Hour of Power

My Hour of Power

Today, I’ve set aside what I like to call an Hour of Power. Not for cleaning (though that’s where it all started), but for something even more important—sharing my story.

I’m doing this in the hope that it resonates with someone in the Soar Together or broader community. Maybe it gives you a nudge to share your own story, or simply reminds you that you're not alone in your journey.

So, what is an Hour of Power?  

It started as a way my partner and I tackled the chaos of a messy house. We'd set a timer for one hour, blast Taylor Swift, and clean like our lives depended on it. It was chaotic, exhausting—and surprisingly healing. By the end of that hour, our home was refreshed, I felt accomplished, and my mind was clearer.

Today, I’m using that same idea. One hour. One deep dive. But instead of cleaning, I’m opening up. Being real. Being vulnerable.  

Because stories matter. They connect us. They help us heal.

Because to truly understand the passion, the drive, and the unwavering determination that fuels everything I’m building today—you need to know where it all comes from.

You see, this isn’t just a business. It’s personal. It’s rooted in lived experience, in years of navigating the mental health system, and in surviving things I once thought I never would.

So today, I’m inviting you to take a deep dive with me—not for sympathy, but for connection. For context. For truth. Because behind every supportive resource, every Mental Health Monday post, and every moment of care offered through Soar Together, there’s a story.

It’s raw, it’s real, and yes—it’s sometimes uncomfortable. But it’s also filled with growth, healing, humour, and the kind of perspective you only earn by walking through fire yourself. 

This is the journey that led to Soaring Souls—a space created to remind others that even in your darkest hour, you are never alone.

Before the Breakthrough: A Glimpse Into My Past

I spent the better part of my twenties as something of a “frequent flyer” at the eating disorders unit in a private psychiatric hospital. Let’s just say—I got to know the place very well. But amid the hard moments, there was also connection, laughter, and yes… a bit of mischief.

Some of the best friendships of my life were forged within those hospital walls. When you’re in the trenches together, fighting something as relentless as anorexia, you learn how to lift each other up—even if it’s with nothing more than a karaoke session at the medication line or a perfectly timed eye roll during group therapy sessions.

Because my admissions were so frequent (and long!), I’ve spent more holidays in hospital than out of it—birthdays, Easter, Christmas, New Year’s… you name it. But we made the best of it. We turned those sterile hallways into celebration zones, decking them out with streamers, balloons, and whatever we could find to distract ourselves from the reality that, yes, we were in hospital… again.

One of my favourite memories? When Melbourne made the finals, and the whole unit got behind it—blue and red streamers everywhere, everyone cheering for Gawny like he was one of our own. For a little while, it wasn’t about our diagnoses or meal plans. We were just people, connected by hope, humour, and a desperate need to keep things light when everything else felt heavy.

It’s those moments—those messy, joyful, ridiculous, deeply human moments—that reminded me healing isn’t just about treatment. It’s about connection. And that’s something I’ll never forget.

Over time, the clinic began to feel like a second home—familiar in a way that was both comforting and heartbreaking. Our days followed a strict rhythm: supervised meals and snacks, post-meal monitoring, group therapy, dietitian and psychiatrist sessions… all layered with a heavy dose of emotional turbulence. The kind that leaves you drained by 10 a.m. and wondering how you’ll get through the rest of the day.

There were days filled with despair, anxiety, fear, and pure exhaustion. I shed enough tears in hospital to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool—probably twice. But amid the struggle, small glimmers of light kept me going. Flowers and cards from Mum. A phone call from my sister. Visits from friends. And on my lucky leave days, a quiet moment with the dogs at the park across the street—they were better therapists than most humans, to be honest.

But nothing was more healing than the bond I formed with the other patients. That connection? It was magic. We were a strange little tribe—brought together by pain, but held together by laughter, art, and shared humanity. We coloured for hours, made impossible jigsaws, created quiz nights for the nurses, and decorated everything we could get our hands on just to bring a little joy to mealtimes. I’ll never forget the movie days, the posters, or the epic hide-and-seek games we somehow got away with.

And then there were the moments that carved deep places in my heart—like my very first weigh day, when I was terrified and unsure, and my roommate got up at 5 a.m. just to help me find a weigh gown and hold my hand in the hallway. That simple act of kindness meant everything.

Every shared laugh, every hug, every whispered “you’ve got this” brought me one step closer to healing. I’m forever grateful to those brave souls who stood beside me in that clinic. I carry their strength with me every single day.

At my lowest, I was so unwell that I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit on multiple occasions. Many of those moments are now a blur—memories my mind has softened or erased.

Throughout my recovery, I underwent extensive treatment for major depressive disorder, including Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) and Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT). These were not easy decisions or experiences—but they were necessary. They were part of what helped bring me back.

Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS)—a non-invasive treatment designed to help people with major depression when traditional approaches like meds and talk therapy just aren't cutting it.

TMS uses magnetic pulses to stimulate the parts of the brain responsible for mood regulation. Sounds a bit like sci-fi, right? You’re fully awake during treatment, sitting in a chair, while a coil is placed against your head to deliver those pulses. No needles, no sedation, just you and a very loud clicking machine trying to jumpstart your brain out of the fog.

Now—let’s talk real for a second. Did it hurt? Yes. For me, it did. The sensation felt like a sharp, rapid tapping deep inside my skull, and there were days it left me with a pounding headache or a sore jaw from clenching through the sessions. At times, it felt like my head was being zapped with a rubber mallet—over and over again. Not exactly pleasant.

But here's the thing: I was desperate. I was willing to try anything that might give me even the tiniest bit of relief. And despite the discomfort, TMS gave me a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but it was a step—a small step—in the right direction. It reminded me that there were still options. Still tools out there to help. Still chances to feel better.

ECT—Electroconvulsive Therapy—is a treatment typically reserved for severe depression that hasn’t responded to more conventional approaches like medication, talk therapy and TMS. While you're under general anaesthetic, a brief, carefully controlled electrical current is passed through the brain to induce a mild seizure. You don’t feel a thing, but somehow, that tiny jolt can trigger powerful chemical shifts that bring rapid relief—sometimes faster than anything else.

For me, ECT came after years of rotating medications, countless therapy sessions, changing psychologists, seeking second and third opinions from psychiatrists, and what felt like a revolving door of hospital admissions. And while it was one of the hardest treatments I’ve ever undergone—it was also the one that saved my life.

My schedule became a blur of Monday, Wednesday, Friday treatments for weeks on end. The side effects were rough: exhaustion, headaches, brain fog, and days where getting out of bed felt impossible. But what stands out most in my memory isn’t just the sickness—it’s the kindness.

One patient, used to sneak down to the kitchen and grab me a Vegemite sandwich and an apple juice so it was waiting for me when I woke up. That simple gesture felt like a lifeline. It reminded me that even on the hardest days, there was still care, still community, still hope.

Would I go through it all again to be where I am now—stable, functioning, building something meaningful? Without hesitation. Because that experience didn’t just help me survive—it helped me understand what true support looks like. And that’s exactly what I hope to offer others through the work I do today.

Yes, I still have bad days. Yes, I take medication and stay connected with my mental health team—including my psychologist and psychiatrist. But none of that defines me.

What does define me is my resilience. My decision to ask for help. My commitment to healing and growing. Because of that journey, I now have the stability—and the privilege—to run a business built on making an impact through insight, and real understanding.

Through my lived experience, I’ve gained deep knowledge about emotional regulation, the complexity of mental health, and what meaningful support truly looks like. This insight makes me a better support worker. It allows me to meet people exactly where they are, with compassion, not judgement.

It’s this same experience that fuels my passion for sharing Mental Health Monday messages—because I know how much a small piece of encouragement can matter.

And most importantly… it reminds me every day why I do this work: to ensure that no one has to navigate their hardest moments alone.

Today I am alive, grateful and more determined than ever

For the first time in a decade, I feel like I can breathe again. After years of drowning in pain and barely keeping my head above water, I finally feel the sun on my skin. I want to be here. And more than that—I’m driven to be here.

I know what it feels like to be at rock bottom. And I want to build something for the people who are still there. Something real. Something supportive. That’s why I created Soaring Souls—to walk alongside those fighting the hardest battles of their lives, and remind them that they are not alone.

What I’ve learned throughout my journey is: vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It’s courage. It’s what connects us as humans. So today, I release this story without fear, without shame, and without the need to filter it for comfort.

A message of hope

At Soar Together, we believe in the power of shared stories. In the quiet moments when someone is struggling—feeling isolated, unseen, or unheard—your words could be the light that helps them hold on.

That’s why we’ve created Soaring Souls, a digital library of lived experiences, real voices, and raw truth. It’s a safe space where stories of survival, resilience, and healing are gathered to remind others:You are not alone.

Whether you’ve walked through darkness, are still navigating it, or have found your way to the other side—your journey has meaning. When you share your story, you give others permission to feel, to hope, and to begin their own healing.

We invite you to contribute your voice to Soaring Souls. No story is too small, no experience too messy. Every perspective helps weave a stronger net of support for those still struggling to stay afloat.

Together, let’s build a library of strength, honesty, and hope.

Together, let’s help others soar.

💜 Always with you,The Soar Together Team