Coming Home to Myself — The Real Story Behind Lumenara

Introduction

Before we begin today's conversation, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land on which we're recording — the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation here in South Yarra, Melbourne. We pay our deepest respects to Elders past and present, and extend that respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples joining us today.

We also want to acknowledge that today's conversation will touch on themes related to mental health, stress, addiction, and recovery. If anything we talk about today stirs something difficult inside you, please know you're not alone and support is available. In Australia, you can contact Lifeline anytime, day or night. You can also reach out to your employee assistance program if one is available through your workplace. If you're listening internationally, we encourage you to connect with local support services.

Thank you for being here with us today. Today I'm speaking with Dr Dan Harrison — psychologist, researcher, and founder of Lumenara. Dan’s 20-month sober milestone isn’t just about not drinking; it’s about sobriety from the constant need to prove our worth through achievement. It’s about a deeper commitment to working on oneself and being of service to others. Dan’s story challenges some of our fundamental assumptions about success and healing. It’s not about adding more achievements to our lives. It’s about letting go of what keeps us from being present and real. It’s about coming home to ourselves — and for Dan, coming back to Echuca really represented that.

Growing Up in Echuca

Honestly, growing up in Echuca was incredible in a lot of ways. I moved there from Melbourne when I was in grade three, and suddenly it felt like I was living in a giant playground — riverbanks, fishing, bonfires, good mates, so much fun and mischief. It was freedom in the truest sense. The kind of childhood that imprints you with wide skies and the smell of gum trees.

But as I look back now, it was also a tale of two sides. It was being raised in a really special part of the world, but at that time — and still, even today — mental health and wellbeing weren’t priorities. Something had to be “wrong” before anyone talked about getting help. And the culture around men’s health meant that opening up was seen as weakness, not strength.

As a kid, I felt things deeply. I don’t think I had the words for it back then, but it was like being born without a layer of skin. Everything hit harder — moods, voices, tiny shifts in tone. I could sense things changing around me before anyone said a word. I often felt like I was watching myself from the outside, trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. And I wasn’t always comfortable with what I saw. There was this quiet hum of self-surveillance — always monitoring, never quite at ease.

Then alcohol came along — and honestly, it worked. It turned the volume down. The critic in my head finally shut up. I could laugh without analysing it, be in the moment without that constant second-guessing. It felt like a solution, like something clicked into place. And of course, the culture rewarded it — being a legend was about how many beers you could “put away,” not how well you could take care of yourself.

So growing up was mixed — I’m grateful for the bush, the river, the mateship. But I also learned to find relief from myself in alcohol. It seemed harmless at the time — part of growing up in the country. Only later did I realise it was the beginning of a long, complicated relationship with escape.

Getting Busy

Later on, work-wise, I tried a few trades, thought maybe that would be the answer, but something kept pulling me towards something else. I ended up at uni, started in engineering, then computing. It wasn’t until I found psychology that something clicked — four years of general psych training, then a PhD in organisational psychology — awards, publications, conferences.

On paper, I was doing great. I felt like I was finally “somebody” — I had an identity — and I’d smile, you know; but inside I was still fuelled by a discontent and a need to achieve, a need to prove my worth. I was still chasing the next thing, like a hamster in a wheel — going round and round.

I love work and, you know, it loved me back — but it became a place to hide out. Looking back, work gave me a lot — and for me, to get to a place of self-acceptance I had to achieve something, and it helped settle that burning irritability and discontent with myself. Stay busy, stay useful, stay sharp, stay ahead and focused on the next thing.

I looked capable, even confident at times, but sometimes I was holding it together with the finest of threads. It felt like I was performing life through a fog — smiling, functioning, even thriving in parts — but always holding my breath, waiting for the crash. Anxiety and depression weren’t loud; they were just always there, like background static. Every ten years they would really rear their heads — first early 20s, then early 30s, then in the 40s. Crash, fall down, brush the knees, get up again — still not addressing the roots.

I’d lose myself in a project or a few drinks — sometimes both — and it would work for a while, but the crash always came, and it hit a little harder each time. I built an identity around being the guy who had it all together — the helper, the achiever — and when that identity starts to fall apart, the shame is brutal.

Work No Longer a Safe Harbor

For a long time, work was a safe harbour — something steady I could throw my energy into. I’ve had amazing opportunities and been lucky enough to work with people and organisations to have a real, positive impact. Some of the most meaningful moments for me have come from being part of a team, working to improve lives, engagement, and wellbeing. The work and my career — it’s been an incredible journey. I’ve seen wonderful things take shape.

But that also means seeing people and companies in tough spots. As a psychologist, I’ve supported people through all kinds of transitions: returning to work, managing disability and psychological injury, navigating career change, working through large-scale transformation. I’ve seen up close what contributes to healthy workplace cultures — and what happens when those systems break down. I’ve led investigations into the effects of poor people practices and seen first-hand the long-term impact of workplaces that don’t prioritise individual wellbeing. Those impacts can be life-changing.

Up to a point, I witnessed things from a distance. Later it hit closer. Colleagues — people I cared about — got hurt. Eventually, I copped the brunt of counterproductive workplace behaviours. That was tough. Combined with not putting myself first and a consistent pattern of overwork, that safe space wasn’t safe anymore. Trust broke down. The dynamics shifted. Toxicity crept in. My nervous system went into overdrive. Fight/flight/freeze became my default.

Reflecting now, I didn’t have the skills to work through those things effectively. Under prolonged pressure, the parts of the brain that help us regulate and steer the ship go offline. For me, it was a perfect storm. Instead of stepping back and putting my wellbeing first, I pushed harder. I ran deeper into addiction, into despair, into false refuges — hoping they’d hold me up. They didn’t.

The Rock Bottom

These stories usually have a rock bottom. Mine’s no different. You can’t outrun pain forever; sooner or later the walls close in. A lifetime of personal neglect catches up with you — not knowing how to put your wellbeing first, not knowing how to slow down the storm inside, not knowing how to be your own safe place.

I didn’t have self-care. I had achievements — the trimmings of a life that was meant to mean something: a Lexus in the driveway, a caravan parked nearby, a lifestyle in Southern California. Inside the house it was hollow. After my kids and ex-wife left, the rooms looked like someone had just stepped out — clothes still folded, dishes barely cleared — but it was silent. As my family returned to Australia, I was left behind — emotional and physical exile. A beautiful house with not a soul in it.

It hit me: this wasn’t living. It was survival dressed up as success. If something didn’t break, we were all going under. I was sinking — and taking people I loved with me. What followed was a spiral of guilt, shame, and bitter resentment — a tangle of old wounds, unspoken fears, unfinished grief. Underneath it: a pattern of self-neglect so entrenched I barely knew who I was without it.

That’s what brought me home — to Echuca. Four months later, held up by friends in the US and my parents, I landed back in the place I first learned how to hide. Only now, I was ready to learn how to heal.

Getting Sober

Coming home gave me physical safety, but I still didn’t feel safe in my own skin. I’d been diagnosed with treatment-resistant depression. I’d spent time in hospital. We tried everything — psychiatry, medication, reviews. A specialist finally said: “We’ve thrown everything we can at this — and nothing’s really working. You need to look at your drinking.”

That was a turning point — not certainty, but hope. My family, friends, and support network held me up when I couldn’t. I went into rehab. It was the reset I needed. I downed tools. Quit my job. For the first time, I put myself first. Not working, not earning, not being the provider — scary, and life-changing.

That’s when things shifted. Not all at once. I stopped pretending I had all the answers and did something radical for me — I listened. Eventually, I stopped trying to fix myself and started caring for myself. I flipped the script: wellbeing first. Not performance. Not perfection. Not proving. Presence.

Twenty Months of Research

What followed wasn’t one giant leap — it was a string of small, quiet turning points. It began with noticing and tiny acts of kindness toward myself. At first it felt awkward — almost repulsive — like my system didn’t know what to do with it. But I kept going. I became both the experiment and the experimenter, building a catalogue of tools and practices for whatever I was facing.

Coming home helped — to family, to Echuca, to Mum and Dad, the trees, the fire, the bush. I was lucky to have a close network of extended family, and a good mate returned from Canada to Echuca too. I started to study again, not for a degree — 300–500 words most days for 20 months. I studied my nervous system: how to calm it; the vagus nerve; how the brain responds to stress and what can reverse it. Mindfulness became a lifeline — not lofty, just small pauses. A breath. A check-in. Journaling to untangle thoughts. Neuroscience to spot patterns. Habit science to build routines — five minutes a day was enough.

I saw how trauma — especially the kind we turn inward — loops into the nervous system. Shame spirals and negative self-talk aren’t just emotional; they’re biological, triggering cortisol and adrenaline, locking in hypervigilance and depletion. I began interrupting the loop with simple rituals that activate endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin — the chemistry of safety and connection.

One powerful tool early was opposite action — responding differently than the emotion urges, realigning with values even when it’s uncomfortable. The more I practiced, the more I came back online — back to centre. Gratitude became something I could actually feel. Over time, self-compassion showed up on its own. The turning point was simple: treating myself with a bit more kindness; becoming my own best mate.

Life Now

When you don’t look after yourself — when you’re not taking care of your inner world — it’s hard to live by your highest intention. People in addiction can leave a big wake. With time in recovery, you see it, take accountability, and move with a renewed story and identity. I’ve had the most meaningful 20 months of my life — working on past relationships, helping healing along, and experiencing life in high definition.

Mornings used to start with four seconds of peace and then guilt. Now there’s peace without the second shoe. Learned helplessness isn’t permanent. The most important thing has been letting time pass. I wake up, make coffee, meditate briefly, read, research, write 500 words, walk. My day starts at 5am. By 9am I’ve done a lot — not because I have to, but because I want to. It’s one step at a time — do the next right thing, check intention. I’d rate living sober — highly.

My dad and I are both sober now. We jump on 12-step meetings together. Connection and shared growth mean the world. Hard days still come; now I see them. I don’t believe everything they tell me. I can breathe, call a mate, say “Today’s rough… but I’m still here.” I don’t hide in the same places anymore. Beer was my biggest comfort. It worked — until it didn’t. If I hadn’t started working with myself, I know where I’d have ended up.

Being a psychologist gave me a head start. For 20 months I’ve journaled everything, read ancient traditions and modern neuroscience, and tested strategies. As I changed, I knew I had to share it. Recovery becomes a rhythm — not competition. Something comes up; you notice it, work with it, let it pass. You stop being the small boat tossed by waves; you become the ocean — calm, capable, holding it all.

Triggers became quests. I’m better resourced — with tools, support, perspective. Yes, 20 months sober — not just from alcohol, but from the hustle, the proving, the inner war. I’ve re-examined my relationship with work, social media, even the “healthy” stuff. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. There’s peace now — like seeing a police car and not wondering when I last drank.

We carry more than we show, especially without early emotional literacy. That’s what I’m working to change — for myself, for my kids, for anyone ready to come home to themselves.