Running from Head to Heart | Journal by Brendan Verrier

Hi, my name is Brendan Verrier and I grew up chasing a football. For years the oval was my second home and playing for the South Fremantle Football Club in the WAFL felt like a second home playing with my best mates and also brother, all I wanted to achieve was premiership success with the men I worked extremely hard with over the 10 years spent at the club. But in 2017, one moment changed the entire trajectory of my life. A sling tackle sent me crashing to the ground. The back of my head hit the surface hard creating an explosive feeling to the brain. I blacked out briefly but got back up, because that's what you did in footy once upon a time. You push through and you play. Luckily the final siren went but this was only the start of the journey.

The damage wasn't something I could tape up or ice after the game. The concussion symptoms crept in slowly and then became relentless. Headaches, dizziness, blurred vision and underneath it all, a dark fog in my mind that I couldn't shake. I didn't look after myself properly and kept all my feelings to myself. I drank alcohol that same night as the annual football party was on after the game and I could not bear to miss out on anything socially when I was growing up not having the maturity, awareness and education to look after my brain health first continuing on to party all night with friends. I decided to stay silent not wanting to lose my spot in the team so I could continue to keep on playing. I told myself I was fine.

But I wasn't.

What started as "just a knock" turned into nearly two years of debilitating symptoms and mental health struggles. I felt lost, broken and at times I genuinely wondered if I'd ever get my life back. There were moments so dark I didn't want to be here anymore. I found myself thinking about ways to end it all, even acting on impulses that frightened me. Those were some of the hardest days of my life.

But somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice refused to give up.

A diagnosis of vestibular disorder within my inner ear explained why the world felt like it was spinning every time I moved. My brain couldn't tolerate movement and activity anymore, but I was determined to fight back because the anxiety of thinking that I would have this injury forever was too much to handle. For 10 long months, I spent countless hours on an indoor bike, slowly reintroducing my brain to movement. I paired it with cognitive brain training exercises, retraining my balance, my reflexes and my belief in myself.

It was humbling. It was frustrating. But it worked.

Bit by bit, my health returned. Physically, I was stronger, but inside I was still searching. Football had been my identity and without it, I didn't know who I was anymore.

So, I went searching for stillness, for meaning, for something new.

I moved to Central Australia, Alice Springs. Out in the heart of Australia. I found something that changed everything. I started hiking throughout the West MacDonnell Ranges. Out on those ancient trails, with red dirt under my feet and silence stretching for miles, I felt a stillness I hadn't known for years. Nature became my moving meditation.

And then I found out people ran on these trails.

At first, it was clumsy. But I trained anyway because I just enjoyed being outdoors and meeting people. I signed up for the West Macs Monster 65km trail race, a distance that felt nearly impossible at the time. On race day, my legs completely gave way halfway and I hobbled to the finish line, my body in agony but my heart on fire. I had found something more powerful than anything in life, the ability to overcome my own mind.

I trained for another year. This time, stronger, wiser, calmer. In 2024, I returned to the same race and won, with a course record. Standing at that finish line, I could hardly believe it. From two years of suffering, from thinking I'd never run again, let alone live fully, to standing there in disbelief at what I'd just done.

Trail running gave me my life back. It gave me a reason to wake up every morning, to explore, to meet incredible people, to breathe deeply and to trust that no matter how dark things get, the human spirit can heal and rise again.

I don't know if I'll ever be fully healed from the trauma and impact my brain went through. There are still moments of doubt and sometimes the memories of those darker years return. I've even made the decision to donate my brain to a brain bank, so that one day it can be studied and tested for Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), the brain disease linked to repeated head trauma.

But I've learned something powerful through all of this: there are some things in life that are out of our control. I can't predict the future or change the past. What I can do is keep living fully now. Life is too precious to be spent worrying about what might happen one day.

So I keep putting one foot in front of the other, not only on the trail, but in life. Every run, every breath, every sunrise on the horizon is a choice to move forward, to keep showing up and to trust that, whatever lies ahead, I'll meet it with courage and gratitude.

I now look at the entire experience as a blessing as it has shaped me to who I am today. Challenges are stepping stones to becoming a better human. I am excited to see what the next part of my life may bring!

I want this story to be proof for anyone reading: no matter what you're facing, you can overcome it. You can rebuild and you can run wild again.