Lessons From My Psychologist's Couch

Today I went back to my psychologist for a follow-up, and honestly it was really, really good.

For context, I’d started 2026 the way most of us do: optimistic, fresh-page energy, “this is my year” vibes.

And then I got back into the groove of work and life - and just felt a bit flat.

Not in a catastrophic way. No dramatic plot twist. Just that familiar post-holiday drop where you come back from something amazing (Canada was unreal BTW - genuinely one of the most memorable trips of our lives) and then the routine creeps back in with its usual combo of work, life logistics, trying to be productive, trying to be present, trying to be everything… and occasionally feeling a bit flat anyway.

So I was looking forward to debriefing. Not because I needed someone to “fix” me, but because I wanted to map out what I want 2026 to look like; not what it should look like.

Because “should” is a word that has never once helped anyone. It’s like a weighted blanket for your brain, but not the good kind.

The Cairns "lightbulb" moment.

A couple of things stood out in the session today, and the funny part is they were weirdly connected.

The first one started on the weekend in Cairns. I was up there for my son’s karate training. He’s a pretty handy little karate guy (and yes, I’m saying that as an unbiased father who is absolutely unbiased). He’s been selected for a state carnival in Brisbane in February, so he did some extra training.

As I’m watching him train, I’m also watching the adults in the room.

People in their 40s, 50s, 60s - people with jobs, businesses, kids, responsibilities - still carving out time to dedicate themselves to something that isn’t work and isn’t family admin. Not just “doing a thing” occasionally, but committing to it. Becoming masterful in a skill. Building identity beyond the two big categories most of us live inside: work and family.

And I had this thought:

If these people can make space for that… what’s stopping me?

Then I felt that Instagram was reading my mind.

A few hours later, without me mentioning this to anyone, without me posting about it, without my phone listening to my thoughts (which is exactly what someone says right before their phone listens to their thoughts) - I see an Instagram reel about men needing a “third space.”

Traditionally, the "third space" for men has often been the pub.

Social, mates, switching off.

But the reel talked about how a lot of men are stepping away from that drinking culture (which fits where I’m at too), and how we still need connection - just in a different form.

And it hit me: I don’t really have that.

I’m a physio. I’m “the ACL guy". I’m a husband. I’m a dad. And I love being all those things. No apology there.

But outside of those roles?

If I’m honest, I’m a bit two-dimensional.

I exercise. I walk the dog. I try to keep healthy habits ticking over.

But I don’t really have hobbies.

I don’t play golf with mates. I don’t have a book club or a journal club. I don’t have a regular “this is my thing” that gets me out of my usual bubble and into another community.

And that’s the part that I think has been missing: a social connection that isn’t tied to work or family responsibilities.

Reliable for everyone… except myself

One of the more uncomfortable truths that came up was this:

I’m really good at being reliable for other people.

If someone asks me to help, I’m there.If there’s work to do, I’ll do it.

If a commitment gets thrown my way, I’ll probably say yes (sometimes even before checking if I’m already stretched thin).

But being reliable for me?

That’s where I quietly go missing.

And the psychologist said something that landed: if I don’t write it down, say it out loud, and make it real, it’s incredibly easy for it to get swept under the rug - and never happen.

Which is, to be fair, my signature move.

The second “lightbulb” moment

The second big thing that my Psych and I discussed came from a conversation over dinner with some karate parents on the weekend.

Someone asked what I do, and whether I like my job. And I actually said it, honestly, for probably the first time in a while:

“I do like my job… but I feel a bit stale.”

Now - important context- I genuinely love what I do.

I love my patient list. I love the weirdly fascinating complexity of ACL rehab. It’s “just a 3cm x 1cm piece of ligament tissue” but it belongs to a person.

And that person has their own goals, lifestyle, tissue quality, psychological load, confidence levels, stress levels, support systems, beliefs about their knee, fears about reinjury - the list goes on forever. No two ACL journeys are the same.

But I’ve been a physio for 16 years now, and like anyone who’s done a job long enough, there are phases where you’re a bit flat, a bit less energised, a bit like you’re going through the motions.

Usually, when that happens, I know what fixes it: a conference. A workshop. Being around highly motivated people. Learning something new. I come back full of beans, full of ideas, full of energy and I ride that wave for months.

But this time, the “flat” feeling came sooner than usual - even after doing a conference late last year.

And the psychologist reframed it in a way that honestly felt like someone picked up my brain and rotated it 180 degrees:

Maybe the answer isn’t another ACL conference. Maybe the answer is learning something outside of physio.

A new skill. A new community. A third space.

Making it real.

On the way home, I decided to do something I’ve wanted to do more of: normalise mental health conversations.

So I told the kids I’d been to see my psychologist, and what we talked about.

Not in a heavy, scary way. More like:

“Hey, I go to a psychologist sometimes to help keep my brain happy - like going to the dentist for your teeth.”

They thought it was really cool.

And it felt good to talk about it openly.

Because I want them to grow up seeing mental health care as normal, not something you only do when everything has fallen apart.

And for the record: I’m not in a catastrophic crisis. I’m not dealing with trauma or a major life implosion. But I do have a low-grade simmering anxiety that bubbles away at times. And I genuinely believe there are a lot of people like me - functioning, productive, outwardly “fine” but carrying more than they admit.

And sometimes the best time to take care of your mental health is before it becomes something bigger and harder to manage.

So what's my third space?

Alright. Here’s the action part.

We decided I’m going to start karate.

Yep. Me. The ACL guy. The man with a proud history of thinking he’s still 25 when he warms up.

I’m going to join my son at karate - Wednesday nights and Friday afternoons/evenings.

Watching him go from white belt to purple belt over the last two years has been one of the coolest things as a dad.

His confidence, his community, his growth has been genuinely joyful to watch.

And it feels like something I can step into. Achievable. Social. Challenging. A new skill. A new space.

Why I’m writing this

The real reason I’m posting this is simple:

If I don’t write it down and say it out loud, it’ll disappear. It’ll get lost in work. Lost in family stuff. Lost in the day-to-day. And then in 4–6 weeks when I see my psychologist again, he’ll ask:

“So… did you do the thing?”

And I’d like to be able to say yes. For once. Like an adult.

A final thought

I saw a quote the other day (no idea if it’s real, but it hit hard) about buffalo and snowstorms.

The idea was that when buffalo sense a storm coming, they don’t run away from it.

They run into it - because going through it is the fastest way out.

And that resonated with me.

Because avoiding anxiety, stress, and worry doesn’t make it disappear. It just gives it more time to grow. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is take one step into the uncomfortable stuff - have the conversation, ask for help, put structure around your life, or admit that you need something more than just work and family to feel whole.

So yeah - that’s my 2026 experiment:

Find a third space. Learn something new. Be a little more reliable to myself.

If you’re still here - thanks for reading. Truly.

If this resonated, please feel free to share it around.

And here’s to keeping mental health conversations normal, human, and stigma-free.