ever have.
Finding clarity amid grief
In the days and weeks that followed, I had time to contemplate the full gravity of Dad's death. One of the reasons for the outpouring of grief stemmed from the sort of person he was. He was a connector, a social conduit who brought together so many different individuals and groups. Dad was the catalyst for countless friendships up and down the east coast of Australia. He had a unique ability to stay in touch with people and took a keen interest in what was going on in their lives. He was passionate, positive and optimistic — the kind of person people gravitate towards.
At the time of his death, plans for his sixtieth birthday party were all but complete. There had been spirited arguments between him and my sisters about the swelling of the guest list. Dad's counter argument was as consistent as it was predictable.
‘But I like them and want to share a beer with them. So, they have to be on the list,’ he would say.
Grief is different for everyone and it doesn't discriminate. I'm also not convinced it ever goes away. Initially, it is overwhelming and consumes your thoughts. You wake up in the morning in pain and you go to bed at night in a similar state. During those darkest early days, I was very fortunate to have the support of two close friends — Dayne and Ethan — both of whom had lost their fathers and experienced what I was now going through. Dayne in particular gave me some very helpful advice.
‘The only person who truly knows what you're feeling right now is you,’ he told me. ‘You'll get through it, and trust me, it does get easier with time. You just need to take it one day at a time.’
He also reassured me it was okay to feel sad.
‘Don't feel ashamed, embarrassed or guilty that you feel sad. Tell people how you're feeling,’ he insisted.
It was this last piece of advice that I found to be most helpful — a reminder of the importance of looking after yourself, even to the point of being a bit selfish. The thinking stemmed from the high number of people affected by Dad's death. If I didn't care for myself first, there was no way I could assist others, emotionally or physically.
‘Don't be afraid to say no,’ Dayne said. ‘At least for a while, act in your own best interests.’
Both Dayne and Ethan sought to save me more pain by reassuring me of the wisdom in sharing your emotions. Traditionally, that's hardly a male strong suit. Often, blokes don't feel comfortable talking about their feelings or opening up about their vulnerabilities, but to do so can be very therapeutic. Dayne was also courageous enough to share with me a cautionary tale of a path that leads to a dead end.
‘You might be tempted by short-term fixes: drugs, alcohol, gambling, that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘Don't go there. It takes away the pain temporarily, but it only makes it harder once that initial relief fades.’
Dayne went into the details of his own experience — and that's his story to tell — but I'm eternally thankful that he was brave and generous enough to share his experience with me.
There's a lot of irony here. We are reluctant to show or share our vulnerabilities. We are instead tempted by short-term fixes to mask our discomfort and insecurities.
It slowly dawned on me that Dayne's experience echoed my dad's. For nearly 30 years, Dad had been reliant on taking two prescription-grade sleeping tablets nightly. That our medical system makes it possible to feed such dependency for three decades blows my mind. I shudder to think how many people are on a similar treadmill. However, that's a discussion for another day.
The harsh truth remains that Dad's biggest anxiety and major source of sleep deprivation emanated from the state of his personal finances. He created his own burden because he measured his self-worth entirely according to his financial station in life. It was a yardstick that would be forever elusive. Occasionally he managed to gain financial control, but it was something he just couldn't hold onto. Then, to compound matters, whenever he was financially down, he was always too proud to share his challenges with others. It was the ultimate catch-22.
Yet, when I think of all the glowing tributes and wonderful stories of his kindness and generosity that were shared at his funeral I realise there wasn't a single mention of how much money he had made or lost. That's not how our lives are judged. It's the impact we have and the contributions we make that provide an infinitely more accurate measure of a person.
While writing Dad's eulogy, with tears streaming down my face, my sense of purpose and mission became clear. I didn't want others to suffer the way Dad had for so long. If you gain and keep control of your finances, you'll eliminate one of life's principal sources of stress and anxiety. And that's my motivation for writing this book. You don't have to aspire to be wealthy. You just have to understand and appreciate the benefits of financial freedom.
CHAPTER 2 Lessons in life and money
I was born in Tweed Heads, New South Wales, in 1990. I have two younger sisters, Simone and Bridget, who arrived in 1992 and 1995, respectively. My dad — David — grew up in Victoria but moved to Queensland in his role as an area manager for the Target department stores. It was in Queensland that he met my mother, Leanne. They married in 1987.
After a short stint living in Brisbane, Dad was relocated with Target to Tweed Heads. Mum and Dad used some of the profit from the sale of their house in Brisbane (they doubled their money in three years) to buy a four-bedroom home at Carrara on the Gold Coast — perfect timing, given the impending arrival of children. Soon after, they invested the balance of the money in a sports store franchise called Sportsco, with Dad deciding it was time to leave corporate life to create a family business.
The Gold Coast was a wonderful place for kids to grow up and, for many years, the Fitzgerald household was as happy as any family on the eastern seaboard of Australia. Pretty quickly, thanks to their hard work, Mum and Dad were able to invest in a bigger house with a spacious back yard and a swimming pool: nirvana for three active kids.
In my childhood years, I remember regularly visiting my uncle John's house. While my family enjoyed a comfortable, middle-class existence, Dad's brother's house was like Disneyland! It had everything: a pool, tennis court, gym, sauna, games room, lap pool, granny flat and a guest room twice the size of the biggest room in our house. The house alone covered 1000m2, almost four times the size of our home at Carrara, and was set on a magnificent north-facing waterfront block big enough to accommodate a hotel. However, that didn't mean much to me when I was young — at that time it was just a wonderful place to run around in and explore.
Growing up on the Gold Coast and making the most of the outdoor lifestyle, I quickly developed an insatiable appetite for sport. Before, during and after school, I could usually be found kicking a ball of some description around the oval. When I was still very young, I used to dream of becoming a professional footballer. My dad was a huge St Kilda supporter and, during the winter months, we would watch the weekend games together on TV. Pretty quickly I shared his passion.
I also become an accomplished cross-country runner, more on the strength of the volume of kilometres I ran than any innate ability. My high school, Somerset College, didn't offer AFL so in winter I would play rugby union for the school on Fridays, then AFL football for my local club on Saturdays, occasionally doubling up by filling in for the age group above me. There was no such thing as too much sport!
It was almost impossible to play that much sport without being competitive, yet I was never the kind of person to
