The Man Cave CEO Ben Vasiliou's Tribute to His Late Mother
May 8 | 5 minute read
Words by Ben Vasiliou
In reflecting on his mother’s legacy, Ben explores love, loss, masculinity and the lifelong impact of the women who raise us. Before you continue, please note that this story contains references to parental loss, addiction and terminal illness, which may be distressing for some readers.
My mum died aged 36. She is my greatest role model.
Happy Mother’s Day to the women that make us, raise us and guide us.
My mum, Sharon Lee Vasiliou, is no longer with us in the physical form, but she continues to guide me every step of the way.
She was the ninth and final child – and the eighth girl – born to immigrant parents. Her oldest sister was born 20 years earlier. Most of them had left home, working, married, becoming parents themselves, before Mum was a teenager.
Pregnant at 16 with my older sister, she faced significant shame and pressure from her stoic, traditional Macedonian father and Catholic community. She went on to have me at 19, and my younger sister at 21. She was left single with no support. Just to add to the difficulty of the situation she faced, I was born with a debilitating condition called clubfoot, which necessitated complex surgeries and years of physical therapy to get me to walk properly.
We settled in Hastings because that’s where the cheapest public housing was. Dad came into our lives when we were toddlers. But he had his own battles to fight.
Mum did a bang-up job of protecting us from it though. The first 12 years of my life seemed normal. I had a special bond with Mum, less so with Dad. I was scared of him.
I’d just finished primary school and was looking forward to starting high school when Dad left again, became addicted to heroin and later got in a severe car accident. Then Pop, Mum’s Dad, died.
Others would have rightfully fallen into a pit of depression and despair. Not Mum. She stepped up and looked for the opportunity. Pop had left her $5,000, which she used to get a car and license. She got a job. Welcomed disadvantaged kids into our home. Kept. On. Going.
Until she couldn’t. In 1999, she was diagnosed with cervical cancer. Dad was a complete mess and never came back. Her sisters, my aunties, stepped in. Those that could, did. Radiotherapy. Chemo. Doctors’ appointments. The shopping.
Mum was in and out of treatment for three years. Always stoic, battling on. The strength was honestly god-like. Looking back, I can’t believe she could still raise us, keep us close, but not enough to understand her true pain.
I was supported by amazing women everywhere; my school's wellbeing coordinator and assistant principal Hannah, then Jane, my youth worker and mentor.
Mum and I got to experience my Debutante ball. A season-and-a-half of footy (a miracle with my clubfoot!) Countless netball games (her core passion). Watched Collingwood play every weekend.
My Aunty came into my bedroom late on a Sunday night in July 2002. It was time. Mum didn’t have long to go.
For the next few hours, us three kids held hands and sat around Mum’s bed talking to her, as the aunties made the calls to family and friends. The priest came to read the last rites. I took faith, just a little, not in the institution, but in religion; I needed something to carry me through.
She was 36 when she drew her last breath. I was 16, my sisters Bec, 19, and Kim, 15.
A bond was formed between the three of us from that point onwards that words can’t really explain. It was one only we would ever have, our Mum ringing in our ears about the importance of family, is what has kept us close for 23 years since Mum passed.
Mum was a pillar of strength. But she battled. Horrendous stories only came out years later. She deserves a statue. Not because she was some political activist, sports champion or Nobel prize winner.
I’ve always appreciated the women in my life but as I look back I realise more and more that they have helped teach me how to be resilient, how to express my emotions and feelings, how to deal with rejection, how to understand the world. All core things boys and men need to build a healthy profile of masculinity. I’m still stoic myself, I’m a provider, a protector, I feel natural strength in rising in a crisis. But I also feel able to show my tender side, express vulnerability, and it’s something I wish for all boys and men.
Mum was the first woman to show me the way. But not the last. My life and career has been peppered with strong, clever, passionate women who have given me a shoulder to cry on, a rev up when I was down, a push in the right direction. These women have also helped me to understand the word no, experience and bounce back from rejection, open up my heart and mind, express my feelings. All things that have helped shape my masculinity, too.
As the CEO of The Man Cave, a leading preventive mental health and healthy masculinity charity empowering young boys to become great men, I know that we need strong men and women. But today, it’s Mother’s Day and I want to celebrate all of the mums, the women in my life. For with you, not only do I think I’d be nothing, I’m not sure I’d be here at all.
I’ll visit Mum’s grave site today, have a picnic with the grandchildren she never got to meet, tell them about Nanny Sharon. Help them understand that, just like my Mum, being stoic, provider, protector is important, and useful. But we must lean into the full range of the human experience. Not just what we think others perceive of us. Our full selves. Like Mum.
Rest in peace Mum. And Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.
