My Life Is Great - But It’s Not Fucking Easy Sometimes

By Bretto - Next Chapter Mates Co-Founder

Most days, my life feels solid. Not perfect. Not effortless. But good.

And that didn’t happen by mistake. It’s because I work bloody hard to keep it that way, especially for my son.

I’ve got just over 50% care, and I genuinely, wholeheartedly love it. There’s something about being a dad that forces you into a higher version of yourself. He makes me go the extra mile on a million things I would never do for my own benefit. He brings out the man I wish I’d become years earlier.

My whole routine is built around him - uniforms washed and ready, lunches sorted, alarms set, sports gear packed, tablets charged, chore lists on the fridge, dinners stocked in the freezer. None of it is in my natural skill set, but it doesn’t matter. Because it’s not about me. It’s about building a stable world for him to grow in.

I’m a fucking good dad. And that’s not arrogance - that’s hard-earned pride. I don’t drink around him (never if I’m driving). I focus on fitness. I don’t badmouth his mum - ever. I try to be present in all the ways I never saw modelled for me growing up.

But like every bloke here at Next Chapter Mates, I’m still a work in progress. And lately, the thing life has been forcing me to learn, the lesson I’ve been skirting around for years, is boundaries.

The Christmas Moment That Hit Like a Truck

This Christmas was meant to be simple: cousins, sushi, sunshine, backyard chaos. My sister had my boy overnight, and she took the kids down to grab lunch. On the way back they passed an old phone box. Proper nostalgic - the kind most kids today think is a museum piece. She explained what it was, had a laugh, and suggested they each “call Santa” just for a bit of fun.

My nephew asked for a football. My niece asked for a book. Cute, normal, harmless.

Then my little bloke picked up the phone.

And in the middle of Christmas magic, in a phone box that hasn’t seen real use in years, he said:

“Santa, for Christmas I’d like more time with my mum.”

My sister heard it word for word. And she immediately burst into tears. Not loud or dramatic, just that stunned, quiet crying you do when something slices straight into the soft part of you.

She rang me straight away.

I swear, I can still feel the exact moment it hit me. It’s like your chest caves in before your brain has time to react.

Because Christmas is supposed to be simple for kids. It’s supposed to be light. But in that one sentence, he showed me the weight he’d been carrying silently.

I walked outside, sat in my car, shut the door… and cried. Just let it all drop out of me. 20 fucking minutes worth - the shit just wouldn’t stop.

So then, like so many men do, I put the lid back on it. I wiped my face. Took a deep breath. And pushed all that emotion down into the place we pretend doesn’t exist.

Isn't it funny - all the gadgets in the world and all he wants is time. The one thing we can give for free but never give enough of. Kids remember time, not things.

January: The “Fix-It” Mode That Always Fails

The next day, I grabbed the shared calendar and tried to solve it. Tried to juggle the days. Tried to give him more stability, more time, more of what he clearly needed.

But there was nothing to move. I already had more than 50% care. I already showed up. I already picked up the slack. I already absorbed choices that weren’t child-centred.

What Christmas showed me was something I didn’t want to acknowledge:

I can’t fix what I didn’t break.

And that’s a brutal realisation for any dad.

We’re wired to fix. To protect. To shield. To shoulder the weight so our kids don’t have to.

But this was one of those moments where the truth was sharp and unavoidable, this one wasn’t about me. No amount of rearranging or sacrificing was going to fill a gap I didn’t create.

The Hardest Phone Call I’ve Ever Made

So I made one of the toughest calls of my life.

I rang his mum. Told her what our son said. Told her how it landed. Told her my concerns. Then - the hardest part - I left it with her.

I didn’t push. I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to control the outcome.

Because the truth is:

I’m not the one causing the issue. I’m not the one making the non-child-centred decisions.

I can’t fix a problem that isn’t mine to solve.

All I can do is be steady, consistent, present, safe.

That’s my lane. And stepping outside of it, trying to compensate for someone else’s choices, only confuses a kid more.

Talking to Him Honestly

When my son gets sad, I don’t sugarcoat things. I don’t dump adult emotion on him, but I don’t bullshit either.

I tell him:

“Mate, I’m not sure what’s happening… but I’m here. And we’ll figure it out together.”

And I know there are hard moments ahead for him. Moments I can’t protect him from. Moments I’d take for him in a heartbeat.

But all I can do is walk beside him through it - not in front shielding everything, and not behind pretending it’s fine.

Beside him. Together. Without either of us shitting on his mum. That doesn't help.

The Honest Conclusion

So yeah - my life is great. I’ve built something I’m proud of. I’ve created a home with love, routine, safety, clarity and warmth.

But it’s not fucking easy sometimes. And I think that’s what most men never say out loud.

We carry so much. We absorb so much. We push through so much. And we do it quietly, because that’s what we were taught.

But here, in this community - with Next Chapter Mates - you don’t have to pretend.

You can be proud of your life and admit it’s hard. You can love being a dad and feel overwhelmed. You can be strong and be hurting.

Both truths can live side by side.

And if you’re reading this and any part of it hits you in the ribs - you’re not alone. You’re not failing. You’re not broken.

You’re just in a hard chapter. And you don’t have to walk it by yourself.

We’re right here with you - mate to mate.