What my dad's tears taught me about my writing career

Saying goodbye to my father – over and over again – has been the central theme in my life. And it kickstarted my writing career, if I’m going to be perfectly honest.

I am who I am today because my father decided to end his life when I was eight years old.

He survived the jump off a freeway bridge – landing on unforgiving bitumen, inches from incoming traffic that swerved in shock.

A miracle he’s still with us, given the circumstances. I write about this tragedy and its after-effects in my memoir short story, ‘Truth or Dare’, published in Anthologia! By The Kind Press.

An hour and a half earlier, with tears in his eyes, he said goodbye to me and my mother before ‘heading for a walk’ which he never came back from. A phone call at the dinner table revealed the truth: someone had called an ambulance, he was now in hospital, being put back together, a raggedy Humpty Dumpty who was predicted to never walk again.

Only he did.

‘Back when it happened, you knew more than they thought you knew. Whispers, shadows and hurt spread like dishevelled newspapers in every corner of the shuddering old Italian house. Hospital visits, bright dark halls. Murmurs. Crying down the ward. Your big brother, so big he wore a suit and tie, asking your father – who lay stirruped and silent in the bed – But Why, Why – standing by the window, fists and jaw clenched, your father turned away. You held your dad’s big brown hands, but when you looked closely you could see papery skin and purplish veins pulsing with morphine and psych meds. His eyes, oozing and wrinkled as his worn-out heart as he smiled his sorries at you. You closed your eyes tightly and delivered him your life-giving magic. And you always brought him back to life.

But always, always, there was a little shirt-pulling. A little voice. Perhaps it was that devil on one shoulder that all adults know, but no kid should meet. ‘But why did he choose to leave you behind?’ You held your dad’s hand as he began to walk again. You convinced yourself that it was your magic. The voice told you otherwise.’

Let’s make it clear: it wasn’t his fault – or anyone else’s

As someone struggling for too long with the darkest of darknesses, my father knew exactly what he was going to do that night. It wasn’t rational – it was a brain disease playing tricks on him.

What he’s suffered from since he was a teenager is chronic major depression – not the commonplace, often circumstantial mild depression that can be healed effectively with psychotherapy, lifestyle changes and/or light meds.

My father’s life has been overall good, blessed – but he has a severe chemical imbalance, paired with neurotransmitters that don’t work properly, if at all. Those sensors that are meant to register happy chemicals: serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine – just don’t do their job.

Without the right medication at the right dose – at the crucial upswing of the disease – it’s literally life or death for him. Thinking becomes unclear, life seems dreadful, and intense confusion sets in. Yet on the right treatment, my dad is simply wonderful, positive, driven and smart. He’s also a fantastic dancer.

Mental illness is the antagonist in the story that has haunted my life. We all have ‘a defining story’ – and for me, it’s been so therapeutic to write about it, and release it to the world. I first wrote this story back in 2018, alone in a pub of all places. The words poured out of me after two vodka sodas. Not the most spiritual of creative beginnings – but a spiritual wave of writing happened, nonetheless. It’s since been my mission to learn how to write with the same level of bravery without the toxic crutch.

The level of vulnerability and honesty required for this kind of writing is not easy. What made it possible to write this story – apart from the vodka – is that I had a creative non-fiction writing project due in my master’s degree (there’s nothing quite like a deadline, hey?). Committed to getting the best marks in a university full of excellent writers, I knew I needed an interesting story to make it work, and I needed a unique angle. And so my dad’s story – and its link to my failed lovelife – fell out of me. In second person point of view. An unusual way to write, yet it’s what spirit wanted of me.

The fact is, I had been learning so many techniques during my degree that it didn’t actually take much for the words to come once they were ready. I was armed. I had knowledge. I had more than just a basic understanding of how impactful writing works. And it was this combination of structure and spiritual flow which, I believe, started my writing career.

My lecturers loved the story, and encouraged me to expand it into my novel.

But I kept asking my lecturers, ‘But how do I get a deeply personal story like this published? Won’t it hurt my family?’

Their response: ‘All you can do is write. You might be surprised what will happen when the time comes to release the story to the world.’ I had to believe them. These lecturers had also published a number of books involving their lives and loved ones.

And so, six years later, I felt ready. I found this story a home that felt right and safe.

I had to change a few things. I had to edit out a couple of identifiable people who might have sued, which removed some of the best lines and logic – and yeah, I’m disappointed with how these small changes disrupted the overall product. I also kept some of the good lines for my novel.

But I got it published. I got it published! I had already published many pieces by now as I had worked as a magazine writer and editor. But this – this scary little experimental ditty was the most important one that I never thought I would or could get published. When I finally asked my mum for her blessing, she told me it was deeply healing to read it, and to take the opportunity with both hands. Through this chance submission to The Kind Press, a few other doors opened up for me, too.

What I learned through my dad’s story:

1. Writing – and life – is a combination of structure & spirit

2. Hurdles & heartbreak can lead to miracles & milestones

3. Writing is healing – not just for me, but also for others

4. Not everything has to be done the ‘right way’

5. One short story is just the start (many books started as a short story)

6. Anything is possible – so long as you believe it is.

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Back to my dad. He’s still alive – he hobbled his way back to health, despite being predicted as paralysed. And ever since, he’s been so sorry – through his actions, through his eyes, through his fight to stay alive. At the end of my short story you will get to hear how I spoke to my dad about the incident – as an adult – and broke the cycle of our family mental health story.

And now… fresh tears

Now my father is struggling in a new way. Pain. Aging. He can see the natural end of life, because life has become so uncomfortable for him physically.

And so, on my last visit, he fell into my arms and howled like a man possessed – the prospect of saying the last goodbye. Tears fell violently, as he repeated again and again, ‘I’m so sorry for everything, Bella’. He kept touching my cheeks as if it was the last time. There were a million things being said in circles in that moment – but what I really heard was:

‘I love you, and I’m so sorry for what I did. I’m not sure I’m going to see you again, but I’ll be watching over you forever…’

See, just like me, my dad needed to be ready to fully express his emotions, the ones that had been brewing in him and suppressing his real self for so many years. What he needed was the comfort of structure – my arms, my spirit – to hold him in order to express what he’s so needed to express since he was a young man.

Just how I needed the comfort of structure to write what I wanted to write.

Because it’s in that stable container of structure – like the sturdy banks of a river bed – that we can feel supported and safe to soften, emote, and be free to flow like the rivers of life.

Despite tragedy, I am eternally grateful that things happened in my life exactly the way they did. It all made me who I am. I discovered the importance of expression. And I got to grow up with a loving, sensitive dad who survived.

And so, the other week as he bawled in my arms, I told him: ‘You have been the best dad. You have taught me so much. I am who I am today because of you. Thank you, and I love you.’

But… he didn’t say ‘I love you’ back. Like I said in my published story, he never has… but that’s OK. I know he does. Spirit knows more than we realise.

More importantly, I’ve done the therapy, the work, the healing. He’s been through enough. I don’t need his words to heal me. It’s my dharma in life to say the words – not his.

If you’ve been struggling with a secret story, don’t be afraid to write it down. Don’t be afraid of the consequences. Because miracles can happen when you channel your creative spirit.

Free this Sunday? You are most welcome to join my monthly writing circle if you’d like to get a feel for what I do with my clients. And if you’re ready to combine spirit with the structure of writing, then join my 8 week writing workshop – a journey you will never forget. (I only teach this course once a year, so you might like to join the self-paced course, opt for 1–1 mentoring, or join the waitlist for 2026).

Lots of love and looking forward to connecting with you in 2025, dearest HeartWriter!

Rose x

PS. Heard about my Writing Retreat in Bali in July? It’s been popular… and there’s only one ticket left!