In the latest piece of the Keep Talking series on B&T, Mutinex’s John Sintras recounts some tough times in his life and how he could not have gotten through those times alone. It follows pieces by the likes of Aimee Buchanan, Cam Luby, Al Crawford and Ian Perrin, the man behind the series.
I’ve been looking at a blank screen for some time. This is an excruciating piece to write. I’ve always struggled putting myself out there, being vulnerable to judgement and criticism.
What should I share? I’ve had all sorts of difficult episodes that have impacted my mental health over the years. Hardest of all, the passing of close family and friends, most recently the tragic loss of our 19-year-old niece Antonia last year.
And who the hell am I to be giving anyone advice anyway? Everyone’s different. But I’m inspired by the column Ian Perrin created, and what previous contributors have bravely shared, so here it goes.
I’m an optimist by nature, I like to see the ‘glass half full’. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the ‘glass half empty’ is always lurking. I’ve been blessed with a long and successful career that I still can’t believe ever happened. So many people tell me I’m confident, connected, and that things seem to come easily for me.
What a load of rot.
The truth is I am chronically shy and insecure. Despite everything I’ve done, ‘imposter syndrome’ still haunts me. My parents adored my brother and I. But Dad was no softie. He was a hard worker and a perfectionist. Much of what drove me was the need to prove I was worthy of his standards and sacrifices.
But the bigger driver was that we were Greek immigrants. I was called a ‘wog’ and teased mercilessly through much of my early schooling. I desperately wanted to fit in, but I had olive skin and weird food in my lunchbox. Those cruel moments shaped me forever. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to belong, to feel good enough, to be liked, and learning to like myself.
I was drawn to advertising at a time when few people with migrant backgrounds were in the industry. Migrant children were expected to become doctors, accountants and lawyers to gain respectability and acceptance for their families. But I knew that wasn’t for me.
I worked hard to get a break as a trainee with Leo Burnett. And I found my tribe.
Advertising attracted wonderful, creative people who didn’t quite fit anywhere else. Slowly I built my confidence and my craft, and over the years had the chance to pay it forward by helping other people from diverse backgrounds get their break. I’m really proud of that.
But ours is an industry of extraordinary highs and very low lows. I’ve had to build the resilience and coping mechanisms to deal with the relentless pressure and expectations. My mental health has taken a battering over the years.
I’ve learned the real heart of our industry is its people, not the P&L or the ‘work’. Bosses, teams, clients, suppliers, everyone is struggling with their own ambitions and challenges. When I focussed on understanding the person rather than the title or résumé, things became a little easier. Relationships improved, and then the results followed.
Everything is about emotional connection, being open and respectful to other people and their needs and struggles. Which brings me to the struggle that probably changed me most.
Like many, we expected we could have children when we decided the time was right. What arrogance!
For five long years we were disappointed. Weirdly, no one talked about fertility issues then. It wasn’t until we started sharing our story that we realised how many others were in the same boat. It would have made things so much easier to know that, and to talk about it.
When we finally fell pregnant, it felt like a miracle. Then, at just 26 weeks, Evelyn went into labour.
Our twins were delivered successfully, but we had no idea whether they would live. What followed was a terrifying five-month rollercoaster, with an incredible team in the NICU doing everything they could to keep our kids alive. It was both a wonderful and very dark time, as life so often is.
Family, friends and colleagues didn’t know how to react. Should they call, visit, send flowers, leave us alone? We had to make a choice about the tone we wanted to set. Victims, or victors? Hard as it was, we chose to be positive. Our twins were alive and in great care. We asked everyone around us to be positive too. And they were.
Eventually the twins came home, and we blissfully thought the worst was behind us. Andrew remained on oxygen for almost a year, but then Lia started missing developmental milestones. Just before her first birthday, she was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. The shock was enormous.
We were devastated, but I immediately went into control mode. I needed to figure out what to do next. Soon after, Evelyn became the stronger one, and I plunged into a deep depression. I felt completely helpless. It was my job to fix things, but I had to eventually accept there was nothing I could do to change the fact that my daughter would likely never walk.
Sometimes though, the universe puts the right thing in your path. Shortly after Lia’s diagnosis, a client invited me to a seminar with Edward de Bono. His simple technique of ‘changing the frame’ transformed my outlook. We worked harder to accept our circumstances. We stopped asking ‘why us?’. And we changed our expectations of what the future might look like.
We were also incredibly fortunate to find Cerebral Palsy Alliance. I don’t know how we would have coped without them, and I felt an obligation to become part of that community and help others in our situation. I started fundraising, eventually joined its boards, and began inviting leaders from our industry to a small golf fundraising event at Cypress Lakes. What followed still astonishes me.
For more than 20 years, fierce competitors have come together with their families to support our cause. The event just kept growing, raising over $20 million to date for research, equipment and support services, helping families and contributing to an extraordinary reduction in the incidence of CP in Australia.
There can be great growth and beauty in hardship. It’s not easy, but it is possible.
Do I wish my daughter could walk? Of course I do. But there is so much she can do and achieve, and that’s what we focus on. Our lives have been richer for the experience and the wonderful people we have met on our journey. We’re enormously proud of both our twins and the resilient, thoughtful adults they have become. Both are now passionate advocates for disability and inclusion. And they are still our little miracles.
As I write this, we’re excitedly, and nervously, awaiting the birth of our first grandson next month. Who’d have thought?!
We can’t control what happens to us next. We can only control how we respond.
Real life isn’t a heavily curated and glamorous Instagram page. It’s hard, and it’s often cruel. But somehow the hardship has brought more joy and meaning to our great moments. It has helped me become a better person, take myself less seriously, and maybe like myself a little more.
But I wouldn’t have got through any of it alone. Sure, there are moments when I need to be by myself. But ultimately, it’s been my wonderful wife, family, friends and colleagues who have carried me through the tough times.
Real success isn’t the size of your bank balance or the number of awards you’ve won. It’s the quality of your relationships, and the myriad little things you can do to bring joy to someone every day.
And perhaps having the courage to tell someone when things aren’t OK.
That’s why we need to keep sharing our stories.
And Keep Talking.
