Real Stories from our Survivors.

---

 I’ll never forget that moment when the judge asked, “Did he hit you?” I was standing in the courtroom, our 4-month old son sleeping in the baby carrier strapped to my chest. I didn’t know what to say. Everything else – the years of insults, the screaming in my face, the violence, the gaslighting, the drug abuse – was being overlooked. Just because you’ve never been hit, doesn’t mean you aren’t being abused. 

 Home was supposed to be the safe place, but it never felt that way. I learned how to read the room the second I walked in—how to stay quiet, how not to make things worse. There were nights I would sit awake just listening, waiting, trying to predict what might happen next. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. You learn to survive in ways people don’t see.

 Jade met someone through a dating app who seemed kind and normal. On their second date, he insisted on ordering drinks for her. Within an hour, she felt disoriented and unable to think clearly. She remembers fragments—being led outside, struggling to stay awake—but not how she got home. She woke up the next morning bruised, confused, and alone, with no memory of what had happened. She didn’t report it. She didn’t think anyone would believe her

Every day I changed my route home. Not because it was quicker, but because it felt safer. I’d avoid certain streets, certain groups, certain times. Even then, it didn’t always work. Comments, being followed, cars slowing down—it became normal. People say “just ignore it,” but it’s never just that. It’s the constant awareness that something could happen, and you’re completely on your own.

 Maya loved her job—until her manager began making inappropriate comments and creating situations where she was alone with him. When she tried to set boundaries, her shifts were cut and her performance was suddenly questioned. Reporting him felt impossible; he was well-liked and senior. She eventually left the job she had worked hard for, not because she wanted to—but because staying meant enduring something she couldn’t control.

 When I left the system, I thought someone would help me figure things out. But suddenly, it was just me. No structure, no support, no one checking in. I didn’t have the basics—no stable place, no guidance, no safety net. Within months, I was trying to survive however I could. It felt like being dropped into the world without a map.

 I was 14 when it started. It wasn’t obvious at first—just comments, attention that didn’t feel right, being singled out. I didn’t have the language to explain it, just a constant feeling that something was wrong. When I tried to speak up, I was told I was overreacting. So I stayed quiet. I learned early that sometimes it’s easier for people to ignore what’s happening than to deal with it. That silence stayed with me for years.

 Sarah lived with her partner for six years before the control turned into violence. It didn’t start with hitting—it started with isolation, monitoring her phone, and cutting her off from friends and family. By the time the physical abuse began, she felt completely trapped. One night, after being pushed down the stairs while holding her child, she realized staying was no longer an option. With no savings, no support system, and nowhere to go, she left with nothing but a bag and her child—hoping someone, somewhere, would help.

 I reported it. I went to the police, gave my statement, answered every question, relived it over and over again. I thought that was what you were supposed to do—that if you spoke up, something would happen. But nothing did. There wasn’t “enough evidence.” I saw him again not long after, living his life like nothing had happened. Speaking up didn’t protect me. It just made me realise how easily things can be dismissed.

Leanne repeatedly sought help for severe abdominal pain over several months. Each time, she was dismissed—told it was stress, anxiety, or “just hormones.” Her symptoms worsened until she collapsed at home and was rushed to hospital, where doctors discovered a serious internal condition that had gone untreated for too long. The delay in care caused lasting damage. What stayed with her most wasn’t just the illness—but how easily her pain had been ignored.

 I raised concerns more than once. I told people I didn’t feel safe leaving my child there. I asked for help, for someone to listen, for someone to take it seriously. But nothing changed. It was always “we’ll look into it” or “there’s not enough to act on.” Until one day, there was. By then, my child had already been hurt. The hardest part isn’t just what happened—it’s knowing it could have been prevented if someone had acted sooner.

 Tasha grew up in the care system, moving between homes and placements. By the time she aged out, she had no stable support, no guidance, and nowhere permanent to go. Within months, she found herself couch-surfing, then on the streets. Without documents, consistent access to services, or someone advocating for her, she slipped through every gap that existed—trying to survive day by day.