Big Boys Do Cry

My most vulnerable story told

They say time is the greatest healer.
I used to nod along. There’s truth in it sometimes. It sounds like wise advice, right?

But now?
Now I know there's more to it.
Time doesn’t heal anything on its own.
It just gives pain space to stretch its legs, to settle in deep and learn your name.
And sometimes, it doesn’t heal... it haunts.

For the last ten years, I’ve been living under a dark cloud.
Not constant rain, but the kind of weight that follows you, limits you, shapes you.
My story isn’t linear.
It’s jagged. Raw. Unfinished.
A path carved by my own mistakes, and deepened by the people I love… and the people I let down.

Five years on bail.
You want to talk about The Waiting Game?
Try holding your breath for five years, never knowing when the gavel drops.
The going-away parties felt like rehearsals for my own burial.
At one of them, after another round of long, drawn-out goodbyes, my dear friend turned to me and said, “Well, that felt like one very long f***ing funeral.” We were trying to find humour in tragedy.

I tried to laugh. Tried to stay strong.
But inside, it felt like the world was already grieving me... like they saw the fall before I hit the ground.

Then came prison.
And everything hardens.
You don’t cry in there.
You don’t talk about your fears... maybe with one or two you trust, if you’re lucky.
You become a version of yourself that’s built to survive, not to live.
You find ways to fast-forward the years, because when time’s your enemy, you just want to get to the end of it.

The day before I was sentenced, I watched my daughter drive away from me.
She was only twelve.
As the car reversed, I saw her crying in the front seat, looking out the window, not understanding why her dad had to leave.
It felt like slow motion.
Like the world had stopped.
That moment broke me in a way nothing else ever has.
And still to this day, it plays on a loop... not in dreams, but in the moments I’m awake.
My nightmares don’t visit me in sleep. They show up when I’m living.

I’ve had moments of false confidence... arrogance even... where I told myself I was in control.
My outgoing nature, my charm, it always won me fans. You were always guaranteed lots of laughs, fun and craziness when I was on my own personal centre stage, usually in the shape of a bar or club.
But most of them… they only saw the light.
They didn’t see the man in the dark.

Because beneath it all was the brutal voice of Imposter Syndrome.
Who do you think you are?
What makes you so bloody special?

The truth?
I didn’t have it figured out.
I was just surviving.
Just like I did in prison.

When I was granted parole, it wasn’t freedom... It was a leash.
And when I finally thought I could breathe again, they ripped the ground out from under me.
Immigration detention.
A new kind of cage. A new kind of waiting.

And through it all... the prison, the parole, the endless AAT preparation and hearings, the fights to prove I belonged...
I kept thinking of the people I love.
Wanting so badly to make them proud.
To show them I was the kid with the good heart they remembered or the father who could do no wrong.
To earn back what I’d lost.
But also knowing… I had caused them pain.

Can a man who’s had success ever bury the hatchet with his failures?
Can a man who loves so deeply stop hurting the very people he cares about most?

That’s the war I fight within.
I am that man...both the glory and the shame.

The belief my people have in me is unparalleled.

They call me resilient.
They call me tough.
They even call me inspirational.

And sometimes I believe it.
Other times, I feel like they’re talking about someone else.

Because behind that image is a man who has faced “Not today” more times than he can count.
Denied. Delayed. Detained.
And each time, I had to face the people I love and say it again:
“Not this time"… I dust myself off, put on a customary brave face and go back to the battle.

That kind of repetition carves deep scars.
Not the kind that you see.
The kind only you know about.

Because… you Gotta Believe, right? I force that narrative into my brain every single day and it has become my mantra. Sometimes, it annoys me and sometimes it saves me.

Even something as ordinary as a colonoscopy taught me about waiting.

I had my first one recently.
According to Dr Google, I was already halfway to the grave.
The symptoms weren’t good, the internet said it was worse.
And for weeks leading up to the procedure, I was living in a state of quiet panic.
It turned out to be fine...but that wasn’t the point.
The waiting… that tense, uncertain space before the truth comes?
That’s where fear thrives.
That’s the battlefield.

I think it’s fitting that I write this today... 11 April — two years to the day I walked free.
After two and a half years inside, I felt ready to rebuild.
I fought hard... with almost no resources... to win my visa back.
And I did.
The day I walked out and ran into my daughter’s arms was the second best day of my life.
The first was the day she was born.

But even that moment is hard to watch now. I watched that video too many times this morning.
That joy, that reunion... it was stolen from us.
Fourteen months later, everything was torn away again.
And for the last ten months, I’ve been back in the waiting game.
Five months for a court date.
Five more waiting for a judgement.

Waiting… waiting… waiting…

I'm still waiting as I write this.

To the clients I let down… I’m sorry.
I hope three and a half years in custody, and ten years of carrying this weight shows that I was duly punished for my mistakes.

To my daughter, my partner, my family… I’m sorry too.
Each day I put you through pain is a debt I can never repay.
But I carry it.
Not as a badge.
Not as punishment.
As a reminder... that love doesn’t make you invincible.
It makes you accountable.

This isn’t a “Woe is me” story.
This isn’t a cry for sympathy.
This is a man saying:
I messed up.
I lost years.
I hurt people.

But also:
I’m still here.
Still trying.
Still rising.

Because if there’s anything I’ve learned in this long, unforgiving journey…
It’s that real growth is never easy.
It’s crying in silence and still showing up.
It’s holding two truths in the same hand:
I did wrong. I want to do right.

Sometimes I wish I could go back.
Erase it all.
But I can’t.

So instead, I carry it.
Like a scar, not a wound.
A marker. A lesson. A vow.

And when it gets really heavy... sometimes a single tear falls.
Not a weakness.
A sign I still feel.

Because Big Boys DO Cry

Not for sympathy.
But because it’s the only way to let go of the pain that has no other exit.
And in that release, there’s room for something better.

To anyone who’s struggling, waiting, breaking quietly...
You’re not alone.
You’re not broken beyond repair.
And you’re not finished yet.

Your past doesn’t get to decide your future.
Your mistakes don’t cancel out your capacity to change.
And your scars? They’re just proof you’ve survived.

I’m still fighting.
For peace.
For redemption.
For purpose.

And if you are too...
Keep going.

Stay Unshackled, My Friends.

Because even when the chains are invisible, they’re real.
But so is the strength it takes to break them.