2025, the year that was, and wasn’t

2025 has probably been the hardest of my life. it’s been a year of grandiose loss and significant change. a year that still breaks me upon reflection.

it started at the end of 2024. for reasons that go beyond what i wish to share online, i was conflicted about playing one more year at a club i had ingrained myself into for the past 6 seasons. a routine surgery to clean out my knee and trim my meniscus turned into a stern warning about the severity of my arthritis – a warning i was not comfortable gambling upon and would later discover, i couldn’t even if i wanted to. just as i felt lost and torn, an incredible opportunity arose – to be the men’s senior assistant coach at one of the most successful npl clubs in SA. so my decision had been made – i chose to end my career on the highest of highs. player of the match in a back-to-back grand final win. a decision that wasn’t easy to make, but one in which i was at peace with. and so began the start of my losses for the year.

saying goodbye to playing was hard, but i accepted it because i physically wasn’t able to continue. post-surgery complications meant i was unable to run even six months after surgery. it wasn’t until i sought another, non-invasive treatment that i would begin to have any alleviation from the constant pain i was experiencing. what i wasn’t prepared for though, was saying goodbye to my community. saying goodbye to my friends. saying goodbye to my teammates. all of which were not on my terms. my decision to retire, a decision i was forced to make, resulted in me feeling like i was blacklisted from a club i spent six years pouring my heart and soul into. six years building relationships, environments, and a community that valued humanness and connection. something that was taken the minute i chose to retire.

fortunately though, i was able to thrust myself into a new environment. one in which required all of my passion, attention, and professionalism. i was valued for what i had to offer. i was valued for who i was. and i didn’t have to fight for any of it – it was a given. this occurred concurrently with another club that i asked to run some academy sessions for. from one simple question, came an array of coaching opportunities. opportunities that allowed me to influence young girls whilst honing my skills as a coach. these, were the start of my big wins.

fast forward a few months and the first loss occurs. my parent’s cat, Millie, who i brought into the family home in late 2011, finally succumbed to her health battles. losing a pet is like losing a part of yourself. it never gets easier, only harder, with the attachments we form and the joy they bring.

in May, the loss of one of our dearest friends, Jude. we had only crossed paths a year earlier, but we had shared some of our fondest memories with her – Danny and Bec’s wedding, New Year’s, and many, many football games. she was a constant at Metro. she was the team’s biggest fan. she was her son’s biggest fan. she was our biggest fan. she loved ‘her girls’. when we met her, we didn’t know how sick she was. we didn’t know she had cancer. i remember getting the call at work and immediately breaking. she was 61. she had so many years, so many stories left to live. getting through training that night seemed improbable. how could i possibly hold myself together for these boys when everything at the club served as a reminder of her? of the times we had together?

just over a month later and the doctors at my Oma’s aged care facility suggested we start the end of life care for her. Oma had been living with dementia for years – unable to recognise much of anything and limited only to her ‘princess chair’. only a few weeks after seeing her other grandkids and daughter, something she was miraculously awake for, she stopped eating and stopped drinking. the next week was torturous. i’ve never seen a dead person before. and admittedly it’s not an experience i would wish upon anyone. my Mum and i stayed with her on the Tuesday night, knowing that her breathing was becoming even more exasperated. and at 7:01am on June 11^th, she took her final breath. the only solace is she wasn’t alone – my Mum and i were both there, holding her hands.

no matter how sick someone is, or how inevitable their ultimate demise, nothing prepares you for the finality that death brings. the huge, gaping loss that person’s existence leaves within you. Oma was my best friend. she was the person i was closest to growing up. i’ve written previously about how i always felt like a third (fifth?) wheel growing up – my brothers had each other, my parents had each other, and then there was me. but i wasn’t always alone – because quite often i had my Oma. i had someone who understood me. who valued me. who loved me. and losing her (physically), has meant losing the comfort she brought. losing one of the best parts of me.

that night, after hardly sleeping, and witnessing the passing of my Oma, i still showed up to football. it was our cup semi final game against Comets. i don’t remember much from the game, i just remember fighting back tears the entire time. trying to be happy for the boys whilst my entire internal world had been shattered.

the role of a coach is vastly different than the role of a player. a player has the support of their peers, the coaches, the club, whereas coaches only have the support of other coaches. and even then, quite often we don’t know what’s going on in their lives. no matter what was thrown at us coaches during the year, there was an expectation that we overcome and show up to get the job done. the extent of individual tragedy that we all experienced as coaches, to be honest, is a miracle that we were all able to achieve what we did.

whilst still very much grieving the loss of my Oma, the demands for the football season ramped up with multiple mid-week games and interstate travel. the grief was put on hold. well, not on hold. but it was compartmentalised. it was expressed only in the moments of solitude – on my drive out to football. in bed before i fell asleep. i couldn’t afford to break down – i had too much work to do.

shortly after this, my partner’s Grandad passes away. he too had suffered from dementia for many years. my partner and her family all flew back to be there for family and the funeral. i was left to hold down the fort at the café – working 16 days in a row and preparing for some of the biggest games in our season. on top of all of this, some significant family turmoil boiled behind the scenes. sleep was sacrificed to ensure the safety of one of our own. my days consisted of only one thing: survival. get through the day. for months, this was all i could salvage. a survival mindset.

the ending of the season didn’t leave any time for a break as we qualified for the inaugural Australian championship. an incredible achievement on top of some already incredible achievements throughout the year – third year in a row winning the league, federation cup winners, quarter-finalists in the Australia cup, and then finishing the season quarter-finalists in the Australian Championships. a season that started in November 2024 and ended in late November 2025. a whirlwind of a year.

the year that was didn't end there though. upon returning from one of our interstate trips i was greeted by the news that my Dad had just suffered a significant medical episode. news that simultaneously terrified me and broke me. neither of which i could afford to feel.

so where to from here? in simplest terms, i need a break. 2025 brought much loss, much of which i am not sure i have fully had time to process but one in which i have sought a psychologist to help me process. i have learnt so much from my year working at metrostars and have loved every minute – it’s been the change i needed in my life. so many people have commented on how much happier i was talking about football than when i was a player, and i suspect a lot of that is due to the high performance environment Danny has created. it’s an environment that better matched my personality, values, and abilities. i owe so much to Danny and his belief in me as a coach.

in the interim, until i figure out what i want to do, i plan to spend time with family. to travel. to be free. to experience things i have never been able to because i’ve always been committed to a team. always put football first. i plan to explore – different opportunities, different paths, different people. see what sticks and what doesn’t. football will always be there, but right now, i need to give myself a degree of separation. to grieve, to mourn, and to heal from everything that 2025 was.

rust in vrede Oma

today is not a good day. yesterday wasn’t either. i think that’s what happens when you’re finally left to sit with your sadness – there’s no escape. no distractions. there’s nothing but you and your feelings. it’s been two months since my Oma passed away and instead of it getting easier, it’s getting harder. harder because the reality of never seeing her again is sinking in. harder because the reality of never talking to her again is sinking in. harder because i’m not only grieving the loss of her, but i’m grieving who i was when i was around her; the person she made me feel i was and could be.

i’ve wanted to write about her passing for a while now but i didn’t know what to say. so instead, i’ll attach the speech i gave at her celebration of life on the 29^th of June.

Oma,

How fortunate to have had a grandparent you never dreaded seeing, but always looked forward to seeing. That’s how I felt with you. You living around the corner was the best thing for us growing up because we got to see so much of you. I know Mum appreciated the spontaneous visits (and cleans!) as did I…even though it would quite often be accompanied with a phone call… “Oma…where’s my soccer shorts?!”

I always looked forward to Friday nights – chicken soup, omelette, a glass of milk and some chocolate followed by a sleepover where I always found myself rolling into you because of the small weight difference.

You were always heavily involved in my life – helping out at school and coming for craft days with Mum or even ironing every piece of clothing that was washed, yes even undies. You really did take care of us didn’t you?

You loved your routines. Cards in Glenelg. Hair cut at Clipjoint in the city. Catching buses everywhere. Who needed Google Maps when there was you?

I loved how easily you ‘moved’ mentally when things were explained logically. You never seemed too concerned with gossip and didn’t take anything too seriously.

When I lived in the US, it was you who I missed the most. We used to have the ‘you hang up’ ‘no you hang up’ kind of love. Every time I came home to visit, I wanted to spend most of my time with you. Taking you out for lunch, going for beach walks – Wednesdays became our day. I loved talking to you and I think you enjoyed talking with me because it was always about things of substance, never about nonsense. I asked difficult questions. You answered. I wanted to get to know you, and you me. And get to know each other we did. You became my best friend Oma. My person. You’re the first person who I felt really got ‘me’. That’s why I always wanted to sit next to you at family dinners – we could talk about things that mattered or we could laugh at the ridiculousness of each other. You were my pal. My comfort. My safe space. You brought out the best in me, as childish as it would be at times, but I was happiest when I was with you. 

You were adored by everyone. Neighbours, loved ones, and strangers alike. You had a warmth and a smile that instantly made people feel at ease. I think that was my favourite quality about you – your total acceptance and absence of judgement. You loved people as they are. As you loved me for me. Every weird, quirky, stinky facet. How lucky I was to be loved by you.

The one thing that always stood out to me though was your unwavering strength. You survived World War II, immigrated to a foreign country whilst leaving your lover behind, suffered devastation and heartbreak in more ways than one, yet you could never tell that’s what you’d been through. Your scars were hidden. Instead of bitterness and pain, you had forgiveness and openness. You accepted Opa back into your life when you had no reason to. But that was how you loved – unconditionally and selflessly.

We had so many great memories. I used to love the way you would dance to my music. Or we would dance together. I loved the way you would say ‘I’ve never tried this before’ even though you most certainly had. But I think that was your secret. You got excited over the boring. The mundane. The everyday things. You saw them with the novel excitement of a child and I loved that about you.

Covid hit and that was so hard for you – a once always sociable and integrated person, you suddenly became isolated and I think that is when your demise really started to hasten. Falls became frequent. Pyjamas your daily outfit. Your new home became Rembrandt where the beautiful Sanju became your adopted granddaughter. How thankful we are for her.

I’m so glad I had the time with you that I did – we had fun. Even though you didn’t like how fast I would drive. You were my favourite part of my childhood and even adulthood. I got to experience some very special time with you. And you? 90 wonderful years on this Earth.

I love you. We love you. Rest easy Oma. Everyone’s Oma.”

as the initial shock of her passing wears off, what’s left is the gaping hole she’s left in our lives. i’ve always been petrified of death, and i still am. i’m terrified by the finality of it. by the reality that there’s nothing else once we pass. but if there is at all a chance we might reunite with those who have passed, then perhaps dying wouldn’t be so bad. to be with my Oma again, to go for one of our walks, to have one of our chats, those are the moments i miss, cherish, and long to experience again.

grief is hard. and yes, it is a universal experience; we all go through it. but the commonality of it doesn’t take away from the difficulty of it. and this year has certainly been rife with it. first the passing of one of my parent’s cats – Millie, a beautiful old soul of a cat, then the passing of our dear friend Jude – someone we only met within the past 12 months but had an impact of a lifetime. shortly after, my Oma’s end of life care was initiated, and more recently, my partner’s granddad passed away. i know grief isn’t linear, and i also know it isn’t practical to grieve 24/7. instead, it appears in moments of solitude, either at home or in the car, or in moments of remembrance wherever that might be.

i know there’s no ‘fix’ for grief; there’s no before and no after, there’s just the during. and during that process you’ll have good days, and you’ll have bad days. and at the moment, i’m having a few bad days. i miss her. i miss everything that she was. i miss her smile. her laugh. her warmth. her comfort. she was my person. although we can never bring back those who have passed, they can live on in our lives. i suppose that is why i feel so committed to visiting Holland – to see where she lived and grew up. to experience the Dutch culture. it’s also why i’m learning Dutch at the moment too – although i realise it’s perhaps a few years too late.

i never wanted to experience a world without my Oma in it. which is how i feel about my parents too. i know these things are only inevitable, but it doesn’t make the inevitable any easier to accept. i suppose the only thing that can come of this inevitability is the desire to appreciate the present; to always say ‘yes’ to experiences involving those dearest to you. to live not as though you will die tomorrow, but as though those closest to you will. because for many of us, that’s a reality we will have to face at one or more points in our lives.

so here’s to living for those now - to live without regret of wanting more time with them or having had done more with them. i often think my obsession with death and obsession with my own mortality isn’t healthy, but in some ways it allows me to live with perspective. to live with an acute awareness of our finiteness. to live with an urgency to make the most of those around me whilst i still can. to in essence, live.

grief's silent struggle

do your feelings ever just hit you all at once? i suppose when you’re constantly surrounded by people, you suppress your feelings. not out of fear of being vulnerable or authentic, but because sometimes it’s not functional to be constantly so emotional.

that’s how it’s felt this past month. we lost someone close to us earlier in the month and naturally with loss comes grief. but grief is a bit fucked up. it’s never linear in its process. and 99% of the time we just continue with our lives as though nothing has really changed. and externally, it hasn’t. but internally there’s a loss there that only few of us are feeling. it’s like a silent battle. and the times where it hits us the most might be times where it’s not really appropriate to break down. maybe you’re serving a customer. maybe you’re mid-session coaching a team of men or junior girls. maybe you’re just going for a walk in public. regardless of the occasion, we often suppress these moments until a suitable time when we’re alone. and then it comes out like a tsunami of emotion.

i suppose that’s where i am now. sitting alone in my car, feeling all the things i’ve tried tried to ignore. things often too hard to articulate. or too hard for others to support. so instead of sharing, you keep to yourself. conscious of being a burden or a black cloud to others in your life. there’s only so long that people want to hear the same story, instead we often tell a narrative that ignores the heaviness or the pain out of consideration for others. but all that does is a disservice to ourselves. because that pain remains.

the thing with losing someone is that it makes you think about all the people, and pets (if you have them), who are still near and dear. it makes you imagine a life without them. for those of you who have read other blog posts of mine, you’ll remember how petrified of death i am. how incomprehensible i find it. so to be forced to confront the reality of a life without those dearest to me is a heaviness i often silently carry on a daily basis. it’s not really a dinner conversation now is it?

what’s been compounding these feelings is also the fact that i’m constantly in pain. six and a half months post surgery and i still can’t run, train, or exercise to any capacity that’s fulfilling. i’ve experienced long term injuries before - acls force you to do that, but this has been different. i haven’t had the progression. all i’ve had is pain. i wake up each morning still unable to bend my knee without pain. i try to demonstrate drills in my academies only to be acutely reminded of the pain in my knee.

sometimes i think i’m just weak and i need to toughen up. if i ignore it, it’ll disappear, right? but that doesn’t work with our feelings so in what world would that work for pain?

for the first few months, i could accept the pain. i had had surgery and the arthritis was really bad. my body needed time to heal. no worries. this also aided in me accepting my retirement and transitioning into coaching - i had made the right decision. but we’re now nearly seven months on and i’m still in agony. i still can’t coach freely. i still can’t get any form of endorphin release. i’ve lost my primary identity - as a footballer, and i’ve substituted it for another one - a football coach. but what i haven’t been able to substitute is the chemicals associated with playing. the endorphins. the oxytocin. the serotonin. instead these happy, good-feeling chemicals, have been substituted for pain. and to be honest, i’m getting a bit over it.

the problem with chronic pain though is no one else can experience it. no one is fighting the daily battle with you. you’re alone. much like your experience of grief. and i suppose that’s where i find myself with these feelings. externally, everything is peachy. but internally there’s a heaviness i’ve been carrying in which i’m not sure how to alleviate. i suppose writing about it is my attempt at offloading some of that.

here's what i wrote shortly after our friend passed away:

grief is a bit fucked up. it hits you immediately but then it wavers. surging at random times without warning. the tragic thing about death is that life goes on. it goes on even though it feels like the world should stop. stop to mourn the passing of someone so important to you. but that’s the thing; death doesn’t affect everyone equally. it affects those nearest and dearest the most. and even then, the pain isn’t equally shared. for most, the passing of someone will just mean they won’t see them once a month anymore, for others, they’ve lost their ‘person’. their outlet. their rock.

how is someone so alive one minute, and then gone the next. i find death incomprehensible. it doesn’t ever feel real. it always feels like you’ll see that person again. but i think that’s because the pain of accepting a reality in which they’re not a part of is too hard to bear.

even when you know it’s coming, you trick yourself into thinking there’s more time. there’ll be more memories. even as the person deteriorates in front of you, we don’t want to accept reality. we don’t want to prepare for the inevitable. it’s a lot less painful to ignore. it’s a lot more challenging to confront. but we always regret the words left unsaid, rarely the words we shared. i suppose that is why i feel so passionately about hand written notes. of expressing gratitude to those, here and now, while they can still hear your words.

we lost someone dear to us this week. someone who only entered our lives in the past year but who made a lifelong impact. Jude’s zest for life was contagious. her passion for football shared. and her knack for storytelling endearing. what a beautiful, loving, and warm person she was. we feel so grateful for the memories we did have, for the time we spent together, for seeing in this new year with her. it still feels so unreal that she is no longer with us. Jude wasn’t just a champion for the teams she supported, she was a champion for the people she supported too. we will miss you and the life you brought to our lives. losing you feels like losing a family member - because that’s what you’ve always felt like for us. i only wish, as i’m sure we all do, that we had more time with you.

i’m not sure what to make of an after life, but i really do hope we get to meet again. in the meantime, i hope you get to meet my Opa and your football brains can keep each other company. until next time x

*this really isn’t meant as a ‘woe is me, life is so hard’ post because life really isn’t bad. i know that. these are just human experiences i know others have experienced, and are experiencing, but perhaps also don’t articulate. grief and pain aren’t permanent. but they do feel pretty shit at the time.