This is no sob story, this is just my story.

Originally written November 2011 — updated for clarity in 2026

I’ve always been careful about opening up to people. Not because I’m a man who “can’t talk about feelings,” but because very few people actually ask. If someone genuinely asks me something, I’ll always give an honest answer, but most people don’t go that deep.

I also don’t share too much because I never want my life to be seen as a sob story. It isn’t. I’ve achieved a lot, I’ve lived well, and I’m proud of that. A few things have been weighing on my mind recently, and they’ve made me think about where I am in life. And because of that, I feel it’s time to share.

Why here? Why something so personal on a blog?

Partly because it’s easier to write behind a screen. Partly because I hate repeating myself. Partly because I want the people who care about me to understand that being human is hard, and being a Christian on top of that can feel even harder. People expect more from you. You expect more from yourself. Sometimes you forget that you’re still just human.

People often tell me they admire me. That I’m brave. That I’m strong. I don’t feel brave. I often take the easy way out. I used to be the “get up and dust myself off” person, the one who inspired others. With age, I’ve changed. I’m not that person all the time anymore.

People also tell me it’s amazing that I’m still smiling despite everything I deal with. While that’s kind, the truth is that my smile is often a mask. Most people have one. Mine just slips more often these days.

Recently I went to a men’s fellowship conference with CVM and New Wine. One talk compared men to strong bulls — powerful, resilient, but worn down over time until they’re tired and carrying wounds they never deal with. Even when the spear is removed, the splinters remain. That image stuck with me. I’ve been praying for those splinters to be taken out.

So where do I begin?

I suffer from depression.

That’s the simplest place to start, because it’s the thread that ties so much of this together.

Some days I wake up and don’t want to move. My mind races with everything I struggle with — my health, my limitations, the things I can’t control. I try routines, triggers, structure. They help, but they’re still hard. When depression hits, even the smallest task feels impossible.

People have told me I “have nothing to be depressed about.” A wife, two beautiful kids, a home, achievements. Those things are true. Depression doesn’t care about logic. It lives in the background, in the places people don’t see.

Every day I wake up with dread. I need help getting dressed, cleaning, with everything. It hits my pride hard. We’re raised to be independent, to stand on our own two feet. Being disabled means losing that. As a former teacher, it’s even more painful — I used to teach children to dress themselves by age seven. Here I am, an adult, needing help. Disability can become a problem.

Then there’s the falling.

I fall every day. If I’m lucky, I don’t hit anything on the way down. When you’re alone, it’s terrifying. You never know when it’s coming, you constantly feel vulnerable, only that it will. You pray it won’t be bad. 

The worst part is the loneliness.

Strange, considering I was married and surrounded by friends. Loneliness doesn’t care about proximity. You can be in a room full of people and still feel alone. I had faith, and I knew God was with me, but sometimes you need a human face, a comforting look, a moment of connection. That isn’t always available.

You can’t work, so you don’t see people during the day. You can’t restrict your family’s movements — especially with two small children. You try to make up for it by doing things in the evenings, but your health gets in the way. You’re tired. You’re limited. You're trapped in a body that's working against you. Even when you desperately want to go out, you can’t.

So yes — sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed.

When things get overwhelming, even small misunderstandings feel huge. Depression twists things. Paranoia creeps in. I have verses I repeat, friends I message, activities that help me focus. Most of the time, they work. Sometimes they don’t.

I won’t go into detail, but there were times I hurt myself. Not out of drama or attention — but because I felt lost, disconnected, and desperate to feel something real. It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t something I was proud of. Very few people knew. I worry about how people see me. It’s misunderstood, judged, and feared. It was part of my reality then.

Bravery isn’t what people think it is.

Bravery is standing up when you’ve fallen, even when you don’t want to. I used to be good at that. I wanted to prove people wrong — to show I was more than my disability, more than my limitations. I shaped my career, my education, my home life around proving I was capable.

Knowing your health will decline — medically predicted, without intervention — is terrifying. More terrifying than death, because you know what’s coming, and you can’t stop it.

I wanted peace.

Still do.

It’s one of the reasons I held onto my faith. I believed God could bring me peace. I prayed for rest — not to give up, but to stop fighting for a moment. Sixteen years of fighting, arguing, struggling. It’s exhausting. It’s heavy. I gave it to God again and again, but it always found its way back to me.

I prayed for peace so I could enjoy my boys before my health got worse.

So no — this isn’t a sob story.

It’s an unmasking.

If anyone reading this struggles with self‑harm, please know this:

You’re not alone.

Telling someone — anyone — is a step toward not carrying it by yourself.

2026 Reflection

Re‑reading this in 2026 feels like the first page of a story I didn’t yet know I was writing. Back in 2011, I thought I was simply describing a hard season — depression, exhaustion, fear, loneliness, and the slow erosion of independence. What I didn’t realise I was that I was entering a much larger journey, one that would take me through breakdown, rebuilding, misdiagnosis, resilience, disability, removing internalised ableism, single parenting, fatherhood, community, and finally a deeper understanding of myself.

When I wrote this, I didn’t have the language for what was happening inside me. I didn’t know that the emotional intensity, the overwhelm, the shutdowns, the fear of abandonment, the rigidity, the sensory issues, and the communication differences were part of a lifelong pattern. I didn’t know that the exhaustion I described wasn’t just depression, but the early signs of a body and brain pushed far beyond their limits.

A year later, everything collapsed. I broke. I attempted suicide. I was sectioned. In that moment, professionals gave me a diagnosis of a Dependant Personality Disorder, which I wrote a lot about, as I tried making sense of how everything had unravelled so quickly.

The years that followed were a climb. Sobriety. Therapy or Mental health groups. Parenting. Fighting for support and myself. Then came the physical reality of my disability — the day my body failed me completely, leaving me crawling across the floor, trapped in a body that no longer obeyed me.

There were years where I pushed myself because I didn’t know how not to. Years where I chose life even when it hurt, even when it exhausted me, even when it terrified the people who loved me.

The biggest shift came in the last few years.

Watching my boys go through their ASD assessments, I saw myself. The version no one ever understood. The masking, struggles, feeling everything too deeply, living in routines and fairness and sensory overwhelm. Looking back at this 2011 post now, I can see the autistic traits woven through every line. I was autistic, overwhelmed, unsupported, and trying to survive a world that didn’t understand me.

This post was the first time I tried to unmask — even though I didn’t yet know that’s what I was doing. I just needed to explain myself and admitted I was struggling.

It was the beginning of the journey that led me here.

If you’re reading this because you’re somewhere in your own beginning — overwhelmed, confused, hurting, or trying to understand yourself — I hope this helps.