If your head's full of fog and the next thirty days look like a wall — read this. You don't have to plan ahead. You just have to do the next thing on the list. We've thought it through so you don't have to.
Three rules for the next 30 days.
1. No big decisions. Anything that can wait, waits. The man making decisions in week one is not the man you'll be in month three.
2. Reduce what's already on your plate. Cancel what you can. Say no to anything optional. Your only job right now is to keep yourself functional and your kids feeling safe.
3. Aim for boring. Boring days, boring routines, boring meals. Boring is medicine.
Your body is in fight-or-flight. It needs fuel before your brain can do anything useful.
You don't have to explain. "Something's happened. I'll fill you in soon. Can you check on me this week?" That's enough.
Just tonight. Alcohol multiplies everything you're feeling and you don't need that volume right now.
Whatever you want to say at 11pm tonight will look very different at 9am tomorrow. Wait for the 9am version.
No phone. No music. No problem-solving. The body needs to register what's happening before the mind can plan around it.
Even badly. Phone in another room. If you can't sleep, lie there with the lights off. Closing your eyes is rest too.
Breathe.
Even if you feel "fine." Tell them what's happened. Get a sleep aid if you need one. Ask for a Mental Health Care Plan referral — it gets you 10 subsidised psychology sessions.
You don't need to be at rock bottom. They're there for the wobble too. The call is anonymous and it's free.
Not three. One. The one who can sit with hard things without trying to fix them. Walk and talk if it's easier than sitting.
If you've had to tell them something, keep it simple: "Mum and I are going to live in different houses. We both still love you. None of this is your fault." Then stop. They'll ask more when they're ready.
Bread and eggs. Tinned tuna and rice. Whatever's easy. Eat at roughly the same times. Routine is regulation.
Outside. No headphones if you can manage. The body processes what the mind can't.
Drop-offs, pick-ups, whose house when. Even rough. Stick it on the fridge. Predictability is the single biggest gift you give them this month.
Not in a paranoid way. Just so you're not locked out of something at midnight when you need it.
If you can't function, ring HR or your boss and say "I'm having a personal crisis, I'll need a week." Honest beats vanishing.
Still breathing.
Marriage certificate, kids' birth certificates, last few bank statements, super statements, mortgage docs, lease, payslips. You'll need them eventually. Doing it now while you can think a bit straighter is easier than doing it under pressure.
Not to hide money. Just so your wages have somewhere to land that's only yours.
Don't lawyer up in week two. Most marriages can resolve through Family Dispute Resolution before lawyers ever get involved. Start here.
Not about the relationship. Just: "Here's what I'm thinking for next week's pickup." Practise being neutral, even when you don't feel it.
If your GP gave you the Mental Health Care Plan, use it. Relationships Australia has separation-specific counselling that's bulk-billed in some states. Don't wait until you're worse.
Not a lecture. Not reassurance theatre. Ask: "How are you doing with all this? You can tell me anything." Then listen without trying to fix.
Don't get inventive. Same drop-offs, same dinners, same bedtimes. They're watching whether the world still works.
Not to them. Not on the phone where they can hear. Not to mates who'll repeat it. They share half their genes with her — when you attack her, you attack half of them.
"Yeah. This is hard. I'm here. You don't have to be okay right now." That's the whole script. Don't fix.
Every time. Late is the wound that lasts. Early is the gift.
Still breathing.
A gym membership. A guitar lesson. A beach walk on Sunday mornings. Not big. Not impressive. Just yours, and just for you. The rebuild starts with one thing the marriage didn't have.
The house. The job. The dating apps. The big conversation with your parents. Pick the one decision pulling at you the most and consciously decide: "Not this month. Maybe month three." Write it down. Move on.
Foundation if you want a 28-day structured reset. Rebuild if your separation needs the dedicated track. Or just the weekly newsletter. Something to follow next month so you're not alone with your own thoughts.
The kids laughed at something this week. You went a day without crying. Your mate texted. The list might be tiny. Write it down anyway.
You did. That's not nothing. That's the whole foundation of what comes next.
The hardest stretch isn't over — month two to six is the long quiet. But you'll be doing it with more capacity than you have right now. The next guides walk you through what's coming and what to keep working on.