Eight years ago I was 6 months into a brand-new job, still learning how to not be the technical guy, and 6 months into fatherhood, still learning how to stop a baby leaking from every end. One afternoon the spinning plates simply sheared off their sticks. I curled up on the carpet of my home office, chest thumping, brain humming, convinced my life was disintegrating in real time.
The backing track in my head had never changed: “I’m just shit”. Most days that belief whipped me into working harder and aiming higher – until it didn’t. I’d survived Taliban bombs and board-room grillings, yet a nappy change and a PowerPoint deck took me out at the knees. How very manly.
Turned out I was suffering from clinical depression, and I spent months off work. A cocktail of lifestyle tweaks, medication and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) started to rebuild the scaffolding. It helped, but never quite fixed it. I learned to spot the warning flares, yet relapses and mood swings stayed an ever present risk.
