Less is more.
I prefer modern treatments that improve your quality of life as fast as possible, with as little risk as possible.
At the forefront.
I stay up to date with the latest techniques and medical research. It’s how I know I’m delivering the best treatment available for every one of my patients.
Candid but caring.
Half-truths don’t help. You deserve the facts. I give it to you straight but always handle sensitive issues with care.
Clear and simple.
I’ve provided clarity for hundreds of patients, explaining complex conditions using language that’s easy to understand.
Relatable.
A huge part of my job is putting you at ease. A friendly chat or laugh (when appropriate) can be just the thing to keep you feeling comfortable.
I’ve built a career around my passion for human anatomy through hard work and discipline. But none of this would be possible without my family, who nurtured me and gave me the freedom to choose my own path.
Surgical skill is a must. So is feeling heard. You need a surgeon who excels at both.
I’ve played drums since school. I didn’t know it then, but those hours spent refining drumrolls, hi-hat control, and off-beat kicks shaped how I’d later train as a surgeon. It was all about precision, repetition, and mastering each part before building the full rhythm.
I was lucky to learn from some of Australia’s top neurosurgeons. Each with their own distinct technique. One stood out — the most precise I’ve ever seen.
For three years, I studied his movements, filming his procedures and practising them at home. I’d rehearse each motion in front of a mirror — over and over — until it felt instinctive. Then I’d move on to the next. Eventually, I’d stitch them all together into the full procedure, step by step.
That discipline — of slowing things down, refining each detail, and building fluency over time — has stayed with me in my surgical career.
And it all started with the drums.
I hadn’t even seen a dachshund until I met my wife and she introduced me to hers.
When I locked eyes with that tiny little creature, I fell in love for the second time that week…
Now, we have four! And couldn’t love them more.
Sure they’re a bit noisy, but also wonderfully funny and affectionate.
They’re known for their curiosity, independence, and focus. Maybe that’s why I connect with them so much – we share the same personality traits!
Aside from music and my love of dachshunds, I have a few other passions: Formula 1 racing, fast cars in general, and staying fit. But above all these, cricket has always been one of my lifelong loves.
I remember putting on my first set of whites as a young boy and heading out to the local pitch in the small Central Tasmanian town where I grew up. I was a ‘quick’ – a fast bowler – and nothing thilled me more than intimidating ‘an’ opening batsman through my sheer pace.
Through countless sessions in the nets, I honed my technique and developed an array of deliveries — yorkers, in-swingers, out-swingers, and of course, the all-important bouncer. Much like my drumming practice, cricket taught me the value of discipline and repetition in mastering physical skills.
On weekends when I wasn’t playing or training, I loved watching the game on TV ( I still do). As a boy growing up in the 80s and 90s, I was a bit young to catch Dennis Lillee and Jeff “Thommo” Thompson’s legendary battles with Viv Richards’ West Indian teams as they happened, but my Dad ensured I was educated after the fact. I fondly remember the greats of the 90s like Alan Border, Mark Taylor, the Waugh brothers, Shane Warne and Glenn McGrath.
The pinnacle of my own cricketing career came during my teenage years, when I faced fellow Tasmanian and future professional Brett Geeves in a bowling competition. He edged me out with a top speed of 118 km/h to my 115 km/h. But hey, the guy went on to play for Australia, so I take some pride in that.
You can’t win them all!
When I was in Year 10, a family friend gave me a book by a renowned American neurosurgeon. It described surgery under the microscope — the delicate structures deep in the brain — and I was hooked. It felt like a switch had flipped. I suddenly knew. This was my calling.
Neurosurgery suited me in ways I hadn’t expected. Years of drumming had sharpened my fine motor skills. I loved anatomy (still my favourite subject) and the brain’s complexity fascinated me like nothing else.
After completing my medical degree (graduating with First Class Honours and receiving the Frank Fay Prize), I spent three years learning from one of the most gifted surgeons I’ve ever met. I travelled across Australia, observing him and other legendary neurosurgeons. Thanks to their guidance — and a lot of hard work — I progressed from observer to assistant, and eventually became a neurosurgeon myself.
Early on, when people asked why I chose neurosurgery, I’d say it was to help others. It felt like the right answer, but it wasn’t the whole truth. My drive also came from a love of anatomy and the physics of surgery.
Over time, that changed. When patients tell me I’ve played a part in improving their quality of life, I understand what it really means to help. That realisation has brought me a deeper sense of purpose than I ever could have imagined.
