Many of us indulge in fantasies of an unexpected windfall—whether it’s the jackpot from a lottery ticket, triumphing on a game show, or inheriting a lavish prize home. With the cost of living constantly on the rise, such dreams offer an alluring escape. But do these windfalls truly enhance our lives? Explore this topic further by watching the episode “Coming Into Money” on SBS On Demand.
My life’s trajectory shifted dramatically one evening back in 2011, sparked by a simple trip to withdraw some cash for another round of drinks at the local pub.
At 29, my weekly earnings were $700, working as a bartender in Wangaratta, located in northeastern Victoria. Consistently having just a few dollars left to my name, I justified my gambling habit as nothing more than a carefree pastime.
After completing my shift, I was short on cash for buying the next round with friends. Determined, I made my way to the ATM just around the corner.
Attempting to transfer $200 from my credit card to my checking account, the ATM screen reported “transaction cancelled” and returned my card. Yet, to my surprise, the funds were magically available when checking my balance. Seizing the opportunity, I withdrew the $200 and returned to the pub.
I passed the same machine on my way out. Something made me stop, and I put my card back in.
I tried $500. Then $600. Same thing: transaction cancelled, money appeared.
I maxed out both my cards that night and went home to bed thinking I’d imagined the whole thing.
I hadn’t.
Power I had never felt
Over the next four and a half months, I withdrew $1.6 million.
It didn’t feel like a windfall at first; it felt like being part of an alternate reality.
It was exhilarating. The power I felt during that time was unlike anything I’d experienced in my entire life.
This is one of the biggest banks in the country, and I was a barman from a small regional city who had found a crack in the wall.
Something was intoxicating about that — I felt it was the little guy getting one over on a system that never seems to work in your favour.
I told myself that banks took from people every day in all sorts of ways; and for a while, that was enough to keep going.
To any shareholders still upset about it, genuinely, I’m sorry, but I feel you do profit off other people.
‘The justifications kept me going’
I started betting regularly behind the bar at work, placing significantly bigger bets, and lost my job when management caught on. My relationship also ended, so I felt the ‘limitless’ bank card was the only good thing in my life at the time.
I flew on private jets. I took mates to a remote island in Asia for a weekend — $90,000 for the flight alone. I ate at restaurants where the bill came to more than most people earn in a month. I checked a homeless man into the Hilton on a whim. I paid friends’ university fees, covered their rent, bought them cars.
I shook money from a tree I had no right to be near every single day, and part of me loved every second of it.
But I knew it wasn’t right. I knew that the whole time.
That tension — the thrill of it on one side, the wrongness of it on the other — is what I lived inside for four and a half months.
The excitement made it bearable. The justifications kept me going. But underneath all of it was a low, constant hum that never went away.
I shook money from a tree I had no right to be near every single day, and part of me loved every second of it.
Dan Saunders
The bank would call to check it was really me using the accounts. I’d say yes, that’s me and they’d apologise for bothering me.
The anxiety was relentless. I had a panic attack in the foyer of a Sydney hotel so severe that a passing doctor stopped to examine me.
I was taking Valium to get through the days. I’d have nightmares about the SWAT team storming into the room of whatever hotel I was staying at.
Every day felt like the last one. And when nobody came — when days became weeks and weeks became months — that almost made it worse.
Coming clean on my own terms
I stopped the transfers myself. The question I returned to was a simple one: am I going to take this money overseas, become someone else and disappear forever?
But the answer was no. I couldn’t leave my mum, my family, my mates. I couldn’t become that person.
So, I stopped.
I called the bank, and from what I remember, they did nothing for three years beyond saying they were going to commence legal action.
So, I went to the media — not for attention, but because I didn’t want the story told without me in it.
If it was coming clean, I wanted to be honest about it on my own terms.
Eventually, the law caught up. I was charged with obtaining money by deception, and in 2015, I was sentenced to a year in jail.
Jail is its own world. The days are long, the nights longer — and you spend a lot of time alone thinking about things you’ve done.
It was hard. But something was clarifying about it — sitting with the full weight of it all, with nowhere to go and nothing to hide behind.
I came out different. I was quieter and more certain about who I actually was. I also had new understanding of the other side of life.
My one regret
People ask if I have regrets. My only real regret is my mother having to visit me in jail; that’s the part that stays with me.
The reputational damage, the difficulty finding work — that’s just part of the course, and I’m not complaining. These things happen, and as long as you learn from them, you keep moving.
And I have kept moving. Now, I speak to anyone who’ll listen about gambling — not scare campaigns — but honest conversations about where the line is.
I feel like a lot of the messaging around gambling is either “gambling is fine” or “gambling will destroy you”. And having lived experiences, I want to help people recognise if they’re starting to have a gambling issue way before it becomes an issue for them.
Looking back, I was addicted to the process itself; the feeling of the glitch far outweighed any other high. The money was almost beside the point. Almost.
What I’m most proud of
Both a book and a film about my experience are in the works. But none of that is what I’m most proud of.
I’m most proud of something simpler: I told the truth, which sounds easy until you actually do it yourself.
Coming forward when you’ve done something wrong — really coming forward, not just when you’re caught — is one of the hardest things a person can do.
But I came forward. I did what I felt was right. It cost me in certain ways — and I’d be naive to pretend otherwise.
But I’m in the position I’m in today because I told the truth, and I have no regrets about that. None.
For gambling addiction support you can visit the National Gambling Helpline or call on 1800 858 858. All services are free, confidential and available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.