Location: Oswestry, Shropshire

The moment I zipped up my buoyancy aid, I felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through me. It was the day after I’d been discharged from the Midlands Centre for Spinal Injuries after five months of intensive rehabilitation, and I was about to kayak for the first time in my life. It had been five months since the climbing accident that left me paralysed, and stepping out of the hospital into a new reality was both liberating and terrifying. The thought of kayaking – a sport entirely new to me – was a bold start to this new chapter. The idea wasn’t mine; it was Matt’s. He and my other friends had rallied together, convincing the local leisure centre to let us use their main pool for a controlled introduction to paddling. With both my family and Matt’s family present, the atmosphere was buzzing with anticipation. It felt like everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how this would play out.

Sitting on the pool’s edge, the kayak balanced precariously beside me, Matt laid out the plan: “We’ll ease you in. You can paddle around for a bit, and then Harry and Jack will flip you over – just to make sure you know how to capsize safely.” The idea of being intentionally flipped underwater should have been nerve-wracking, but I was too excited to feel anything other than an overwhelming desire to prove I could do this.

As I glanced around, I caught Mum’s eyes. She was smiling, but I could see the nerves etched into her expression. I couldn’t blame her; none of this was typical ‘day after discharge’ behaviour. But to me, it felt vital. This was my way of reclaiming a sense of control and adventure in a world that had recently felt so uncontrollable, so safe. With meticulous care, Matt, Harry, and Jack lowered me into the kayak. I barely noticed the awkwardness of the process; the moment the kayak hit the water, I was overcome by a strange sense of liberation. For the first time in months, I wasn’t bound to my wheelchair.

The kayak glided forward, the water rippling softly beneath me. I gripped the paddle and attempted my first stroke. The movement was awkward – without the control of my abdominal muscles or legs to stabilise me, the kayak wobbled precariously. Then, as if in slow motion, I tipped. Before I could react, I was underwater, the world above a blur of light and motion. As I surfaced, gasping for air, a grin spread across my face. “That was fun! Let’s go again!” I shouted to the collective laughter and applause of everyone watching. I could see the pang of distress across Mum’s face as she tried her best not to overreact or become overly apprehensive despite my brief, unintended, spell underwater.  For the rest of the session, I capsized more times than I cared to count, each time gliding a little further, flipping upside down, and then surfacing with the same sense of exhilaration and liberation.

That Christmas Eve was more than just my first kayaking experience – it was a turning point. It marked the beginning of a mindset shift, an acknowledgement that while my body had changed, my capacity to embrace challenge and adventure hadn’t. In a way, it was a celebration: I’d made it through the darkest months of my life, and I was still here. Still fighting. Better than that, I was surrounded by the true and unconditional love of friends and family – those who saw me as Darren, the hopeless optimist and not as Darren, a guy with a disability whose life would never be the same, never worth living.

Mindset Reflection:

That morning at the pool, surrounded by my closest friends and family, I capsized more times than I could count. With each unintended upturn, I became more determined to reach the middle of the swimming pool, undeterred by the fact that I was failing – repeatedly and in quick succession. Every time I surfaced from a brief immersion beneath the water, I reached for my paddle, swam back to the pool’s edge, and, with the help of my friends, set off again without hesitation.

For many of us, the thought of failure can be fear-inducing; for others, the mere risk of it is enough to stop them from even starting. Looking back now, I often ask myself what kept driving me to fail, and then fail again, all in pursuit of moving just a little further forward. Why did I lean into failure rather than shy away from it at a time when I was still rebuilding my self-belief? I believe the answer lies largely in two factors: humility and psychological safety.

First, let’s explore humility and how it shaped my willingness to lean into failure. At its core, humility is about acknowledging our limitations and being willing to start small – and fail. From the moment the cliff collapsed beneath my feet at World’s End, through Intensive Care, and into the gruelling months of rehabilitation, I’d been humbled at every stage. I was reminded not only of my fragility and limitations but also of the uphill battle that lay ahead in the days, weeks, and months to come. Any ego I may have had before was gone. In time, I would come to understand that humility represented true strength – but that was a revelation for another day.

It was that sense of humility – a grounded understanding of my own abilities – that allowed me to throw myself into a new journey: learning to kayak with a Spinal Cord Injury. I expected to struggle, to fail, and to end up at the bottom of the pool more than once. By lowering my expectations – shifting from “If I can climb a mountain, kayaking should be easy” to “This is going to be tough, and I’m willing to embrace that” – I positioned myself not in frustration, but in a mindset that relished the challenge. I could celebrate the small milestones, the marginal gains, and every step forward, no matter how imperfect.

Now, let’s explore the second reason I was able to lean into failure and begin rebuilding from rock bottom: psychological safety. Intensive rehabilitation is, at its core, a prolonged exposure to failure. Every day, you’re asked to push beyond perceived physical limits. You get it wrong – repeatedly. You fall – repeatedly. You return to the same basic movements, which appear simple in principle, such as learning to balance without the use of your core muscles, only to see slow, incremental progress. Without psychological safety, that environment would be unbearable. What made those five months survivable – and at times even productive – was the presence of a safe space to fail.

In rehab, failure wasn’t framed as incompetence, and struggle wasn’t interpreted as weakness. Instead, the environment normalised failure while removing the fear of judgement. Phrases like “this is expected”, “this is part of the process”, and “try again” reinforced the idea that ability and confidence are rebuilt incrementally – through marginal gains, not dramatic wins. That mindset allowed me to attempt things I knew I would struggle with or fail at, yet still maintain a degree of emotional resilience. Psychological safety didn’t eliminate failure, but it changed what failure meant: a stepping stone, proof that I was still moving forward.

These two mechanisms – humility and psychological safety – came into their own that day at the swimming pool, as I capsized repeatedly before finally reaching the middle of the 25m pool. The reason those falls didn’t stop me wasn’t stubbornness, ego, or bravado; it was familiarity with a process. Rehab had taught me that progress comes from repetition and a willingness to fail. Humility allowed me to accept where I was. Psychological safety allowed me to begin. And repetition through failure was how I would rebuild.