I’m not gonna lie, growing up is a bloody rollercoaster. Doesn’t matter if you’re rolling in it or dirt poor, hot or awkward, queen bee or bottom of the lunch table food chain we all have our own internal battles, and each case comes with its own level of chaos.
Some people wear it better than others. Some bury it deep. Some break. I refuse to break.

A moment here to shoutout to Mum she did the goddamn best job she could, and I love you, Mum.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. I was lucky.

There was always food on the table, a roof over my head, and even better if I nailed my chores, I could leg it down the street on my rusted-out BMX with a secondhand town&country under one arm and ride out to Iluka Wall.

No head noise. No judgement. Just me, the lineup, and the old boys yelling me into the last wave of every set so I wouldn’t get cleaned up on the inside. That crew?

They never cared what you wore, what you’d been through, or whether you were “good enough.” They just backed you.

That was my community.

You rock up to the car park, chat shit with these legends, and you instantly feel like you belong.

And maybe that’s rare now. In a world choking on curated feeds and half-arsed equality campaigns, belonging feels harder to come by — for women, for men, for anyone not playing by the mainstream script. But in small towns, and especially in the water, it’s still there. Real, honest connection.

I didn’t grow up with a father figure. But surfing?

Surfing gave me what I was missing. It filled the cracks. It held me when I didn’t even know I needed holding

And that’s why, for me, surfing has never been about getting better at the sport. Don’t get me wrong I think every grom at age 17/18 wants to be a pro but I wasn’t nearly good enough.

It’s about the calm it brings. The silence between sets. The reminder to stay present, to just live.