Matthew’s story: A dad’s experience of obsessive-compulsive disorder following a devastating loss
“I learnt in the hardest possible way that the bravest thing I ever did had nothing to do with running into a burning building or towards someone else’s worst moment. It was saying, ‘I’m not okay. I need help.’”
Like most expectant fathers, I had imagined new parenthood as one of the great joys of life. A milestone to look forward to. A chapter that would define us as a family in the most beautiful way.
What I experienced instead was the most devastating loss of my life, followed by a pregnancy defined by anxiety rather than excitement, followed by the arrival of a daughter I loved completely but was terrified of failing.
What I didn't expect was that becoming a father, even through loss, would ultimately show me the man I needed to be. That the version of strength I had always believed in, the kind that stays silent and soldiers on, was not strength at all. I learnt in the hardest possible way that the bravest thing I ever did had nothing to do with running into a burning building or towards someone else’s worst moment.
It was saying, “I’m not okay. I need help.”
On Valentine's Day 2023, our first daughter Mia Grace was stillborn at 18 weeks and 2 days. In the years since, I have navigated grief, a pregnancy after loss and a diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that I carried in silence for far longer than I should have. I am still in recovery today and I speak openly about it because I believe the bravest thing a man can do is refuse to pretend he is okay when he isn't.
Mia gave me my purpose.
Grief, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD)
I was diagnosed with OCD less than a year after our rainbow daughter was born. It was a result of the grief I never gave myself the opportunity to process following the stillbirth of my first daughter Mia, compounded by a health scare for our dog Archie, who had been our rock through the worst days of our lives.
I first noticed my mental health declining approximately six months after our daughter was born. We had made it through the newborn phase and for the first time since losing Mia, life slowed down enough for everything to catch up with me.
It was at that point that Archie had his health scare. It unlocked something within me. The anxiety I had been carrying, the grief I had never properly sat with, it all found somewhere to go. What began as fear for Archie quickly morphed into obsessive fears surrounding our daughter and a relentless, exhausting question that followed me everywhere. I questioned whether I had done enough to protect her? Was I good enough to be her father after everything I had been through?
It was the beginning of something I didn't yet have a name for.
The OCD attached itself to what I loved most. I developed an overwhelming and irrational fear of inadvertently harming our daughter through contamination. At my worst I was washing my hands for more than five hours a day, changing my clothes multiple times and unable to perform basic household tasks out of fear of exposing her to harm. I was later also diagnosed with PTSD.
What made this period particularly difficult was that I never took any time to access my own personal mental health support as a father following Mia's stillbirth. The focus for me was on my wife's physical and emotional recovery. I let myself fall through the gaps. I kept functioning. I kept showing up and I kept suffering in silence, convinced that staying strong was the same thing as being okay.
Relationship ups and downs during a challenging time
Following the devastating loss of Mia, we grew as a couple and our marriage became stronger than either of us expected. I witnessed the pain and heartbreak etched onto my wife's heart and I made a silent promise to protect her from ever having to carry that alone again. I protected her fiercely, mentally, emotionally and physically, taking on the hard conversations, the necessary arrangements, the appointments, anything I could do to take the burden from her shoulders.
Then the OCD and PTSD arrived, and they tried to tear us apart. Mental health struggles strain lives and relationships in ways that are difficult to articulate. The weight my wife carried during my darkest days wore her down in ways I am still reckoning with. She was a new mother, caring for a one-year-old and a dog, working full time, and she was my rock too. Somewhere along the way she became the stoic, steady presence I had once been for her. In my darkest hours she just stood next to me and said, we will get through this together. No matter what challenge or what hurdle was put in our way.
I don't know where I would be without her. I don't like to think about it.
Admitting ‘I’m not okay’
For a long time, nothing got me to seek help.
I attended grief counselling with my wife for over a year after we lost Mia. My sole focus of doing so was to support my wife and understand better how I could do that. It was never about me, or at least that's what I convinced myself.
Then I started to struggle with everyday functioning - sleeping, concentrating, being a present father. I had withdrawn from everything that made me happy in life - social occasions, taking the dog to the park, going to exercise. I was a broken man and once it became obvious that my mental health struggles were affecting those around me that I love most, it was the catalyst for me reaching out.
I stood in front of my wife in the middle of our lounge room and broke down. I said those six words - "I'm not okay. I need help." It was the moment I finally admitted to the world I couldn’t hold this weight any longer no matter how hard I tried to mask it or put on a brave face.
That’s when things began to change.
How the right support changed my life
The road to finding the right support was not a straight one, but looking back, every step of it mattered. For a long time, I confused bravery with being okay. But you can only live that way for so long. I was afraid of having to build a relationship with a psychologist (which I knew deep down I needed) because in the past I had struggled to open up.
The other major hurdle when OCD took a hold of me was my fear of contamination. The most significant referral I received was to the Clinical Research Unit for Anxiety and Depression (CRUfAD), but two things stopped me. The first was I was terrified of what people would think of me if they knew I was there. The second was that I was so paralysed by my fear of hospitals for so long I couldn’t get myself to apply.
Once I did, I tried to take the easy route of Telehealth, so I didn't need to go in. It took one of their psychiatrists to hit me with a home truth for me to drop my fear and go in. He said to me "Matt, you agreeing to come in signifies your commitment to better yourself and to change. So, when you are ready, you let us know and we will book you in for an assessment.” That was all it took. In that moment I knew I needed to be a better man, father and husband. I stopped him mid-sentence. “Doctor? Sign me up. I’m ready for this. I'll come in.”
Once I found CRUfAD and my therapist, life changed. She opened my eyes to what life could look like again. For a long time, I couldn't see what the future held, not because I was suicidal, but because depression had placed a black cloud over everything I looked at.
My therapist engaged a psychiatrist to find an appropriate medication. It opened a door I didn't know existed. It allowed me to tackle the early exposures which built the self-efficacy and resilience I needed to tackle ERP — Exposure and Response Prevention — the gold standard treatment for OCD. Sitting with the anxiety. Not letting it dictate your compulsions to you.
Our grief counsellor showed us how to navigate those early stages of loss and how to advocate for what we needed without accepting anything less than what felt right for us. She walked every step of our grief with us for over two years. She was our guiding light in the darkest chapter of our lives.
Losing Mia Grace is the saddest thing I have ever been through. Overcoming OCD is without doubt the hardest.
Life now and supporting my mental health
We check in with our grief counsellor every month or two, particularly around anniversaries and significant life events, the dates that never quite lose their weight.
I still see my therapist every week. I have educated myself on OCD and commit to ERP work every week. It is an ongoing journey, but it is one I now face with clarity and purpose rather than shame. Every step forward is a step I once couldn't imagine taking.
Now, I am a Peer Support Officer and the founder of A Father's Love. I speak publicly about my experience. Sharing my story, with other firefighters, at conferences, with bereavement teams and men's health organisations. It has become part of my recovery. There is something profoundly healing about turning your pain into purpose. About standing in front of a room and saying, this is what it cost me to stay silent, and this is what changed when I finally spoke.
I take the time to appreciate the small moments now. Being a present father. Knowing that I am a good dad and that I am worthy of the life and family I have built. For a long time, I couldn't say that and truly mean it.
I also lean on the people around me now. My wife. My best mate. The colleagues who showed up when I finally let them in. I have learned that self-care for me isn't just about what I do alone, it's about allowing others to show up for me the way I have always shown up for them.
My message to other dads
Let someone in. You can't carry the weight of it all alone. The moment you open up to someone you trust, you no longer carry the weight all on your own. Whatever you're carrying - grief, anxiety, shame, fear - it needs a name. Because unnamed things grow in the dark. Named things can be faced.
You cannot fight this alone. Not because you're weak. But because isolation is the disease and connection is the cure. One person. Just one person. Let them in.
And know your why. On the days where treatment is impossibly hard. On the days the grief comes back and hits with vengeance. On the days you want to give in to every compulsion, every fear feels real and nothing feels simple, come back to your why. Mine is Mia, making sure her name is known well after I'm gone. It's my family and showing them what it really means to live a life full of gratitude, love and happiness, just as I promised Mia the day I kissed her goodbye for the last time.