Two lives lost to suicide this week have really pulled me up.

At home, my wife said something I can’t shake: “Maybe this is just normal now.”

I understand why it feels that way, when you sit close to this space, it can start to feel constant. But I can’t accept it.

Suicide is not normal. And it should never become something we live with.

More than 3,300 Australians die by suicide each year, around nine every day. Behind every number is a person who mattered, and people left behind trying to make sense of it.

The pressure people are under is real, cost of living, business strain, uncertainty, isolation. It’s heavy and it’s growing.

The danger is not just the crisis, but acceptance of it.

We don’t need to normalise suicide.

We need to normalise the conversation.

Because when people can say “I’m not okay” without fear, things start to change.

That’s where it starts.

Most people will tell you they’re okay.

They’ll keep moving. Keep showing up. Say the words they think they’re meant to say.

But just under the surface… there’s a fragility sitting there.

And that’s the part we’re not talking about enough.

Right now, in this stage of bushfire recovery, I’m seeing something that worries me. Not the visible damage, but the quiet weight people are carrying months later. The comparison. The waiting. The feeling of being left behind.

Because the truth is, most people won’t speak up when they’re struggling.

They’ll wait until they’re at breaking point.

This is a reminder that what you’re feeling is normal. That you’re not weak. And most importantly, that you’re not alone.

Out here on the ground in regional Australia, I’m seeing what too many don’t, families under pressure, and kids starting school hungry.

Not somewhere else… right here in Australia.

The reality is simple. A hungry child can’t focus, can’t learn, and can’t reach their potential. And the hardest part? These are the very families who feed this country.

The Buy a Brekkie campaign by Aussie Helpers is a practical, immediate way to step in early, providing simple, nutritious breakfasts to rural kids who need it most. It’s about giving every child a fair start to the day and backing the communities that back all of us.

This is Capacity Before Crisis in action.

When life doesn’t go to plan, it’s not just the outcome that changes, it’s how we see ourselves. In this piece,I explore the quiet identity shift that comes with loss, uncertainty, and change and how we can begin to rebuild with honesty, courage, and small, intentional steps forward.

This week in Launceston, I had the privilege of standing in front of leaders and workers from the electrical and construction industries at a Middy’s information night.

What unfolded wasn’t just a presentation, it was a much needed conversation.

Driven by people like Phil Forsyth and supported by a business willing to lean in, it created space to talk about something this industry can no longer ignore.

We are losing too many good people to suicide.

This blog is written on the back of that night. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s a call for all of us across electrical, construction, and mining to take shared responsibility, start the conversations, and build capacity before crisis.

Something feels off right now. The fuel crisis, global instability, and supply chain strain are creating a quiet tension across rural, regional, and remote communities.

In this blog, I explore why it’s okay to feel uneasy, and how we can build resilience and capacity before crisis hits. Learn practical tools to stay grounded, connected, and prepared.

Vulnerability is a fickle friend.

Some days it feels like your greatest strength. Other days it feels like you’ve just handed someone the sharpest knife in the drawer.

In rural, regional and remote communities we’ve been raised to toughen up, get on with it and keep our emotions to ourselves. But through thousands of conversations in halls, paddocks, community centres and workplaces across Australia, I’ve seen something powerful.

The most important conversations don’t begin with bravado.
They begin with honesty.

In this blog I explore why vulnerability is not weakness, but emotional intelligence in action. Drawing on lived experience, my work with communities and insights from Ben Crowe’s Where The Light Gets In, this piece explores how honest leadership creates permission for others to speak, connect and feel less alone.

Because when one person is brave enough to say “This is how I’m actually feeling,” something shifts.

The walls come down.
The masks slip.
And the real conversation begins.

Seven weeks after a disaster, the adrenaline fades but the pressure doesn’t. This is the stage no one prepares you for. The paperwork. The waiting. The financial strain. The emotional collision of gratitude, anger, exhaustion and guilt sometimes all in the same breath.

In this blog, I, explore the psychological weight of sustained stress, why recovery isn’t linear, and why every emotion you’re feeling right now is valid. This is about endurance, not weakness and why understanding matters more than fixing.

When disaster hits, the world watches. But once the cameras leave, the real work begins. Seven weeks post-disaster, I’m seeing what recovery actually looks like and why resilience alone isn’t enough. The communities that cope best didn’t just rely on grit; they relied on capacity built long before the crisis hit.

They show up. They smile. They carry everyone else’s weight. And no one sees the cracks. Here’s what I’ve learned about noticing the signs before it’s too late.

Disaster changes people.
Sometimes it leaves stress that lingers.
Sometimes, alongside that stress, something deeper begins to grow.

This article explores the reality of post-traumatic stress and post-traumatic growth and why building capacity before, during and after crisis shapes how we recover. Not with toxic positivity. Not with pressure. But with honest conversations about what it takes to heal.

After a disaster, many people expect grief and recovery to follow neat, predictable steps. But the truth is far more complicated. Homes, businesses, and communities may be damaged yet our emotions rarely move in a straight line. Some days you feel strong, others overwhelmed; some progress, some setbacks.

In this blog, I unpack why this emotional rollercoaster is normal, what triggers these swings, and why self-compassion and understanding are the real keys to recovery. Backed by research from Phoenix Australia and insights from trauma psychologist Kate Brady, this is a guide to navigating the loops, not judging yourself for them.

After disaster, we often wish recovery could be as simple as nature does, shed the trauma, move on, and harden up.

But people don’t heal like rocks. Trauma doesn’t always roar; it whispers. Sleep becomes difficult, focus drifts, memories appear unexpectedly, and the heaviest moments often come after the danger has passed.

Recovery isn’t linear, and it doesn’t follow a timetable. Healing happens through connection, conversation, and permission to recover at your own pace, not in silence, and not alone.

After a disaster, recovery doesn’t just happen on the ground it happens at the kitchen table, community hall or relief hub. Insurance claims, grant applications and funding processes often land when people are already exhausted, grieving and overwhelmed. This piece explores the hidden administrative load of disaster recovery and why capacity, not resilience, is the real issue.

Survivor Guilt: When Surviving Hurts
After a disaster, we often measure loss in what’s visible, homes, stock, livelihoods. But sometimes the heaviest burden sits quietly inside.

Survivor guilt can make people feel unworthy of help, even when their distress is real. In this post, I share what I saw firsthand during the 2019–20 Sarsfield fires and why no matter how big or small your disaster or challenge, if it’s affecting your mental health, you deserve support.

“Recovery isn’t a handover. It’s a junction.”

When the flames ease and the sirens fall silent, a harder phase often begins. This blog explores the messy middle of bushfire recovery, where exhaustion, fear, extreme weather and systems collide and why rebuilding capacity matters as much as rebuilding land and and infrastructure.

After the Fire: Why Frustration, Anger and Kindness All Belong in Recovery explores what really happens after the flames are out and the attention fades. Drawing on lived experience and recovery research, this piece challenges the myth that recovery follows a neat timeline and reminds us that anger, exhaustion and numbness are normal responses to abnormal loss. It highlights why the “second wave” of recovery is often the hardest, why kindness matters long after the casseroles stop coming, and why building capacity before crisis is essential for individual and community wellbeing.

The days after a disaster can feel harder than the crisis itself. When the adrenaline fades and life begins to slow, exhaustion, emotion and overwhelm often rise to the surface.

After the 72 Hours explores why this stage of recovery is so challenging, what’s happening in the nervous system, and how rebuilding capacity starts with small, practical steps not pushing harder. A grounded, compassionate reminder that recovery isn’t linear, you’re not broken, and healing takes time.

The launch of the Murrindindi Health Van wasn’t just a milestone moment, it was a powerful example of what’s possible when communities act before crisis hits. From the saleyards to the heart of the Shire, this project shows how access, trust and local leadership can build real capacity and connection where it’s needed most.

On the day I had to send my cows to the abattoir after seven years of relentless drought, I faced the most painful decision of my farming life.

Years of care, breeding, and love left the farm in the back of a truck, a stark reminder of the challenges pastoralists and producers face every day.

In this blog, I reflect on grief, resilience, and the lessons learned when doing what’s right for animal welfare, even when it breaks your heart.

A story of loss, integrity, and solidarity for those in drought and flood affected regions across Australia.