It started with a good intention.
It ended with a parliamentary inquiry.
The Gowanbank Hub was supposed to be something beautiful — a lighthouse in the middle of storm-ridden lives. It would feed families. Offer crisis support. Mental health care. Youth services. Sexual health clinics. A modern sanctuary.
Instead, it became a blueprint for my own unravelling.
A Vision Drenched in Desperation
The idea wasn’t born from ambition.
It was born from pain.
I wanted to create what I never had — a space where no one had to hide their scars. A place where broken people could breathe. I put everything I had into it: the metaphysical degree I’d earned online, the AI books I used to fundraise, the illusion of being a man who had it together.
As I wrote in “Billy Coull, Metaphysical Doctor”, I wasn’t healed. I was just wearing the healer’s robes.
The Mistakes Piled Quietly
At first, people believed in it. They donated. They shared posts. Politicians smiled in photo ops. We even had a launch date. But behind the scenes, it was all duct tape and desperation.
I didn’t know how to run a charity. I didn’t know how to build infrastructure . And when those systems cracked, they cracked hard.
MPs started asking questions. Reports came out.
Some of the people we were supposed to help ended up worse off. I was trying to save them with a structure that couldn’t hold the weight.
The Face of the Failure
When it collapsed, they made sure everyone knew who to blame.
Billy Coull, public enemy.
The media tore it apart. The narrative was simple: failed event promoter, fake doctor, dangerous man. The nuance never made it in. The books I had published were mocked. The trauma care programs were labelled “unsafe.” No one asked why I built it in the first place.
The Gowanbank Hub didn’t just collapse.
It collapsed on top of me.
Ashes and Understanding
I see it differently now. I see that I was building the Hub to save myself. Hoping that if I could rescue others, I could earn my way back into the light. But you can’t lead people out of the dark if you’re still lost yourself.
I should have asked for help.
Instead, I tried to become the help.
And that broke everything.
What Remains
The Hub is gone.
The reputation never recovered.
But the lesson survived.
If you’re going to build something for others, make sure it’s not a coffin you’re decorating to look like a sanctuary.
I share this not to erase the harm, but to own it. Fully. And to promise that the next thing I build will start from a place of truth — not performance.