When the Capes Come Down

I thought my dad could build anything. And for a long time, I was right.

When I was a kid, my dad was one of those old-school fathers who’d look at something broken or missing and think, “Why pay for it when I can make it myself?” Except unlike most dads who think that and bodge together something that barely works, my dad actually could. If I wanted a toy gun, he’d disappear into his shed and emerge with something made of metal and steel that looked more real than anything you could buy in the shops. He built us treehouses, not the wobbly platform-in-a-tree kind, but proper structures with drawbridges, electricity, balconies hanging over the Woronora River where we could fish. He even built us go-karts from scratch, welding steel frames around old Kirby lawnmower engines. No helmets, no safety rails, this was the ’80s. We’d ride those things through the sandhills like we were invincible.

My dad could draw, too. He had this book filled with portraits of the Beatles that looked like photographs. I’d flip through it as a kid, absolutely stunned that a human being could make something so lifelike with just a pencil.

And my mum, she was kind in a way that seemed almost supernatural. I remember one rainy night when I was about five, we were driving to the restaurant my dad was working at. I’d been playing with her engagement ring, slipped it on my tiny finger, and when I opened the car door to get out, it fell off and got swept away in the gutter. Gone. Down the drain in a torrent of stormwater. I was certain I was about to get the hiding of my life. But she didn’t yell. She didn’t even get angry. We looked for it that night, went back the next day, I even climbed down into the drain, but it was gone. She just… let it go. I don’t even know if my dad ever found out.

She was like that with everyone. She’d pick up hitchhikers in the rain, pull over for broken-down motorcyclists in the middle of the night, take in backpackers she’d met somewhere and let them stay with us for weeks. When her friends got sick, she’d be there, cooking, visiting, doing whatever needed doing. As a kid, you just think that’s what parents are. Magic. Infinitely capable. Endlessly good.

My mum and I are having a Sunday drink in Cronulla 

The Cracks

We didn’t start out with much. When I was a baby, we lived in my nan’s garage, my parents had converted it into a little living space while my dad got his restaurant off the ground. Later, we lived in the back of the restaurant itself. I have hazy memories of playing with two Merino sheep we kept back there for some reason. In the middle of Sydney. I still don’t know why.

My parents worked all the time. Hospitality doesn’t take weekends off, so my nan would mind us while they were at the restaurant. I adored my nan, but I also knew I could get away with more when she was around. I was a wild kid, not malicious, just… boundary-testing. I wanted to see how far I could push before the world pushed back.

By the time we moved to Bonnet Bay when I was in Year 5, I was getting older. Less easy to manage. And I started noticing things.

Mum and Dad fought more. Not all the time, but enough that you’d feel the tension humming under the surface. I’d catch them in small lies, nothing huge, but enough to make you think, Wait, that’s not what happened. They’d deny it, but I knew. Little things. Cracks in the facade.

It wasn’t that they suddenly became different people. It was that I was growing up. I was starting to see them not as these all-knowing, all-powerful beings, but as… people. Tired people. Stressed people. People who were doing their best, but who were also just trying to survive.

My dad and I on one of our camping trips in the Australian bush

What I See Now

Here’s what you don’t realise when you’re young: your parents are under so much pressure, and they’re doing everything they can to make sure you never feel it.

My dad worked late every night, midnight, one in the morning sometimes, cleaning up after the restaurant closed. By the time he got home, I’d be asleep. By the time I woke up for school, he’d still be out cold. I barely saw him during the week. But he still found time to build me go-karts. To draw. To create these magical spaces for us to play in.

My mum was juggling the family, the business, and four kids who were all disasters in their own unique ways. And every now and then, the pressure would crack through and she’d snap at one of us, or my dad would yell about something small, and as a kid, you’d think, That’s not fair. I didn’t deserve that.

But now? Now I get it.

They were running on empty most of the time. They were trying to build something out of nothing, literally starting in a garage, and give us a life that felt stable and full, even when theirs wasn’t. The yelling, the frustration, the moments they seemed unreasonable? That was just the steam valve blowing off the top when the pressure got too high.

When they separated, I was about 20, 21, it hit my dad hard. Really hard. My mum too, though she handled it differently. By then I’d already moved out, but my younger siblings were still at home, and I watched them all try to pick up the pieces and start over. My dad eventually remarried, he’s been with his wife now for over 25 years, and they’re genuinely happy. My mum had a few relationships over the years, but I think she’s found more peace in solitude. I don’t think she ever really connected with anyone the same way again.

Looking back now, I can see how much they carried. How much they sacrificed. How much they tried, even when things were falling apart.

The Song

That’s what In Their Own Human Way is about.

It’s not about disillusionment. It’s not about being let down. It’s about that moment when the cape comes off and you realise your parents were never superheroes, they were just people who loved you enough to carry more than they could handle, and kept going anyway.

They didn’t need to fly. They didn’t need to be perfect.

They just needed to show up. And they did. Every single day.

If you’d like to hear the song, you can stream it on all platforms 

But if you really want to support independent music and get the highest quality version, you can download the MP3 directly from my website. When you buy directly, you’re supporting an independent artist—no middlemen, no algorithms, just music straight from me to you.

Turns out real heroes don’t need to save the day,
They just love you in their own human way.