Reading · the startup phase: chronicles of a founder dad

10am. Friday Morning. The breaking point.

Before the holidays, I remember speaking with Jeff (co‑founder), Scott (coach), and our advisory board. I said, “I’m not sure when, I’m not sure the cause, but at some point I’ll break. It will get too much. I’m not sure what I’ll need in that moment. We’ll see.”

To be honest, I’m a little surprised it’s taken this long.

But the last few weeks - day by day it’s compounded, hour by hour it’s just got more. To the point where I’m on the edge, the whole time. Not anxious, or angry, or upset… but on the edge of all of those things. And more. Simultaneously.

Right now, this second, it takes absolutely nothing and I’m gone.

What does gone look like?
Everything. Feeling lost and alone. Sad. Upset. Angry shouting. Angry snapping. Pissed off. Going quiet. Reflective. Trying. Wanting to walk away.

But walking away isn’t an option. It’s relentless.

So all I can do right now is write it all down. More for me than for you.

I’m trying to put my finger on where it tipped this time. I mean, it all started three years ago, but what was the spark that lit this one up?

Probably the public holiday long weekend in the middle of Allies 2 week hospital placement.

On the Saturday, we got invited around to Allie’s friend’s house. They were amazing. They did everything they could to prep for us, and for Indi. Pool in

pauses typing for 10 minutes - Indi’s having a full‑on meltdown and needs me

…pool in the garden. Snacks. The other people they invited were great. It wasn’t overwhelming. There were glimpses of normality. One of us was always glued to Indi, but in a manageable way. Every 15 minutes we could tag in, sit, chat, eat, play with the other kids.

We would have loved to stay longer, but around 5pm there were signs Indi was close. We couldn’t risk the meltdown, so we called it.

Not perfect, but the best we’ve had since Christmas Day at Allie’s auntie’s, which went the same way.

Went to sleep that night in a strange flux. Grateful for the day we’d had… and a little sad that this is the best we can get now. No one’s fault. It just is.

And then Sunday.

Indi was dis-regulated. The kids fed on that. I can’t even remember how the day went - but I remember the feeling. It wasn’t great. So we live the day, grieving that the Saturday was a one off and as good as it gets.

Around 4:30pm we took the kids to the park, trying to get Indi moving to regulate before bed. I think we’d been there less than 60 seconds before she bolted - she’s so fast - straight in front of Beckham on the swings.

I sprinted and literally had to jump in front of her to stop her head being taken out by his foot.

A dad who saw it all said, “Great catch, mate.”

In that moment, I wanted to turn and laugh. Say something. Drop some infamous English sarcasm.

But I had nothing.

I almost smiled. It just wouldn’t come out.

For the next half hour, Allie and I took turns tracking Indi to keep her safe. When she tagged in, I wanted to watch Beckham and Harper play - but I had nothing left. I sat on a log.

Nearby, three dads were standing around chatting. Their kids were off on the playground, just playing.

Fuck, they looked relaxed.

I don’t remember that feeling.

They looked like they’d casually decided to go to the park. Let the kids play. Have a chat. Like they could say, “We’re going now,” and the kids would just… go.

I miss being relaxed.
I miss being able to do things in the moment.
I miss talking to adults.
I miss going to the park and just watching.

Not standing on guard. On alert. Waiting to sprint. Pull something out of her mouth. Stop her from jumping. Not spending the whole time calculating the optimal happiness‑to‑regulation window so leaving might not cause a huge meltdown and maybe we’d get away with a small one.

And then the guilt. It’s one thing struggling through this part in the moment with Indi. It’s another knowing you’re not being the dad you want to be to the other kids. Or the partner you want to be to your wife.

I think the week went downhill from there.

Working from home with Indi. Screams every few seconds. Trying to understand what she needs. Does she even know what she needs? I don’t. She can’t communicate it to me. I guess. I guess wrong. And with each wrong guess a fresh scream. A physical release. Indi’s hurting. My body is hurting.

We’re lost.

Spiralling in a compounding loop - her dis-regulated, me confused and on edge. Just surviving. Just trying to get to the end of the day.

Moments of relief kick in. An OT session here. A daycare day there. Someone taking her on the swing or the trampoline. They help , a bit, in the moment.

But do they turn down the heat? Maybe slightly. But only temporarily.

The underlying tension, emotion, anxiety, grief - they don’t go anywhere. They just sit there, waiting for the next meltdown, transition failure, scream. The next thing that’s always coming.

Forever.

False hope. It’ll get you.

Then you think you’ve made progress.

We saw a beautiful video on Tuesday about siblings sleeping in the same bed. Harper and Indi always did, until about a year ago, when we had to separate them because it wasn’t fair on Harper with Indi up all night.

Maybe we should try again?
Maybe this is the thing?

I asked Harper, “Would you like to sleep in Indi’s bed? It might help her.”

She didn’t reply. She just gave me a big hug.

We see it every day. Harper misses Indi. She craves her twin. She wants Indi’s cuddles. You can see the sadness when Indi doesn’t respond how she wants.

So we tried it.

Tuesday night - both asleep within an hour.
Wednesday night - both asleep in 45 minutes.

Shit. We’ve cracked it!!!

Indi can sleep. Bedtime isn’t a two‑to‑three‑hour traumatising ordeal. Harper gets the connection she needs.

Big step forward.

Then Thursday night came.

We didn’t have the best end to the day (I’ll come back to that later). But it was bedtime. Were we on for the hat‑trick?

Allie was home and could have done bedtime, but I didn’t want to change the variables. I wanted to know if Harper being there was the thing making it work.

Two‑plus hours later, nervous system shot, screams, body throws, being smashed in the head by flying bookends (Harper asleep through all of it) - I was done.

Not just because it was shit in the moment (indi - pleeeeease go to sleep). But because of the context.

That ray of hope? Gone. Again.

One step forward. Three body slams back in every direction possible.

And it wasn’t just about sleep. It was the feeling of being trapped.

In the 24 hours leading up to that moment, I’d had three episodes that left me thinking, what the actual fuck should I do?

Indi has to move to regulate. That’s non‑negotiable. But to go out… at some point you have to come back.

Earlier that day: bike ride.
30 minutes of peace.
30 minutes of horrific meltdown when it ended.

The night before: outside play. Neighbour’s garage open. She races into their paddling pool, fully clothed. Twenty minutes of joy. Then a half‑hour meltdown.

Then before bedtime: outside again. Another neighbour’s garden. Twenty minutes of fun. I timed the exit perfectly.

It still wasn’t enough.

Massive meltdown.

So we keep her in and she doesn’t get the movement she needs, so she’s dis-regulated and you pay for it that way.
We take her out and it only ever ends one way.

What do we do?

Cue two hours of spiralling, trying to work out how to buy another house that’s set up for her better. On a startup salary. With a wife who’s a full‑time student. And three kids. I even messaged my mum asking if she’d won the lottery this week and could buy is a new house. Half joking. Half not.

Allie tagged in and got Indi down.

That’s the relief, right?

No.

By then I had nothing left. I went outside and ate my dinner in silence. Allie came down. I know she was hurting too. I know she needed to talk.

I had no words. For me or for her.

So we sat in silence.

Sometimes a night’s sleep resets things.

Last night didn’t.

I woke up tense. And when you’re in that mode, you’re not your best self.

By 7:30am, after getting all three kids ready, I caught myself shouting at Beckham. Yeah, he was being a bit of a dick. But he didn’t deserve it.

Add a fresh layer of parent guilt.

I tried to talk to him about it. Not to justify it, just so he understood. I think he did.

And that’s the worst part. He shouldn’t have to.

This was his first morning at primary school, one‑on‑one with his teacher. We should have been talking about that. About excitement. Not about how Daddy is finding it really hard right now.

Three drop‑offs and pick‑ups later, I join our team call mid‑conversation.

One of the guys is expecting a baby soon. They’re joking about how the next couple of years are a write‑off. Someone says, “Nah, more like four.”

I’m smiling. Nodding. Playing along.

Tears are streaming down my face - but i’m on mobile so they can’t see them, so that’s okay.

Because it isn’t two years for us.
It isn’t four.

It’s forever.

There isn’t a point where the hard stops.

The chat moves on. One of the team got married last week. The video he shared was beautiful. Just hearing him talk about it, the energy, the atmosphere.

More tears.

I remember that feeling. And I miss it.

Not because I don’t love Allie now - but because that feeling feels distant. Not present.

This journey doesn’t just hit the child. Or the siblings. It hits everything.

Your relationship defaults to co‑project managers. Each other’s therapists. You survive. You’re a team. You love each other more than ever.

But you mourn what was.