*This content discusses suicide. For support contact Lifeline Call 13 11 14 or text 0477 13 11 14.

Bruce is a Sydney-based truck compliance business owner, transport podcaster and truck restorer, with a passion for talking openly about mental health.  He uses his platform to advocate for how a meaningful mental health check-in can genuinely turn someone’s life around.  As someone who has received help while experiencing depression and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and provided help to others, Bruce offers honest and real-world advice.

Trucks are in my blood. Even as a kid, I knew I’d end up in the industry. I was obsessed with cars and trucks and could tell you everything about their features, history, and how they worked. My dad drove a broadcast van for one of the major television networks and often took me along. I still remember sitting at servos and chatting with other truck drivers while they filled up, sometimes even being allowed to climb into their cabs.

I began my career in vehicle upholstery and quickly found my groove. I was pedantic about the details, especially with vintage vehicles. But when I was 25, I was involved in a serious car accident on the way to a job and broke my neck – the first of two major accidents that halted my career behind the wheel. Looking back now, that was the beginning of my challenges with mental health. I couldn’t work for almost a year and was dealing with intense physical pain, anxiety about the future, and the fear of how I’d support my family.

After I recovered, I moved into allocation and compliance and spent some time driving trucks. Long hours are part of transport life – you’re exhausted when you wake up and exhausted when you get home. There’s compliance, paperwork, fatigue, physical strain, and for many drivers, the trauma of what they’ve seen on the road as first responders. For me, it was during an operations role that my mental health unravelled, triggered by severe workplace bullying. At the same time, I was a dad to two young kids and felt I wasn’t giving my family the time they deserved.

When I left that job, I completely fell apart. I spent days in bed, crying and unable to talk. A childhood friend, someone I’d known since I was six years old, noticed how bad things had become. As kids, we used to hang out in a den under his parents’ house, eating his dad’s party mix lollies and talking about school and girls.  One day, after we’d spoken on the phone, he showed up at my door with a bag of party mix and said, ‘we need to talk’. That moment changed everything. He listened, encouraged me to discuss how much I was struggling with my wife, and supported me to see a psychologist.

Admitting how I felt was a huge relief. I found a psychologist I really connected with who allowed me to open up, and I remember walking out thinking, ‘this guy gets me’. I realised then, I can teach someone to back a B-double, which takes certain expertise, but this was his expertise. Learning to trust my psychologist really helped my recovery.

I’ve since been diagnosed with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. I still have low periods and have experienced suicidal thoughts. The difference now is that I can talk about it. I’m open with my wife, my business partner, and close friends. Recently, I hit another dark point. A mate noticed I wasn’t myself and checked in. When I told him how bad things were, he followed me home to make sure I got there safely and stayed with me while we organised support. Now, a group of mates and I have a deal: if we’re struggling, we message each other ‘hey mate, have you got eight minutes?’. It’s a simple way to check in before things escalate, and a reminder that there are people who genuinely care about how we are feeling.

Being open about my experiences has given me real purpose. About five years ago, a mate and I started a trucking podcast, Copy Southbound. It’s a fortnightly show about trucking history and the people in the industry. One day, I decided to share my own experience with depression. After that, people started reaching out – quietly at first, then in larger numbers. Nearly 80 people have since contacted us to say hearing my story of how recovery is possible stopped them from taking their lives.

One of those conversations still stays with me. A listener I’d never met reached out one night, struggling with his mental health. I spoke with him on the phone for over an hour and kept checking in over the days and weeks that followed. Years later, I ran into him with his wife and baby at an event. He thanked me for saving his life. He said, ‘You listened to me and helped me get help’. That’s when I realised – if talking openly about my own experiences and looking out for the signs in other people saves even one life, it’s worth it.

As someone who has been both the helper and the one who needed help, my advice is simple: be brave enough to ask. Ask a mate, a colleague, or a family member, ‘are you OK?’. Really listen and follow up. When my friends checked in on me, I felt relief, not pressure, because I realised that I wasn’t alone. Look out for your mates in the industry, and Ask R U OK? any day, because you never know what they might be carrying.