What are you passionate about?

People often ask me what I’m passionate about.

The answer usually surprises them.

Sure, I love comic books. I love photography. And I’m definitely passionate about Mrs Bob—but that’s a story for another day.

The thing that truly sets my soul on fire is poetry and mental health awareness.

At first glance, they might seem like two completely different worlds. One is art. The other is survival.

But for me, they’re inseparable.

Because poetry helped save my life.

More than twenty years ago, I wasn’t the happy, well-adjusted bloke many people know today. In truth, I was a mess. My mental health was spiralling dangerously out of control. I was drinking heavily, drowning emotions I didn’t understand, and convincing myself that I had to carry every burden alone.

Like many men of my generation, I believed I had to “man up.”

Keep quiet.

Stay strong.

Don’t talk about it.

But silence can be a dangerous thing.

There were times when the darkness became so overwhelming that I tried to end my life. More than once.

Eventually, after waking up in the resuscitation room of my local hospital following one particularly close call, something shifted inside me. Looking back now, I realise it was a crossroads.

I could continue pretending everything was fine until it killed me.

Or I could ask for help.

I chose help.

Not because I was brave.

Not because I suddenly had all the answers.

But because I looked at my two young children and realised I couldn’t leave them growing up without a father.

For the first time in my life, I stopped trying to fight alone.

One of the professionals helping me suggested I start writing down my thoughts and emotions. The idea was simple: get the chaos out of my head and onto paper so I could begin to understand it.

At first, I filled notebook after notebook with late-night scribbles. Thoughts. Fears. Anger. Pain. Hope. Anything that was bouncing around inside my head.

Then something unexpected happened.

As I read back through those pages, I started arranging some of the words into verses. The emotions were still raw and chaotic, but now they had rhythm and shape.

It wasn’t poetry as I know it today.

It was closer to rap lyrics.

But it was the beginning.

The real turning point came when I wrote a piece for a family member’s naming ceremony. Afterwards, people kept asking me where I’d found the poem.

When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed genuinely surprised.

And so was I.

For the first time, I allowed myself to think:

Maybe I’m a poet.

Over the following two decades, I spent countless hours learning, practising, refining and developing my craft. Every poem taught me something new—not just about writing, but about myself.

In the early days, poetry was my pressure valve.

A way of releasing everything that threatened to consume me.

My work was dark.

Unflinching.

Sometimes uncomfortable.

I wrote about depression, self-harm, suicide and the realities of living with poor mental health. Topics many people preferred not to talk about.

But those conversations mattered.

They still do.

Today, my writing covers a wider range of subjects. There’s more light alongside the darkness. More hope alongside the pain.

Yet mental health remains close to my heart.

Particularly men’s mental health.

I’ve been inspired by some incredible slam poets and advocates who have used their voices to challenge the outdated belief that men should suffer in silence. The idea that being strong means never showing vulnerability. The lie that asking for help is weakness.

Because it isn’t.

Real strength is speaking up.

Real strength is reaching out.

Real strength is staying.

The truth is that there are countless blokes out there who are fighting battles nobody else can see. Men who smile on the outside while struggling desperately on the inside. Men who believe they’re alone.

They’re not.

And that’s why I keep writing.

Because somewhere, someone might be reading these words and recognising a piece of themselves.

Someone who feels exhausted.

Someone who feels trapped.

Someone who is standing closer to the edge than anyone realises.

If my poetry, my story, or my words can make just one person pause for a moment and choose to talk to someone—anyone—instead of suffering alone, then every difficult chapter of my journey has been worthwhile.

Because poetry didn’t just give me a voice.

It gave me a future.

And if sharing that future helps someone else find theirs, then I’ll keep writing for as long as I have words left to write.

Stay safe

Bc