Every Day You Take Your Power Back — Josh Denham on Recovery and Resilience

Some nights on Mental Health Chats feel less like an interview and more like sitting by a fire with an old friend. My talk with Josh Denham was one of those — a raw, honest exchange about what survival looks like after trauma, how we rebuild trust, and where peace hides when the world goes quiet. 

Josh is a musician, a rainforest hermit in the best possible way, and someone who has spent years working in mental-health and aged-care support. Together, we dived into the heavy stuff — domestic violence, loss, identity, and the quiet lessons that come from solitude. What followed was a conversation that reminded me why these chats matter: because truth, even when it’s hard, helps us heal. 

Breaking the Cycle 

When I asked Josh what mental health means to him, he didn’t hesitate. 

“Without your mental health, you don’t have anything. Nothing.” 

Josh has worked alongside survivors of domestic violence, recovering addicts, and families trying to start again. But his empathy didn’t come from textbooks — it came from living through it. He spoke about growing up in a home where violence was a daily rhythm, and how it shaped his promise to help others escape it. 

“People talk about how it affects the person involved,” he said, “but they don’t talk about how it affects the ones who watch.” 

That line hit hard. I shared how my mum fled a violent relationship when I was a baby, leaving behind everything except survival. Years later, I found myself facing the same kind of crossroads — realising that staying could cost me my life. 

We both learned that breaking the cycle is more than leaving — it’s choosing not to repeat the story. 

“You can’t water dead plants,” Josh said. “You broke the cycle for a reason. Keep maintaining it.” 

Safety, Recovery, and Taking Back Control 

One listener asked how to cope after a restraining order expires. Josh’s answer was measured and practical: make a safety plan, stay connected to people you trust, and know your escape routes. 

“Being ahead of the game isn’t about fear,” he said. “It’s about staying safe.” 

We spoke about re-triggers — the way panic attacks sneak up years after you think you’ve healed.

Josh shared how he once stopped driving for eight months after witnessing something traumatic on the road. It took patience, exposure, and courage to get back behind the wheel. 

“Every day you do something that scares you and you finish it,” he said, “you take your power back.” 

I added that it’s like riding horses — when you fall, you get back on before the fear has time to grow. That’s how you remind yourself you’re still in control. 

Men, Mental Health, and the Permission to Feel 

When I asked whether society’s understanding of mental health has evolved, Josh nodded. 

“For men, absolutely. When I was a teenager, this conversation wouldn’t have existed.” 

We both grew up in generations where boys were told to “toughen up.” For many of us, that silence turned into self-destruction. Josh opened up about panic attacks that left him convinced he was “going crazy.” I shared moments when I nearly gave up altogether — because I didn’t know how to talk about it. 

“When you start talking,” I said, “you realise you’re not alone. When you don’t, you think you’re the only one carrying the weight.” 

Josh summed it up perfectly: 

“The minute you stop fighting is when you should be concerned.” 

That line stuck with everyone watching. It’s not about being strong all the time — it’s about not giving up on yourself when the darkness feels permanent. 

Love, Communication, and Knowing When to Let Go 

The conversation shifted to relationships — how they can heal or hurt depending on honesty. Josh described himself as loyal to a fault. 

“When I love, I love hard. But I’ve learned that not everyone gives love the same way.” 

We talked about how communication can save relationships — and sometimes end them. Tay and I have learned that silence is far more dangerous than difficult conversations. 

One of my favourite metaphors of the night came when we discussed recognising when it’s time to move on: 

“Trying to make a relationship work when you know it’s over,” I said, “is like baking a cake with salt instead of sugar — no matter how much you stir, it won’t taste right.” 

Sometimes love means walking away — not because you stopped caring, but because you finally started caring about yourself. 

Returning to Calm: Solitude and Nature 

Josh’s burnout led him out of the city and into the rainforest. His story about visiting Crystal Castle and meeting a Buddhist monk felt like a parable. 

“The monk told me, your mind’s never quiet. You live in noise, you eat in noise, you sleep in noise. The human body isn’t built for that.” 

Josh took the advice to heart. He transformed his room into a sanctuary — plants, crystals, salt lamps, gentle light — and later rebuilt his whole life around quiet. 

“Out in the rainforest,” he said, “I could breathe again.” 

Tay and I felt that too when we left the city. For years we replaced the hum of traffic with the sound of wrens outside our window. It changed everything. 

As I said that night, “We are nature. When we separate from it, we become like zoo animals in concrete cages.” 

 Peace doesn’t always roar — sometimes it chirps, hums, and rustles in the grass. 

Music as the Mirror 

For both of us, music is therapy that speaks when words fall short. Josh’s album Heartbreak Circus was born in one of his lowest chapters. 

“It’s chaotic in the best way,” he laughed. “It swings between love, heartbreak, and self-discovery — because that’s what life does.” 

He described how writing those songs helped him process what he couldn’t say out loud.

“Music is my journal,” he said. “Even if people don’t understand the whole story, one line might help someone feel less alone.” 

That’s exactly why Between the Notes exists — because sometimes a song says everything. You don’t need to explain; you just press play and let the lyrics do the talking. 

Identity, Acceptance, and the Rainbow Community 

Later, we spoke about belonging — and how sometimes even your own community can make you feel like an outsider. 

“Most of my ‘I’m not good enough’ moments,” Josh said, “came from within the rainbow community. And that hurts.” 

We unpacked labels — top, bottom, daddy, twink — and how they reduce people to roles instead of souls.

“You wouldn’t ask a straight couple what happens in their bedroom,” I said. “Why ask us?” 

Josh spoke candidly about kindness and judgment. He’s proud to have shared meals with people others shun — older men, those living with HIV — because, as he put it, “sometimes all they need is a friend.” 

That’s what acceptance really is: not rainbow flags or hashtags, but treating people with humanity. 

Listening, Learning, and Owning Our Past 

Toward the end, we touched on Australia’s deeper wounds — racism, indigenous history, and what it means to listen. 

 We both agreed: compassion starts with curiosity. Ask questions because you want to understand, not because you want to be right. 

“You can’t erase history,” Josh said, “but you can refuse to repeat it.” 

It was a heavy but necessary reminder that healing isn’t just personal — it’s collective. When one of us learns empathy, the world becomes a little safer for all of us. 

Closing Reflections 

As we wrapped up, I asked Josh what he’d say to anyone still finding the courage to be themselves. 

“Don’t rush it,” he said. “You’ll know when it’s time. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

He shared the story of coming out to his mum — how she thought he was about to confess something awful, then burst out laughing when he told her he was gay.

“Is that it?” she said. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” 

And that’s the beauty of truth — it’s rarely as scary as we imagine. 

Between the Notes 

This chat with Josh Denham was a reminder that healing doesn’t always happen in hospitals or therapy rooms. Sometimes it happens in a quiet forest, in the lyrics of a song, or in a conversation between two people who get it. 

You don’t have to be “fixed.” You just have to keep showing up. 

 Every time you face the fear, talk about the pain, or choose kindness over bitterness — you’re already healing. 

So tonight, wherever you are — city, bush, or somewhere in between — take a deep breath.

You made it through another day. 

 And that, my friends, is enough. 

You Are Not Alone  

If this story resonates with you, please reach out. Talk to someone. Visit BTN-Music.club for more Mental Health Chats, stories, and support links. Because your voice matters — and the world needs to hear it.