too.

 📌 P.S. If this post resonated, would you consider sharing it with a friend?

It helps me grow this newsletter and keep it free so I can continue helping musicians build a thriving music career without sacrificing their mental health.

And if you’re a first time visitor, please consider subscribing with or free or upgrading to a paid subscription. Either way, I appreciate your support!

📹 You can also check out my latest YouTube video: