Reflections on the loss of my son

To introduce myself, we lost our eldest son in November 2023. To say that our lives have been changed significantly is a massive understatement. While his passing was sudden, our journey with him spanned many years as we walked alongside a troubled young man whose life was heavily shaped by external struggles—including bullying, image pressures, substance issues, a difficult social network, depression, and anxiety.

Over the last couple of months, I finally felt in a position to put my thoughts down on paper. While this collection is a deeply personal reflection, I intend to continue journaling, and I felt that perhaps my words might offer comfort or connection to a wider audience within your community.

INTRODUCTION: A NOTE FROM A FATHER’S HEART
This collection is not a story I ever expected to write, but it is one that demanded to be told. It is a record of a family’s deepest love and our most profound heartbreak. It is the truth of our big boy, James—our “Chunk”—a towering presence who held our world together, and whose absence has changed the landscape of our lives forever.
Grief is a daily sea we must navigate, but this collection demonstrates that the loss is only part of the journey. Within these pages lies the immense pride of a father who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his son in the dark of the underground coal mines, sharing a generational grit and camaraderie that the world above could never fully understand.
But it also faces the monster head-on. For fifteen years, our family endured the cruel, indiscriminate storm that is the drug “Ice.” This collection does not shy away from the reality of that beast—the devastating spiral that took his job, his freedom, and transformed him into a foreign shadow. Yet, its ultimate purpose is to show that the substance never won. Beneath the wreckage and the cells, his true heart remained, anchored by a quiet faith in God that the darkness could never erase.
I have put these words together to honour his memory, to celebrate the legacy that shines on in his beautiful seven-year-old son, and to acknowledge the incredible strength of his mum, his brother, and his sister, and extended family who have carried our broken hearts while burying their own.
Finally, these pages are written to instil hope. To any family standing on that same dark, chaotic shoreline, watching someone they love battle the beast: you are not alone. The wind is fierce, but the chain remains unbroken. Beyond the ice, love is still the anchor keeping us afloat.

 
THE COLD RIVERS
Long before the wild tide of the sea,
before the storms on land took hold,
there were the cold-water rivers.

He was our first, the undisputed centre,
the boy who turned a family into a universe.
But up in the crisp mornings of the Kangaroo Valley,
the world shrank down to just two.

We would walk the banks together,
chasing the freshwater bass in the shadows.
It wasn’t just about the catch; it was the magic of the search.
The restless excitement we shared,
the quiet miles of pure anticipation.

I can still see him standing there,
presenting an artificial lure to a dark patch of water.
The steady, focused retrieve.
The breathless waiting. And then—the sudden, electric strike.
The fish would fight, the rod would bend,
but the real prize was always his face.
A look of pure, untamed victory, a beautiful light that filled the riverbank.

The beast took so many things from us,
but it could never touch those cold waters.
That is where the passion caught fire,
a love for the water that never left him.
Long before the line was laced with dust,
it was held by a little boy with a beautiful smile,
walking beside his dad.
 

THE NEW ARMOUR
We didn’t know about the quiet playground storm.
We didn’t see the cruel words thrown,
the heavy burden placed on a young boy’s shoulders
simply for the space he took up in the world.
He kept the hurt locked away, a secret bruise
we never got the chance to heal.

So he set out to build a different man.
A remedy born of pain,
a desperate chase for another version of himself.
He wanted to be slim, hard-playing, unshakeable—
a presence so fierce it would command the respect
of even the baddest element out there.

He traded his gentle heart for a heavy shield.

He found a circle to run with,
shadows drawn to the same dark intent,
bound by a bias that looked like brotherhood but was only smoke.
They walked the line together while the music played,
but when the music stopped, and the gravity took hold,
the circle broke.

When he hit the hard stone of rock bottom,
the crowd that cheered his transformation
was nowhere to be seen.

They left him to fight the beast alone.
But they never understood what we knew all along—
that the hard facade he built to survive the world
was never the boy we loved.
He was just our gentle eldest son,
trying to find a way to be safe. 

THE SHARED DARK
There is a brotherhood forged beneath the stone,
where the daylight ends and the heavy roof begins.
A world built on absolute trust, on the steady hands of the man beside you,
and the quiet camaraderie of the shift.

But nothing made the chest swell higher
than to look through the dust and the cap lamps
and see my own blood standing there.

Two generations sharing the same black coal,
walking the same headings,
bound by the unwritten rules of the pit.
The mateship was more than a word down there—
it was tangible, heavy, and true,
having my big boy as my workmate.

We shared the culture of the underground,
the hard yards, the jokes at crib,
and the long road home when the work was done.

The beast on land took so much from us,
but the dark could never steal those shifts.
Side by side, shoulders square against the deep—
proud miners, father and son.

 
THE LONG SIEGE
For fifteen years, the beast held the gates.
A cruel and foreign shadow
called by a cold name,
stealing the boy we knew
and leaving a stranger in his place.

We watched the daily battle ensue.
An internal war fought in the dark,
where the image he presented was nothing but a substance-induced facade—
a heavy mask worn over a tired soul.

But we were not fooled by the monsters.
We knew the true landscape of his chest.
We knew his heart.

Beneath the noise, beneath the wreckage,
beyond the reach of the demons that held him tight,
we kept watch for the one they couldn’t erase.

He was not the armour he wore to survive.
He was, and will always be,
our big boy,
the fisherman who held the tide. 

THE UNDERTOW
The beast is blind.
It does not care for who a man was,
it does not discriminate,
and it leaves no ground unshaken.

We watched the spiral take hold,
pulling him down into the gravity of rock bottom.
It took the job he worked so hard to hold,
it took his freedom,
locking him behind walls where the daylight couldn’t reach.

The drug demanded everything.
It transformed our young man, our big boy,
into a shape that felt entirely foreign—
a dark shadow passing through our lives.

But even in the wreckage of the cells,
even when the bottom felt bottomless,
we held the truth tight in our fists.

We knew the stranger was a ghost.
We knew the boy beneath the bars.
And no matter how far the spiral spun,
he was still ours.

 
THE QUIET ANCHOR
Beneath the noise of the battle,
beneath the foreign shadow and the heavy walls,
a quiet seed took root in the dark.

He found a faith in God.
A silent, enduring belief that we knew was alive somewhere deep inside him,
whispering to him in the spaces
where the demons couldn’t reach.

Our big boy knew the right path.
He could see the horizon,
even when an ugly, unseen hand
gripped his shoulder and forced his steps astray.

It was the ultimate war:
the monster pulling the strings outside,
and the spirit holding the ground within.

The drug could control his feet,
it could steer him into the storm,
but it could never conquer the sanctuary
he built between his soul and heaven.

He was never entirely lost.
Even in the dark,
he knew the way home.

 
WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN
I still look for you when the tide comes in.
I look for your smile,
and the fierce passion you had
to simply share time with me.
That restless excitement you could never hide
the moment we approached the water.

You were thirty-three, the eldest,
holding a presence so big it filled the room.
Now, that number is etched into our skin—
a permanent mark for the boy who led the way.

It was a gift, watching you and your little boy,
seeing the father you became despite the storm.
I treasure those quiet hours of memory,
when the line was cast,
and the world was still.

But I want the world to know how hard you fought.
You were prepared to try, and try again—
stepping into the quiet halls of rehab,
packing your bags,
refusing to let the darkness win without a battle.

More than anything, I long to see you
walk through the door
and fold your mum into one of those big bear hugs.

Your tired heart has finally found its rest,
but ours carry the ache of you,
day after day.
Thirty-three years was nowhere near enough,
but every time the tide comes in, I remember you.

THE IDLE FLEET
They stand in the corner of the garage,
a quiet fleet resting against the wall.
Rods laced with salt and dust,
reels that still hold the whisper of the line running out.

Each one is a map of a day we shared.
I look at the grip, the worn foam,
and I can see his hands, steady and strong.
I can hear his laugh cut through the salt air
when the tip bent double against the tide.

It is a strange geography, this corner of the room.
A sudden wave of joy that warms the chest,
followed fast by the cold undertow
of a silence that refuses to be filled.

They were meant for the wild water,
meant to bend under the weight of life.
Now they sit in the stillness,
keeping watch over the memories of the boy who loved the sea.

I cannot bring myself to move them.
So I leave them there, rig ready,
waiting for the day we cast a line on the other side.

 
THE STRETCHED HEART
I have known the strength of your heart for a lifetime,
but nothing prepared me for the day it broke.
To watch a mother lose a child,
to see the light leave your eyes when he left this world,
shattered a piece of my own soul, too.

They say time moves us forward,
but we know life will never be the same.
The easy joy, the simple excitement the days used to bring—
it has all been stretched,
pulled thin by the weight of his absence.

Yet, in the quiet, I watch you.
I watch you carry the love he left behind.
I see you fold his memory into the fabric of our days,
holding our family together
even when the ground feels shaky.

You loved him through every storm on land,
and you carry him now
in every beat of your heart.

We cannot go back to the way it was,
but we walk this changed shore together.
Hand in hand,
my heart resting in the beautiful, broken sanctuary
of yours.

 
THE SILENT HARBOUR
He was the first of you,
the tallest branch,
the one who was just supposed to be there.
The protector who held the unwritten rules,
the mentor who walked steps ahead,
shaping the path for the rest to follow.

When the storm took him,
your world rocked, too.
I see the quiet fracture in your lives,
the sudden, heavy weight on your shoulders,
and the deep, silent ache written across your faces.

But my heart breaks twice when I watch you now.
I see you looking at your mum and me,
wearing the pain of our grief like an armour,
treading softly around our broken hearts,
trying to be strong for the parents who raised you.

You lost your big brother,
and yet you spend your days
trying to shield us from the worst of the wind.

Please know, my beautiful children,
you do not have to carry us.
It is okay to let your own tears fall.
It is okay to miss the protector you lost,
even as you become the pillars holding up our world.

We are navigating this dark water together,
and though our big boy is gone,
the love you give us
is the anchor keeping us afloat.

THE MIRROR ON THE WATER
He was only four when the storm took you,
too small to hold the weight of the goodbye.
But now he is seven,
and I watch him walk into our home—
and it feels like watching a memory
turn into sunlight.

He carries you in the tilt of his head,
in the fierce, strong personality
that won’t be swayed,
and in that beautiful smile—
the exact one I used to look for.

When he visits,
the house fills up with a familiar joy,
a warmth we thought
had left the room forever.

But it is at the water
where the magic happens.
He holds the rod with that same restless excitement,
staring out at the tide
just like his dad used to do.

In his small grip, I see your hands.
In his patience, I see your passion.

You are gone, my beautiful boy,
but you left a piece of your soul behind in him.
And every time we cast a line together,
the chain remains unbroken.

 
TO THOSE ON THE SHORE
To the mothers who watch the light fade from their child’s eyes,
to the fathers who hold the truth tight in their fists,
and to the siblings who wear the grief like armour—
we see you standing in the storm.

When the spiral takes hold,
and the monster demands everything,
it is easy to believe you are entirely alone
on a dark and uncharted shore.

But please, hold fast.

Do not let the facade deceive you.
The child you raised, the one you loved,
the soul beneath the struggle—
is still there, fighting an internal battle
you cannot always see.

Your love is not wasted.
Every prayer, every boundary, every tear,
and every quiet vigil in the dark
is an anchor holding them to this earth,
even when the tide pulls hard.

You cannot control the wind,
and you cannot always stop the rain.
But you can keep the light burning in the window.

We walk this changed shore together now.
Hold each other close, shield one another from the blast,
and know that even in the deepest dark,
the chain remains unbroken.
There is always hope.