Content note: this chapter discusses suicidal thoughts.

Sometimes the most meaningful things arrive when they are needed most.

On my birthday, on my way to work, I stopped at a shop called The Living Jungle in Ramsgate. At the time I was working long days in a Sydney CBD office shared with two trading experts who did nothing but talk, breathe and think in numbers + Cyce which was awesome because i'm also into numbers, being that my primary office was nested inside my fathers Chartered Accountants firm. It was quite a chapter in life, but what happened that day had nothing to do with business.

I was once told that a conversation with a wise man across a table can be equivalent to months of learning at a top university. One random conversation with one of those two people would later prove worth far more than that. During a particularly dark period of my life, I was contemplating suicide. What he told me accounted for, by my own estimate, around 63% of the reason I didn’t. I won’t repeat what he said here, but it met me exactly where I was. Looking back, that proverb may have been a considerable understatement. Was it what I learned, what I discovered through my obsession with curiosity, or a combination? I’m not sure. But it should give you an insight into how utterly lost and chaotic a soul I am. I know it’s a serious thing to say, especially when things look so clear on the outside. Birds have remarkable respiratory systems; in the wild, if a bird shows illness or weakness, others may attack it—so they learn to hide it. I understood that kind of hiding. On the outside, things looked clear. Inside, I was utterly lost.

The two partners I worked with had told me I could have anything I wanted. I think they meant it as opportunity. What it exposed was different: I could have anything, and I still felt nothing. So on my birthday I stopped at a pet shop on the way to work.

And somewhere within that same chapter of life, a little bird named Lucky came into the picture.

Inside, a beautiful sun conure caught my attention, its vibrant orange and yellow feathers glowing like little flames. That was the bird I wanted. Lucky was there too, but he wasn’t the bird being shown to me. Then Lucky made his own choice. He jumped onto my hand and climbed up to my shoulder. There was something about that moment—a little boy with wings showing courage, trust and a spirit of his own. Perhaps that’s what makes some encounters feel like more than coincidence. Call it God, or simply believe there is something beyond our existence here on Earth. We don’t all need to define it the same way.

Perhaps to others he was just a little bird, but to me, Lucky was so much more. Ours was, in its own way, a symbiotic relationship—not in the strict biological sense, but in what we exchanged. We were companions. He claimed my shoulder as his permanent roost. The paradox was that he was perfectly happy to stay at home while I went to work. But the moment he was on my shoulder, getting him off was another matter—it would highly likely have resulted in bleeding fingers. He was fiercely attached, and I was glad of it.

Bringing a bird into a corporate environment isn't exactly standard practice. He only came with me on that first day, and for occasional weekends when I went into the office. Still, I wanted the uniform to be part of my armor. I gave him a purpose. I made myself believe—and convinced others—that he was the Chief Aviation Officer of Sportkin. It was my way of justifying his presence: he wasn't just a pet; he had a title. He had a job. When he did fly about, he would often land back on my shoulder, digging his claws in to secure his grip. To protect myself, and to give him a proper runway, I had my work uniform embroidered. Even if he wasn't there every day, I turned my shoulder into a landing pad.

He gave me companionship, reflection, and a reason to step outside my own head. I gave him a home, safety, a title, and a family. He chose me; I tried to deserve that choice.

Lucky came into my life during a vulnerable time and became a reflection of myself. Before Lucky, I feared no one but God. Through that reflection, he taught me something more difficult: to fear myself as well. Not out of weakness or self-hatred, but through recognising my own capacity, my own vulnerabilities, and the responsibility that comes with understanding who I am.

He's part of my family.

My boy with wings, whose presence left a mark far greater than his size.

Flying back to base against the strong wind at shoalhaven river / heads