I was twenty years old, sitting by a quiet pond, watching my fishing float bob gently on the water. It was a warm, still afternoon, the kind where time slows down, and you get lost in your thoughts. That day, I wasn’t just fishing—I was thinking about my future. I had no clear direction, no concrete plan for where my life was heading.
A man fishing a few yards away caught my eye. After a while, he walked over and struck up a conversation.
“Caught much?” he asked.
“A few tench, perch, and roach, but it’s slowed down now,” I replied, tearing off a chunk of my thick corned beef sandwich and handing it to him.
We talked about fishing for a while before he mentioned that he was a psychiatric nurse. My reaction was immediate.
“Wow, that must be terrifying! All those raving lunatics wanting to hurt you!”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“Not at all,” he said. “Think about physical health. There are mild illnesses like the common cold, more serious conditions like a broken bone, and then life-threatening diseases like cancer. Mental health is exactly the same. There are different degrees of illness, and most of us—myself, you, and just about everyone you know—will struggle with mental health at some stage in life. It’s not all extreme.”
His words stopped me in my tracks. Up until that moment, my perception of mental illness had been shaped by stereotypes—dramatic portrayals of psychiatric hospitals and unwell patients in crisis. I had never thought about it in the same way as physical health, never considered that mental health struggles were something everyone faced, not just a small group of “crazy” people.
I thought about times I had seen people struggle but never recognized it as a mental health issue. The friend who suddenly withdrew from social situations, the uncle who self-medicated with alcohol, the neighbor who had “changed” after a bereavement. I had always dismissed these things as just part of life—never questioning whether they were struggling with their mental well-being.
“So, have you ever been scared?” I asked him, still not convinced.
“Not in the way you’d think,” he said. “I’ve seen people at their lowest, yes. I’ve seen despair, confusion, and loneliness. But I’ve also seen recovery. I’ve seen people rebuild their lives. And more than anything, I’ve seen the power of the mind—how it can both trap people in darkness and also set them free.”
I let those words settle in. The power of the mind. It wasn’t just something that could make people unwell—it was also something that could heal, something that could change lives.
As we packed up our fishing gear, I found myself asking more and more questions. What made someone vulnerable to mental health struggles? Could they ever fully recover? What made one person resilient while another struggled?
“Sounds like you’re interested,” he said with a smile.
I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah… I think I am.”
That brief conversation changed my life.
A few months later, I enrolled as a student psychiatric nurse, and from that moment on, my eyes were opened to the immense power of the mind. I learned about conditions I had never heard of before, saw first-hand how fragile but resilient the human spirit could be, and most of all, I realized how understanding mental health could change the way we live, work, and connect with others.
Looking back, I see that moment by the pond as a pivotal turning point. Without that conversation, I might never have chosen this path.
That’s why I’m still mad about the mind today.