Dissociative days

Imagine waking up one day, suddenly responsible for repaying millions of dollars of debt you never personally incurred.

I did not know which way was up. My world was spinning. Nothing made sense. I was working late into the night to finish my diploma studies so I could operate as the agency's licensed manager. I was drinking a lot to get through everything and help me sleep by numbing the nightmare I was living. I would get up early and do it all over again. The only glimmer of hope was an intuitive desire to challenge myself to see the opportunity in the chaos.

I begged Dad to put me on as director. He did, but did not have the courage to tell me about the debt first.

How could he do that to me? To my family? My life was just beginning, and my career was starting to take off. I could not help but wonder if it was yet another instance of my father prioritising his pride and ego above all else, even if it meant sacrificing his relationship with his son to hide his shame.

A void took over my life. Numb from the unexpected loss of both parents and without emotional closure, I became disillusioned with the world and paralysed by questions of 'why me'. I felt like a deer in the headlights, unsure which way to turn, seeking safety in the darkness. I was traumatised, overwhelmed, and felt foolish for not foreseeing any of this. Utterly distraught and helpless, a part of me died alongside my parents.

Memory is a funny thing. I believe our minds smooth over events as a coping mechanism. It is hard to remember the finer details of those early days. The moments merge into one big memory of 'that time'. I cannot recall how I pulled myself out of bed in the morning, how I was able to fall asleep, what I ate, and who came to visit.

Grief is not a straight line. It's disjointed, like life itself — one step forward, three steps back. I was in a perpetual state of fight-or-flight. Too consumed by it to be in denial. Too sad to be angry. Too wired to be depressed. Like love, we all experience loss differently. It is like bone-on-bone, rubbing against each other with no cartilage left. It is an indescribable pain, never felt before. It is invisible, chronic, and cuts to the core — marrow-deep sadness.

I was breaking down. I would look at my wife and just burst into tears. I learned to let the emotion come out without judgement. I also knew when I needed to pick myself back up and persevere — that balance, like a dance.

There is only so much loss a person can handle before they, too, surrender the fight. The loss permeated every part of my life. There was primary loss and secondary losses: the tangible and the intangible. One blow and bruise followed the next, like huge, heavy, razor-sharp dominoes. Mum's death. Dad's death. Millions in debt. No assets. Legal issues. Six weeks cash in the bank. The sole director of a team of 18 with no formal business or leadership training.

Hindsight has taught me the dire financial situation gave me purpose in those first few months. Making sales gave me something to focus on and direct all my attention to. It got me out in the world, into the community I adored, when I probably would have been bedridden. It helped to zoom in poignantly into the present. I had to do what I do best — help people buy and sell homes in the Adelaide Hills.

The Adelaide Hills were not just my roots or the home of my career, it was my lifeline. I talked openly with my clients (and still do) about Dad's death. The community was shocked, and they still approach me with fond memories of him. I'm deeply respectful of that. They are not wrong to express how they remember him, it was just never my experience. I wish I had that relationship with my father more than anything in the world. I never got the chance. He never wanted that.

When you go through great loss, and your back is against the wall, what used to work no longer suffices. The ego dissolves. Good habits are the first to go. Humility replaces hustle, and support wanes over time as people get on with their lives. During this period, I grew deeper in love with the Adelaide Hills community. When we are stripped down to nothing, emotionally naked and exposed, those around us become our heroes — the real heroes of our life story. These are everyday people who do not give up on us, who get behind us and edge us forward. I am honoured to simply walk the same streets as these people every day.

Just a few years prior, I stubbornly moved to a new state to 'make it on my own'. Having lost it all, I learned we always need people guiding our paths, whether family or strangers. Asking for help became an act of liberation. The more I opened up, the more the shame dissipated. Because of this, everyone gave me their time and wanted to help. This informed my leadership philosophy, whether with staff, clients, the community and industry.

I knew I needed serious help with my mindset to have the best chance at turning the business around. I could not just flick a switch and accept my call to leadership. I needed a mindset coach who also knew real estate. A quick Google search led me to Tanja Lee, who guided me through the basic principles of leadership as I began engaging a fractured, grieving team.

While we had 18 people, there was no real 'team'. It was every man for him or herself: no shared vision, systems, standard operating procedures or performance management. Sales did not talk to property management; property management didn't engage with admin. There was no leadership team. The collective spirit was low, and to most, it was simply a place to earn a paycheck.

Dad was not a leader, he was a real estate guy who had a business. There's an important distinction. I loved to sell, but even more so, I felt called to serve. Even in those early days as a Year 12 student leader, it was always in me. But not everyone wanted to transcend 'business as usual' into something greater, and that's okay. For those who did stay, I had to earn their trust.