I’ve watched
Grand Designs and
Location, Location, Location for years, usually with a cup of tea and a raised eyebrow. You know the scenes: people crying over window frames, falling out over roof angles, melting down over tiling delays. I always used to think, “Why are these people getting their knickers in such a knot? It’s just a house. Calm down.”
What I didn’t realise then was that I’d never really had a home in the way they were fighting for.
For me, home was simply where I crashed between work shifts. A roof, a bed, somewhere to drop my bag before running back into the world. Our boys had their shared bedroom, filled with toys and books and games; Anita had shelves of photos and drawers of clothes from a range of era, family photos and jewelry; I had none of that. I didn’t invest much meaning into possessions, bricks or mortar because my identity lived entirely in my work. I never even hung my professional certificates in the toilet as was the norm. Home was an efficient, speedy pit stop between patients.
And then life changed. Catastrophically.
I will never call what happened six years ago “lucky” — it wasn’t. It was brutal and disorienting, and it took away parts of me I’ll never get back. But it also forced me to slow down in ways I didn’t know were possible. And in that slowing, I learned to care about my surroundings and my family in a way I never had before.
So when we decided to build a home — our first real home — something shifted. It wasn’t a design project. It wasn’t an investment. It became part of my recovery.
We have built an old workers’ cottage from the ground up, restoring the quirks and crooked charm that once belonged to another era, shaped gardens filled with native Australian plants, the kind of garden that will hum with life even when no one is watching. And we did it all in full view of the community. Every passer-by has an opinion. Every neighbour has a memory of what the cottage used to be.
And surprisingly, instead of shying away from it, I found myself wanting to explain what we were creating. I felt proud of my wife’s creative vision. Protective. Connected.
Somewhere in the digging, planning, repainting and replanting, something in me rebuilt too.
A home is a declaration: “This is where I belong. This is who I am now.”
For the first time in my life, that sentence doesn’t feel borrowed or temporary.
It’s not just about the structure. It’s about identity, stability, hope. When you’re rebuilding your life from the inside out, the external world starts to matter in a different way. You want it to reflect the care you’re learning to give yourself.
My home is now the place I spend most of my time. It’s where I write, where I rest, where I feel grounded. The cottage has become a physical expression of the life I nearly lost and the life I’m still building — slowly, deliberately, imperfectly.
I used to think recovery was only about the big internal battles: memory, trauma, identity. But sometimes it’s also about choosing a kitchen tile that makes you smile. Planting a tree that will outlive you. Creating a space that feels safe enough to imagine a future.
I’m not grateful for the injury. But I am grateful for the perspective that followed and the time I am afforded to appreciate all that I have.
I’m grateful for the house that now holds my days.
And I’m grateful that somewhere along the way, I realised I’m allowed to build a life that feels like mine.
In a strange, unexpected way, I feel really lucky.
