“The Man in the Arena” – A Message for Those Doing it Tough

I was compelled to write this blog on the back of a large number of people reaching out to me due to the impact of the climatic conditions they are facing at the moment, and the reminder of this classic quote when Travis Boak from the Port Adelaide Football Club referred to it on Unfiltered with Hamish McLachlan. But I also wrote it with a couple of blokes that I admire in mind, Justin Koschitzke and Tory Trewhitt after we caught up at Tory’s book launch in Melbourne last night.

It is a quote that’s been stitched into the fabric of my life, one I’ve turned to time and again when things have come crashing down or times are challenging. It’s from Theodore Roosevelt, written way back in Paris on April 23, 1910, and it’s more than just words on a page, it’s a mirror held up to every one of us who’s ever been through hell and kept showing up anyway.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles... The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…”

That’s me. That’s so many of us farmers, tradies, parents, carers, battlers showing up when everything inside us is screaming to stay down.

But let me tell you the truth: being in the arena is brutal.

It’s not a motivational quote on a gym wall. It’s not some polished corporate keynote. It’s standing in the paddock after the rain didn’t come again. It’s staring at the bank statement, wondering how the hell you’ll make it through next month. It’s burying a mate. It’s pretending you’re okay when you’re crumbling inside because you don’t want to scare your kids.

And that’s where my relationship with resilience gets complicated or to be blunt, completely fked**.

Resilience. That word gets thrown around like confetti these days.
“You’re so resilient.”
“You’re so strong.”
“Look at everything you’ve overcome.”

It’s meant to be a compliment, but let’s be honest what it often really means is, “You’ve been through absolute hell, but you didn’t fall apart in public. Good on ya.”

For years, I wore that like a badge. Life kicked me in the guts loss, shame, heartbreak, the farm gone, my identity shattered and I just kept showing up. I kept working. I kept speaking. I kept smiling. And people clapped. They called me inspirational. They said I was the tough bloke who bounced back.

But what they didn’t see was the cost. What they didn’t know is that resilience without rest, without reflection, without support — isn’t strength. It’s survival.

And that survival mode? It runs out eventually.

I didn’t break all at once. I wasn’t dramatic about it. I didn’t fall to my knees sobbing. It was more like a slow leak, a quiet unraveling. A growing numbness. A version of me that smiled while dying on the inside. Until one day, I couldn’t fake it anymore.

That’s when I realised I’d been sold a lie. That real resilience isn’t about getting knocked down and pretending you’re fine. It’s about getting back up, and being honest about what it took to do that.

“…who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming…”

We all stumble. We all fall short. That’s the price of showing up.
But I reckon the hardest part is doing that when no one’s cheering. When the dust’s thick, the crowd’s silent, and all you’ve got left is grit not the Instagram kind, but the kind that drags you out of bed when your soul feels flattened.

And here’s where Brené Brown’s words hit just as hard as Roosevelt’s:

“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome.”

That, to me, is what real resilience looks like.

It’s texting a mate, “I’m not okay,” when every part of you wants to shut down.
It’s crying in the driver’s seat before walking into work, then walking in anyway.
It’s admitting you’re f**king exhausted and not sure if you can keep pretending.
It’s saying, “I need help.”

And yes, that makes people uncomfortable. But pretending you’re fine while falling apart? That’ll kill you slowly, quietly, and from the inside out.

We love a comeback story in this country. But we skip the part where someone sat in their ute for two hours just trying to gather the strength to go home. We skip the therapist’s waiting room. The empty paddocks. The anti-depressants. The late-night breakdowns. The isolation.

We want resilience to be neat. It’s not. It’s bloody messy.

“…but who does actually strive to do the deeds... who spends himself in a worthy cause...”

That’s where the gold is. In trying. In staying in the arena. In standing back up, even when you’re still bleeding from the last round.

I don’t want to be known as the bloke who never cracked. I want to be known as the bloke who cracked open and grew from it. Who dared greatly by telling the truth. Who changed the conversation.

So here’s what I know now:
Resilience isn’t doing it all on your own.
It’s knowing when to rest.
It’s letting people in.
It’s falling apart and realising that maybe, just maybe, that’s where real healing starts.

“…and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly...”

That’s what I want for all of us out here doing it tough to dare greatly. To show up messy and raw and real. To stop hiding behind the mask of “I’m fine.” To drop the act, and just be human.

Because the critics don’t count. The keyboard warriors. The ones who’ve never stepped foot in your boots or walked through your pain.

The credit belongs to you the farmer, the parent, the battler, the survivor who’s still showing up in the arena, battered but unbroken.

If this has hit home for you. If you’re doing it tough and wondering what next, I’ve put together a free resource called the Unbreakable Wheel of Wellbeing. It’s a practical guide, shaped by my own journey, to help you look at your life differently and take small steps back toward balance.

You can request your copy here:
👉 www.theunbreakablefarmer.com.au/contact

You're not alone. Not in this arena. Not anymore.

#gotyourbackmate