Altruism

  Personal commitment

  Aspiration

  Sense of purpose

  Learning

  Perspective

  Growth

  Integrity

  Self-direction

  RELATIONAL = PEOPLE

  You thrive on connection, trust and meaningful relationships.

  Trust

  Relationships

  Connection

  Teamwork

  Helping others

  Inspiring others

  Being heard

  Gratitude

  Respect

  Compassion

  Loyalty

  Honesty

  Fun

  Humour

  CONNECTING YOUR WHY TO RESILIENCE

  Building your resilience requires intentional effort and change. When you are clear about your WHY, it becomes easier to adopt new habits, adjust your mindset and take the actions necessary to grow. Your WHY acts as your north star, helping you navigate the process of change and stay on track when challenges arise.

  For example, if your WHY is to provide a stable and loving environment for your family, you are more likely to stay committed to behaviours that foster emotional stability and financial security. If your WHY is to lead a healthy, active life, you will be more likely to prioritise exercise, nutrition, meditation and self-care, even on days when your motivation is low.

  TAKING CONTROL

  One of the most empowering aspects of resilience is realising what you can and can’t control. Being aware of and tuned in to this is an important part of the resilience-building process. External factors such as the weather, economic changes or other people’s actions may be beyond your influence. But your thoughts, actions and behaviours are entirely yours to direct. By aligning these controllable elements with your WHY, your core purpose, you create the clarity and focus you need to navigate these challenges with intention. This idea is rooted in the wisdom of the Stoics, who taught that directing our energy towards what we can control leads to greater peace, fulfilment and resilience.

  Imagine your WHY as the lens through which you view every decision. When faced with a challenge or temptation, you can ask yourself, ‘Does this align with my WHY?’ If it does, you will feel empowered to move forward. If it does not, you can make a conscious choice to redirect your energy towards what truly matters.

  It’s important to carve out time for reflection, too. In the quiet moments ask yourself:

  What am I working towards?

  How do my daily habits align with my values?

  Am I living in a way that reflects my WHY?

  The process of discovering your WHY is ongoing. As your life evolves, so might your motivations. What matters most is staying connected to what gives your life meaning and purpose.

  JENNY’S WHY

  DAVID

  Nick and I were deep in the planning for an Everest Base Camp expedition program designed to help families build resilience. It was six to seven months out and we had just started campaigning it. My teenage daughter Bronte was already committed to joining us on the expedition. One day, she asked me if I could speak to her friend, Grace, and Grace’s mother, Jenny, who were interested in hearing more about it.

  The trek to Everest Base Camp is no simple feat. It’s a two-week journey through undulating terrain, unpredictable weather and challenging altitudes. The physical and mental toll it takes can challenge even the fittest people. Trekking at altitude is a true test of resilience, with decreased oxygen levels making each step harder and amplifying any physiological stress you are already experiencing.

  Keen to chat with them, Bronte and I went to Jenny’s home to discuss the program. Our initial meeting was relaxed and I found myself listening intently to Jenny’s story. She seemed like a typical middle-aged parent and admitted she was not particularly active. She shared that going to Nepal and trekking to Everest Base Camp had been a dream of hers since she was a teenager. She also mentioned that some of her friends had attempted it years before, but were forced to turn back due to altitude sickness.

  When I asked about her current fitness routine, she said she was just doing ‘a bit of walking’. Immediately red flags went up for me. My experience working with young elite athletes in peak condition, during intensive altitude training camps, taught me just how demanding and unforgiving that environment can be. Even for the best-prepared individuals, high altitudes often take a toll. Headaches, nausea, fatigue and disorientation are common challenges that need careful management. I thought to myself, There is no way that she is going to be able to handle this.

  But there was something in Jenny’s voice and demeanour that struck me. It was an unmistakable passion and determination. She didn’t ask, ‘Can I do this?’ Instead, she wanted to know how to do it. That spark of commitment made me shift gears and take her seriously. She started small by incorporating short walks after dinner. Gradually she increased the distance and intensity. Over the next six months, Jenny lost over 30 kilograms and transformed herself into someone ready to tackle this monumental challenge.

  Fast-forward to the trek and there she was, standing at Everest Base Camp. She was hugging Grace with tears of pride and triumph in her eyes. It was one of the most profoundly moving moments I have ever witnessed. Throughout my career I have been fortunate to work with AFL premiership teams and Olympic gold medallists. But what Jenny achieved that day left an indelible mark on me.

  I had completely misjudged her at first, and I felt a deep sense of humility seeing her prove me and probably even herself wrong. Jenny had a powerful WHY. That dream she had carried since her teenage years fuelled her belief and guided her actions every day. Her vision became the foundation for her transformation.

  What Jenny taught me was that it does not matter your age or your fitness level. If you have the courage to embrace discomfort and the unknown, you can achieve extraordinary things. Her journey was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the incredible power of having a WHY to keep us focused, motivated and on track.

  Uncover your WHY and use it as a foundation for building a purposeful, more resilient life. By doing this work, you will find that resilience is not just about enduring, it is about thriving with intention.

  MY WHY

  NICK

  I decided shortly after returning from Cho Oyu that I was done with Nepal. It wasn’t so much a conscious decision not to return; I just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm or desire to go back. And I certainly no longer felt the energy or passion required to get me to Everest.

  I didn’t know it, but depression had begun to take hold. I was struggling in my job and was finding it difficult to complete the most straightforward tasks. The days at work dragged on and I was equally disinterested at home. On my days off I’d stay in bed for as long as I could.

  I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) but didn’t really accept it. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a project or a plan. Life dragged on like this for almost twelve months.

  Everything was suffering, especially my fitness. I hadn’t ridden my bike, been for a swim or gone to the gym for at least a year. I’d previously cycled regularly, and it was one of my favourite ways to keep fit. I couldn’t understand why it was so hard to get back on my bike, but I was determined to make it happen. Really, I just wanted to change something, and pulling my bike back out seemed like the easiest option.

  One unremarkable Saturday, sometime around June 2004, the weather was good, so out I went. Just for a cruisy ride around the Yarra Boulevard in Kew. Not fast or far enough to get the heart working too hard, but it felt good. No more than about 25 to 30 kilometres all up, but enough. I’d made a start and was pretty sure I’d do it again before too long.

  Over the following weeks, I did indeed get back out on my bike fairly regularly. It was good to have my body moving again and to have created some time to reflect. I thought about the events at Cho Oyu a lot. In hindsight, ruminating day after day on the ‘what ifs’ wasn’t healthy. I hadn’t been able to compartmentalise, or to move on from the experience with any level of positivity or productiveness. I didn’t have the skills to know what to do, and the professional counselling sessions I’d attended hadn’t helped.

  One particular day the weather didn’t look or feel ideal for a ride. It was overcast, grey and windy. But I had nothing better to do and it was warm enough, so out I went. I headed along my usual route towards Yarra Bend Park. What started off as the most routine day and most ordinary of bike rides soon etched itself as a moment in time I’ll never forget. So significant was this day that I can identify it as the precise moment my Everest 2005 campaign came alive.

  The bike I owned at the time was a Giant TCR road bike. It was quite a nice bike, and I kept it pretty clean and in good order mechanically. I didn’t like the running gear getting dirty, so I typically avoided riding in wet weather. Rain and mud would dirty up everything and I didn’t have the patience or the time to properly clean the derailleurs, chain, crankset, chainrings—you name it—just to get my regular ride in. I know wet weather wouldn’t prevent the cycling purist from getting out there, so clearly I wasn’t a purist.

  I was feeling okay on this day—not amazing, but I felt like I had energy. I rode down through Northcote, on to Upper Heidelberg Road, and swung south onto Yarra Bend Road. This was one of my usual routes and I knew it well. As I drew alongside the golf course I felt the first tiny drops of light rain. I hadn’t been going for very long, so this was annoying. My distaste for riding in the rain started to kick in, but I continued on, hoping it would ease. Instead, the opposite happened: in an instant, the heavens opened.

  I was immediately soaked, which didn’t worry me as much as the fact my bike was now going to get dirty and need cleaning. I quickly turned around and started for home. I hadn’t even been out for 30 minutes. What a waste of time! I thought to myself.

  As I headed north along Yarra Bend Road the ludicrousness of the situation hit me. It was raining and I was going home. Twelve months before, I’d been put through the wringer on Cho Oyu. It was hands down the hardest experience of my life, physically and mentally. I’d survived that experience and felt I was slowly coming out the other side.

  I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but I still yearned for Everest. The barriers I would face now would be hard to overcome though. I was drowning in self-doubt, and the events of Cho Oyu seemed impossible to erase. I’d considered myself fit and capable going into Cho Oyu, but was I really? Yes, I was fit, but was I really fit? Had I prepared myself as well as I could have? It was my first attempt at an 8000-metre mountain, and what did I really know? I was always comfortable in the knowledge that Paul was the leader and he’d take good care of me. I knew I hadn’t been complacent in my preparation, but had I done everything possible to be successful? Had I ticked every box? Had I done enough to be entitled to succeed on Cho Oyu? And just like that, the word ‘entitled’ smashed me in the face like a velvet sledgehammer.

  Because if I was brutally honest with myself, the main thing holding me back from returning to Everest was a fear of failure. I’d failed so spectacularly on Cho Oyu, and that failure ended up all over the newspapers, radio and TV. I’d gone from relative anonymity at Victoria Police to everyone in the organisation knowing of me. The intense scrutiny that was sure to follow me if I returned to Everest was a pressure I didn’t want. Easier to stay home.

  The Oxford Learner’s Dictionary defines entitlement as: ‘the official right to have or do something’.

  I’m not sure why this was the word I was obsessing over as I cycled home in the rain, but almost immediately it gave me something. It made me see the simple absurdity of this situation. Here was a person (me!) who wanted to climb Mount Everest. But I was now heading back home from a ride because it had started to rain. A mindset like that wasn’t going to entitle me to very much.

  And just like that I turned back around and started pedalling for all I was worth, even as the rain got heavier. The harder it rained, the harder I rode. I lapped the Yarra Boulevard and then headed out though Ivanhoe and beyond. The rain continued to intensify, but I kept going. I decided I wouldn’t stop until it did. More than three hours later I returned home, exhausted and wet, but energised in a way I hadn’t felt perhaps ever.

  I collapsed on the couch and just thought about it: entitlement. What it might look like. Could it even be possible? Could I possibly train and prepare so thoroughly for Everest that I’d be entitled to succeed? Did that level of mental and physical preparation even exist? Applying this thought process to something with as many opportunities for failure as climbing Everest was fraught with danger and uncertainty. But I felt the idea had real merit, so it was time to hatch a plan.

  Working a full-time job sucked a lot of time. I’d have to plan my days carefully if my new no-shortcuts approach was going to get traction. It quickly became obvious to me that I’d need to start going to bed much earlier—I’d come up with a plan to get up at 4.15am each day and complete an indoor altitude training session and bike ride before work. And then a solid swim after work. To make this happen, I’d have to be in bed by 8.30 to 9pm. And that pretty well became my life for the next twelve months. Days off work always involved longer rides and longer swims.

  It’s fair to say that my exercise plan became a daily obsession. It was rarely fun, especially on those cold winter mornings on the bike. But there was a consistent satisfaction in ticking the ‘entitlement’ box each day. This was a ritual that I had to complete no matter what. When, very occasionally, something would arise that would prevent me from completing my daily workload, I’d just make up for it on my next day off.

  The body of work I needed to complete week to week wasn’t negotiable. I told myself that entitlement demanded this level of commitment.

  At work I went through the motions and did what I had to do. Outside of work, everything else took a backseat and suffered. My relationship was just hanging on and I barely saw my family and friends. I didn’t go out, and wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t have to do with my training and preparation.

  I won’t pretend for one minute that the vortex I was in was healthy. Far from it. Everything outside my obsessive little bubble was being neglected, and it wasn’t a great way to live. Any time I’d think of taking an easy day, the fear of failure would slap me back into line, so on I’d push.

  After about six months, I started to see just how fit I’d become. I thought I’d prepared well in the lead up to Cho Oyu but this was next level—for me anyway. The hours on the bike and in the pool also gave me plenty of time to think and reflect. The pain and misery of Cho Oyu slowly gave way to moments of clarity and even positivity—moments that had eluded me until now, but were now beginning to shape as powerful reference points. Reference points that were actively building my confidence and, I hoped, my composure for when I’d need it most.

  I started to look more holistically at my Cho Oyu experience and extract the positives—things such as my ability to survive without oxygen after well and truly overstaying my welcome at 7400 metres. It might have been bloody miserable but, physically at least, I’d been strong at altitude. Surely I would be again if I was really tested.

  Being trapped in that tiny tent for four days in a storm on Cho Oyu and having my friend and climbing companion die next to me seemed to me to be about as bad as it could get. I started to believe there would be nothing that Everest could dish up that would be worse than the experience I’d managed to live through on Cho Oyu, physically or mentally. My reference point for struggle, pain and despair had been set pretty high. I’d finally discovered a strategy that was eroding my fear of failure, and it was spurring me on.

  For a long time, Everest had been my goal. I’d worked for many years to build a CV that would one day see my name on an Everest climbing permit. Getting the opportunity to attempt the summit had long been my WHY.

  Being seriously challenged on big mountains in Nepal aligned perfectly with my purpose and what motivated me. Adventure and travel were in my blood, and there was never a time my holidays weren’t spent in the mountains, trekking, skiing or climbing. But staying motivated, even in the pursuit of your most important goals, isn’t always easy.

  Motivation is a wonderful thing. It can be hugely inspiring and it can often drive us to take on new challenges and try new things. When motivation is high you need to run with it and take advantage of the time you have with it, because it will inevitably slip away at some point. And that had certainly been my experience with most of the challenges and activities I’d enjoyed applying myself to.

  But it was different this time because I’d properly embraced discipline. My WHY had actually pushed me past needing to be motivated to put in the necessary work. There was nothing remotely motivating about having to get up at 4.15am most days to attend indoor altitude training sessions that would turn me hypoxic before my day had even begun. And my reward for completing that was two hours in the cold and dark on my bike before starting work.

  What I’ve since come to understand is that discipline can drive you to succeed in the face of real adversity. Discipline can drive you to do the work you don’t enjoy, but you know you have to do. Discipline was slowly helping me conquer my fear of failure. Discipline was keeping me going in pursuit of my WHY long after my motivation and excitement had evaporated.

  There are so many variables you can’t control on Everest; these make being entitled to success impossible. Weather first and foremost has the power to end the campaign of the strongest and most determined of climbers. And you can never fully mitigate objective risks such as avalanches, crevasses and altitude illness entirely.

  But in finding the discipline to prepare myself to a level I hadn’t previously considered possible, I’d achieved a level of intrinsic entitlement that had me believing only the most atrocious of weather could deny me from standing on top of the world in a few months’ time.