Moving to Australia was no easy task. As exciting as the idea of a fresh start was, the reality meant leaving Steph and Kane behind in New Zealand while I went ahead alone. The plan was for me to get established first, find work, secure somewhere for us to live and create enough stability for them to join me. I boarded the plane knowing I was leaving my little family on the other side of the Tasman, but also believing I was doing it to build something better for all of us.

When I arrived in Australia, I stayed with my sister for the first few weeks while I looked for work. I had hoped my experience at the holiday park in New Zealand would help me find something similar. I knew that kind of work, I was good at it, and I had years of experience behind me. I applied and looked around, but nothing came from it. I couldn't afford to sit around waiting for the perfect job, so when an opportunity came up labouring and laying pipes, I took it.

That first Australian summer nearly killed me.

I had absolutely no idea what I was in for. Working outside all day in the Queensland heat was a completely different experience from anything I had known in New Zealand. The sun was relentless, the work was physical, and there was nowhere to hide from it. I would finish the day exhausted, covered in dirt and sweat, wondering what the hell I had got myself into. But I had a reason to keep going. Steph and Kane were waiting for me, and every day I worked was another day closer to bringing them over.

Within about six months, things had started falling into place. I managed to buy a car, found a rental unit in Redcliffe and slowly bought the furniture we needed to turn an empty unit into a home. It wasn't anything flash, but to me it represented progress. I could finally look around and picture Steph and Kane living there with me. After months apart, I couldn't wait to have my little family together again.

I continued looking for better work and eventually landed a job doing formwork and concreting. It paid the bills, but there was nothing easy about it. A huge amount of the work was still done the old fashioned way, with picks, shovels and plenty of muscle. Apparently I had a talent for moving ridiculous amounts of dirt because it wasn't long before I earned myself a nickname on site.

"Beau the Human Backhoe."

If there was a hole to dig, ground to break up or dirt to move, apparently I was the machine for the job.

One day while working on site, I noticed another company working alongside us. Their work immediately caught my attention. They were doing mechanical installations, pipework and welding. Instead of spending the day hanging off the end of a shovel, these guys were building and installing things. There was skill involved, and I could see there was a trade behind what they were doing.

I wanted in.

I approached them and asked if they were looking for workers. Someone gave me the manager's number, and I made contact. About a week later, I had left the shovel behind and was working for them.

For the first time in a long time, I could see the possibility of an actual career rather than just another job. I threw myself into the work and tried to learn everything I could. Six months later, I was offered an adult apprenticeship as a mechanical fitter and welder.

I was absolutely stoked.

For someone who had spent much of his younger life bouncing from one thing to another, the idea of becoming qualified meant a lot to me. This wasn't just about earning money anymore. I was working towards something. There would eventually be a trade behind my name, something I had earned and something nobody could take away from me.

Then, on 9 March 2008, our family grew again when my second son, Zion Haywood, was born.

Conveniently, the unit Steph and I were renting was directly opposite Redcliffe Hospital. When the time came, we walked across to the maternity ward together. Several hours later, our baby boy had arrived. Before long, we were making the short journey back across the road, this time carrying Zion with us.

Life, from the outside, was going pretty well. I had started an adult apprenticeship, I had a partner, a two and a half year old son and now a newborn baby. I also had a GSXR 1100, which became my transport to and from work. That bike was more than a toy at the time. The company regularly sent me from Redcliffe all the way out to Ipswich and back, so having something that could get me through the traffic and cover the distance was incredibly useful.

But behind everything that appeared to be going right, the pressure was building.

I was the sole provider for our family and working six days a week, often doing long hours just to make ends meet. Adult apprentice wages didn't stretch very far when there was rent, food, bills, vehicles and two young children to support. Steph wasn't working because she had been pregnant, we now had a newborn, and the cost of childcare made returning to work difficult anyway.

I felt an enormous responsibility sitting on my shoulders. I wanted to provide. I wanted my boys to have what they needed. I wanted the apprenticeship because I knew finishing it could give us a better future, but getting through those years meant surviving on less money while working harder than I ever had before.

Somewhere amongst the long hours, financial pressure, exhaustion and the demands of raising a young family, Steph and I began falling apart.

Not long after Zion was born, our relationship came to an end.

I had arrived in Australia with a plan. Find a job. Find a home. Bring my family over. Build a better life. For a while, I thought I had done exactly that. We had a roof over our heads, two beautiful boys, and I finally had a career path in front of me.

But having all the pieces doesn't mean you know how to hold them together.

When the relationship ended, I didn't see it as two people whose lives had reached a difficult point. I saw it as my failure. I felt as though I had failed Steph, failed my sons and failed myself.

I had worked so hard to bring my family across the Tasman and build us a new life.

Now I was watching that family come apart.