When Jayden Sheridan was 17, a phone call changed the trajectory of his life. Now he's determined to do the same for his town.
Walking the streets of Seymour, Jayden Sheridan looked up in awe.
There it was — a shooting star. A reprieve from the darkness.
There's no wishing upon stars around this part of town. The innocence of childhood is a luxury seldom afforded when Mum and Dad can't care for you and home is somewhere between a mate's couch and the footpath.
Still, he remembers "giggling like a schoolgirl" as it hurtled above, lighting up the night sky.
Newly 18 and awash with emotion after holding his son Brooklyn for the very first time, Jayden's path into parenthood hadn't been easy.
"[When I found out I was going to be a dad] I said to myself, 'That's the final straw, when [my son] comes around, I'm pulling my head in,'" he says.
Out of the darkness, came a light — an opportunity to cast his "own shadow".
And with the birth of his son, a dream was born: to end the cycle of disadvantage, one skateboard at a time.
'It was like Green Street Hooligans'
Some 100 kilometres north of Melbourne, nestled at the base of the Tallarook Ranges, lies Seymour, a small community of about 6,000 people.
Renowned for its scenic countryside and prime farming land, its historic charm masks a darker title.
Seymour is one of the most disadvantaged towns in Victoria — something not lost on Jayden.
Growing up, his dad wasn't in the picture. His mum, who had tried in vain to keep him "on track with school", became unable to care for him after struggling with drug-induced schizophrenia-bipolar disorder.
He was shuffled from house to house. An uncle took him in for a while.
But he'd relapsed on heroin, and Jayden once again found himself without somewhere to call home.
In a town like Seymour, everyone knows everyone. And people knew exactly who Jayden was.
It's not that they thought he was an inherently bad kid. But he was someone to be wary of — to be kept on the outer.
"I had a lot of anger built up. We used to go out and just fight because that's what the older blokes did," says Jayden, who left school in grade nine after a three-year streak of expulsions.
Selling drugs turned to using drugs. Visits to corner stores were replaced with cop shops.
On the path to self-destruction, few could keep pace.
'I just went off the rails'
Jayden will never forget the call that changed his life.
It was 2012, and the then-17-year-old was out drinking with mates around Seymour when his phone began to ring.
His girlfriend at the time was pregnant, and she had decided to keep the baby. He was given an ultimatum: shape up or ship out.
Now 27, he is, by his own admission, anything but perfect.
But with his mistakes came a belief in something better: a hope for what he could be — for what his community could be.
He couldn't promise that he would always be the perfect man, or the perfect father.
But he would be present and available. Someone his son could count on.
"The one thing I always fell back on was the skate park, just having that space to clear my head on the board," he says.
"When [my son] was born, I knew I wanted other kids to have that experience too."
'It's about trying to change the whole town'
In 2013, not long after the birth of his son, Jayden set out to turn his dream into a reality.
By then juggling fatherhood with the realities of being a teenager, he reached out to the Mitchell Shire Council and Skateboarding Australia to help him start skate lessons for the kids around town.
"They put me in touch with a crew that had a similar idea in a neighbouring town called Kilmore, through the Mitchell Shire," Jayden says. "We ended up raising some funds and getting some skateboards and started running skate lessons for them."
But progress was "slow-moving" and red tape was prolific, he reflects.
Momentum can only last so long, and Jayden, who had been volunteering with the YMCA in Seymour, was offered a position working with kids in Melbourne, a little over an hour's drive from town.
But while the light may have dimmed, the dream never died. After five years, he moved on, trying his hand at a number of creative ventures before returning to Seymour when his son started primary school in 2019.
"I was running the youth group, I was doing the graphic design stuff, and I just got a hold of the boards that we had raised money for in 2013 through the council, and just started taking them down," Jayden says.
Using his graphic design skills, Jayden began designing promotional flyers for the program, distributing them around town.
He'd call it Gnarly Neighbours: a not-for-profit youth group, with a focus on creating a positive space for kids and young adults in Seymour.
"I'd look over and see like 15 parents standing on a sideline while I was teaching, and I knew that's the way I was going to be able to make an impact," Jayden says.
"It's not just about changing things for my little bloke, it's about trying to change the whole town."
'It's given kids confidence to try something new'
For mum-of-four Fiona Fiendis, watching her boys conquer the ramps has been "heartwarming" — if not somewhat daunting.
Fiona, who has lived in nearby Trawool for the better part of a decade and began taking her sons to Jayden's skateboarding lessons last year, is all too aware of the gap Gnarly Neighbours is filling.
There was "nothing like it in the community", she says of the all-ages, grassroots program, which has expanded from free skateboarding lessons to encompass skateboard art, tie-dyeing and screen-printing workshops in just three years.
"I’ve seen Gnarly Neighbours go from a once-weekly session down at the local skate park, to three times a week and securing its own site in the Big Green Shed down at a central parkland," Fiona says.
"Through the generous funding of our awesome local community, [the program] now has portable wooden skate ramps, extra skateboards and safety gear plus its own trailer."
Above all, Gnarly Neighbours is a safe and free space for kids to express themselves, "no matter their socio-economic background", Fiona says — an ethos that relies on donations.
During the school holidays, dozens of children rush through the door for Tech Deck ramp-building workshops and movie nights.
They've even established their own streetwear label, where children are taught about design, taxes and how to run a webstore.
"He gives them the confidence to push themselves above and beyond.
"It’s given kids confidence to try something new and form friendships with kids from different schools and different age groups," she adds.
"Kids have come from out of town too, I’ve met parents that have brought their kids to the Saturday sessions that have come from as far as Shepparton and Wallan.
'I don't think I'm going to stop here'
These days, Jayden's known around the skate park as "king of the kids".
But heaviest is the head that wears the crown.
"Some of the kids are getting into trouble," he laments. He wishes there was more he could have done to intervene sooner.
Jayden still sees the same pockets of disadvantage that existed when he was growing up.
But he also sees "change coming".
He's in the process of formalising the procedures for every workshop he runs, so that they can be established "in other regional towns in Australia that are labelled as disadvantaged".
"The other day there was like 20 kids at the skate park, just skating by themselves, doing the tricks I just taught them in the skate lessons," Jayden says.
A decade after the trajectory of his life changed forever, Jayden lives on the same corner where he first saw that shooting star.
When he looks out his window, he sees the same night skies; when he holds his son, he still feels the same pride.
But he's no chaotic teenager walking these streets. These days, it's Jayden and his "little bloke", who is beginning to "cast his own shadow and make his own decisions".
He wants to leave a legacy for his son, that he knows for sure. But when asked what that looks like, he quips: "I actually haven't thought about that part".
