Early Intervention and psychosocial Response Program

This story discusses mental health and recovery. Free, 24/7 support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.

At 32, I’ve spent most of my life in Melbourne, a city that shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately pushed me to leave. My story doesn’t begin with hardship, but it wasn’t without it. My parents separated when I was just three years old, and by six, both had remarried. Growing up between two households, with step-parents and shifting dynamics, came with its challenges. Some moments were filled with warmth, others with confusion and strain. But one thing I’ve always known is that my parents did the best they could with what they had. That truth has stayed with me.

Outside of my immediate family, I experienced trauma as a child – something that quietly influenced how I saw myself and the world. For years, I carried that weight internally, learning to keep moving forward without fully understanding what I was carrying.

At 19, I made a decision that would define my sense of independence. In 2013, I packed up my life and moved to Mildura. I only knew one person there, but Melbourne no longer felt like it had anything left for me. It was a leap into the unknown, equal parts fear and determination. Looking back, it was the first time I chose change for myself, even without knowing what would come next.

But despite that courage, the struggles I carried didn’t disappear, they followed me.

By 2019, my mental health had reached its lowest point. The thoughts that once lingered in the background quiet, intrusive whispers telling me my life wasn’t worth living grew louder and more relentless. Eventually, they became something I could no longer ignore.

I will never forget the first time I tried to end my life. When it didn’t work, it didn’t bring relief, it ignited something darker. A mix of anger, sadness, and desperation took over. I felt trapped, like I was fighting something invisible and losing. 

It felt like I was battling my own mind completely alone.

Not long after, I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, and Complex PTSD. Hearing those words was confronting, but for the first time, there was also an explanation for the chaos I had been living through for so many years. The diagnoses didn’t magically fix anything, but they marked the beginning of something important: the start of a battle to take my life back and rewrite the story I believed had already been decided for me.

Through the hospital, I was connected with the EIPSR program for support within the community. I began with them at the end of 2019. At first, I struggled deeply with the idea of letting people in. Trust and abandonment had shaped so much of my life, and the thought of opening up to strangers felt impossible. To be honest, I wasn’t interested in engaging fully. My focus at the time was still on ending my life, not rebuilding it. 

Recovery wasn’t something I believed I deserved, and it certainly wasn’t something I thought was possible.
 
In 2021, I was paired with Tracey. From the moment I met her, I knew she was different. There was no hesitation in her, no fear of the darkness I carried. She met me exactly where I was, with honesty, patience, and a determination that I hadn’t encountered before.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone could see beyond the diagnoses, beyond the suicide attempts, beyond the trauma. Tracey didn’t try to “fix” me. Instead, she helped me begin the slow and painful process of understanding myself. She stood beside me through some of my darkest moments, reminding me that healing is not linear and that surviving was not weakness.

Looking back now, I realise rewriting your life doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in tiny moments—choosing to stay one more day, attending one more appointment, allowing one person to care, speaking one truth out loud. Strength, I’ve learned, isn’t about never falling apart. Sometimes strength is simply surviving long enough to believe that your story is not over. 

For years, I thought my life would end in darkness. Instead, slowly and imperfectly, I began to find strength within it.

My confidence and sense of independence were almost non-existent. I would attend appointments with Tracey wearing my pyjamas because I simply didn’t care anymore. Getting dressed felt pointless. Looking after myself felt impossible. I hated who I had become, and in many ways, I had completely given up on life.

But Tracey never judged me for where I was at. She let me show up exactly as I was – broken, exhausted, withdrawn. She created a safe space where there was no pressure to be “better” overnight and no expectation for me to pretend I was okay. She never forced me to do anything I wasn’t ready for. Instead, she met me in those moments with patience, compassion, and understanding.

What made Tracey different was that she seemed to know exactly when to gently challenge me and when to simply sit beside me in the darkness. She could push me that little bit further, but always with kindness. Never forcefully. Never with judgement.

Slowly, without even realising it at first, those weekly appointments became the one thing I began looking forward to.

At the beginning, our sessions were often quiet. Sometimes we would sit in near silence during car rides because I didn’t have the energy or trust to let the words out. But over time, something began to shift. The appointments that once felt heavy and empty slowly became filled with conversation, laughter, and what I would jokingly call “word vomit”, years of pain, fear, trauma, and emotion finally spilling out after being buried for so long.

Little by little, my world started expanding again. I stopped showing up in pyjamas. We moved from car rides to being out in the community. Tracey supported me to attend medical appointments I would normally avoid or simply not show up to. She celebrated the small wins that, to most people, might have seemed insignificant, but to me felt impossible.

Looking back now, I realise those tiny steps were actually the beginning of rebuilding my life.

Tracey became a light in the darkest period of my life, and I will forever, truly forever, be grateful that I was considered “too complex” for anyone else. Because while so many people saw my struggles as too much, Tracey chose to walk beside me through them. And together, in so many ways, we saved my life.

Through every horrific moment after Tracey entered my life, she remained there beside me. She saw the darkest parts of my journey and never turned away. If I happened to be in hospital during one of our weekly appointments, she would still come to see me. And when you are sitting in a mental health ward, isolated, ashamed, and convinced that you are too much for everyone around you, a visitor can become everything.

A visitor means someone still sees you as human.

Those moments mattered more than I can properly explain. Because when you spend so long believing you are unlovable, burdensome, or beyond saving, having someone consistently show up for you begins to challenge those beliefs little by little.

Tracey didn’t save me by saying the perfect thing. She saved me by staying.

And in the moments where I could not hold hope for myself, she held it for me until I was finally strong enough to carry some of it on my own.
Somehow, even through the chaos of my mental health struggles, I managed to hold onto my job. I work as a carer in aged care, and in many ways, that role gave me a sense of purpose outside of my own mind. When I walked into work, something inside me shifted. No matter how broken I felt internally, I could still show up for the residents who relied on me. I could hold myself together for them, even if the moment I got home, I completely fell apart.

Looking back now, I realise that caring for others became one of the few things tethering me to life during that period. In a world where I struggled to see value in myself, I could still find value in being there for someone else.

Tracey often reminded me of that.

She would tell me how proud she was of me – how strong, compassionate, and resilient I was. At the time, I struggled to believe her. I couldn’t see strength in myself because all I could focus on was how much I was struggling behind closed doors. But Tracey saw something in me that I was completely unable to see in myself.

She would often say, “I would let you look after my mum.”

It might seem like such a small comment to someone else, but to me, it meant everything. 

Here was someone who had witnessed the absolute worst parts of me. She had seen me suicidal, broken, hopeless, and at times barely surviving. She knew the parts of my story I worked hardest to hide from the world. Yet despite all of that, she still trusted me with the person who would matter most to her.

That kind of trust changed something inside me.

For so long, I believed my mental illness made me dangerous, unreliable, unworthy, or “too much.” But hearing someone say they would trust me to care for the person they loved most gave me something I had been missing for years: a sense of belonging. A sense that maybe I wasn’t defined entirely by my struggles.

And honestly, sometimes it wasn’t the huge breakthroughs that kept me going. Sometimes it was the smallest comments a few simple words spoken with sincerity that made the biggest difference.

That one sentence became one more reason to keep showing up. One more reason to believe there might still be purpose for me beyond the pain.

These days, I don’t really know if I have any huge goals I’m actively working towards and for the first time in my life, I think that’s okay. Because the biggest goal of all was simply finding a life worth living, and somehow, after everything, I achieved that.
Of course, there will always be more I could do. More milestones to reach, more dreams to chase, more versions of myself I could grow into. But right now, I find comfort in allowing myself to sit in this space for a little while longer a space where survival is no longer my full-time job.

For so many years, every ounce of my energy went into simply staying alive. Every day felt like a fight against my own mind. So now, being able to wake up and experience moments of peace, stability, purpose, and even happiness feels extraordinary in ways I can’t fully explain.

Sometimes healing looks less like “becoming someone new” and more like finally allowing yourself to rest after years of fighting to survive.

Tracey played such a significant role in helping me believe I was capable of more than just surviving. She encouraged me to slowly step outside of my comfort zone and begin rebuilding confidence in myself and my future. Together, we updated my resume something that once felt overwhelming and impossible and with her encouragement, I eventually applied for a second job.

Today, alongside working in aged care, I also work within the disability sector.

That may seem like an ordinary achievement to some people, but for me, it represents something so much bigger. There was a time in my life when I genuinely believed I would not survive. A time when attending an appointment, getting dressed, or leaving the house felt impossible. I never imagined I would one day be supporting other people while building a future for myself at the same time.

And truthfully, I don’t think I would have taken that step without Tracey’s continued belief in me. She helped me see possibilities for my life long before I was able to see them for myself.

What I’ve learned throughout this journey is that healing doesn’t erase the darkness you’ve lived through. I still carry parts of those experiences with me every day. But the difference now is that the darkness no longer controls my entire story.

My life was rewritten not because the pain disappeared, but because somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that pain was all I deserved.

And after everything I have survived, I think it’s okay to simply be proud of that.

The EIPSR program was, in so many ways, life-changing. It gave me somebody to walk alongside me not only through the struggles, but also through the achievements through the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of recovery.

Before entering the program, I felt completely alone and isolated. I believed I only had myself to rely on, and at that point, I couldn’t even rely on myself. EIPSR provided the support, guidance, and consistency I had been longing for, even if I didn’t know how to ask for it at the time. It gave me a space where I could slowly begin rebuilding my life, learning how to trust again, and finding the strength to continue fighting battles that once felt impossible to survive.

The weekly appointments and sometimes more when things became overwhelming gave me something to hold onto. Something to look forward to. In some ways, they became a reminder that no matter how dark life felt, I didn’t have to carry it all completely alone anymore.
If I could scream one thing from the rooftops, it would be this: seek help if you need it. You are not alone. Even when it feels like nobody could possibly understand, there is always someone willing to help, someone willing to sit beside you in the darkness and hold hope for you until you are able to hold it for yourself again.

Asking for help does not make you weak. In fact, I think it makes you one of the strongest people in the world. Trusting the program and eventually throwing myself wholeheartedly into recovery was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but also one of the best. It helped me begin taking my life back from the demons I had spent so many years fighting.

For a long time, I was angry that I had survived. Angry that I still had to keep fighting. Angry that existing seemed to require so much effort from me when it appeared to come so naturally to everyone else. But today, when I look at my life, I feel something I never thought I would honestly be able to say: I am proud of myself.

I work two jobs. I am in a loving and fulfilling relationship. I am saving for adventures and building a future I once believed I would never live long enough to experience. But more importantly than any of that, I am still here. I am still showing up for myself, even on the hard days.

Recovery did not happen overnight for me. It took years. And truthfully, recovery is not something that simply “ends.” It is an ongoing journey one that I will continue navigating for the rest of my life. There are still difficult days, still moments where the darkness creeps in, still times where I have to consciously choose to use the skills I once resisted so strongly. 

But now, for the first time, I am okay with the journey.

Because recovery is possible. Even on the darkest days, it is possible.

Sometimes all you can do is breathe. Just one more breath. Then another. And another after that. And sometimes, that is more than enough.

I will forever be thankful for Tracey and for the life she helped me find. Thankful that she never gave up on me, even during the times I had completely given up on myself. I am grateful for the safe space she created, for the patience she showed, and for the way she helped me learn how to finally show up for myself.

There are moments where I cannot imagine life without her support because of how significant her role has been in my journey. But if there is one thing Tracey has taught me, it is that I was the one doing the hard work all along. She helped guide me, support me, and believe in me, but she also helped me build the strength, confidence, and skills needed to continue moving forward on my own.

And although our time working together is coming to an end, it does not erase everything we built.

Tracey will always be an important part of my story – one I will never forget and one I will always be deeply thankful for.

If anything, I hope that one day I can be even half the person she is. Because she truly changed my life, and I feel incredibly lucky to be standing where I am today.

For so long, I believed my story would end in darkness.

Instead, it became a story about surviving it.
 
About EIPSR
Delivered in partnership with Mildura Base Public Hospital, the Early Intervention Psychosocial Support Response program provides people experiencing moderate to severe mental health challenges with individualised support from our Community Mental Health Practitioners. The aim is to help them live safely and independently in the community.