I was 11 years old when I locked myself in the bathroom and yelled, “I don’t want to live anymore.”

I felt everything at once, and I didn’t have the words for any of it.

I felt so alone.

I grew up as one of six kids. I was the fourth. Our house was loud, chaotic, creative, neurospicy and full of love. We didn’t have much money in the early days. Donations from the local church helped us get by.

My parents worked incredibly hard to give us a good life, and somehow, they protected us from the weight of it. I never felt poor.

There’s a photo I still think about. Me and my little sister on a swing, hung inside a half-finished house in Sydney. Bare plaster walls. Clothes scattered everywhere. When I asked Dad about it years later, he said:

“We prioritised your happiness over anything.”

There was always music. Imagination. Room to be ourselves.

But in a house of eight, there were also arguments. Tension. Moments where things didn’t feel stable.

I have a core memory of asking my mum once, after she’d had an argument with Dad: “Are you happy?”

Looking back, I don’t think I was asking out of curiosity. I needed her to be happy so I could feel safe.

As I got older, I got better at hiding my anger. I would retreat to my room.

I punched holes in walls. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone. But because I didn’t know how to hold what I was feeling. I had to release the pain somehow.

What I really wanted was for someone to look at me and say: I hear you. I understand. You’re not broken.

On the first day of Year 7, we were asked to create a book about our life. The last prompt was: “If you really knew me, you’d know”

I wrote:

“I mostly feel happy, but sometimes I feel sad. And sometimes it feels like no one understands me.”

Like so many boys, I carried shame. I carried anxiety. I was constantly afraid of being too much, or not enough. Afraid of getting it wrong.

The results that made me cry

A few weeks ago, our pre- and post-workshop insights were presented to the organisation for our new Foundations program for Year 5 and 6 boys. I burst into tears.

After just one workshop, we saw:

• A 35% increase in boys saying they feel close to other students in their class.
• A 25% increase in boys thinking about how their actions affect other people.
• A 73% increase in boys recognising that other young people share similar feelings to them.
• A 14% increase in boys understanding that it’s normal to have big, hard emotions.
• A 19% increase in boys knowing how to calm themselves down.
• A 26% increase in boys saying they have the words to explain how they feel.

I wasn’t crying because I was surprised by the impact.

I was crying because I was thinking about the 11-year-old me. The boy who felt misunderstood, stupid and alone.

With tissues in hand I said to everyone:

“Year 7 was too late for me. I needed this earlier. And I was one of the lucky ones. I had support. I’m just really feeling for the boys who don’t.”

Five years at The Man Cave

I’ve been at The Man Cave for five years. It’s changed my life. The people have become family. It’s where I began the deep personal work of understanding myself. It’s where I learned that emotions aren’t something to hide from.

They’re something to listen to.

Now, I get to dedicate my life to making sure no boy feels as alone as I once did.

Because I know what it feels like to sit in a classroom and quietly write:

“I mostly feel happy, but sometimes I feel sad. And sometimes it feels like no one understands me.”

That boy deserved better. So does every boy like him.

Bring the Foundations program to your primary school.

Our Foundations workshops are designed specifically for Year 5 and 6 boys, giving them the language, tools and space to understand their emotions before the pressure of high school begins.

Find out more at themancave.life/programs/school-workshops/