About me

A life of depression, anxiety, self-harm, and attempts to take my own life. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever written.

Growing up, I always felt different from those around me. I was a shy child, lacking in confidence. But there was one place I felt at ease — on my bike. Falling off, injuring myself, even breaking bones, was a regular occurrence. My poor dad was constantly fixing my bike or taking me to hospital, while my mum would be smacking the floor, muttering, “Naughty floor.”

School was tough. In primary school, I struggled with the basics — reading and writing — and that didn’t get any easier in high school.
High school felt huge and intimidating. The teachers were scary, and maths suddenly involved letters instead of just numbers. Algebra and Shakespeare? I hated both. The only parts I enjoyed were being outdoors or that moment at twenty past three, when it was finally time to go home. I think school hated me as much as I hated it.

My teenage years were when I really began to lose my way. In my late teens, going to bars and nightclubs became the norm. But I hated crowds — and still do. That’s where alcohol and drugs came in. They gave me a confidence I’d never known, but looking back, they only made things worse. In my early twenties, I tried to quit both. That’s when my anxiety and depression skyrocketed, and I began self-harming to cope. Some cuts were deep enough to need stitches.

At twenty-five — the lowest point in my life so far — I was put under the care of a psychiatrist and a counsellor and prescribed medication. But I became an expert at hiding my problems, fooling everyone — especially myself. I stopped taking the medication and turned to self-medication instead: cocaine and vodka, two of my biggest demons.

At twenty-eight, I took an overdose — over a thousand painkillers, a mix of paracetamol and codeine. Between then and forty, I saw various counsellors and therapists, but I kept self-medicating. I wasn’t ready to help myself. My turning point came in 2020, at the age of forty. I climbed a fence, walked onto the railway tracks, and stood there. My will to live had simply vanished. It felt like forever, standing there with no trains coming, feeling like a complete failure. But eventually, I climbed back over the fence and returned to the station platform. Both digital boards read: Train delayed.

That moment changed everything.

This year, 2025, marks five years clean of cocaine and vodka. I continue to take prescribed medication and still struggle with depression, anxiety, and sleep. I still experience negative thoughts during low periods, and in 2023, I received an autism diagnosis. That’s where my love for photography, the outdoors, and wild camping really helps. Photography allows me to turn negative feelings into something positive — calming and soothing, the opposite of how I often feel. “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain but to add colour to my sunset sky.”

I’m lucky to have people in my life who care, but I know what it feels like to be so low you think you have nobody. To not want to talk to anyone and just want to curl up under a rock and disappear. Change has to start with you — and you have to be ready for it. If there’s even a small part of you that doesn’t want to change, that part will win every time.

I discovered photography in my early twenties, but my real journey began in 2017, when I was thirty-seven. My mum and dad gave me a Panasonic Lumix G1 with a couple of lenses. After that came the G7, then the G9 — and I still own all three. About a year ago, I switched to the OM System with the OM-1 and Olympus Pro lenses. The tech in this camera is next-level and has truly unlocked my creativity. Photography allows me to express feelings I can’t put into words and helps me connect with nature. You’ll often find me with a big bag on my back — just me, my camera, and my tent — out wild camping in all weathers. It’s a kind of medicine that works better than anything else.

Photography gives me a voice — a universal language I can use to express myself. It’s the confidence I once sought from drugs and alcohol, but in a healthier, more authentic way. It’s become my outlet for emotions and thoughts.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. And if you’re struggling too, find your own way to express what’s going on and ask for help. Reaching out isn’t weakness — it’s strength. You deserve to be heard, and your needs matter. Remember, you’re not alone. There are others who struggle quietly, too.