Nathan_Sampson

Nathan Sampson: Sex, Money, and the Long Walk Home to LalorG'day. I'm Nathan Sampson. Born here, raised here, and after a long, winding road through the messy, beautiful chaos of human connection, I ended up right back where I started: Lalor, Victoria. I've been a sexologist, a researcher, a bit of a cynic, and a hopeless romantic—sometimes all in the same day. Now I write. About this place, about what we do for love and money, for the CamoWallet project. It's a strange gig, but it fits.Growing up in Lalor in the late 80s and 90s was... well, it was suburban Melbourne, but with its own pulse. We'd ride our bikes from the dirt tracks near Barry Road all the way to the old drive-in theatre on High Street, long after it closed, just to hang out and talk crap. First crushes happened at the Lalor Plaza shopping centre. Mine was on a girl named Sarah who worked at the bakery. I once saved up my lawn-mowing money for a week just to buy a vanilla slice and try to make her laugh. She didn't laugh. But that feeling—that mix of hope, embarrassment, and the smell of hot bread—that was my first real lesson in desire. Later, we'd sneak into the Preston market on a Sunday, not to buy anything, just to be part of the crowd, to watch people. Even then, I was fascinated by the dance of it all. The way a look could linger too long, the easy touch on an arm. The suburb felt safe enough to be curious, but also anonymous enough to let you get things wrong. And believe me, I got things wrong plenty.So what do I actually do now? I dig into how we navigate the whole damn thing—love, lust, and the digital tools we use to find both. I spent years as a therapist and researcher, working with couples and individuals, running workshops out of a small practice in Northcote. Saw the rise of dating apps from the inside. The swiping, the ghosting, the way a profile pic can feel like a promise. It’s a fascinating car crash. Now, my focus has shifted a bit. I'm writing a series of articles for the CamoWallet project on their site, camowallet.app. They wanted someone to talk about the intersection of money and relationships, and my work in Lalor—this incredibly diverse, working-class suburb—gave me a front-row seat. It’s not just about who pays for dinner. It’s about how financial stress bleeds into the bedroom, how shared goals can build intimacy, how a secret credit card can be a bigger betrayal than a flirty text. I look at the city through that lens now. David Munro Avenue isn't just a street; it's where a couple I know argued about their mortgage for three years before finally splitting. The station isn't just a train stop; it's where I'd see people's faces light up when their partner came home from work.Honestly, you can't do this work for as long as I have without becoming a little jaded and a little more hopeful at the same time. I've sat in my office and listened to a 60-year-old man cry because he'd never felt truly desired, and then walked out to see two teenagers on the corner of Childs Road, oblivious to the world, just kissing in the rain. That’s the whole spectrum, right there. The emotional part of my life, the part that makes me good at my job, isn't about having all the answers. It's about being comfortable with the questions. It's knowing that the fear of being alone can make you stay in a bad relationship longer than any feeling of love. It’s understanding that the way we argue about money is almost never about the money itself. It’s about security. Power. Freedom. I think my own experiences—the relationships that soared and the ones that crash-landed—gave me a sort of battered wisdom. I'm not a flawless expert spouting theory. I'm more like a guide who's been lost in the same forest a few times and learned to recognise some of the paths. Even the dead ends.I came into this world on the 17th of August, 1977, at the old Preston and Northcote Community Hospital, which isn't even there anymore. My parents had a modest little place in Lalor, a newish housing commission area back then. I remember the smell of the place as a kid—eucalyptus after a summer rain, the dust from the gravel roads that weren't all paved yet, and the faint, sweet smell of hops from the old Richmond brewery if the wind was right. My dad worked at the Ford plant in Broadmeadows. He'd come home with greasy hands and a copy of The Sun, and we'd listen to the races on 3AW. Lalor back then was full of families like mine. New migrants, young couples, everyone trying to build something. It wasn't pretty, but it was real. There was a simplicity to it, a kind of unspoken honesty that I think shaped how I see relationships. You fixed things. You didn't throw them away.Living in Lalor now is different, but the bones are the same. I live just off David Munro Avenue, near the shops. I can walk to the station and be in the city in 40 minutes, but I come home to a backyard where I can hear the kookaburras at dawn. My life here is a map of my history. I did my undergrad in psychology at RMIT, commuting from Lalor station, reading studies on attachment theory while the train rattled past Reservoir. I worked for a while at a community health centre on High Street, in Epping, just up the road. Saw the same families, the same struggles, generation after generation. That's where I really learned about money and relationships. You'd see the strain, the fights over a lost job or an unexpected bill. This place is in my bones. The sound of the level crossing alarms on Childs Road, the particular light over the You Yangs on a clear winter's day, the way the whole suburb smells like jasmine in November. It's not a backdrop for me. It's the whole set. And now, writing about it for CamoWallet, I'm not just talking about a place on a map. I'm talking about a living, breathing thing. And I'm lucky enough to still be part of it.