by Brad McLees | May 3, 2026 | One Man's Truth
“Where I am, not where I planned” – by Andrew
This isn’t a part of my plan, it isn’t where I want to be.
I have had my fair share of up’s and downs in life.
I realised in my 40’s that something wasn’t right, a long term relationship had broken down. With the Police applying for an ADVO to protect me from my then ex, and significant dramas ensuing over the subsequent 2 years until everything was finalised.
I was free, I packed my stuff up, I left my home of 20+ years, my friends, and was going to head around Aus. I did for a bit, then Covid hit, I still travelled when I could, exploring lots of QLD, but WA and NT were out of bounds. As I explored, I made peace with many things and grew in confidence around my own ability to sort stuff out and deal with challenges. I felt grounded and at ease.
Then I met someone, I was curious and cautious… open to possibilities. I found myself signing a lease, which was unexpected, and moving in. That lasted two years… I learnt a lot about myself and about my tendency to rescue others. She and I had a lot of fun along the way, but in the end it wasn’t working. I chose to move out.
I left and drove to my parents place, 6 hours north… to clear my head and work out my next steps… Realising my glasses were tired and old, and I hadn’t completed an eye test for 18 months, I headed off on the Sunday to a mall. The optometrist completed the usual checks without issue, then offered me a new imaging scan, for $50… I took up the offer, and the scan was completed. She then asked me to sit outside for a bit…
When she called me in a few minutes later, she delivered the news… I had a growth in my right eye, she had contacted the eye clinic at a major Brisbane hospital whom confirmed that I needed further diagnosis and then likely urgent treatment. She then stated that it was likely cancerous, and that I was to attend the eye clinic asap. The referral letter included the details. Shocked I returned to my car, sat, cried, and centered myself a little before driving to my parents home. I will always remember the shock on their faces as I told them the news.
What followed was many months of stress, unknowns, fears, hope and sheer discomfort. My will was updated, I made my family know of my wishes. My work was informed, and I was on sick leave, and told not to worry about the leave balances. The diagnosis was completed, a treatment plan put in place, and the prognosis was pretty good. Partial or total loss of vision in the right eye, was likely. I was also told this is rare, 7-8 people per million are diagnosed and treated each year.
Post surgery I was told I needed to remain in the area for constant check ups and potential future treatment. Thus the part I really didn’t plan for… during recovery, I moved into my parents rental property, which I bought. This has had many unintended consequences, including impacting their pension (now corrected after 18 months of fighting with Services Australia), and me now being responsible for a mortgage which I really didn’t think though.
I had left a relationship, been diagnosed and treated for cancer, moved house, bought a house, and I was still struggling with Services Australia around my parents pension… I had lost partial vision in my right eye… My boss then quit work. Management chose not to address a key issue which was outstanding prior to my diagnosis. It simply didn’t feel it was safe for me to remain employed there, I didn’t have the capacity to defend myself anymore.
Some 12 months on from leaving work, I am sleeping better, and my health is gradually returning. I am moving more and dealing with the challenges which come up in daily life.
I find myself at a place which wasn’t part of my plan, it is simply where I am. I am slowly making peace with it all and moving forward, with assistance from a psychologist(inc. other professionals), my family and my MKP brothers.
Wandering Wombat
by Brad McLees | Feb 4, 2026 | One Man's Truth
“A story of alcoholism, recovery and gratitude” — By Spencer Smith (Wise Owl)
I took my first sip of alcohol around age 13. Growing up in England in the 1980’s, it was completely normal for my parents to give me and my older brother some wine & lemonade at Sunday lunch at my grandmother’s house. A seemingly innocent parental act, it made me feel like a grown up, sitting at the adult’s table. Those innocent sips, mirroring my parents, I was unknowingly wiring my brain to like the sweet taste and the warm feeling that alcohol gave me.
I officially kicked off my drinking career at 17 while still living at home in Perth. It was a neighbours birthday party and I remember being drunk for the first time and later vomiting that night in the bathroom. Mum was less than pleased with my inauguration into the world of alcohol, but Dad didn’t seem to care. It was almost like a rite of passage; a ‘welcome to adulthood ritual’ of getting drunk for the first time. I don’t think our male ancestors had this kind of ritual ceremony in mind as an initiation into manhood, but it is the modern day equivalent of sorts and one that most men experience.
I then went onto university which to me represented total freedom and I loved it. I studied chemical engineering and drinking was very much the culture. I used alcohol to fit in, make friends, form bonds and relationships. It was a socially accepted gateway to connection that I had never experienced before. My university years cemented alcohol into the neural pathways in my brain; it became hard wired and unbeknown to me, my future was sealed.
My relationship with alcohol spanned some 35 years. It was by my definition the single longest relationship I have ever had, far beyond any relationship with a friend, woman or dog. Alcohol became part of me, it was there to get me through low points and it was there to celebrate the highs. A constant companion, more loyal to me than any human relationship I had experienced.
In my 20’s, alcohol was my social drug of choice. I felt like I was in control and consuming it no different to anyone else. There was no dependency, it was just a gateway to fun.
In my 30’s, alcohol remained a social elixir. It gave me confidence and made me feel bulletproof, but my intake and frequency slowly increased. My relationship with alcohol was changing from social drug to a more dependent one. I was completely unaware my dependence on alcohol was growing and evolving.
In my 40’s I found myself as a small business owner, by myself to begin with, but then with business partners and managing a fast growing company with over 20 employees. With all the issues and dramas that come with that, alcohol became my stress coping mechanism. I was drinking more often by myself at home, not wanting to engage or connect with anyone.
And then came COVID!
COVID damaged my business irreparably, creating even more stress. I was still working part time as an engineer and forced to work from home. This was a licence to drink and work at the same time, no-one was watching and I was getting away with it. Opening a bottle of wine at 2pm became my norm, but it never stopped at the one bottle. In my late 40’s I was drinking on average every second day, but to black out. I was your typical functioning alcoholic but didn’t know it (or didn’t want to admit it). I had to accept the ultimate failure of my business and going back to engineering full time. I was full of self-pity, anger, resentment, frustration – but alcohol was there as my dependable friend, as always.
A lightbulb moment came when I happened to stumble on a TED talk on addiction in 2024 at the age of 51. The underlying message was “the opposite of addiction is not sobriety, the opposite of addiction is connection”. That message smacked me in the face like a freight train. I instantly realised I had sub-consciously created a life of isolation, where my only real companion was alcohol. Aside from my partner who I only saw twice a week, I had no meaningful connection or belonging in my life, and so alcohol filled the void perfectly.
Unresolved resentments & anger was fuelling my drinking. Underneath that was shadows of “I’m not good enough”, and “I’m a failure”. I was caught in a trap of self-pity, self-loathing, why me? I was having daily self-pity parties where I was the only one invited. My favourite quote – ‘Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life’ George Bernard Shaw. This was me, this was my life.
I had heard of the Mankind Project and the New Warrior Training Adventure (NWTA) from a men’s coach I was working with mid-2024. Knowing my problems with alcohol, he suggested that MKP might be good for me and I signed up to the November NWTA. Over the magical 48 hours that is the NWTA, I completely shifted my view on the world and it gave me the courage to face a part of myself that I didn’t want to face. Nine days later on the 10th December 2024 I walked into my first Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting admitting and accepting defeat. “Hi, my name is Spencer, and I’m an alcoholic”. The burden and shame I had been carrying instantly lifted and I felt safe, connected and supported for the first time in years.
Alcoholism is a progressive disease. Its grip on me was very subtle, cunning even. It infiltrated me at my very core and made its way into my life, innocently at first, but then it took hold, much like a virus does to its unsuspecting host.
To me, AA stands for Admit and Accept. Once I stepped into the AA doors and I admitted and accepted I had a problem, things began to change for the better. I realised I wasn’t alone, and that alcohol takes an indiscriminate grip on people from all walks of like. Between MKP and AA I had found my tribe and the connection and belonging I had been missing.
But there’s also a third ‘A’ – Asking for help. Asking my AA mentor to sponsor me and take me through the 12 steps was difficult because I didn’t feel worthy of receiving help. But alcohol had me beat, and I was exhausted of trying to fight it alone. The 12 steps, my sponsor, along with the work I do each week at my MKP circle has allowed me to resolve my resentments and forgive myself.
If it wasn’t for MKP and doing the NWTA last November I would likely still be drinking today, just existing, not living. Kept in the trap, a progressive merry-go-round of my own making, a cycle of internal suffering. It would have likely cost me my relationship, my health and/or my job.
Today, my sobriety is the most valuable asset that I own. It is a superpower which gives me freedom and the space to lead a life of love, connection and belonging.
I have let go of my selfishness and replaced it with selflessness.
I have let go of my resentments and replaced them with forgiveness.
I have let go of living in the past and I fully embrace the future.
10th December 2025 marks my 12 month ‘soberversary’. I write this story with pride, gratitude and vulnerability in the hope it helps just one more man with a similar affliction. To give that man hope that he is not broken, he is not alone, and that there is a solution.
by Brad McLees | Feb 1, 2026 | One Man's Truth
Brad’s Story – “What the bricks taught me”
This one is personal.
It’s a reflection on effort, purpose, and the seasons we move through as men. On the days we are just getting through. The days we are holding the line. And the rare moments we glimpse something bigger than ourselves.
Same bricks. Different meanings.
This is my truth.
“What the bricks taught me” By Brad McLees
Dear reader,
Grab a seat. Milk crate. Camp chair. The edge of the bed at 11.47pm when the house is finally quiet. Wherever you land when the day loosens its grip.
Let me tell you a story. A fable, really. One of those deceptively simple ones that keeps showing up because it refuses to be finished with you. It’s a story I love very much, one that I keep coming back to time and time again.
It goes like this:
A traveller comes across three men working at the same construction site.
Same quarry.
Same stone.
Same dust in the air.
Same sun pressing down on tired shoulders.
He asks the first man, “What are you doing?”
The man doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look up. His hands are raw. His back aches. He answers plainly, “I’m laying bricks.”
No romance. No story. Just task. Brick. Mortar. Brick. Again. Survival energy. Get through the day. Do not think too far ahead or you might stop altogether.
The traveller walks on.
He asks the second man the same question.
This man straightens a little. He gestures to what is slowly taking shape behind him. “I’m building a wall.”
Now there is context. A wall has purpose. It holds a line. It protects. It creates safety. Maybe it keeps danger out. Maybe it keeps something precious in. This man knows why the bricks matter, even if the work is still heavy.
Then the traveler comes to the third man.
This one pauses. He wipes his hands. He looks up. Not just at the traveller, but past him. Beyond him. Toward something not yet built.
“I’m building a cathedral.”
Same bricks. Same labour. But this man is holding a future in his mind. Light through stained glass. Voices gathered. Silence held. Meaning layered on meaning.
Now, here is where most versions of this story quietly lie to us.
They make it sound like the third man is better. Wiser. Spiritually upgraded. As if the goal of life is to graduate from bricklayer one to bricklayer three and never look back.
That has not been my experience. Not even close.
Because here is my truth.
I have been all three bricklayers. Repeatedly. Never in a straight line. Sometimes all in the same week. Occasionally all on the same day.
There were long seasons of my life where I was absolutely the first man. Just laying bricks. Marriage. Fatherhood. Work. Mental health. Divorce. I woke up, I did the next right thing, I put the brick down as cleanly as I could. No vision board. No cathedral talk. Just stay standing. The soundtrack of my life during these moments would be Ren’s song “It’s Alright” playing quietly in the background, not as a victory song, but as reassurance. A reminder that breathing counts as progress.
Those seasons mattered. Laying bricks is not failure. It is endurance. It is dignity. It is what keeps the structure from collapsing before anything meaningful can be built.
Then there were seasons where I became the second man. The wall builder.
These were the years I learnt boundaries. Of learning when to say no. Of protecting me. Of protecting my kids. Of being steady when things were shaky. Walls get a bad reputation, but some walls are acts of love. They are not about shutting the world out. They are about holding shape while everything else is in motion.
And then, sometimes unexpectedly, I caught glimpses of the cathedral.
Moments in men’s work. Moments in circle. Moments sitting across from another man who finally said the thing he had never said out loud. Moments where I realised the bricks I was lifting were not just for me. That they were part of something bigger. Something communal. Something that might outlast my own tired arms.
This is where organisations like the ManKind Project, The Men’s Table, Dads in Distress, and even helping bring Trackwell Australia into being began to make sense to me. Not as solutions. Not as fixes. But as shared construction sites. Places where men show up carrying bricks of grief, pride, shame, love, confusion, hope. And somehow, together, something meaningful takes shape.
Doing the work did not turn me into the third bricklayer permanently. That is not how this works.
What it did was give me language. Perspective. Permission.
Permission to be the bricklayer who is just getting through today.
Permission to be the wall builder who is holding firm.
Permission to occasionally lift my head and remember the cathedral.
Because here is the deeper truth of the Three Bricklayers story.
They are not three different men.
They are the same man.
On different days.
In different seasons.
Under different loads.
I can be laying bricks at 7am, building a wall by lunchtime, and catching sight of the cathedral late at night while listening to a song that reminds me, I am still human and still here. Sean Koch’s “Rockbottom Avenue” humming underneath it all, whispering that meaning does not disappear just because you found it at the bottom.
Purpose is not a promotion.
It is not a permanent state.
It is perspective.
And perspective changes depending on how heavy the brick feels that day.
So, if today you are only laying bricks, keep going.
If today you are building a wall, have pride, show gratitude, stand firm.
And if today you can see the cathedral, take a moment. Let it land. Let it nourish you.
Tomorrow may ask something different of you.
The bricks will still be there.
And so will you.
by Brad McLees | Jan 11, 2026 | One Man's Truth
“When silence becomes inherited” by Grant Neilson
Hi everyone,
I want to share something deeply personal. Not for sympathy. Not for attention. But because what I’ve lived through what I’ve learned the hardest possible way is happening silently in the lives of men and families everywhere. And if speaking my truth opens a doorway for even one man to step inward before it’s too late, then this is worth writing.
Where My Real Journey Began…
My healing didn’t start in a tipi.
It didn’t start at a retreat.
It didn’t start with men’s work.
It started the moment my marriage was about to fall apart.
For years, I lived behind carefully constructed emotional masks.
And what made it even more complicated was this:
All the jobs I chose, teaching, policing, even corrections, required emotional connection.
Connection with students.
Connection with victims.
Connection with offenders.
Connection with colleagues.
Connection with families.
And I did connect, or at least I played the part convincingly. I have always been VERY good at being the person I thought others wanted me to be. I lost my inner child and true self because the world had been cruel and I desperately looked for ways to protect myself.
I became an expert at appearing caring, steady, calm, compassionate, and present.
I adapted and became the chameleon… Academically successful…
People saw me as dependable. Strong.
A man who could support others, carry others, lead others, teach others.
But underneath, I wasn’t being authentic, because I didn’t actually know myself.
I actually doubted myself every day, I hated who I was, and felt unworthy of everyone around me. I hid behind academic success and stage performance.
I was performing connection, not living it.
I was expressing empathy, without being in touch with my own emotions.
I was holding space for others, without knowing how to hold space for myself.
It was easier to play a role than to confront who I really was.
Easier to operate from competence than vulnerability.
Easier to hide than to feel.
I was constantly exhausted and didn’t know why… the black dog and depression was a part of my life everyday… I thought everyone else had it right and I was abnormal and wrong…
But the truth is:
I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
I didn’t know how disconnected I was.
I didn’t know how numb I had become.
I didn’t know how much pain I was carrying.
I didn’t know how much of that pain was spilling into the relationships that mattered most.
My disconnection wasn’t malicious, it was unconscious.
But it was still damaging to me and everyone around me.
And Nicole, who had carried our marriage on her shoulders for years, finally reached her limit.
She sat me down and said the words I’ll never forget:
“Either you let the walls down… or our marriage is over.”
There was no threat.
No anger.
Just honesty.
Just a woman who had been trying to love a man who refused to let himself be fully seen.
That ultimatum forced me to confront the truth:
I didn’t know how to be emotionally available to the people I loved… because I had never learned how to be emotionally available to myself.
But the deepest breaking-open came later.
The Moment Everything Changed…
When my son, Izaac, suicided, my world didn’t just collapse, it was stripped bare. There was nowhere to run anymore… nowhere to hide…
Izaac didn’t really have a father… he didn’t have the deep male friendships or emotional tools young men need.
He didn’t know how to talk about the trauma he carried.
He felt alone.
He felt overwhelmed.
He felt unseen.
And I had to face the most painful truth of my life…
My trauma added to his and began the generational trauma cycle again…
My lifelong disconnection from myself had shaped his world and shaped how he learned to face his own pain.
He learned my patterns.
He inherited my silence.
He mirrored my internal storms.
And he struggled to navigate a world without the emotional grounding he desperately needed… and so did I…
I can never repair this relationship. He is gone.
This same pattern has affected my relationship with my daughter, Ebony.
Our relationship is still not in a good place.
There is still distance. Still hurt. Still mending required.
And I fully own the ways my disconnection contributed to that.
Both of these relationships continually reflected my own feelings of unworthiness back to me… and the feedback cycle was created…
This is not self-blame — this is accountability.
This is truth-telling.
This is what healing requires.
Hopefully this is a catalyst for other men to look within…
The Letter That Broke Me Open…
Two years after Izaac’s death, as part of my healing, I wrote a long letter to Izaac — a letter that tore me apart and stitched me back together. I wish I could read it to him… but he is no longer here… so a couple of months ago, I read it to a circle of 20+ men and the process broke me open again…
Here is a brief excerpt (The letter is too personal to share publicly and would have impacts on family members that I do not wish to traumatise with details)
________________________
“I’m really struggling today, mate. I miss you in a way I can’t express.
I wish I could have carried your pain, but my own wounds left no room for yours.
While I was busy drowning silently, you were left to face storms no boy should face alone.
The more I understand myself now, the more I see you clearly. Your chaos, your overwhelm, your heartbreak — they were reflections of wounds I never had the courage to confront.
And here is the truth that shattered me:
I felt, deep in my soul, that my disconnection from myself had killed you.
That belief crushed me. It forced me to face the reality that my emotional absence shaped your world.
I wish I had held you instead of trying to fix you.
I wish I had listened instead of instructing.
I wish I had known how to love myself so I could have loved you more fully.
You changed me, mate. More than you will ever know.”
________________________
Writing that letter was the first time I allowed myself to fully feel.
It was the first time I stopped running.
It was the first time I stood naked in my truth.
And it made me realise something heartbreaking:
This isn’t just my story.
It’s happening everywhere.
Men are drowning in silence.
Men are performing connection instead of living it.
Men are numbing themselves with work, alcohol, achievement, adrenaline, and pretending.
Men are passing on unspoken trauma to their children without knowing it.
Men are collapsing in isolation, sometimes quietly, sometimes violently, sometimes fatally.
The New Warrior Training Adventure (NWTA) — My Turning Point
In November 2024, I attended the NWTA with the ManKind Project Queensland at Koonjewarre (Springbrook).
It was the first place where I dropped the mask, not because I wanted to, but because I finally had to.
The NWTA is a 48-hour modern initiation for men, powerful, confronting, honest and deeply grounding.
It’s not therapy.
It’s not a retreat.
It’s not a workshop.
It is a catalyst, a container where men confront their shadows, their grief, their fear, their anger, their longing, their purpose, and their truth.
In November 2025, I returned to staff the NWTA, standing beside other men as they stepped into their own inward journeys. Serving them was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
My work continues every day… and I now have a brotherhood of men and a community of people willing to support me on this journey as I serve and support them.
Men’s Circles — Where the Real Work Happens
After the NWTA, men join weekly circles where we speak openly, listen deeply, hold each other accountable, and keep doing the inner work.
For me, these circles became the scaffolding for rebuilding my life.
These men who sit in circle with me are becoming a brotherhood I never knew could exist… and I am welcome… and I belong.
Why I’m Sharing This…
Because men everywhere are silently drowning.
Because boys grow into men who never learn how to feel.
Because families fracture under unspoken trauma.
Because my son didn’t know how to speak his pain and neither did I.
Because my daughter still carries the marks of a father who wasn’t emotionally present.
Because I don’t want any more men to face what I faced.
Because I don’t want any more families to endure what mine endured.
If any part of my story resonates…
If you see yourself in these words…
If you know a man who might be struggling quietly behind a well-crafted mask…
Please consider the NWTA.
Or share this message with someone who might need it.
You do not have to be broken.
You do not have to wait until your marriage collapses.
You do not have to wait until your children pull away.
You do not have to wait until grief forces you into awakening.
You only need one thing:
The willingness to take an honest step inward.
If you want to talk privately about men’s work, the NWTA, or your own journey, I’m here.
Fully.
Openly.
Without judgement.
With deep love, truth, and respect,
Grant
by Brad McLees | Jan 4, 2026 | One Man's Truth
Black sheep to band of Brothers By Peter Rowles
In a city far from where I grew up, juggling kids, a mortgage, a failing relationship and working various construction and FIFO gigs. I found myself struggling to keep my head above water. I was burnt-out, alone, and in desperate need to turn things around. I had some good mates from the military to pull me through, but I needed direction and support.
I was blind to the fact that for years, I’d been carrying around a heavy weight, built up from repressed emotions that lingered from childhood, which at times could be fairly tumultuous with extreme highs and lows. Looking back, it wasn’t my upbringing or my environment that caused the problem. I was raised in a loving, supportive household by two hardworking, resolute parents. The issue, or what I thought it was – was the label I carried, the story I told myself, I didn’t fit the mould, I was the problem child, the black sheep, and I needed answers.
Twenty-something years on and many cycles of on-and-off self-medicating, addictions, distractions and blaming things outside of my control. I found myself in dire need of validation and looking for answers to the forever revolving question: “What was wrong with me?” I had done everything I thought I was supposed to do – go to work, pay my taxes, be a good dad and partner, but something was missing.
After several years sitting in circles with like-minded men – men who were also looking for answers and wanting to step up as husbands, fathers, brothers, and community members. I eventually discovered what had been buried: raw emotions, shame stemming from judgments on myself and from others, false beliefs and stories I told myself (“I’m not good enough”), along with a host of insecurities suppressed since boyhood.
What I began to understand, by going deeper and allowing myself to be vulnerable, I found a way to bridge the gap between the repressed parts of my psyche that I had hid, suppressed and denied – the place where the magic lies.
As I stumble into the second half of life there will be pitfalls and hardships, albeit, when I do, I will be supported, without judgement by a band of brothers that stretches far and wide.
Freedom and Release.
Flying Gecko 🦎 AHO
