“Journalling helped my mental health through open heart surgery”

"Sitting in my usual early spot at the kitchen table with a hot coffee, I looked out at the garden, opened my notebook and began to write.

I’d started this daily practice of journalling 5 years earlier as a tool to help me through the depths of depression, letting the thoughts in my mind fall onto the pages.

Some mornings I’d simply document what I could see in front of me, other times it was my darkest fears.

Now it was March 2024, and I was hoping this ritual could help my mental health through arguably the hardest time of my life.

Not only had I been made redundant from my job as an actuary in insurance after 18 years, I’d just been told I would need open heart surgery too.

I was scared and overwhelmed. Everything I thought I knew about my identity, my health and my future was in doubt.

I was 52, and although I’d let my running habit slip – I used to do marathons and half marathons – I still considered myself fit.

Only 7 months before, I walked the Yorkshire Three Peaks, a 25-mile challenge across the Dales, with my eldest son, George, then 19.

We’d trained by walking every weekend that summer and although the hills were tougher than expected, I managed it without any real difficulty.

There were no signs that anything was wrong with my heart. 

But by the winter, things began to change. I caught what I thought was a bug.

Walking to a lunch with clients, I was struggling to hold a conversation. I felt lightheaded, short of breath and unusually fatigued.

Friends told me they’d had similar bugs that lingered, so I brushed it off. Yet the symptoms persisted.

Straight after Christmas 2023, I decided to do an online consultation with my GP.

I listed my symptoms: breathlessness when walking, dizziness when standing and general fatigue.

To my surprise, they asked me to come in that same day. That was the start of a journey.

Diagnosed with coronary heart disease

At the GP surgery, I had an ECG (electrocardiogram), a test that records the electrical activity of the heart. 

Blood tests followed and then more investigations. 

I was referred for a cardiac CT scan that produces detailed images of the heart and blood vessels.

The cardiologist explained the scan showed narrowing of my coronary arteries – I had coronary heart disease. 

Narrowing happens when fatty deposits known as atherosclerotic plaques, build up inside the arteries, restricting blood flow to the heart muscle. 

I was shocked. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink. Yes, my cholesterol had been high so I’d already started on a statin – medicine to lower cholesterol – but I never expected something this serious.

Coronary heart disease increases the risk of heart attack and stroke, so the next step was a coronary angiogram, a procedure where dye is injected into the coronary arteries via blood vessels in the wrist and X-rays are taken to see where the blockages. 

The cardiologist told me he might insert stents, tiny mesh tubes that keep arteries open, during the procedure.

I remember lying on the table, shivering in the cold theatre, with machines whirring above me. The catheter was inserted through my wrist and threaded up into my heart. 

I felt the tube moving inside me. It was unnerving, but I tried to stay calm.

Then the atmosphere in the room shifted. The cardiologist leaned over and told me I was going to need surgery.

I hadn’t expected that. I thought stents would fix the problem.

But the narrowing was at the point where the arteries branched. If a stent failed there, it could block everything and cause a heart attack. 

The only option was coronary artery bypass grafting – a CABG. Specifically, I needed a triple bypass. 

That meant 3 of my coronary arteries were severely narrowed, and surgeons would have to create new routes for blood to reach my heart muscle.

They would take a vein from my leg and graft it onto the heart, bypassing the blocked sections.

My wife Liz was with me, and we both struggled to process it.

The surgeon reassured us.

He explained the risks but said that because I hadn’t had a heart attack, was relatively young and otherwise healthy, my chances of survival were very good. 

He performed these operations regularly. His calm confidence helped, but the fear lingered.

Journalling kept me calm 

The angiogram was on 1 March 2024. My surgery was scheduled for just 10 days later.

At first, that felt too soon. I wasn’t ready. But as the days passed, it became the longest week of my life.

Every time my heart raced or I felt anxious, I feared I wouldn’t make it to surgery.

I journalled my thoughts and sometimes I wrote as if it might be my last week alive. 

Telling family and friends was difficult.

George and his brother, Daniel, then 17, tried to be strong, but I knew they were worried.

My mum Elaine and brother Ian came down from Leeds to support us.

I sought comfort in stories from others who had been through heart surgery.

I read resources from the British Heart Foundation and even started watching a video of someone’s bypass surgery journey. 

But I had to stop - it was overwhelming to see the reality of what would happen to me. 

I realised it wasn’t helpful to dwell on the mechanics of the operation.

What mattered was recovery: what life would look like afterwards, what I would be able to do and how my family would cope.

The day of heart surgery

On the morning of 11 March, we arrived at the hospital early.

I went through the preparations: antiseptic wipes to disinfect my skin, shaving patches of my chest and leg where they would operate.

I felt nervous but calmer than I expected.

Walking down to the operating theatre, I met the anaesthetist.

As we talked, two fears struck me. First, that I might not wake up. Second, that I might wake up in the middle of the operation. 

Both thoughts were chilling.

But then I realised: if I did not wake up, I would not know. That strange logic gave me a sliver of peace.

The anaesthetic took hold - and everything went black.

For me, the hours of surgery vanished. For my family, they were agonising. 

My first memory afterwards is hazy. I was in the intensive care unit, surrounded by machines, tubes, and wires.

A large bandage covered my chest. Liz and George were there, though I barely registered them at first.

The surgery had been successful.

The surgeons had taken a vein from my left leg, using small incisions at the top and bottom, rather than a long cut, and grafted it onto my heart to bypass the blocked arteries.

My chest had been opened, my heart stopped and a machine had taken over my circulation while they worked.

And yet, here I was - alive, breathing and beginning recovery.

Writing gave me strength in recovery 

The days that followed were surreal. Pain, exhaustion and the strangeness of being dependent on others filled my world.

But gradually, I improved. 

Each small step, sitting up, walking a few paces, managing without certain tubes, felt monumental. 

Back home after 10 days, recovery was challenging. I worried about what I could and couldn’t do.

Would I be able to look after myself? Would I be a burden? 

I also found strength in writing, as I had done in the past. 

It wasn’t a magic wand but that regular habit gave me the continuity my life was lacking.

And shared my journey on LinkedIn, as I had done during my times of mental ill health, because I knew no good came of hiding your difficulties.

It connected me with others who had faced similar experiences. Their encouragement reminded me I wasn’t alone. 

I learned that the mental side of recovery can be as hard, if not harder, than the physical – and there’s less information and support about that part.

Reframing my situation helped my mental health.

I focused on what I could do that day and what I might be able to do tomorrow, the small wins. Not what I could do in my past.

TEDx talk on my journey

Now, at 54, I’m rebuilding my strength.

I walk regularly, eat more carefully, and continue with medication to manage my cholesterol. 

I’m mindful of my health, but I don’t let fear dominate me. 

Instead, I focus on gratitude, for the surgeons who treated me, for the family who supported me and for the chance to keep living fully.

I started a fulfilling new job coaching apprentice actuaries in December 2024 – a career move I’d never have been brave enough to consider when I was in my busy corporate job. 

But the enforced time recuperating after redundancy gave me a chance to reassess my values and dreams.

My openness about my mental recovery as well as my physical one has also led me down new, exciting paths in life.

On my birthday last October, I stood on stage in front of 600 people to give a TEDx talk in St Albans after the organiser spotted my LinkedIn posts.

As I told people about how I’d had to change my mindset to get through surgery and recovery, it hit me how far I’d come.

But sharing my story wasn’t just about me, it was about helping others recognise symptoms, seek help and find hope. 

Looking back, I realise how easy it is to ignore symptoms: to assume they’re nothing serious.

If I hadn’t done that online consultation, who knows what might have happened? 

I’ve also learned that heart disease doesn’t always fit the stereotypes.

I didn’t smoke or drink. I wasn’t overweight, yet high cholesterol had put me at risk. 

Coronary heart disease can affect anyone.

Most of all, I’ve learned about resilience, mine and my family’s. I had to survive changes I didn’t choose.

Facing open heart surgery forced me to confront my mortality.

It was frightening, overwhelming and humbling. 

But it also gave me perspective. Life is fragile and every day matters. 

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