Content warning:
This passage includes sensitive content about sexual violence and may be triggering for some readers.
Lived Experience is a story of survival, truth, and healing. After enduring years of abuse and disbelief, she found her voice through the Royal Commission — and with it, freedom from shame. Her story reminds us that being believed can change everything, and that it’s never too late for justice, understanding, and hope.
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I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I went to the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, and that experience changed my life. It allowed me to speak openly about what happened to me as a child — and to finally be believed. Talking about it doesn’t trigger me anymore.
I was born in 1960, in Wollongong, which back then felt like a dangerous place for children. My earliest memories are of being hurt by people who should have protected me — men in the community, priests, even my father. Abuse was everywhere, and as a little girl, I grew up believing this was just what happened to girls.
I tried to tell my mother once, when I was four, that the neighbour had touched me. She slapped me and told me not to tell lies. There was no safe person to go to. The priests were treated like saints — above question — and at home I wasn’t believed. From then on, I learned to stay quiet and survive the best I could.
School wasn’t a refuge either. I was bright and talkative, often sent out of class. That made me an easy target. I learned to escape into schoolwork and sport — two things that made me feel free and capable. I remember looking at the clock in class, counting the years until I could leave home.
When I was fifteen, my mother became ill and my father’s behaviour became worse. I feared that if I left, my younger sister would become the next target, so I stayed to protect her. By then, I had already been planning my escape for years.
I left home at seventeen, moved to Sydney, and tried to build a life. But the trauma followed me. I pushed it down and carried on — teaching, working, appearing strong. Sometimes, memories would surge back and overwhelm me.
At twenty-six, I had a breakdown and tried to end my life. My brain felt like it had stopped belonging to me.
I was fortunate to find a counsellor who stayed with me for forty years. She helped me find ways to express what I couldn’t say out loud — sometimes through writing, sometimes through little figurines that helped me tell my story without words. That support helped me survive.
In the 1990s, more stories started to surface. I learned that some of the men who’d hurt me had finally been charged. It brought a strange sense of justice, even from afar.
My relationship with my parents remained painful. My mother couldn’t face what had happened, and I believe she carried her own trauma. My sister — who had also been abused — supported me at first but has struggled in her own way since. Trauma echoes through families; it doesn’t stop with one person.
For years I lived with fear and shame, then anger, and finally understanding. I used to be triggered easily. Sometimes I’d feel suicidal because I couldn’t bear for those memories to come back again. But when the Royal Commission began, I decided to testify.
People called me brave, but really, I was desperate to stop the memories from controlling me. At the Commission, my story was believed. They confirmed that some of the priests had been jailed and others had died. For the first time, my truth was acknowledged. It was powerful — healing in a way I hadn’t expected. Since then, I haven’t been triggered.
For me, being believed changed everything. I realised that what happened was never my fault. The shame belongs to the abusers, not the survivors.
My advice to anyone supporting survivors — especially older women — is to let people move at their own pace. Speaking about abuse can be overwhelming. Sometimes we deny our own memories because they’re too painful to face. Be patient. Believe them. If they need to retreat, let them. They’ll come back when they’re ready.
Being believed can be life-changing. For some, that’s enough — just having someone listen and acknowledge their story. Others may not want to talk, and that’s okay too. Everyone heals differently.
For me, openness helps. When I share my story, other women often begin to open up too. I don’t feel shame anymore. I did once, but not now. The shame belongs elsewhere. I feel strong, and grateful to still be here.
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