Mental Health, Loneliness, and Learning to Be OK Alone

I am trying to figure out how to be single again, and it is messing with my head more than I expected.

It has been two weeks of feeling really lonely. Not just the kind of lonely where you are bored, but the kind that sits in your chest and follows you from room to room. The kind that shows up when the house is quiet and there is no one to ask, how was your day, or to hear someone moving around in the background. Since the break up with Ryan, it feels like I have been learning a whole new version of myself, and honestly, I do not feel fluent in it yet.

I am lying on my bed, looking at my room, and it does not feel like a place you rest anymore. I moved most of my computer gear into here and now it looks like a uni student dorm room. It is a lounge room, a bedroom and an office all in one. There is no separation. No ritual of switching off. I work, I scroll, I think, I spiral, all in the same spot. And some nights that makes the dark thoughts feel closer, like they have nowhere else to go but here with me.

Being single is meant to sound empowering. Fresh start. New chapter. Rediscover yourself. But the real version of it, the unfiltered version, is sitting with your own mind when it is not being kind. It is having to face the parts of yourself you used to distract from. It is noticing how quickly your mental health can dip when you have too much silence and not enough softness.

I keep telling myself I want to be ok with being by myself. Not because I do not want love, but because I do not want to feel like I am falling apart just because I am alone. I want to be able to sit in my own space without feeling like it is swallowing me.

And here is the part that makes me pause, because I know better.

I am the person who coaches and develops leaders for a living. I tell people all the time that growth comes from being comfortable with being uncomfortable. I say it with conviction. I watch people nod like they are ready to be brave. I remind them that discomfort is not danger, it is just the doorway.

But lately I have not been taking my own advice.

Because being uncomfortable is one thing when it is a hard conversation at work, or stepping into a bigger role, or backing yourself in a room full of people. This discomfort is different. This is the discomfort of coming home to yourself when you are not sure you like the version of you that you meet at the moment. This is the discomfort of being single and realising you were using someone else’s presence as a buffer between you and your own feelings.

So I am trying a new approach.

Not fixing it overnight. Not forcing myself to be fine. Not pretending I am thriving when I am barely keeping my thoughts quiet. Just practising.

Practising being alone without abandoning myself.

Practising turning my room back into a place that feels safe and calm, even if it is messy right now.

Practising the smallest habits that make me feel steady, even when my emotions are not.

Practising saying, this is uncomfortable, but I can handle it.

I want to be ok with being by myself. I want to be able to sit in the quiet and not feel like it is a punishment. I want to trust that loneliness is a season, not a sentence.

And if I can coach other people through discomfort with patience and belief, then I can offer myself the same thing.

Even if it is only one night at a time.

From Swipes to Something Real: My Honest Take on Gay Dating in Brisbane

There are two versions of me in Brisbane.

There is the version who has a full life. A proper one. A calendar that thinks it runs the show. Work that matters. Family. Culture. Commitments. A body that sometimes taps me on the shoulder and says, slow down, you are not invincible, you are not twenty five, and you cannot live on adrenaline and hope.

And then there is the other version of me.

The version who opens his phone at night like it is a tiny portal to possibility, only to discover it is also a portal to chaos, confusion, and the kind of disappointment that can make you laugh out loud in your own living room because if you do not laugh, you might actually scream.

I used to think dating was about meeting someone. Simple. Two people. A spark. A conversation that does not feel like work. The kind of first date where you forget to check your phone because you are too busy being present.

Now dating feels like managing a small digital call centre.

Grindr. Hunge. Bumble. Tinder. Scruff. BiggerCity. Plenty of Fish. Skout. Grokio. UGH

It is like I am running a rotating roster. Clock in. Respond. Swipe. Reply. Try to sound interesting. Try to sound not too interested. Try to sound like a real human being while doing the exact same introduction for the fiftieth time that week.

Hi. How are you. How was your day. What do you do. Where do you live. What are you looking for.

And by the time you have typed it all out, you already know the answer to the last question because the conversation has taken a sharp left turn into something that has absolutely nothing to do with dating and everything to do with a shortcut to a situation.

It is the modern gay dating paradox in Brisbane. We have more options than ever, and somehow less connection than we have ever had.

My iPhone has started judging me.

You know that little Screen Time notification that pops up like an intervention you did not ask for.

Your usage is up.

Your usage is up again.

Your usage on dating apps now surpasses your usage on all social media combined.

Not only am I single, I am apparently committed to being single with excellent attendance.

And it is not even the fun kind of usage. It is not a romantic montage. It is not me smiling at my phone while walking along South Bank with the sun on my face and a coffee in my hand thinking, maybe this is the one.

It is me lying in bed at night, thumb scrolling like I am trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing its pieces.

Because here is the truth. Switching between all these apps is exhausting. You have to reintroduce yourself again and again, like you are applying for a role where the position description is unclear and the interview panel keeps changing.

Every app has its own vibe.

One feels like speed dating with no small talk allowed.

One feels like a curated catalogue where everyone looks like they live in a gym and have never had a bad angle in their life.

One feels like a place people go when they are tired of the other places, but still hoping a miracle is hiding behind the next swipe.

One feels like you are in a room full of men who are technically available, but emotionally somewhere else.

And the funny thing is, no matter what the app claims to be, the conversations tend to fall into the same three categories.

Category one. Silence.

You match. You say hello. Nothing.

You wait. Still nothing.

You wonder if they died. Or got married. Or simply opened the app, looked at your message, and decided their thumb needed a rest.

Category two. The interview.

Where are you from. What do you do. How tall are you. What are you into. Do you host. Are you discreet. What suburbs.

It is less getting to know you and more, are you compatible with my immediate plan.

Category three. The shock and awe approach.

And this is where I need to be honest, but also keep my dignity intact.

Unsolicited pictures. Unsolicited messages. Conversations that start at level ten when you are still at level one.

No warning. No context. No attempt at being charming. No hello. Just a digital version of someone barging into your lounge room and making it your problem.

Sometimes I sit there and think, do people realise there is a human on the other side of the screen.

A whole person.

A person who has had a full day.

A person who might be tender. Or tired. Or hopeful. Or trying to build something real. Or simply trying to find one decent conversation that does not feel like a negotiation.

And yet, the expectation seems to be that you are meant to perform. Respond fast. React positively. Be flattered. Be available. Be up for it. Be easy. Be fun. Be uncomplicated.

But I am not uncomplicated. None of us are.

I have a life that has shaped me. I carry responsibility. I carry history. I carry love for my people. I carry the ache of everything I have survived. I carry a body that needs care. I carry a mind that thinks too much at night and feels too much in silence.

So when a conversation opens with something crude, it does not feel exciting. It feels empty.

It feels like I am being reduced to a body part instead of seen as a whole person.

And maybe that is the hardest part. Not the explicit messages. Not the constant app switching. Not even the time it steals.

It is the way it chips away at your sense of being worthy of something more.

Because every now and then, you do find him.

The prince.

He is not perfect, but he is kind. He writes in full sentences. He asks questions that actually require answers. He makes you laugh. He seems curious about who you are, not just what you look like. You start to relax.

You start to imagine the simple things. A second date. A proper one. Dinner. A walk. A movie. Meeting his friends. The kind of pace that lets connection build instead of burning out.

And then, the first date arrives, and you realise you have both shown up for completely different reasons.

You came for a beginning.

He came for an ending.

You came with intention.

He came with a timetable.

And the moment it becomes clear that you are not going to fast forward your boundaries just to keep someone interested, the energy shifts. The charm fades. The replies slow. The follow up never comes.

No second date.

Not because you did something wrong. Not because you were not enough. But because your intentions did not match.

Which sounds so mature when you say it like that, does it not.

In reality, it is still disappointing.

Because you can be emotionally intelligent and still feel rejected. You can understand the dynamics and still feel the sting. You can know your worth and still wish it did not have to be this hard.

Sometimes I wonder if we have confused access with intimacy.

We can access anyone at any time. We can message strangers while waiting in line for groceries. We can swipe through faces like we are browsing a menu.

But intimacy. Real intimacy. The kind that grows slowly and safely. The kind where you feel chosen, not selected.

That is rarer.

And in Brisbane, it can feel like everyone is close enough to meet, but too distracted to connect.

We are all busy. We are all stretched. We are all trying to find something while pretending we do not care too much.

But I do care.

I want someone who can hold a conversation without steering it into the gutter. Someone who does not treat dating like a transaction. Someone who respects the fact that I am a whole human being with a whole life.

Someone who understands that chemistry is not an excuse to rush. That attraction is not a substitute for respect. That loneliness is not a reason to accept less than what you truly want.

And yes, I will admit it.

Sometimes I get sucked back in. I download the apps again. I tell myself, maybe this time will be different. Maybe I will meet someone who is also tired of the same patterns. Maybe he is out there, also rolling his eyes at his Screen Time report, also wishing for something real.

I have friends who say, you have to kiss a lot of frogs.

And I get it.

But I am tired of kissing frogs who do not even want to be kissed. They want convenience. They want novelty. They want a moment. They want a body.

I want a person.

So lately, I have been asking myself a different question.

Not, why is dating so hard.

But, what am I actually looking for, and what am I willing to stop doing to make room for it.

Because maybe the answer is not another app. Maybe the answer is less noise. Less scrolling. More living.

More being out in the world where people can see your energy, not just your photos.

More moments that feel like mine again.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time my phone tries to intervene with a Screen Time alert, I will listen.

Not because dating is wrong.

Not because wanting love is foolish.

But because my time is precious. My peace is precious. My heart is not a free trial.

And if love is going to find me, I want it to find me as myself.

Not as a profile.

Not as a late night reply.

Not as a person who has learned to accept crumbs.

As myself.

A man in Brisbane who still believes in connection, even when the apps make it feel like a myth.

And if you are reading this and nodding along, exhausted, frustrated, and quietly hoping for something more, I will say this.

You are not too much for wanting a second date.

You are not boring for wanting conversation.

You are not old fashioned for wanting respect.

You are not difficult for having boundaries.

You are just human.

And maybe the most radical thing we can do in modern dating is refuse to be reduced.

So yes, I might still open Grindr. Or Hunge. Or Bumble. Or Tinder. Or Scruff. Or BiggerCity. Or Plenty of Fish. Or Skout. Or Grokio.

But I am going to try to open my life more than I open those apps.

Because if the right person is out there, I want to meet him in a way that does not require me to lose myself first.

Alright, I am outsourcing my love life to my friends because the apps are doing my head in. If you know a single bi or gay man in Brisbane who is actually available and actually wants to go on a real first date, tell him to message me or message me his details. I promise I am normal in public and I can hold a conversation.

When Helping Friends and Family Hurts and Boundaries Become Love

When Help Feels Like Love and Starts Feeling Like Control 

I have a confession that makes me sound like I think I am the main character in everyone else’s mess. When the people I love are walking straight towards a cliff, I do not just worry. I start organising.

And the question that keeps chasing me, even when I try to drown it out with noise, is this. Do the people I love actually want my help, or do they want me to quietly watch them burn.

The truth is, a situation did not arrive politely. It crashed into my phone in fragments. Late night calls. Half truths. Panic dressed up as jokes. The kind of chaos that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why.

It is strange, the way you can feel someone else’s crisis land in your body. Like it borrows space in your lungs.

One night I was sitting on the edge of my bed, pill organiser open like a tiny plastic altar. Morning tablets already stacked, evening ones still waiting. I could hear my own heart doing that familiar uneven dance, the one that reminds me I am not built for adrenaline anymore. I swallowed the meds anyway because that is what you do when you live with severe heart failure with left ventricular dysfunction and atrial fibrillation. You do the routine even when your mind is spiralling, because routine is how you stay alive.

My phone lit up again.

“she'“ was calling.

I stared at the screen for a second too long, like I was negotiating with myself. Answer and step into it, or ignore and let it keep burning without you.

I answered.

She was talking fast, words tripping over each other, and underneath it all I could hear fear. Not the neat kind of fear that asks for help clearly. The messy kind that wants comfort, wants permission, wants a way out, but also wants to stay exactly where it is because change is terrifying.

And I did what I always do.

I became a project manager.

The next morning, I woke up with that heavy fatigue that is not just tiredness. It is the weight of chronic illness that sits on your ribs like a wet towel. I checked my blood sugars. I measured out food like I was negotiating with my pancreas. Autoimmune pancreatitis does not care that your cousin is imploding. Type 2 diabetes does not pause because your heart is heavy. My body has its own bureaucracy, and every day I have to file the right paperwork just to exist.

I made something low sodium, something that would not punish me later. I drank what I could within the limits I have to respect. Then I opened my laptop and started searching. Clinics. Costs. Timeframes. Locations. The kind of research you do when you care so much you think caring harder will change the outcome.

Pages and pages.

I remember my eyes burning from the screen. The quiet rage of reading vague pricing, fine print, and the way health care becomes a maze the moment you are desperate. I made notes like I was studying for an exam I never asked to sit. Under a thousand dollars. No hidden extras. Brisbane. I felt like I was trying to solve a problem with a calculator while someone’s life was shaking in my hands.

I told myself it was love.

But if I am honest, it was also control. Because when I cannot control my own body, when my heart can decide to misbehave on a random Tuesday, when my energy can disappear without warning, I start trying to control what I can.

Someone else’s crisis becomes a place to pour my helplessness.

Sometimes helping is just standing close enough that someone knows they are not alone, without grabbing the steering wheel out of their hands.

Because here is what no one tells you when you are the fixer in the family. You can offer someone a map, a phone number, a plan, a way out. But if they are not ready to walk, all you have done is build a beautiful exit they will not use.

And then you are left holding resentment in one hand and grief in the other.

The hardest part with ‘she’ was not the chaos. It was the way she could take my energy, my time, my calm, and still stay exactly the same.

I would listen for months. Worries. Tears. The same circles. The same patterns. I would want to scream, not at her, but at the situation. At the way she kept choosing someone who was clearly not choosing her properly. At the way loyalty was being demanded from everyone except the people who were actually causing the damage.

And the more I tried to help, the more I felt my own body push back.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from caring while unwell. It is not just emotional. It is physical. It shows up in swollen feet after a stressful day. It shows up in heart palpitations after a tense conversation. It shows up when you lie in bed at night and your thoughts get loud, and you wonder how many more big feelings your body can tolerate before it reminds you, sharply, that you are not invincible.

One night, after another long exchange, I stood in my kitchen staring at the sink. The house was quiet. My phone was face down on the bench like it had done something wrong. I rinsed my coffee cup slowly, deliberately, as if the act of cleaning could cleanse the frustration out of me.

I thought about all the times I have begged people, in my own way, to choose themselves. To be loyal to themselves. To stop making homes inside storms.

And then I realised something that made my throat tighten.

Sometimes the person you are trying to save is not asking for a lifeboat.

They are asking for an audience.

They are asking for someone to sit with them in the burning house and tell them the flames look pretty.

That is when love starts to get dangerous. Not for them, for you.

Because you can slowly start believing that if you just explain it differently, if you just research harder, if you just push a little more, they will finally get it.

And when they do not, you start feeling rejected. As if your help was a gift they refused. As if their choices were a personal insult.

But it is not about you. It was never about you.

That is the humbling part.

I am learning, clumsily, that helping has to come with consent. Not formal consent, not paperwork. Emotional consent. The kind where someone actually wants change, not just sympathy. The kind where they are willing to feel uncomfortable to become different.

Without that, your help becomes pressure. Your love becomes a lecture. Your care becomes another thing they want to escape.

So now I am trying to do something that does not come naturally.

I am trying to offer, then step back.

I am trying to say, I am here, and I can help, but I cannot carry this for you.

I am trying to protect my health like it is sacred, because it is. Because I do not get unlimited energy. I do not get to run on stress and adrenaline like I did when I was younger. My life is measured in medication routines, careful food choices, medical appointments, and the constant invisible calculation of what I can afford emotionally without paying for it physically.

And I am trying to trust that my culture already taught me this, if I would just listen.

Saltwater teaches boundaries. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. It does not apologise. It does not over explain. It does not cling.

It returns, steady, when it is meant to.

That is what I want my love to be.

Present, steady, not self destructive.

So I come back to the question again, the one that threads through all of this like a quiet ache.

Do the people I love actually want my help, or do they want me to quietly watch them burn.

Maybe the answer is not one thing.

Maybe sometimes they want help, and sometimes they want comfort, and sometimes they want to stay exactly as they are because change feels like grief.

And maybe my job is not to decide for them.

Maybe my job is to decide for me.

To keep my heart safe, in every sense of the word.

To offer love without losing myself in it.

To remember that I can be a soft place to land without becoming the ground they refuse to stand on.

Final line.

Love without boundaries is not love, it is surrender.

2025 Heartache to Healing: Building Again After Loss

The fireworks are done now. The last paper crowns have been swept into bins. The group chats have slowed down. The sparkly dresses are back on their hangers and the world has returned to its usual noise.

So, happy new year to you. Truly. If you are reading this quietly, without a crowd around you, I hope this lands like a hand on your shoulder. Not the kind that startles you. The kind that steadies you.

I have been thinking about 2025 in the way you think about a house you once lived in. You remember the corners. You remember which floorboards creaked. You remember the light that used to come through the window at a certain time of day. And you also remember why you left.

2025 was heartache and hard decisions. It was the year I walked away from WMQ, not because I stopped caring, but because caring was costing me too much. There is a difference, hey. Sometimes leaving is not a lack of loyalty. Sometimes leaving is the first honest act of loyalty you give to yourself.

For a long time, my work was my proof of life. If I was useful, if I was needed, if I was carrying something for everyone else, then maybe my own pain would stay quiet. Maybe my fear would stay in the background. Maybe my body would behave if I behaved. That is the deal you try to make when your health becomes the uninvited guest at every table.

But chronic illness does not negotiate. Severe heart failure with left ventricular dysfunction. Atrial fibrillation. Autoimmune pancreatitis. Type 2 diabetes. They do not care that you have a meeting at nine. They do not care that your calendar is colour coded. They do not care that people rely on you.

They arrive when they want. They take what they take. And they leave you doing the maths that healthy people never have to do.

How much energy do I have today

How much pain can I tolerate and still be kind

How many hours can I give before my body cashes the cheque

In 2025, I got tired of pretending I could outwork my own mortality.

That sentence is hard to write, because it sounds dramatic until you live it. Until you wake up and your chest feels heavy in a way that is not metaphorical. Until you know what it is like to carry medication like it is a passport. Until you sit in waiting rooms that smell like disinfectant and quiet fear, and you learn a new language made of numbers, scans, and risk.

Limited time changes the way you look at everything. It does not always make you brave. Sometimes it makes you angry. Sometimes it makes you soft. Sometimes it makes you disappear for a while because you cannot find the words for how unfair it feels.

But it also makes you honest.

And honesty is what pulled me out of one chapter and into another.

Starting my own little online company was not some glossy, overnight reinvention. It was messy. It was learning as I went. It was staying up too late, then regretting it the next day because my body keeps receipts. It was the quiet pride of building something that came from my hands and my mind, not from someone else’s permission.

It was also deeply personal.

Because when you have lived with illness for years, you start to crave control in places where you can have it. You cannot always control the rhythm of your heart, but you can control the way you show up. You can control the choice to create. You can control the way you use your story, not as a weight, but as a tool.

And somewhere in the middle of that, I found myself helping other people start their own companies too. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I know what it is like to stand at the edge of something and wonder if you are allowed to leap.

I have met so many people who are carrying ideas that could change their lives, but they are waiting for a sign. Waiting for confidence. Waiting for permission. Waiting for the perfect time.

The truth is, the perfect time never comes. The fear does not politely step aside. You move with it. You build with shaky hands. You start small. You start tired. You start anyway.

And that is one of the lessons 2025 gave me, again and again. Waiting does not save you. Waiting just wastes you.

I know that sounds harsh, but I mean it with love. I have stopped romanticising hope as if it is some magical force that visits you when you are good enough. I do not live like that anymore. I do not sit around hoping life will hand me something gentle.

I choose.

We choose our destiny, not in the fairytale sense, but in the daily sense. In the small decisions that become a direction. In the boundaries we keep. In the phone calls we finally make. In the people we stop chasing. In the work we stop doing for free. In the way we treat ourselves when nobody is watching.

Destiny is not a lightning strike. It is a pattern.

And speaking of patterns, let me talk about the new year posts for a second.

Every January, we scroll through everyone’s highlight reels like we are auditioning for our own lives. Some people post a hundred photos. Airports. Champagne. Fancy dinners. Skin glowing. Teeth white. Smiles wide. The perfect caption that makes it seem like they were born knowing how to be happy.

Some of us post a few photos. A dog. A sunset. A dinner at home. A blurry selfie where you can see the tired behind the smile. Some of us do not post at all, because we are just trying to survive the day.

And here is the thing.

Achievement is not a competition. Some people achieved ten things in 2025. Good on them. Some people achieved one thing. They kept going. They stayed alive. They got out of bed when their mind was heavy and their body hurt. They asked for help. They said no. They left the relationship that was breaking them. They took their medication. They went back to therapy. They made it through Christmas. They paid their rent. They held their grief without drowning in it.

If that was you, I see you. And I am proud of you.

Because the only thing that matters in all of this, beneath the photos and the captions and the performance of being fine, is genuine connection.

Not followers. Not likes. Not the illusion of being adored by strangers.

Connection.

The kind where someone sits with you in silence and it feels like love.

The kind where someone answers your call at the wrong hour.

The kind where you can tell the truth without polishing it first.

My best friend Sammo gave me that kind of connection in 2025. He made me escape the noise. He pulled me out of my own head and into nature, like he was reminding my spirit where it came from.

And I felt it. The true power of the sea.

There is a moment when you step into salt water and your body remembers something older than your stress. The cold hits first, then the burn, then the surrender. The ocean does not care who you are on paper. It does not care about titles or heartbreak or the emails you forgot to answer. It just moves. It takes you as you are.

The salt water hit my skin and it felt like medicine that did not come in a bottle. It felt like my ancestors were speaking through the tide. I thought about Tatana in Papua New Guinea. I thought about Badu Island in the Torres Strait. I thought about being water people, and how the sea has always been more than scenery. It is story. It is memory. It is a living, breathing relative.

In the ocean, I did not feel broken. I felt held.

And when I climbed out, hair wet and chest open, I realised something that made me both sad and strangely grateful.

I had been starving for that feeling. Not just the sea, but the truth. The simplicity. The reminder that life is not meant to be lived as a performance.

Then Ryan left.

I do not know how to write about that without it sounding like the usual breakup story, because it was not usual to me. It was my life. My home. My future. My rhythm.

When someone leaves, people love to say time heals. I have always hated that sentence. Time does not heal anything on its own. Time just passes. What heals is what you do with the passing.

Ryan leaving forced me to do things I did not want to do. Practical things, like redoing my will and updating beneficiaries. That sounds like paperwork, and it is, but it also feels like a funeral for a version of your life.

It made me sit there with a pen and think, holy fuck. This chapter is officially closed now.

Not in the dramatic way where you burn photos or throw their clothes onto the lawn. In the quiet way. In the adult way. In the way that makes your stomach drop because it is real.

Breakups are hard for everyone, but they hit different when you live with chronic illness and you know time is not guaranteed. When your life has already been shaped by hospitals and diagnoses, you become painfully aware that love is not just a feeling. It is also a plan. It is also care. It is also, will you stay when things get scary.

When Ryan left, I grieved him, but I also grieved the future I had built in my head. The small ordinary moments. The growing old together. The safety of thinking I did not have to start again.

And I want to be honest here, because honesty is the only thing worth offering.

There were days I thought I would not survive the grief. Not because I wanted to disappear, but because my body was already carrying so much. Heartbreak felt like a weight on top of an already tired heart. It felt like trying to breathe through water. It made my chest ache in a way that scared me, and sometimes I could not tell where emotion ended and symptom began.

That is the thing about living with illness. Your body becomes a place where fear can live.

But I also made a choice.

I chose to let that chapter close properly, not because I did not love him, but because I did.

If I keep a door half open, if I pretend there is going back, then what we had becomes a looping wound instead of a completed story. And I refuse to turn love into a ghost that haunts me.

What we had meant something. It was beautiful in its own way. I loved him so much. That is true. And it is also true that it ended.

Both things can exist. Love can be real and still not be forever.

So I am choosing to honour it by not begging it to return.

I am choosing to carry the meaning forward, not the attachment.

And now, on the other side of that loss, I am slowly remembering something I forgot.

I am still here.

My heart still beats, even when it misbehaves.

My body still gets me to the ocean.

My mind still creates.

My spirit still reaches for connection.

I am learning how to date again, not as a desperate search for a replacement, but as a return to possibility. As a way of saying, I am not done. I am not finished. I am not defined by who left.

I will find love again.

Not because life owes me, but because I am willing to meet life. Because I am willing to be seen. Because I am willing to risk tenderness even after it has hurt me.

And while I am talking about love, I have to mention my sister.

One of the brightest parts of 2025 was helping her step into her career. Watching her grow. Watching her claim space. Watching her become more certain of herself. There is something holy about seeing someone you love realise their own strength.

It reminded me that legacy is not always money or property or big public achievements. Sometimes legacy is what you water in other people. Sometimes it is the way you show up for family. Sometimes it is the encouragement you give at the exact moment someone is about to give up.

If you are reading this and your 2025 felt small, I want you to hear this.

Small is not shameful.

Quiet is not failure.

Survival is not less impressive than success.

And connection is the only currency that never crashes.

So, happy new year. Again. Not the performative kind. The real kind.

May this year bring you people who tell the truth with you.

May it bring you the courage to choose, not wait.

May it bring you salt water moments, whatever that looks like for you.

May it bring you the kind of love that does not require you to shrink.

May it bring you a life that feels like yours.

As for me, I am walking into 2026 with scars and plans and a heart that has been broken and rebuilt more than once. I am walking in with grief in one hand and gratitude in the other. I am walking in with my ancestors behind me, the ocean in my blood, and the stubborn belief that even with limited time, I can still live a life that is full.

Not full of photos.

Full of meaning.

🩵 E

I’m So Fucking Sorry Albertina

You know…
I just need to say this first.
You are not an inconvenience.
My door is always open — I don’t care if it’s 2pm or 2am.
If you’re hurting, if you’re sitting in silence and the weight feels too heavy, you can knock, you can call, you can message me.
I would rather lose sleep than lose someone I love.

We tell ourselves that reaching out makes us a burden. It doesn’t. It never does. You matter too much. And if you need to hear it again: you are not an inconvenience.

Yesterday… Saturday 27 September… that day will stay with me forever.
Late that afternoon my sister sent me a message that made my heart stop.
My first cousin Paul’s daughter — Albertina — had been found hanging in the garage. She’d been there for about 30 minutes before someone found her. They rushed her to Townsville Hospital. Right now she’s in ICU, fighting for her life.

I’m still trying to process those words as I speak them.
Albertina is so young. She should be laughing with her friends, making plans for the future — not lying in a hospital bed connected to machines.

My cousin Scott — Paul’s brother, Albertina’s uncle — lives with me and Ryan. And our home suddenly feels different. Quieter. Heavier.
I keep looking at him and thinking: what on earth do I say to someone whose niece is in ICU after trying to take her life?

When I finally spoke, all I could manage was:

“People who kill themselves… they just want to end their suffering.”

And even as I said it, I wondered if it was the right thing.
I used to believe suicide was selfish.
I used to believe there was always another option.
But after walking through my own mental health battles, I’ve known moments when death felt like an escape from pain.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to see someone you love go through it. And it doesn’t give me the perfect words to comfort Scott or any of our family.

The truth is, there are no perfect words.
Grief and shock aren’t tidy.
They’re not a single moment; they’re a thousand moments.
It’s silence in the kitchen.
It’s Scott sitting on the back patio furniture staring into nothing.
It’s me trying to make tea while wondering what to say.

And what I’m learning — what I’m trying to do — is just show up.
Sit in the silence with someone.

Say:

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have the right words, but I’m here with you.”

I can’t take Scott’s pain away.
I can’t heal Albertina.
But I can hold space for him.
I can hope with him.
I can let him talk — or not talk — without forcing anything.

Writing… speaking… sharing this isn’t easy. But I wanted to, because I know how many families have been touched by suicide. If you’ve been there, you’ll understand the shock and the helplessness.

And if you’re someone who’s hurting right now, feeling like there’s no way out, please know this:

You are not a burden. You are not alone. There is help and hope, even when you can’t see it.

Call Lifeline on 13 11 14, 13YARN on 13 92 76 (for Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander support), or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636. These lines are open 24/7. There is always someone who will listen.

The hardest part for my family right now is the guilt.
The what ifs.

What if I had checked in more?
What if I had sent that random “thinking of you” text?
What if I had noticed the signs that now, in hindsight, feel so obvious but at the time were hidden under everyday life?

We’re all so busy, caught up in our own storms, that we forget how much just one phone call can mean.
And then suddenly, we’re left wondering if our silence cost us the chance to make a difference.

Albertina’s fight for life has reminded me how fragile life is, and how deep our pain can go unseen.
I don’t have answers.
I just have love for my family, and the courage to sit in the hard spaces with them.
Sometimes, maybe that’s enough.

I’m so fucking sorry, Albertina.

From Mumma Bear to Mental Health Advocate: Why My Sister Inspires Me Every Day

The universe has a funny way of giving us what we need, even when we don’t see it at the time. Back in 2017, my world collapsed. One moment I thought I was strong, unstoppable, carrying the weight of life on my shoulders like I’d always done. The next, I was staring down a diagnosis of severe heart failure with left ventricular dysfunction. My body betrayed me, my life hung in the balance, and I was forced to face my own mortality head-on.

Years later, it happened again. Autoimmune pancreatitis. Septic shock. ICU. I remember Ryan (my partner) and my sister telling me the words I still can’t shake: the doctors had given me just a fifty–fifty chance of surviving. Flip a coin—that’s what my life had come down to. Weeks in intensive care blurred into one another. Tubes, machines, sterile white walls, the endless beeping of monitors. Every breath was a fight. Every morning I opened my eyes was a miracle.

And yet, in the middle of that storm, I clung to one thought: stay alive long enough to see the people I love thrive.

Life was different. My health was fragile. My body carried the weight of illness, medication, and despair.

I stepped away from my mainstream corporate job, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. And while that decision felt like failure at the time, the universe was quietly working in the background. What it gave me in return was something I could never have planned for—time.  Time to build my own corporation, sure, but more importantly, time with my sister Tammy and her kids. I suddenly had the chance to do school drop-offs, help out when she needed, and just be present in ways I’d never been able to before. And in that time, I witnessed something extraordinary.

For almost two decades, Tammy has been the backbone of her family. A mumma bear in every sense of the word—fierce, protective, loving, and selfless. She carried five kids (and two beautiful souls departed) on her shoulders, raised them with grit and grace, and gave up parts of herself so they could have everything they needed. That alone is enough to call her a hero. But Tammy wasn’t finished. Beneath the daily grind, a quiet fire had been burning inside her for years.

And I had the privilege to see that fire catch alight.

Tammy went back to study. She walked into her placement with the same determination she’s always had, but this time, she was building a future for herself as well. I watched her flourish, watched her find a new version of herself beyond “Mum.” And when her placement ended, the world didn’t just pat her on the back—it opened a door. She walked out with a job in mental health. And she’s not stopping there. She’s already dreaming bigger, planning more study, determined to help as many people as she can.

There were messy, chaotic moments along the way too. The kids would sometimes look at me and ask, “Where’s Mum? I Miss Her?” And I’d tell them straight: “Who fucking cares where Mum is, she’s on a new path now, a new chapter. Our job is to support her you hear me. So clean the fucking house, do your chores, and when she walks through that door, tell her how much you love her and how proud you are.” Because that’s what she deserved.

One night Tammy called me in tears, saying she couldn’t do this anymore—that it was all too much. I could hear the weight in her voice. I could feel the years of sacrifice pressing down on her. And I wasn’t about to let her give up. I told her she had to keep going, that she was stronger than she knew. The next day after school pick up I marched those little fuckers to the table and made them write, two hundred times: “I will not make Mum cry ever again.” It wasn’t about the punishment—it was about making sure they understood the power of their words, the depth of her love, and the respect she deserved.

Moments like that are etched into my heart because they show what this journey really looked like. It wasn’t easy. It was raw, it was messy, it was full of tears and late-night phone calls. But it was also full of growth, resilience, and love.

For me, it’s not just inspiring — it’s deeply personal. Tammy has seen me at my lowest, right back to 2017 when I was first diagnosed with severe heart failure and slipped into depression. She’s watched me ride the waves of that darkness — the silence, the breakdowns, the moments where I wasn’t sure I could keep going and wanted to kill myself. She saw me wrestle with the stigma of admitting I needed help, especially as a PNG and Torres Strait Islander man who was raised to believe that showing weakness wasn’t an option.

Over the years, Tammy saw the cracks that I tried so hard to hide. She saw me fight my way back, learning that depression isn’t weakness, that speaking up and taking medication isn’t shameful — it’s survival. And in some ways, I like to think my journey planted a seed. Maybe it helped shape the chapter she’s writing now in mental health. Because while I was struggling to make sense of my own battles, Tammy was quietly preparing to help others with theirs.

And now here she is: flourishing in a new career, determined to study further, and using her lived experience — as a mother, a carer, a woman who has seen the toll mental health takes on the people closest to her — to change lives.

Tammy’s story is more than just a career change. It’s proof that it’s never too late to reinvent yourself, to take everything you’ve lived through—the sacrifice, the hardship, the love—and turn it into a force that heals others. She has shown her kids, her family, and everyone around her that resilience doesn’t mean carrying pain in silence. It means finding a way to turn that pain into purpose.

I couldn’t be prouder of her.

Recently, even TAFE Queensland wanted to share Tammy’s story — a piece written to inspire other mums out there who might be wondering if it’s too late to start again. If you want to read more about her journey, click here. Or better yet, please share this story with your friends and family who could use a reminder that the struggle is real, but it’s also worth it. Because Tammy is living proof that no matter how heavy life feels, it’s never too late to rise.

Tammy, if you’re reading this, know this: you are my inspiration. You remind me every single day that strength isn’t just about surviving—it’s about thriving. You’ve spent years lifting others up, and now it’s your turn to rise. The world needs your light, your heart, your story. And I am beyond grateful that I get to stand beside you, not just as your brother, but as your biggest fan.

#GetItGurl #FuckingSlay

For My Dad, For Us All: 5 Years of Standing Side by Side

There are moments in life that change everything. For my family, one of those moments came when my Dad, Guy, was diagnosed with leukaemia.

It was the kind of news that silences a room. Not because we didn’t want to speak—but because we didn’t know where to begin. In the days that followed, we found ourselves navigating a whole new world: hospitals, specialists, test results, treatment plans. We had to learn fast—and more than anything, we had to lean on each other.

Dad has always been strong. Quietly so. The kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention. The kind that holds a family together through storms, grief, and everyday life. Even now, on oral chemotherapy, he faces each day with grit and grace. He jokes. He listens. He teaches us, in his own way, what resilience really looks like.

But the truth is, illness doesn’t just live in the body—it lives in the hearts of those who love. Watching someone you love go through it… it’s a different kind of ache. One that leaves you feeling both helpless and fiercely determined to do something. Anything.

That’s where this journey of fundraising began.

Five years ago, my dear friend Nivek Espig said something I’ll never forget:

“We can’t take this away, but we can stand with you.”

And she did. Not just in words—but in action. Year after year, Nivek has thrown her energy, her passion, and her sparkle into raising funds for the Leukaemia Foundation. This year marks the fifth time she’s organised a fundraiser—and this one is in honour of my Dad.

We’ve set a goal to raise as money as possible. But this isn’t just about money—it’s about hope, visibility, and solidarity. The funds raised go towards vital research, accommodation, counselling, and care for people facing blood cancer. People like my Dad. Families like ours.

We’re not doing this because it’s easy. We’re doing it because it matters.

So I’m asking—if you’re reading this and you can donate, please do. If you can show up, we’d love to see you. If all you can do is share the link, even that makes a difference.

🩵 DONATE HERE: https://www.worldsgreatestshave.com/fundraisers/nivekespig/2025

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🎉 FUNDRAISING EVENT DETAILS:

📍 The Wickham Hotel, Brisbane

🕡 Doors open 6:30PM

🎟️ $5 entry

🎤 Hosted by the dazzling Keveena Kunt

💃🏽 A night full of laughter, community, and purpose

To Nivek—thank you. For every late night, every message, every moment you’ve carried this with us. To everyone who’s ever said a prayer, offered a meal, checked in on my family—you are part of our story.

And to my Dad: this one’s for you. You’ve shown me what love really looks like.

50 Years of Papua New Guinea Independence: What It Means to Me in Australia

This year marks 50 years of independence for Papua New Guinea. Half a century. That number carries a different kind of weight—one that lands somewhere between pride, reflection, and a deep sense of connection to a place I’ve never lived, but have always carried with me.

I was born and raised in Australia, but my family’s roots stretch across the sea to Tatana Village—a small but strong community just outside Port Moresby. I’ve never called PNG home in the literal sense, but I’ve always felt it in my bones. Through stories, family, food, language, and values, PNG has shaped who I am just as much as the ground I walk on here.

There’s something powerful about reaching 50 years as an independent nation. For many of us living in the diaspora, especially here in Australia, this anniversary is a moment to pause and remember where we come from. It’s a reminder that our culture has not only survived colonisation and modernisation—it’s still thriving. It’s in our music, our laughter, our family gatherings. It’s in our resilience.

But being a Papua New Guinean in Australia isn’t always easy. We’re a small community, often overlooked, sometimes misunderstood. Yet we continue to show up, build community, and pass on our culture. We celebrate our identity not just on Independence Day, but in the way we show up for each other, the way we raise our kids, and the way we continue to speak truth to power.

As part of marking this milestone, I wanted to do something special through my organisation, Cultural Nexus Indigenous Corporation. We’ve created a limited-edition range of Papua New Guinean merchandise—totes, hats, and shoes that reflect the bold, vibrant identity of our people.

This isn’t just merch for the sake of it. It’s a way for us to wear our culture with pride, whether we’re heading to work, the gym, or a community gathering. It’s for those of us who miss the islands, who hold our heritage close even when we’re far away. It’s a way to say: we see you, we honour you, and we celebrate this moment together.

As we commemorate 50 years of independence, my hope is that we continue to build spaces where Papua New Guinean voices are heard, respected, and empowered—both here in Australia and back home. Our stories matter. Our culture matters. And our future is strong.

To my PNG community in Australia: this moment belongs to you too. Celebrate it in whatever way feels right. Tell your stories. Share a meal. Teach the next generation. And most importantly—keep showing up as your full self.

Happy 50th Independence Anniversary, Papua New Guinea.

Stand proud.

The Future I Might Never Have – And Learning to Live with That

Lately, I’ve found myself sitting quietly in the car, at the edge of conversations, or even in the kitchen making dinner, frozen in thought. Not the fleeting kind, but the type that lingers – that sits heavy in your chest.

As I help my sister prepare for her wedding to her partner of 20 years, something inside me cracked open again. The joy is real – I love her, I adore her partner, and I’m genuinely happy for them. But alongside that joy, there’s something else. Something bitter. Something hollow.

It’s the same feeling I had when I helped plan my best mate Tabs’ wedding. That sinking ‘what if’.

See, I’m in a long-term, loving relationship with Ryan. He’s the person I didn’t think I’d find. The one who makes everything lighter, who laughs at my darkest jokes and knows when to just hold me. And yet, no matter how strong our love is, I can’t shake the reality that my chronic illnesses – heart failure, pancreatitis, diabetes – have put a countdown on my life that most people our age don’t have to consider.

It’s not just the health stuff – it’s what it all means. The longevity. Or lack of it.

I want to marry Ryan. God, I want that so badly. I want the wedding, the vows, the shared name. I want the photos we’d hang in our home and the feeling of safety that comes with being ‘his husband.’ I want to hear a little voice call me ‘Dad’ one day, and to watch that kid grow up with a heart full of love and a family that looks like ours.

But the truth is, I don’t know how much time I’ve got. And that reality has forced me to ask – is it fair to put Ryan through that? Is it fair to start a family knowing that one day, way too soon, he’d be left to finish it alone?

That question has kept me up at night more times than I can count.

There’s this ache that I carry – not a physical one, but something deeper. It’s the grief of a future I may never get to live. And I’m realising now that this grief isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s the sting of seeing two people say “I do” and wondering if that will ever be me

It’s the weight of knowing that part of me – the part that wants to be a husband, a father – may never be fulfilled. That some dreams, no matter how deeply you want them, just aren’t meant for everyone.

And that’s a hard pill to swallow.

But maybe, just maybe, there’s still something beautiful in the life Ryan and I do get to live. Even if there’s no wedding, even if there’s no child. Maybe our love, the way we show up for each other every day, is enough. Maybe it has to be.

So this is where I am now. Sitting in the middle of joy for the people I love, holding space for my own quiet heartbreak. Trying to make peace with the things I can’t change.

Trying to let go of the ‘what ifs’ and embrace what is.

And even if I never walk down the aisle or hear someone call me ‘Dad,’ I’ll still have loved deeply, lived honestly, and tried my hardest to find meaning in all the spaces in between.

Navigating Emotional Turmoil Before Christmas: My Perspective on Family, Health, and Cultural Responsibility #FUCK

The holiday season often conjures images of joy, togetherness, and celebration. However, for those grappling with overwhelming personal and family crises, it can be a time filled with sorrow, uncertainty, and emotional exhaustion. This Christmas, my family faces an unprecedented series of hardships, leaving us emotionally and spiritually drained. Multiple loved ones are battling severe health issues, and our Papua New Guinean (PNG) cultural responsibilities weigh heavily on us as we navigate these challenges.

A Season Overshadowed by Heartache

Christmas is meant to be a time of joy, but how can one celebrate while carrying the burden of so much pain? My emotions swing wildly—from hope to despair, from love to anger, and from faith to doubt. Each new crisis feels like another devastating blow, forcing me to support my family while processing my own grief and fear.

On one hand, I find myself leaning into science, analysing diagnoses and treatments in search of logic and solutions. On the other hand, my cultural beliefs lead me to question whether unseen forces are influencing our family’s struggles. This internal conflict adds yet another layer of complexity to an already difficult situation.

The Importance of Family in my Culture

For me, family is the cornerstone of life. Relationships extend far beyond the immediate household, forming a network of support and obligation that binds us all. When a family member is ill, everyone rallies together, offering care, prayer, and physical presence. This sense of shared responsibility is central to the concept of wanbel—a unity of heart and mind.

When my cousin Charlie was diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer after collapsing unexpectedly, our entire family was shaken. The question of where he should spend his final days—at home surrounded by loved ones or in a hospital with access to medical care—became a source of deep reflection. In PNG, the preference is often to remain at home, where the emotional and spiritual bonds of family can provide comfort. However, the reality of medical needs often complicates this decision.

Another blow came when my cousin Jane suffered a severe fall and had to be airlifted to Townsville for emergency brain surgery. After being placed in a coma and showing no brain activity, our family faced the unimaginable decision of removing her from life support. Our faith in miracles often runs deep, and the possibility of a miraculous recovery lingers in everyone’s minds. The fear of the unknown only makes these moments more agonising.

Cultural Obligations and Workplace Understanding

In times of crisis, cultural obligations demand presence and participation. It is not simply a choice; it is a duty deeply rooted in our identity. Employers must recognise that employees from cultures like ours face unique pressures during family emergencies. Flexible policies that allow for family care and emotional recovery are not only compassionate but essential for fostering a respectful and inclusive workplace.

When my uncle Joe went into the hospital with what seemed to be a minor issue, our family mobilised. What began as a sore leg quickly escalated to a life-threatening situation involving heart failure, multiple infections, and kidney issues that required dialysis. Each step of his journey—from ICU to the renal ward—was met with family support. In these moments, being physically present is not optional; it is a cultural imperative.

The Weight of Medical Crises

The past 45 days have been a relentless series of challenges for my family. My father, who has been battling leukemia for four years, faced a new complication when his oral chemotherapy caused fluid to build up in his lungs. Struggling to breathe, he was rushed to the emergency department by my sister. Watching someone you love fight for their life is a harrowing experience, leaving scars that linger long after the crisis has passed.

These events leave me emotionally torn. On one hand, I try to approach each situation logically, understanding the medical facts. On the other, I cannot help but wonder if our family’s recent hardships are connected to deeper cultural or spiritual forces. This blend of modern understanding and traditional beliefs is a hallmark of life in PNG, but it can make the weight of each crisis feel even heavier.

A Call to Action: Prioritise Your Health

Amid this storm of emotions, one thing becomes clear: the importance of proactive health care. To my family, friends, and community and you reading my blog, I urge you—schedule a check-up with your doctor. Have your bloodwork done, test your urine, ensure your vaccinations are current, and discuss any lingering health concerns. Early detection and prevention are key to protecting both yourself and your loved ones.

Health crises like those that have affected Charlie, Jane, Uncle Joe, and my father often strike without warning. By taking preventative measures, we can reduce the likelihood of sudden emergencies and give ourselves a fighting chance to address health issues before they become critical.

Finding Resilience Through Togetherness

Even in the face of so much pain, the strength of our family and cultural values provides a beacon of hope. We grieve together, support one another, and share the burden of decision-making. While the challenges we face are daunting, they are met with the collective resilience that defines us as Papua New Guineans.

This Christmas, the joy of the season feels distant, but the true meaning of the holiday—love, compassion, and unity—shines through in our shared struggles. Though the path ahead remains uncertain, we face it together with unwavering hope for better days.

We Are What We Eat: A Conversation About Weight Loss for Men

The other week, I found myself in a conversation with two of the most important men in my life—my cousin Scott and my boyfriend Ryan. We were casually chatting about health and fitness when the topic turned to weight loss. Scott had been hitting the home gym hard, while my man had started cutting out takeaways during the week. The conversation took a deeper turn when I said, “We are what we eat.” That simple statement struck a chord with all of us.

The question was obvious: What exactly should men eat to lose weight? Inspired by our chat, I decided to dive into some research. Below are the results I found, including what to eat, why it works, and how to prepare these foods to maximise their benefits.

• Spinach

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Rich in iron, which supports energy levels.

  • High in magnesium, important for muscle function and testosterone production.

  • Contains antioxidants like lutein, which supports eye health.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Steaming: Retains most nutrients, especially water-soluble ones like vitamin C and B vitamins.

  • Sautéing: Lightly cook spinach in olive oil with garlic to enhance its flavour and improve absorption of fat-soluble vitamins.

  Tips: Avoid overcooking as it can reduce nutrient content. Spinach shrinks significantly when cooked, so a large handful will provide a good serving of nutrients.on text goes here

• Sweet Potatoes

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Packed with complex carbohydrates for sustained energy.

  • High in beta-carotene, which converts to vitamin A for immune support and skin health.

  • Contains potassium, which helps regulate blood pressure.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Roasting: Bake slices or cubes at 200°C (400°F) with a drizzle of olive oil to enhance beta-carotene absorption.

  • Steaming: Retains more nutrients compared to boiling while maintaining a soft texture.

  • Air Frying: A lower-fat alternative to frying, offering a crispy texture with minimal oil.

  Tips: Pair with a healthy fat like avocado or olive oil to maximise the absorption of vitamin A.

• Fatty Fish (Salmon, Mackerel, Tuna)

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in omega-3 fatty acids, which support heart health and reduce inflammation.

  • Excellent source of vitamin D, important for testosterone production and bone health.

  • Rich in protein for muscle repair and maintenance.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Grilling: Locks in flavour and preserves omega-3s while keeping the fish moist.

  • Baking: Cook at moderate heat (180°C/350°F) with herbs and lemon to enhance flavour without overcooking.

  • Steaming: Retains moisture and nutrients without the need for added fats.

  Tips: Avoid frying, as high heat can degrade omega-3s. Add a squeeze of lemon after cooking for added vitamin C and flavour.

• Eggs

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Rich in high-quality protein for muscle growth and repair.

  • Contains choline, essential for brain health and liver function.

  • Loaded with vitamins B12 and D, supporting energy and hormone health.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Poaching: Retains the most nutrients as it avoids added fats and excessive heat.

  • Boiling: A simple method that keeps all nutrients intact.

  • Scrambling: Use a non-stick pan with minimal oil or butter to avoid unnecessary fats.

  Tips: Pair with leafy greens or whole-grain toast for a balanced, nutrient-packed meal.

• Broccoli

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in sulforaphane, a compound linked to reducing the risk of certain cancers, including prostate cancer.

  • Contains fibre, aiding digestion and weight management.

  • Rich in vitamin C for immune support and collagen production.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Steaming: Retains sulforaphane and water-soluble vitamins.

  • Roasting: Adds a nutty flavour when cooked at 200°C (400°F) with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of pepper.

  • Stir-Frying: Quick cooking with a splash of oil helps retain nutrients while adding texture.

  Tips: Avoid boiling, as it can leach sulforaphane and other nutrients into the water.

• Nuts and Seeds (Walnuts, Almonds, Chia, Flaxseed)

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in healthy fats like omega-3s, which support brain health and reduce inflammation.

  • Provide zinc, which supports testosterone production.

  • Contain fibre, promoting heart health and satiety.

  Best Way to Consume

  • Raw or Toasted: Light toasting enhances flavour without destroying nutrients.

  • Blended: Use ground flaxseeds or chia seeds in smoothies or sprinkle them over oatmeal or salads.

  • Nut Butters: Ensure they’re natural with no added sugars or oils.

  Tips: Avoid over-roasting, as high heat can degrade the healthy fats.

• Berries (Blueberries, Strawberries, Raspberries)

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Packed with antioxidants, particularly anthocyanins, which reduce inflammation and oxidative stress.

  • High in fibre, supporting digestion and weight management.

  • Provide natural sweetness, reducing cravings for processed sugars.

  Best Way to Prepare

  • Raw: Enjoy fresh as a snack to retain all nutrients.

  • Blended: Use in smoothies with a base like unsweetened almond milk or yoghurt.

  • Baking: Add to whole-grain muffins or pancakes for a nutrient-dense treat.

  Tips: Store berries in the fridge to keep them fresh, and wash just before eating.

• Lean Meats (Chicken Breast, Turkey)

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in protein, essential for muscle maintenance and weight loss.

  • Low in saturated fat compared to red meats, supporting heart health.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Grilling: Locks in flavour without adding extra fat.

  • Baking: Cook at moderate heat with herbs and spices to add flavour without calories.

  • Stir-Frying: Use minimal oil and add lots of vegetables for a balanced meal.

  Tips: Avoid breading or deep-frying, as this adds unnecessary calories and fats.

• Avocados

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Rich in monounsaturated fats, supporting heart and hormone health.

  • Contains potassium, which helps regulate blood pressure.

  • High in fibre, aiding digestion and promoting satiety.

  Best Way to Prepare

  • Raw: Mash onto whole-grain toast or dice into salads.

  • Blended: Add to smoothies for a creamy texture.

  • Grilled: Slice in half and grill lightly for a smoky flavour.

  Tips: Combine with tomatoes, olive oil, and lime for a simple and nutrient-packed guacamole.

• Beetroot

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in nitrates, which improve blood flow and athletic performance.

  • Rich in antioxidants like betalains, which reduce inflammation.

  • Supports heart health by lowering blood pressure.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Roasting: Roast beetroot at 200°C (400°F) to bring out its natural sweetness while preserving nutrients.

  • Boiling or Steaming: Boil or steam until tender, which retains most of the nitrates.

  • Blending: Add raw beetroot to smoothies for a nutrient-packed drink.

  Tips: Pair with a source of healthy fat, like olive oil, to enhance absorption of fat-soluble antioxidants. Use beetroot juice before workouts for a natural energy boost.

• Greek Yoghurt

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in protein, which aids muscle repair and growth.

  • Rich in calcium, important for bone health.

  • Contains probiotics that support gut health and digestion.

  Best Way to Prepare

  • As Is: Enjoy plain, unsweetened Greek yoghurt as a snack or meal base.

  • With Toppings: Add berries, nuts, or seeds for added nutrients and texture.

  • Smoothies: Blend into smoothies to boost protein and creaminess.

  Tips: Opt for full-fat or low-fat varieties without added sugars. Use it as a healthier alternative to sour cream or mayonnaise in recipes.

• Mushrooms

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Rich in selenium, which supports immune health and acts as an antioxidant.

  • High in vitamin D when exposed to sunlight, which supports testosterone production and bone health.

  • Contains beta-glucans, which support immune function.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Sautéing: Cook mushrooms over medium heat with olive oil or butter to retain their earthy flavour and nutrients.

  • Roasting: Roast with garlic and thyme at 200°C (400°F) for a caramelised finish.

  • Grilling: Portobello mushrooms can be grilled as a meat substitute.

  Tips: Store mushrooms in a paper bag to keep them fresh. Choose UV-exposed mushrooms for an extra dose of vitamin D.

• Lentils

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in plant-based protein and iron, supporting energy and muscle health.

  • Rich in fibre, promoting digestive health and prolonged satiety.

  • Contains complex carbohydrates, providing long-lasting energy.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Boiling: Cook lentils in water or broth until tender. They do not require soaking like beans.

  • Soups and Stews: Add to soups or curries for a hearty, protein-rich meal.

  • Salads: Use cooked lentils as a base for salads with fresh vegetables and a light dressing.

  Tips: Rinse lentils thoroughly before cooking to remove debris. Combine with citrus or vinegar to enhance iron absorption.

• Dark Chocolate (70% Cocoa or Higher)

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in flavanols, which improve blood flow and heart health.

  • Contains magnesium, which supports muscle and nerve function.

  • A healthier way to satisfy sweet cravings.

  Best Way to Prepare

  • As Is: Enjoy a small piece as a snack or dessert.

  • Melting: Use melted dark chocolate as a dip for fruits like strawberries or bananas.

  • Baking: Add to homemade protein bars or muffins for a nutritious treat.

  Tips: Look for dark chocolate with minimal added sugar. Limit portions to 20–30g to enjoy benefits without overloading on calories.

• Red Capsicum

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Extremely high in vitamin C, supporting immune health and collagen production.

  • Contains beta-carotene, which supports eye and skin health.

  • Low in calories, making them great for weight loss.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Raw: Enjoy fresh in salads or as crunchy snacks with hummus.

  • Roasting: Roast at 200°C (400°F) to bring out their natural sweetness.

  • Sautéing: Lightly cook in olive oil to preserve crunch and nutrients.

  Tips: Pair with foods high in healthy fats, like avocado or olive oil, to enhance absorption of fat-soluble vitamins.

• Lean Beef

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Excellent source of iron and zinc, important for testosterone production and immune health.

  • High in B vitamins, supporting energy metabolism.

  • Contains creatine, which aids in muscle performance.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Grilling: Locks in flavour and preserves nutrients without adding extra fat.

  • Pan-Searing: Use a non-stick pan and cook over medium heat to seal juices.

  • Slow Cooking: Tenderises lean cuts while preserving nutrients.

  Tips: Choose grass-fed beef for higher levels of omega-3 fatty acids and conjugated linoleic acid (CLA), which may support fat loss.

• Walnuts

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • High in omega-3 fatty acids, which support brain health and reduce inflammation.

  • Contains antioxidants that combat oxidative stress.

  • Provides protein and fibre, promoting fullness and muscle repair.

  Best Way to Consume

  • Raw: Eat as a snack or add to salads.

  • Toasted: Lightly toast for enhanced flavour without compromising nutrients.

  • Blended: Add to smoothies or sprinkle over yoghurt and oatmeal.

  Tips: Store walnuts in the fridge to prevent their healthy fats from turning rancid.

• Garlic

  Why It’s Good for Men

  • Contains allicin, which has been shown to lower blood pressure and improve circulation.

  • Boosts immune health with its antimicrobial properties.

  • May support testosterone production.

  Best Way to Cook

  • Raw: Crush or chop garlic and let it sit for 10 minutes before cooking to maximise allicin content.

  • Roasting: Roast whole cloves at 180°C (350°F) for a sweeter, milder flavour.

  • Sautéing: Lightly cook in olive oil to retain flavour and some health benefits.

  Tips: Combine garlic with healthy fats like olive oil or avocados to enhance nutrient absorption.

The Takeaway

After diving into the science of nutrition, I’ve realised that losing weight isn’t just about cutting calories—it’s about choosing foods that work for you, not against you. Scott, Ryan, and I agreed to make some changes together, swapping out processed snacks for whole foods and experimenting with these cooking methods.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the saying “we are what we eat” couldn’t be more accurate. For men looking to lose weight, the focus should be on lean proteins, whole grains, veggies, healthy fats, fruits, and legumes. By choosing these nutrient-dense foods and preparing them the right way, we’re not just shedding kilos—we’re building a healthier, stronger foundation for life.

So, here’s to progress! Let’s eat better, feel better, and become the best versions of ourselves.

Have your own tips for weight loss? Drop them in the comments below—I’d love to hear them!

Here are references supporting the information provided above:

1. National Health and Medical Research Council. (2013). Australian Dietary Guidelines. Canberra: National Health and Medical Research Council.

   • This comprehensive guideline offers evidence-based recommendations on the types and amounts of foods Australians should consume to promote health and well-being.

     Eat for Health

2. Australian Government Department of Health and Aged Care. (2019). The Australian Dietary Guidelines.

   • This publication provides up-to-date advice about the amount and kinds of foods needed for health and well-being, based on scientific evidence.

     Health.gov.au

3. Australian Government Department of Health and Aged Care. (2023). Overweight and Obesity.

   • This resource discusses the prevalence of overweight and obesity in Australia and provides guidelines for healthy eating and physical activity.

     Health.gov.au

4. National Health and Medical Research Council. (2013). Australian Dietary Guidelines Summary.

   • This summary document highlights the key recommendations from the Australian Dietary Guidelines, focusing on healthy eating patterns and nutrient intake.

     Eat for Health

5. National Health and Medical Research Council. (2013). Australian Dietary Guidelines.

   • This guideline provides information on the types and amounts of foods, food groups, and dietary patterns that aim to promote health and well-being.

     NHMRC

These references offer detailed insights into healthy eating patterns, nutrient-dense foods, and appropriate cooking methods to maximise nutritional benefits.

Saying Goodbye to Aunty Vera: A Tale of Love, Sass, and Cultural Farewells

In the tapestry of life, each thread is woven with moments of joy, sorrow, laughter, and tears, creating a mosaic as rich and complex as the human experience itself. Today, I find myself reflecting on one particularly vibrant thread, a strand that added not just colour but a profound depth to the fabric of my life—my Aunty Vera. Her passing has left a void, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring strength of love.

Aunty Vera was not your typical aunt; she was a force of nature, imbued with a sass that could light up the darkest of rooms. Our relationship was unique, marked by jests, laughter, and an unspoken understanding that beneath our banter lay a deep well of mutual respect and affection. She had a way of turning the mundane into the magical, infusing every interaction with her indomitable spirit.

As I prepare to head to her house, a place now transformed into a sacred space of mourning and remembrance, I am reminded of the cultural protocols that guide us Papua New Guineans in our farewell to those we hold dear. The body, though now a mere vessel, is treated with the utmost respect and care, a testament to the life once lived and the soul that touched so many. These moments, gathered around her in both silence and song, are not just rituals; they are bridges connecting the past, present, and future, weaving the essence of Aunty Vera into the stories that will be told and retold.

In the midst of this profound farewell, a truth resonates with a clarity that pierces the veil of grief: the importance of expressing love to those we cherish. Life, with all its unpredictability, waits for no one. The moments we have are fleeting, making it all the more crucial to shed the weight of resentment, to navigate the complexities of human relationships with honesty, and to allow space for healing.

Telling those close to us that we love them, in spite of and because of everything, is perhaps the most courageous thing we can do. It's a recognition of our shared humanity, an acknowledgement of the imperfections that make us who we are. Aunty Vera taught me that it's okay to be angry, to feel frustrated, and to wrestle with the myriad emotions that define our existence. But in the end, love—the kind that is loud, unabashed, and unyielding—must be the anchor that grounds us.

As we say our final goodbyes, surrounded by the warmth of friends and family, united in our grief and our love for Aunty Vera, I am reminded of the indelible mark she has left on each of our lives. Her laughter, her sass, and her unwavering spirit will continue to inspire us, a beacon of light guiding us through the darkest of times.

So, as I stand on the threshold of farewell, I carry with me the lessons of love, resilience, and the power of human connection. Let us not wait for tomorrow to express our affection, to mend bridges, and to celebrate the beautiful complexity of our relationships. In honouring Aunty Vera, let us also honour the love that binds us, the memories that sustain us, and the shared journey that continues beyond the confines of this mortal coil.

How to Support a Friend in a Toxic Relationship: A Guide to Offering Help and Hope

In the intricate tapestry of human relationships, supporting a friend entangled in a toxic and isolating partnership is a delicate endeavour. When someone we care about is caught in the throes of a detrimental relationship, our instinct is to protect and rescue them. However, the path to assistance is nuanced, requiring empathy, patience, and respect for their autonomy. Here's a guide on how to offer meaningful support to a friend in such a challenging situation.

Understand the Situation

First and foremost, it's essential to fully understand the dynamics at play. Toxic relationships are complex and can involve a range of abusive or manipulative behaviours that make leaving difficult. Recognise that your friend may be experiencing a mix of emotions, including love, fear, guilt, and a diminished sense of self-worth. It's important to approach the situation without judgement, acknowledging the difficulty of their position.

Listen and Validate

Offer your friend a safe space to express their thoughts and feelings. Active listening — where you listen to understand, rather than respond — can be incredibly powerful. Validate their feelings by acknowledging the pain and confusion they may be experiencing. Avoid criticising their partner, as this can often lead to defensiveness and could isolate your friend further. Instead, focus on your friend's feelings and experiences.

Empower Them

Empowering your friend is crucial. People in toxic relationships often feel powerless and lack confidence in their ability to make decisions. Help them recognise their strengths and remind them of their worth. Encourage them to think about their needs and what they truly want from a relationship. However, resist the urge to make decisions for them or pressure them into action before they are ready.

Offer Practical Support

Offering practical support can range from researching support services and therapists to simply being there to accompany them to appointments. If they decide to leave the relationship, they may need assistance with housing, legal advice, or financial support. Be clear about the type of support you can offer, whether it's emotional, practical, or both.

Encourage Professional Help

Professional support can be invaluable for someone trying to navigate their way out of a toxic relationship. Encourage your friend to seek the help of a therapist or counsellor who specialises in relationship issues. If the situation involves abuse, providing information on local domestic violence services and hotlines can be a crucial step.

Respect Their Journey

It's important to respect your friend's timeline. Leaving a toxic relationship is a process that can take time. There may be setbacks and moments of reconciliation with their partner. Continue to offer your support without judgement, understanding that your friend needs to make decisions in their own time.

Take Care of Yourself

Supporting a friend through such a difficult time can be emotionally draining. It's important to look after your own well-being, too. Set boundaries to protect your mental health, and consider seeking support for yourself, whether from other friends, family, or a professional.

Someone very special to me will soon enter a new chapter, and I will be by her side as she transitions.

Helping a friend in a lonely and toxic relationship is about providing a balance of emotional support, practical assistance, and empowering them to see their own worth and strength. It's a journey that requires patience, understanding, and care for both your friend and yourself. Remember, you can't "rescue" your friend, but you can stand by them, offering support as they navigate their path to a healthier, happier life.

I love you!

Navigating Through Shadows: Reflections on Love, Loss, and the Spaces Between

In the intricate dance of life and death, we often find ourselves swaying between moments of profound connection and the stark reality of loss. My name is Eddie Solien, and today, I'm navigating this delicate balance as I face the impending loss of my Aunty, who is currently in palliative care at home. This journey, marked by the presence of severe heart conditions and a tapestry of health challenges in my own life, has profoundly shaped my understanding of strength, resilience, and the power of human connection.

Living with heart failure, left ventricle dysfunction, atrial fibrillation, Auto Immune Pancreatitis, and Type 2 Diabetes, I've become intimately familiar with the fragility of health. Yet, it's in the context of my Aunty's battle with cancer that I find myself confronting the fragility of life itself. Cancer, with its indiscriminate cruelty, has a way of overshadowing the vibrancy of the human spirit. Yet, even as it casts a long shadow, it also illuminates the depth of our relationships and the resilience of our love.

I am not religious, but I am deeply spiritual. This spirituality does not provide easy answers or assurances; rather, it offers a lens through which to view our connections and our departures. It's in this spiritual space that I find the strength to stand beside my family, to support my cousins, and to be present in the pain, the laughter, and the memories that bind us together.

The anticipation of loss is a heavy burden, one made all the more challenging by the nature of waiting. Waiting for the inevitable, waiting for relief, waiting for the moment we must say goodbye. Yet, it's in this waiting that we also find moments of profound meaning and connection. True to my heritage and the communal spirit that defines both Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean cultures, I turn to the act of making food as a way to relieve stress and to express my love and support. Cooking becomes a meditative act, a way to nourish the body and the soul amidst the heartache.

My relationship with my Aunty has always been one of playful banter and deep mutual respect. We give each other so much grief, yet beneath the surface of our teasing lies an unbreakable bond of affection and understanding. It's a relationship that exemplifies the complexity of love – the ability to laugh together even in the face of pain, to support each other through every challenge, and to cherish the moments of joy amidst the sorrow.

Cancer fucking sucks. It's a stark reminder of our mortality and the impermanence of our existence. Yet, it also serves as a poignant reminder of what truly matters – the connections we forge, the love we share, and the impact we have on each other's lives. As I navigate through this difficult time, I am reminded of the importance of being there for one another, of holding space for grief and for healing, and of celebrating the lives of those we love, even as we prepare to let them go.

In this journey through the shadows, I am learning that the essence of spirituality lies in our capacity to love deeply, to support unwaveringly, and to cherish the moments of light that shine through the darkness. As I stand beside my Aunty and my family, I am reminded that, in the end, it's the love we share that endures, transcending the boundaries of life and death.

Navigating Identity and History in Unceded Australia

Hello, my name is Eddie Solien. In the intricate tapestry of my life, there are threads that are vividly coloured by my identity, health, and the history of the land I call home. As a person living with severe heart conditions like heart failure with left ventricle dysfunction and atrial fibrillation, coupled with Auto Immune Pancreatitis and Type 2 Diabetes, every day is a testimony to resilience. But beyond the personal health battles, my identity as a member of the LGBTIQA+ community and my heritage as a Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean immerse me in a deeper narrative – one that involves living in Australia, a country where the sovereignty of its First Peoples was never ceded.

Australia, a land of stunning natural beauty and diverse cultures, also bears a history that is often untold or glossed over. It's a history marked by colonisation, where the rights and existence of First Nations people were, and in many aspects continue to be, overshadowed by the pursuit of building a new nation. This pursuit, tragically, involved strategies and actions that led to the immeasurable loss of lives and cultures – a dark phase aimed at eradicating an entire race.

Living in Australia, with this acute awareness of our unceded sovereignty, is a complex experience. It's about walking on land that carries the weight of unsung histories, of cultures that thrived long before colonisers set foot here. It's about recognising that the society we live in today, often praised for its diversity and progress, was built on foundations where equity was non-existent for its original inhabitants.

The history of First Nations peoples is not just a tale of dispossession and pain; it's also a story of unyielding resilience and survival against incredible odds. It's about communities that have withstood the impact of policies and actions meant to erase their existence. This resilience is not just part of my heritage; it resonates deeply with my personal journey of battling severe health conditions. In both narratives, there's a common thread of fighting against the odds, of striving to survive and thrive in environments that are not always conducive to our wellbeing.

As I navigate my daily life, I am constantly reminded of the broader struggle for equity and recognition in a society that is still coming to terms with its past. The fight for First Nations peoples rights in Australia is far from over. It's a continuous journey of seeking justice, restoring what was lost, and most importantly, ensuring that the voices and stories of First Nations peoples are heard and valued.

Living in Australia as someone who identifies with its First Peoples is to live a life of duality. It's to embrace the beauty and opportunities this land offers while also being acutely aware of its painful history. It's about celebrating the survival and vibrancy of Indigenous cultures while also acknowledging the work that still needs to be done to achieve true equity and recognition.

As I look to the future, I am filled with a sense of hope and determination. Hope that Australia will continue to grow in its understanding and appreciation of its First Nations heritage. Determination to contribute to this growth, to ensure that the story of Australia's First Peoples is not just a chapter in history books but a living, thriving part of our national identity.

In sharing my story, I invite others to reflect on their own place in this narrative. To understand that while we cannot change the past, we can all play a role in shaping a future where equity, respect, and recognition are not just ideals but realities for all Australians. My name is Eddie Solien, and this is my perspective on living in a country where sovereignty was never ceded – a perspective shaped by my heritage, my health, and my hope for a better tomorrow.

Beyond Australia Day – A Stand for Equity and Recognition

Hello, I'm Eddie Solien, and today I want to talk about a topic that weighs heavily on my heart – Australia Day. As a proud member of the LGBTIQA+ community who identifies as both Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean, I carry a complex history that intertwines with the narrative of this nation. My life is also defined by my battle with severe heart conditions and chronic illnesses, which, in many ways, mirror the struggles for recognition and equity I face in other areas of my life.

Australia Day, for many, is a day of national pride and celebration. However, for me and many others, it's a day that evokes a profound sense of discomfort and pain. This day, often referred to as 'Invasion Day' or 'Survival Day' by First Nations communities, marks a history of colonisation, suffering, and the beginning of an ongoing struggle for rights and recognition. It's a day that commemorates a past that tore apart the lives of black fellaz – a past that saw their sovereignty ignored and rights trampled upon.

The notion of celebrating on a day that signifies such loss and ongoing trauma is inconceivable to me. It's not about rejecting Australia or its people; it's about acknowledging the truths of our history and the impact it continues to have on First Nations communities. Sovereignty was never ceded, and the fight for true equity and recognition remains a pivotal issue.

In my professional life, advocating for equity has been both a challenge and a passion. Navigating a career while fighting for what's right often places me in difficult situations, where I have to balance professional obligations with my commitment to social justice. It's about having those tough conversations, challenging deep-rooted norms, and continuously pushing against a tide of complacency and resistance.

Fighting for equity means advocating for a society where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or health status, has an equal opportunity to succeed and be heard. It's about dismantling the structures that perpetuate inequality and creating spaces that are inclusive and respectful of all histories and experiences.

This year on Australia Day, while many will be celebrating, I will be working, choosing to swap this disgusting public holiday for another day of significance. It's a small, personal act of protest and reflection. A day where I choose to remember and honour the history and ongoing struggles this countries First Peoples.

So, as Australia Day rolls around, I ask you, "What will you be doing?" Will you be celebrating, reflecting, or perhaps re-evaluating what this day means to you? For me, Eddie Solien, it's a day to reaffirm my commitment to the fight for justice, recognition, and equity – not just on this day but every day.

A Year of Challenges and Triumphs 2k23

As I sit at my computer desk staring at the screen, reflecting on the whirlwind that was this past year, I can't help but wonder about the delicate balance of life's trials and triumphs. I'm Eddie Solien, navigating a life filled with complex health issues like severe heart failure, left ventricle dysfunction, and a myriad of other conditions that sound more like a medical encyclopaedia entry than facets of my everyday life. And yet, amid the chaos of doctor's appointments and medical jargon, I've managed to carve out a career success story that even I sometimes find hard to believe.

But let's talk about the heart of the matter, and I don't mean just my own medically fascinating one. I'm talking about love, support, and the kind of partnership that novels are written about. Yes, this year has been hard, punctuated by health setbacks that would make anyone's head spin. However, it's also been a year where I've seen my goals at work not just reached but soared past, all thanks to a resilience I've fostered within myself and the unwavering support of my remarkable boyfriend, Ryan.

Ryan, with his strength and heart, has been more than a boyfriend; he's been my lighthouse in the stormiest of seas. We've had our share of disagreements – who doesn't? But through every tempest, Ryan has stood by me, not as a caretaker, but as a partner, a confidant, and my biggest cheerleader. In a world where relationships often crumble under far less pressure, Ryan and I have built something extraordinary. He treats me with the dignity, love, and respect that everyone deserves, never once making me feel like a patient in need of care, but rather a partner in every sense of the word.

Looking forward to 2024, I'm filled with an odd mixture of anticipation and serenity. It's as if the trials of the past year have prepared me for whatever lies ahead. I'm ready to make things happen, to continue setting and achieving goals, both personally and professionally, with Ryan by my side. Our relationship, much like the city around us, is ever-evolving, beautifully complex, and utterly real.

So, as I ponder over my life, much like Carrie Bradshaw contemplating love and life's many conundrums, I realise that the most significant discovery this year hasn't been a new treatment or a professional accolade. It's been the profound realisation of the power of partnership, resilience, and love. Here's to the past year of challenges and achievements, and to 2024, a year I step into with hope, determination, and the best sidekick anyone could ask for. My name is Eddie Solien, and this is just one chapter in my ongoing story.

My Greatest Ambition in Life: The Journey of Being Eddie Solien

Hi, I'm Eddie Solien. In a world that often feels like a whirlwind of expectations and labels, my greatest ambition is beautifully simple yet profoundly complex – to be me. My journey is interwoven with the challenges of living with severe heart failure, left ventricle dysfunction, atrial fibrillation with a 16% output reduction ejection fraction, Auto Immune Pancreatitis, and Type 2 Diabetes. Alongside these health battles, I embrace my identity as a proud member of the LGBTIQA+ community, and as someone who identifies with both Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean heritage.

Being me is not just about the labels that society attaches to my health conditions or my cultural and sexual identity. It's about the intricate tapestry of experiences, emotions, and thoughts that make up who I am. From the therapist's perspective, the journey to self-acceptance and authenticity is often riddled with obstacles, internal conflicts, and societal pressures. But it's a journey worth embarking on.

In a world that often prescribes who we should be, living authentically as oneself is a courageous act. My health challenges, for instance, are not just medical conditions; they are part of my life story that shapes my resilience, my perspective, and my empathy. They teach me the value of each day and the importance of living in the present.

Similarly, my cultural and sexual identity layers add richness to my life. They bring with them a history of struggle, triumph, and a deep sense of community. Embracing these aspects of my identity has not always been easy. It has involved navigating societal norms, breaking stereotypes, and sometimes, battling internalised biases. But it has also been a journey of empowerment, self-discovery, and finding a community where I belong.

In essence, my ambition to be myself is about integrating all these aspects of my identity. It's about standing tall in my truth, with all its complexities and colours. It's about creating a space where my voice, experiences, and perspectives are valued. It's about breaking free from the shackles of ‘should be’ and stepping into the light of ‘simply am’.

As I continue this journey, I hope to inspire others to embrace their authentic selves. No matter how challenging the road may seem, the destination of self-acceptance and authenticity is a place of profound peace and joy. So here’s to being Eddie Solien – in all my complexity, resilience, and authenticity. My greatest ambition in life is to be me, and that is a mission I embrace wholeheartedly.

My Epiphany: Unravelling the Layers of Self-Discovery

Hello, I'm Eddie Solien. In the tapestry of my life, the threads of severe heart failure, left ventricle dysfunction, atrial fibrillation with a 16% output reduction ejection fraction, Auto Immune Pancreatitis, and Type 2 Diabetes weave a complex pattern. These health challenges, while daunting, form just one aspect of my story. As a proud member of the LGBTIQA+ community and someone who identifies with both Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean heritage, my journey is a vibrant blend of identity, resilience, and self-discovery.

Living with multiple health conditions has been an unyielding rollercoaster, constantly testing my limits and teaching me the value of every breath. These medical battles have pushed me to confront my vulnerabilities and unearth strengths I never knew I had. They've taught me to find joy in the smallest of moments and to grasp the fragile nature of life with both hands.

But there's more to my story than my health. My cultural background as a Torres Strait Islander and Papua New Guinean is a rich tapestry of history and traditions. It's a part of me that connects me to a past filled with stories of endurance and hope. Embracing this heritage has been a journey in itself, one that has involved delving deep into the narratives of my ancestors and drawing strength from their resilience.

Additionally, navigating my sexual identity within the framework of my cultural heritage has been another significant chapter in my life. Finding my place in the LGBTIQA+ community, a space of acceptance and understanding, has given me the courage to be true to myself. It's in this community that I learned the power of love without barriers and the importance of standing against prejudice.

The most transformative part of my journey, however, has been the road to self-acceptance. It's been a path marked by introspection, challenges, and ultimately, a deep understanding of who I am. This journey hasn't been without its struggles. It's involved wrestling with inner doubts, societal pressures, and the daunting task of aligning the different facets of my identity into a cohesive whole.

The defining moment in all this has been looking in the mirror and fully embracing the person staring back. It was realizing that my worth isn't defined by my health conditions, nor is it anchored solely in my cultural identity or sexual orientation. I am a mosaic of all these experiences, each one playing a crucial role in shaping who I am.

Sharing my story is not just about narrating my life; it's about sending out a message of hope and authenticity. It's a testament to the fact that the journey of self-discovery, no matter how tumultuous, leads to a fulfilling destination. Embracing your true self, in all its complexity, is the ultimate liberation.

My story is a celebration of living unapologetically as my true self. For me the journey continues, with each day bringing new lessons and opportunities for growth. My greatest discovery through it all has been learning to live passionately and authentically as me, and that is a journey I cherish deeply.

Eddie Solien: Surviving Against the Odds and Navigating the Aftermath

Hello, I’m Eddie Solien. My life’s journey has been anything but ordinary, marked by intense battles against severe heart conditions and other health challenges, all while embracing my identity as a Torres Strait Islander, Papua New Guinean, and a proud member of the LGBTIQA+ community. A couple of years ago, I faced what was perhaps my most daunting challenge yet – a life-threatening pancreatic attack that landed me in ICU, teetering on the brink of life and death.

In the sterile, beeping confines of the ICU, I lay in septic shock and respiratory failure, with a 50/50 chance of survival. The situation was so dire that my partner Ryan and my sister Tammy were pulled aside by the ICU doctor for a harrowing conversation about end-of-life decisions. It was a moment that not only tested my physical resilience but also thrust my loved ones into an ocean of uncertainty and fear.

Why am I still here? That's a question that often lingers in my mind. Survival can sometimes feel like an enigma, especially when the odds are so evenly stacked. I believe my continued existence isn't just a stroke of luck or medical triumph; it's a testament to something deeper, an unyielding spirit perhaps, and a life that still has chapters to be written.

However, survival comes with its complexities. In the aftermath of such a traumatic event, the focus often remains on the patient, understandably so. But what of the silent, hidden trauma experienced by those who stand by, watching, waiting, and fearing the worst? Ryan and Tammy faced the unthinkable prospect of losing me, a trauma that doesn't just vanish with my recovery.

Trauma can manifest in numerous ways, often subtle and deeply personal. For Ryan and Tammy, it might be a lingering fear of loss, a heightened sense of anxiety whenever I face a health setback, or even a subconscious preparation for the worst. These are scars that don't show but are felt deeply.

To Ryan and Tammy: I'm sorry. Sorry that my journey has inadvertently become a source of pain for you. The path of a caregiver or a loved one of someone with chronic health issues is fraught with unsung challenges. It's a path of strength, yes, but also of hidden battles.

My story isn't just a tale of survival; it's a narrative about the resilience of not just one, but three souls intertwined by love, fear, and hope. It's about understanding and acknowledging that trauma isn't always where we expect to find it, and healing is a journey we take together. As I continue to navigate my health, I do so with a profound appreciation for the silent battles fought by those who love me, and with a commitment to support them as they have continually supported me.