When you’re a kid, life naturally gives you a sense of structure and momentum. Each day arrives with its own rhythm—school, sports practice, music lessons, or after-school adventures—and within that structure, you’re always moving toward something. You want to make the team, nail a drum solo, win a race, or bring a drawing to life. Schoolwork matters, but it’s only one piece of a much richer whole, balanced by creativity, movement, and social connection. Passions are nurtured, not scheduled; effort is fuelled by curiosity, not obligation. Whether it’s drawing, running, writing, or kicking a footy around, you do it simply because you love it. There’s no strategy, no end goal beyond the joy of doing. That blend of structure, spontaneity, and sincere effort gives childhood its unmistakable energy—a feeling of lightness, purpose, and joy that seems to arise effortlessly.
But as I got older, that effortless joy began to fade under the growing weight of responsibility and routine. Life filled up with deadlines, bills, single parenting, and the endless pressure to be productive. Slowly, the space for play and wonder shrank. The spontaneity of childhood gave way to planning and caution. Moments that once lit me up were dismissed as luxuries—frivolous distractions from what “really” mattered. Without noticing, I stopped doing the things that made me feel most alive. Joy didn’t vanish overnight—it was simply buried beneath the noise of adulthood.
Now, I feel a deep pull—not toward the past, but toward the mindset I once had. I want to recapture that unfiltered wonder, that restless curiosity, that quiet sense of being alive for no other reason than because it feels good to be. Back then, joy found me in the middle of a rugby game, in a messy sketchbook, or flying down a hill on my BMX with no hands. Life felt light. Pressure was distant. Possibility was everywhere. I want to find that magic again—not by recreating my childhood, but by rediscovering the things that used to make me come alive.
In many ways, I’ve begun doing just that. Since removing alcohol—the biggest inhibitor in my life—I’ve been able to reconnect with my sense of drive and wonder. Through my 50by50 goals, I’ve accomplished things that reignite the fire: more than 150 Pilates classes in a year, over 150 breathwork sessions, juggling a soccer ball 50 times without dropping it, completing a triathlon, competing in an ocean swim, racing the Finke Desert Race, earning a season podium after 18 motocross races, holding my breath for five minutes, and rowing in a regatta—all while showing up more fully as a father, friend, and human being.
And now, with my focus locked on two new goals—
1.) running 400 meters in 60 seconds, and
2.) running 100 meters in 12 —
I’ve never felt more in my groove. (even though I am in the delicate stage of balancing injury with my training schedule)
After being unable to run for several years and my body breaking down, the process of getting me back on track is so enjoyable that I feel like a winner already. I actually don’t care if I don’t achieve my goals because I am loving the process of going after them. The simplicity of running has brought me back to something real. There are no distractions—just breath, body, and motion. With each stride, I tap into a sense of freedom and presence that echoes my younger self. Running reconnects me to that pure joy of improvement, not measured by anyone else, just by the quiet satisfaction of progress. It reminds me that effort can be its reward. And like the play of childhood, it draws me back into the present, where I remember how good it feels to move, to try, and to care deeply about something—simply because it matters to me.