Im 12 years old - Angela C
'...I discover my purpose: the sacrifices and struggles of my ancestors, are now my honour and privilege...'
Im 12 years old, sitting in my room, listening to a singer songwriter share with the radio host - writing songs was cathartic. I thought to myself I’m not a singer songwriter but I can write.
I began writing about my paternal grandparents. My maternal grandmother lived with us and helped raise us. I felt close to her and connected to her and I felt safe with her. I missed her dearly. She had gone on a holiday. I thought to myself what life would be like to get to know my paternal grandparents. I ask my mum and dad about them but they’re short with me. Your grandmother passed away when your sister was a baby and your grandfather passed away when you were a baby.
I looked at family photos we had scattered around the house and I tried to imagine what life was like for them. Trying to read the lines on their faces and on their hands. I looked at their eyes and saw love.
I run out of things to write. Fast forward, I’m 27 before I pick up a pen to write more about them.
I wake up one morning with a deep epiphany about my grandparents. When I was younger, I used to write to my aunts and uncles encouraged by my dad to keep in touch with them but the secret task he set for himself was to ensure I felt confident in my ability to write it was like homework he had set, without being homework. He was a clever man.
I don’t know what it was that came over me but it was a wave of emotions, rushing towards me. That day I realised I was connected to my grandparents by virtue of being my dad’s daughter.
I could speak to my dad and ask him questions.
I could write to my aunts and uncles and invite them to write to me about my grandparents. I invited my dad to do the same.
Day by day I received letters from them and as I opened each letter, I began to cry. I was transported back to moments created by the memories they had shared with me. I felt like I was there with them.
I decide to compile a book of these letters to honour my grandparents and to share the messages of my aunts and uncles with one another but also with their children and their grandchildren.
I discover my purpose: the sacrifices and struggles of my ancestors, are now my honour and privilege.
It stays with me and guides me in all that I do.
It doesn’t matter the roadblock in front of me, I always ask myself, what would my grandparents do? How would my grandparents navigate this? It didn’t matter the barrier or block I faced, I just had to think of them.
Today, Im 45 years of age and these words were crafted by me in a storyteller's circle. What I want to inspire in you, is that your gifts and talents will come to you through the journey of your life, and that each step that you take within your journey becomes your unique story to tell. Your voice matters and you matter. What if your journey IS your purpose?
I invite you to join me in a storyteller's circle to discover your voice and your story. Share your email via the contacts page.
I began writing about my paternal grandparents. My maternal grandmother lived with us and helped raise us. I felt close to her and connected to her and I felt safe with her. I missed her dearly. She had gone on a holiday. I thought to myself what life would be like to get to know my paternal grandparents. I ask my mum and dad about them but they’re short with me. Your grandmother passed away when your sister was a baby and your grandfather passed away when you were a baby.
I looked at family photos we had scattered around the house and I tried to imagine what life was like for them. Trying to read the lines on their faces and on their hands. I looked at their eyes and saw love.
I run out of things to write. Fast forward, I’m 27 before I pick up a pen to write more about them.
I wake up one morning with a deep epiphany about my grandparents. When I was younger, I used to write to my aunts and uncles encouraged by my dad to keep in touch with them but the secret task he set for himself was to ensure I felt confident in my ability to write it was like homework he had set, without being homework. He was a clever man.
I don’t know what it was that came over me but it was a wave of emotions, rushing towards me. That day I realised I was connected to my grandparents by virtue of being my dad’s daughter.
I could speak to my dad and ask him questions.
I could write to my aunts and uncles and invite them to write to me about my grandparents. I invited my dad to do the same.
Day by day I received letters from them and as I opened each letter, I began to cry. I was transported back to moments created by the memories they had shared with me. I felt like I was there with them.
I decide to compile a book of these letters to honour my grandparents and to share the messages of my aunts and uncles with one another but also with their children and their grandchildren.
I discover my purpose: the sacrifices and struggles of my ancestors, are now my honour and privilege.
It stays with me and guides me in all that I do.
It doesn’t matter the roadblock in front of me, I always ask myself, what would my grandparents do? How would my grandparents navigate this? It didn’t matter the barrier or block I faced, I just had to think of them.
Today, Im 45 years of age and these words were crafted by me in a storyteller's circle. What I want to inspire in you, is that your gifts and talents will come to you through the journey of your life, and that each step that you take within your journey becomes your unique story to tell. Your voice matters and you matter. What if your journey IS your purpose?
I invite you to join me in a storyteller's circle to discover your voice and your story. Share your email via the contacts page.
When I was Twelve - Deidre B
'...Looking back, twelve was a year of shifting ground...'
'...a year of becoming...'
'A year where I learned that life can be scary and wonderful at the same time...'
You know, twelve is a funny age. You’re still half a kid, but the world has already started nudging you toward bigger things. When I turned twelve in 1980, life felt exactly like that — one foot in the apricot orchard of childhood, the other stepping toward the big city lights of something new and still slightly wobbly. Like wearing high heels for the first time.
Back then, we were living on my grandparents’ property in a country town. We’d been there four years so Mum could look after Grandma, who had Parkinson’s. When Grandma passed away late in ’79, everything shifted. Mum and Dad started talking about moving — Dad already worked in the city, and my brother was boarding at a private school during the week — but for me, the change felt enormous, like someone had picked up our whole life and given it a gentle shake.
For the first term of Year 8, I went to the local high school. It was big for a country town — a thousand kids — it felt like a metropolis compared to my tiny primary school of two hundred. Some of my old friends drifted, as kids do, when we went to High School but I had one anchor: an older girl I’d met years earlier at Girl Guides. She was in Year 10, but we spent every recess together, like we were our own little club.
Every morning I’d catch the bus from Grandpa’s orchard. I had a crush on a boy who rode the bus — the kind of crush where you pretend to look out the window but really you’re checking if he’s looking your way. But the bus also carried a girl who didn’t like me at all. Her brother had died in the same accident that took my best friend two years earlier, and my dad had been a first responder. I never knew why she disliked me so fiercely, but she’d fallen in with a rough crowd, and one day their leader marched up to me at recess and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t “leave that boy alone.” I’d never been spoken to like that. I was terrified.
My older friend took me straight to a teacher, but the gang turned on her for helping me. They beat her so badly she ended up in hospital with a bruised kidney. I still remember the shock of that — the way trouble can spill over onto someone kind, someone who was only trying to help.
Meanwhile, every weekend for months, we drove to the city to look at houses. My brother hated it and often stayed home, but I loved it — the different sizes and shapes of the houses, the way Mum and Dad debated about Woolworths and church proximity like they were life-or-death matters. It felt like watching grown-ups build a future brick by brick.
When we finally moved — to a house with a second storey, no less — I was beside myself with excitement. Term 2 meant a new school for me, a private one this time. I adored the uniform, all crisp and proper, though I was mortified when a new friend told me after a few weeks that I wasn’t supposed to button the blazer all the way up. No one tells you these things; you just learn by blushing your way through them.
My brother had a scholarship; I didn’t. That difference settled over me like a shadow I couldn’t quite shake. He was already known and liked, and he made sure I didn’t forget it. “Don’t embarrass me,” he’d say. Siblings can be like that — half mentor, half tormentor.
I wasn’t good at sport, and turning twelve didn’t magically fix that. But the school had Drama, and that felt like home. I could write stories and poems in English. We had houses named after ministers, chapel every day, and classrooms scattered across the campus so you always felt like you were going somewhere. By midyear, I’d found my people — clever, kind kids who made me feel like I belonged. We even had a collective crush on a boy named Jonathan, and the height of social privilege was taking home “Jon’s Journal” to write in it for the week.
Two of my closest friends were boarders. They seemed so worldly to me, with their independence and their interesting lunches. I envied them — not unkindly, just in that way you do when you’re twelve and trying to figure out who you are. At home, I was adjusting to living with Dad and my brother full-time again after more than a year of weekends-only. It was strange, remembering how to be a family.
Before the move, I’d overheard Mum and Dad arguing behind closed doors. I’d even asked Mum if she and I could stay with Grandpa instead of moving with Dad and my brother. She shut it down quickly — “Don’t be ridiculous” — and that was that. But the worry lingered in the corners of my mind until the city finally became home.
By the end of the year, I’d settled into a rhythm: school, friends, youth group on Friday nights, crushes that made my stomach flip, and the slow, awkward business of growing up. My old country friends visited at first, but those visits faded as new friendships took root.
Looking back, twelve was a year of shifting ground — moving house, changing schools, learning new rules, and discovering that boys were suddenly interesting and that I could embarrass myself simply by existing. But it was also a year of becoming. A year where childhood loosened its grip and something new began to take shape.
A year where I learned that life can be scary and wonderful at the same time — and that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is keep showing up.
Back then, we were living on my grandparents’ property in a country town. We’d been there four years so Mum could look after Grandma, who had Parkinson’s. When Grandma passed away late in ’79, everything shifted. Mum and Dad started talking about moving — Dad already worked in the city, and my brother was boarding at a private school during the week — but for me, the change felt enormous, like someone had picked up our whole life and given it a gentle shake.
For the first term of Year 8, I went to the local high school. It was big for a country town — a thousand kids — it felt like a metropolis compared to my tiny primary school of two hundred. Some of my old friends drifted, as kids do, when we went to High School but I had one anchor: an older girl I’d met years earlier at Girl Guides. She was in Year 10, but we spent every recess together, like we were our own little club.
Every morning I’d catch the bus from Grandpa’s orchard. I had a crush on a boy who rode the bus — the kind of crush where you pretend to look out the window but really you’re checking if he’s looking your way. But the bus also carried a girl who didn’t like me at all. Her brother had died in the same accident that took my best friend two years earlier, and my dad had been a first responder. I never knew why she disliked me so fiercely, but she’d fallen in with a rough crowd, and one day their leader marched up to me at recess and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t “leave that boy alone.” I’d never been spoken to like that. I was terrified.
My older friend took me straight to a teacher, but the gang turned on her for helping me. They beat her so badly she ended up in hospital with a bruised kidney. I still remember the shock of that — the way trouble can spill over onto someone kind, someone who was only trying to help.
Meanwhile, every weekend for months, we drove to the city to look at houses. My brother hated it and often stayed home, but I loved it — the different sizes and shapes of the houses, the way Mum and Dad debated about Woolworths and church proximity like they were life-or-death matters. It felt like watching grown-ups build a future brick by brick.
When we finally moved — to a house with a second storey, no less — I was beside myself with excitement. Term 2 meant a new school for me, a private one this time. I adored the uniform, all crisp and proper, though I was mortified when a new friend told me after a few weeks that I wasn’t supposed to button the blazer all the way up. No one tells you these things; you just learn by blushing your way through them.
My brother had a scholarship; I didn’t. That difference settled over me like a shadow I couldn’t quite shake. He was already known and liked, and he made sure I didn’t forget it. “Don’t embarrass me,” he’d say. Siblings can be like that — half mentor, half tormentor.
I wasn’t good at sport, and turning twelve didn’t magically fix that. But the school had Drama, and that felt like home. I could write stories and poems in English. We had houses named after ministers, chapel every day, and classrooms scattered across the campus so you always felt like you were going somewhere. By midyear, I’d found my people — clever, kind kids who made me feel like I belonged. We even had a collective crush on a boy named Jonathan, and the height of social privilege was taking home “Jon’s Journal” to write in it for the week.
Two of my closest friends were boarders. They seemed so worldly to me, with their independence and their interesting lunches. I envied them — not unkindly, just in that way you do when you’re twelve and trying to figure out who you are. At home, I was adjusting to living with Dad and my brother full-time again after more than a year of weekends-only. It was strange, remembering how to be a family.
Before the move, I’d overheard Mum and Dad arguing behind closed doors. I’d even asked Mum if she and I could stay with Grandpa instead of moving with Dad and my brother. She shut it down quickly — “Don’t be ridiculous” — and that was that. But the worry lingered in the corners of my mind until the city finally became home.
By the end of the year, I’d settled into a rhythm: school, friends, youth group on Friday nights, crushes that made my stomach flip, and the slow, awkward business of growing up. My old country friends visited at first, but those visits faded as new friendships took root.
Looking back, twelve was a year of shifting ground — moving house, changing schools, learning new rules, and discovering that boys were suddenly interesting and that I could embarrass myself simply by existing. But it was also a year of becoming. A year where childhood loosened its grip and something new began to take shape.
A year where I learned that life can be scary and wonderful at the same time — and that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is keep showing up.
Im 12 years old - Naomi P
'...new books to read and notebooks that I would scratch away in with an old, ink quill pen...'
Rewind, your 12 years old - what are your dreams, hopes and wishes?
I wanted to be a writer. A novelist, well known and successful like Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton, Ursula Le Guin, Raymond E. Feist, C. S. Lewis or Tolkien. I used to skip classes to read books and stayed behind at school to find that one book in the library or hound the librarian to chase the kid who hadn’t returned the book yet.
I lived with my grandparents when I was twelve and I would often wait impatiently for the post to arrive with a package from my mother with new books to read and notebooks that I would scratch away in with an old, ink quill pen.
I had a wonderful, structured (strict) home life with my grandparents. My grandfather was a scientist and after retiring early from the Gold Coast City Council, he spent most of his time cooking, playing golf and listening to opera. My grandmother (known fondly by the sobriquet ‘Brownie’) was a business owner and a swimming coach and we had an-enclosed 17 & ¾ inch, indoor heated pool next to the house. That ¾ inch had a touch of controversy (and humour) as those missing millimetres affected Grandma’s ability to coach kids past state level, and they often moved onto bigger clubs to pursue bigger competition dreams.
My grandparents were good looking, practical, highly engaging, intelligent people with a latent creativity, who’d married in their early twenties. They shared a love of opera, fine wine and quiet evenings playing scrabble and listening to the ABC or the ‘Goon Show.’
In their early twenties, their eyes had met across the room at a ballroom dancing social event, as satin skirts swished, and leather shoes squeaked over the dusty, scratched, polished-wood-floor. Grandpa was immediately enamoured with the beautiful, intelligent dark haired young woman, a lithe figure toned by years spent swimming and hiking with friends. A working-class boy, Grandpa held a day job and studied science in night school. He was intrigued by her elegance, wealthy upbringing, and clear insouciance, despite a challenging period, working and living on a farm during the war. Grandma found him intellectually engaging and down to earth, unlike the young men she’d dated studying to be doctors or lawyers, and perhaps a little ‘dangerous due to her family's disapproval. Grandpa supported her early aspirations to sing chorus in amateur opera productions, and they went onto compete in dance. They always looked the sharpest in the bunch in our families old tattered black and white photographs, with Grandma designing her dresses and learning to adjust his threadbare suits.
For myself, an introverted, quiet child who enjoyed reading books and writing, it was difficult to find somewhere quiet in a large rambling house filled with constant sound; the lilting strains of classical music and opera, sporadic conversations of parents or the distant laughter and delighted screams of children learning to swim or training for competitions.
My favourite retreat was a picnic blanket in the back garden, carefully placed amidst forgotten fruit carcasses and fallen leaves. Partially shaded by black spotted, moss-covered orange and lemon trees, I often whiled away afternoons daydreaming or reading.
Occasionally I foraged for ripe strawberries in the nearby green-web-covered patch or snuck into the greenhouse to touch the forbidden silken petals of the multicoloured orchids.
These peaceful afternoons were usually interrupted when I was called in to complete homework, train in the pool or eat dinner.
I wanted to be a writer. A novelist, well known and successful like Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton, Ursula Le Guin, Raymond E. Feist, C. S. Lewis or Tolkien. I used to skip classes to read books and stayed behind at school to find that one book in the library or hound the librarian to chase the kid who hadn’t returned the book yet.
I lived with my grandparents when I was twelve and I would often wait impatiently for the post to arrive with a package from my mother with new books to read and notebooks that I would scratch away in with an old, ink quill pen.
I had a wonderful, structured (strict) home life with my grandparents. My grandfather was a scientist and after retiring early from the Gold Coast City Council, he spent most of his time cooking, playing golf and listening to opera. My grandmother (known fondly by the sobriquet ‘Brownie’) was a business owner and a swimming coach and we had an-enclosed 17 & ¾ inch, indoor heated pool next to the house. That ¾ inch had a touch of controversy (and humour) as those missing millimetres affected Grandma’s ability to coach kids past state level, and they often moved onto bigger clubs to pursue bigger competition dreams.
My grandparents were good looking, practical, highly engaging, intelligent people with a latent creativity, who’d married in their early twenties. They shared a love of opera, fine wine and quiet evenings playing scrabble and listening to the ABC or the ‘Goon Show.’
In their early twenties, their eyes had met across the room at a ballroom dancing social event, as satin skirts swished, and leather shoes squeaked over the dusty, scratched, polished-wood-floor. Grandpa was immediately enamoured with the beautiful, intelligent dark haired young woman, a lithe figure toned by years spent swimming and hiking with friends. A working-class boy, Grandpa held a day job and studied science in night school. He was intrigued by her elegance, wealthy upbringing, and clear insouciance, despite a challenging period, working and living on a farm during the war. Grandma found him intellectually engaging and down to earth, unlike the young men she’d dated studying to be doctors or lawyers, and perhaps a little ‘dangerous due to her family's disapproval. Grandpa supported her early aspirations to sing chorus in amateur opera productions, and they went onto compete in dance. They always looked the sharpest in the bunch in our families old tattered black and white photographs, with Grandma designing her dresses and learning to adjust his threadbare suits.
For myself, an introverted, quiet child who enjoyed reading books and writing, it was difficult to find somewhere quiet in a large rambling house filled with constant sound; the lilting strains of classical music and opera, sporadic conversations of parents or the distant laughter and delighted screams of children learning to swim or training for competitions.
My favourite retreat was a picnic blanket in the back garden, carefully placed amidst forgotten fruit carcasses and fallen leaves. Partially shaded by black spotted, moss-covered orange and lemon trees, I often whiled away afternoons daydreaming or reading.
Occasionally I foraged for ripe strawberries in the nearby green-web-covered patch or snuck into the greenhouse to touch the forbidden silken petals of the multicoloured orchids.
These peaceful afternoons were usually interrupted when I was called in to complete homework, train in the pool or eat dinner.
‘...intrinsically driven by a core value to put the needs of others before her own...’
Fast forward to today, what have you discovered about yourself, your dreams, hopes and wishes since then?
Like my grandparents, I put aside my creative pursuits for practical considerations.
I rarely utilised my writing skills in a professional setting with only a brief ‘paid’ sojourn when invited to edit documentary scripts. I experienced a sense of deep professional satisfaction when one of these documentaries about an artist fusing eastern and western painting techniques was launched at the Hong Kong Cultural Arts Centre. I also enjoyed co-creating an acculturation program for university scholarship students preparing to live away from Hong Kong.
Apart from deriving satisfaction in seeing many of my concepts and ideas implemented in work environments (usually under someone else’s name up the ranks) and effortlessly meeting deadlines, I mostly worked in corporate or teaching roles with great titles, that were slow moving, uninspired, and non-engaging.
I am a person, who will speak up -when others do not- about psychosocial workplace issues. I blame these sensibilities on my education in the ethics of journalism and reporting.
If I was a film character, I would be Elizabeth McKenna from “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,” who gave food to starving people after curfew, and was eventually shot in a Nazi war camp for attempting to stop a German soldier beating another prisoner. Elizabeth could not help herself, intrinsically driven by a core value to put the needs of others before her own, to maintain a standard in line with basic human rights, kindness and generosity. I had that same propulsion within myself.
Workplace Bullying:
I recently survived pervasive, ongoing workplace bullying, including, demotion without evidence, fielding complaints based on hearsay, public humiliation, coaching on attendance after taking time off due to stress and monitoring on the length and duration of my bathroom breaks. The psychological impact of persistent workplace denigration had long lasting affects on my confidence, emotional wellbeing and physical health.
When you experience a trauma once, you can remove yourself from the situation and then actively deal with the emotional impact or any PTSD symptoms by surrounding yourself with ongoing positive experiences and actively work on psychological, emotional, and physical wellbeing.
‘Continual, disrespect, ongoing incivility and negative reinforcement had a deeper, enduring detrimental impact on confidence and wellbeing than one traumatic act- for me.’
Ongoing bullying or similar experiences also causes you to enter a fight or flight state that can eventually freeze your ability to act or make healthy decisions, including leaving the environment.
Bullying doesn’t always end in the school environment, it ends when you actively choose an environment with healthy values.
Loss of work engagement and Identity:
When my joy in effortlessly reaching for excellence in the work environment was stripped from me, I lost a scaffolding that formed a large part of my identity.
Positive Outcome:
One of the positive outcomes from the experience, was my ability to produce creative work.
My focus shifted from achieving success or enjoyment in the work environment back to my early dream as a twelve-year-old of writing, and towards skills developed later in life, painting and singing.
I picked up my old paintbrushes and my out of tune guitar and began entering major poetry and song writing competitions, including the Judith Wright poetry prize and ‘Middle of the Air’ (a joint project with red room poetry the ABC and professional musicians). I also reworked a short story idea that is developing into a partially finished children’s novel currently at 67,000 words.
The Result:
I was happier which created a buffer between myself and the bullying and began a deep internal work towards greater personal fulfilment.
Like my grandparents, I put aside my creative pursuits for practical considerations.
I rarely utilised my writing skills in a professional setting with only a brief ‘paid’ sojourn when invited to edit documentary scripts. I experienced a sense of deep professional satisfaction when one of these documentaries about an artist fusing eastern and western painting techniques was launched at the Hong Kong Cultural Arts Centre. I also enjoyed co-creating an acculturation program for university scholarship students preparing to live away from Hong Kong.
Apart from deriving satisfaction in seeing many of my concepts and ideas implemented in work environments (usually under someone else’s name up the ranks) and effortlessly meeting deadlines, I mostly worked in corporate or teaching roles with great titles, that were slow moving, uninspired, and non-engaging.
I am a person, who will speak up -when others do not- about psychosocial workplace issues. I blame these sensibilities on my education in the ethics of journalism and reporting.
If I was a film character, I would be Elizabeth McKenna from “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,” who gave food to starving people after curfew, and was eventually shot in a Nazi war camp for attempting to stop a German soldier beating another prisoner. Elizabeth could not help herself, intrinsically driven by a core value to put the needs of others before her own, to maintain a standard in line with basic human rights, kindness and generosity. I had that same propulsion within myself.
Workplace Bullying:
I recently survived pervasive, ongoing workplace bullying, including, demotion without evidence, fielding complaints based on hearsay, public humiliation, coaching on attendance after taking time off due to stress and monitoring on the length and duration of my bathroom breaks. The psychological impact of persistent workplace denigration had long lasting affects on my confidence, emotional wellbeing and physical health.
When you experience a trauma once, you can remove yourself from the situation and then actively deal with the emotional impact or any PTSD symptoms by surrounding yourself with ongoing positive experiences and actively work on psychological, emotional, and physical wellbeing.
‘Continual, disrespect, ongoing incivility and negative reinforcement had a deeper, enduring detrimental impact on confidence and wellbeing than one traumatic act- for me.’
Ongoing bullying or similar experiences also causes you to enter a fight or flight state that can eventually freeze your ability to act or make healthy decisions, including leaving the environment.
Bullying doesn’t always end in the school environment, it ends when you actively choose an environment with healthy values.
Loss of work engagement and Identity:
When my joy in effortlessly reaching for excellence in the work environment was stripped from me, I lost a scaffolding that formed a large part of my identity.
Positive Outcome:
One of the positive outcomes from the experience, was my ability to produce creative work.
My focus shifted from achieving success or enjoyment in the work environment back to my early dream as a twelve-year-old of writing, and towards skills developed later in life, painting and singing.
I picked up my old paintbrushes and my out of tune guitar and began entering major poetry and song writing competitions, including the Judith Wright poetry prize and ‘Middle of the Air’ (a joint project with red room poetry the ABC and professional musicians). I also reworked a short story idea that is developing into a partially finished children’s novel currently at 67,000 words.
The Result:
I was happier which created a buffer between myself and the bullying and began a deep internal work towards greater personal fulfilment.
What advice would you give to your 12-year-old self today?
I was a happy, focused, successful twelve-year-old. Life with my grandparents created stability and confidence including all my extra curricular activities in music, acting classes and sport.
Unfortunately, I went to to live with my mother in my final years of school. She was a person who had put aside her early dreams after singing in bands and studying piano at a Conservatorium to become a legal secretary.
You could tell that she wasn’t satisfied with her choices or her relationships and her inability to understand the root cause of her unhappiness impacted my final years of schooling, including the ability to rely on others and form lasting friendships.
Despite being offered opportunities as class captain and school prefect, my grades plummeted along with my early university dreams, and I lost general motivation and developed lazy habits.
I started a degree at nineteen and struggled with focus and eventually dropped out following a traumatic experience. The lack of discipline and family support meant I missed unique opportunities including a Cadetship in television journalism and other offers in radio and newspapers. I moved back home into my mother's sphere, a cycle which took years to break.
Once I’d completely moved away from home, at the age of 24, I spent time rebuilding healthy organisational and motivation fuelled habits and went back to university at 26. With four credits under my belt, I finished a Communications degree at Griffith University in two years. In later years I completed a Grad cert TESOL and an MBA with Distinction. I was midway through a psychology degree when I encountered workplace bullying.
Hard Lessons:
After completing my first degree, I tried to recreate the early opportunities that had come to me effortlessly when I was nineteen, but this is when I learnt a few hard lessons.
1. It doesn’t matter how skilled, talented or hard working you are, sometimes it just comes down to ‘who likes you’ and who your connections are.
2. Workplace cultures are created from the top down.
3. Workplace cultures are comprised of individuals who set the tone for the environment.
4. You can only change your environment by changing the people around you.
I had my first taste of the impact of internal workplace cultures interviewing for journalism jobs at twenty eight and I didn’t meet a leader similar to the Prime TV news director who had offered me the television Cadetship until many years later (someone who promoted on talent and potential, took a person's character into consideration and disregarded distinctions such as private school backgrounds).
Advice:
If I was to provide advice to my twelve-year-old self, I would say the following:
1. Support systems are one your most important tools in life. Cultivate them early and fiercely hold onto those people.
2. Do not shut down and cut yourself off from people when life becomes challenging.
3. Find the people who get behind your dreams and encourage your personal interests, do not adapt yourself to others just to have people in your life.
4. There are some opportunities in life you can never re-create.
5. Keep working on your talents. Despite how the outside world looks or whether it matches your efforts, working on the things you love and enjoy ‘is a form of internal fuel.’
6. Internal sustainability is finite and requires continual work, this includes balancing all aspects of life, exercise, friendships, creative passions, or pursuits that inspire you.
7. Keep reading, reading, reading, and writing, writing, writing. Just keep working on your craft.
8. Align your interests, focus and energy with your passions.
9. Anything within you that is authentic will eventually push through into this world. It can do this as part of a naturally facilitated and joyful process or break through and painfully remind you intertwined with regret and lost time.
10. Feeling, processing and understanding deep emotions is the key to an unfettered and peaceful mind.
11. You will be happiest when you have a structured and balanced life, friendship, family and creative fulfilment. A career is only one part of a complete life.
12. You have all of the tools you need. Believe in your ability to create a good life.
13. Be open to people who want to be a part of your life and express joy in your success.
I was a happy, focused, successful twelve-year-old. Life with my grandparents created stability and confidence including all my extra curricular activities in music, acting classes and sport.
Unfortunately, I went to to live with my mother in my final years of school. She was a person who had put aside her early dreams after singing in bands and studying piano at a Conservatorium to become a legal secretary.
You could tell that she wasn’t satisfied with her choices or her relationships and her inability to understand the root cause of her unhappiness impacted my final years of schooling, including the ability to rely on others and form lasting friendships.
Despite being offered opportunities as class captain and school prefect, my grades plummeted along with my early university dreams, and I lost general motivation and developed lazy habits.
I started a degree at nineteen and struggled with focus and eventually dropped out following a traumatic experience. The lack of discipline and family support meant I missed unique opportunities including a Cadetship in television journalism and other offers in radio and newspapers. I moved back home into my mother's sphere, a cycle which took years to break.
Once I’d completely moved away from home, at the age of 24, I spent time rebuilding healthy organisational and motivation fuelled habits and went back to university at 26. With four credits under my belt, I finished a Communications degree at Griffith University in two years. In later years I completed a Grad cert TESOL and an MBA with Distinction. I was midway through a psychology degree when I encountered workplace bullying.
Hard Lessons:
After completing my first degree, I tried to recreate the early opportunities that had come to me effortlessly when I was nineteen, but this is when I learnt a few hard lessons.
1. It doesn’t matter how skilled, talented or hard working you are, sometimes it just comes down to ‘who likes you’ and who your connections are.
2. Workplace cultures are created from the top down.
3. Workplace cultures are comprised of individuals who set the tone for the environment.
4. You can only change your environment by changing the people around you.
I had my first taste of the impact of internal workplace cultures interviewing for journalism jobs at twenty eight and I didn’t meet a leader similar to the Prime TV news director who had offered me the television Cadetship until many years later (someone who promoted on talent and potential, took a person's character into consideration and disregarded distinctions such as private school backgrounds).
Advice:
If I was to provide advice to my twelve-year-old self, I would say the following:
1. Support systems are one your most important tools in life. Cultivate them early and fiercely hold onto those people.
2. Do not shut down and cut yourself off from people when life becomes challenging.
3. Find the people who get behind your dreams and encourage your personal interests, do not adapt yourself to others just to have people in your life.
4. There are some opportunities in life you can never re-create.
5. Keep working on your talents. Despite how the outside world looks or whether it matches your efforts, working on the things you love and enjoy ‘is a form of internal fuel.’
6. Internal sustainability is finite and requires continual work, this includes balancing all aspects of life, exercise, friendships, creative passions, or pursuits that inspire you.
7. Keep reading, reading, reading, and writing, writing, writing. Just keep working on your craft.
8. Align your interests, focus and energy with your passions.
9. Anything within you that is authentic will eventually push through into this world. It can do this as part of a naturally facilitated and joyful process or break through and painfully remind you intertwined with regret and lost time.
10. Feeling, processing and understanding deep emotions is the key to an unfettered and peaceful mind.
11. You will be happiest when you have a structured and balanced life, friendship, family and creative fulfilment. A career is only one part of a complete life.
12. You have all of the tools you need. Believe in your ability to create a good life.
13. Be open to people who want to be a part of your life and express joy in your success.
"What a journey!" - Yvonne T
"...You have a zest for life that will take you so far...."
It is hard to believe I had made it to Standard 7, the second last year of primary school and was almost done with school at that level! I am not sure what had me more excited, drawing near to leaving the boarding school that I had called home for most of the past 4 years, or the hope that I would not have to be sent to boarding school again in high school.
I was growing in age but I think a part of me felt like everything stopped the day I moved to a boarding school that was in a different State, far away from home, far away from the comforts that home brought, far away from the world I knew and into a place where the language was different, the food was unpalatable (the food at the boarding school was terrible) and the cold days got so bitterly cold that my fingers would burst into frost bite (we called them sausages).
There was a strangeness to growing up this way but I can't tell you what it was at the time - all I know was that it was hard and I wanted that experience to be over!
A part of little me was also tired and feeling alone from all the jokes and bullying made about how slender I was, with kids at school calling me 'skeleton'! Puberty had also done its thing and I was 'miss pimples' to others! I wanted to run away from it all! I wanted out so badly!
Yet even in the noise and discomforts of being 12 and feeling alone, I was not so alone. I had discovered poetry and art and found ways to channel my inner artist. I got the opportunity to stand on many stages representing my school with solo poetry recitations. Those were moments that I looked forward to, to stand before a crowd and recite my lines with passion and a knowingness. On other days it was the chance to use my calligraphy to write in people's letters when they asked me. Call it a writing assignment!
My thoughts often revolved on home, I wondered what my mum was doing, was she missing me? Was she thinking of me? Had my grandma gotten new chickens? Was my friend next door Elizabeth missing me? I couldn't wait to be home and share everything that had happened each term.
It was also at 12 that I got a sense of the concept of wanderlust. At the end of each term, my mother and step father would pick me up from school and we would embark on several days of road tripping - sometimes to the mountains, others to visit lakes, others to see hot springs that cooked your eggs in an instant, others were to parks and I remember one time seeing a whole flock of flamingos painting the sky pink when they all went in flight! Then there was the time when I got to ride an ostrich! I always looked forward to where else we would be going when schools closed.
School work was school work and somehow I managed to get it going, though I did get into trouble for lots of chatting in class. Perhaps I was always a story teller!
I felt caged by that boarding school experience but in so many ways it helped form the woman I am today.
I realise that I wasn't really dreaming or thinking about what the future would look like for me, I simply had moments to fill the time until I could move on to the next phase of my life (unknowing of what that was).
I have now become the woman who loves most things life...I love that I get to love, I love time with people, I love trips to galleries and sometimes my expression of art is moving paintings around my house and playing in my wardrobe (lol). I love being out in nature and enjoying the freedom it brings. I love music and sometimes cooking does turn into a kitchen dance session (Do not try this at home, lol). I still get excited by new experiences and the opportunity to travel.
I would say to 12 year old Yvonne... you are more resilient than you know. You have a zest for life that will take you so far. You will fall in love, meet wonderful amazing people and visit beautiful places. Hold fast to the longing you have of a better tomorrow because it is possible and achievable. Keep your mind and heart open to the new experiences that will come your way. Smile that big beautiful smile of yours and always know that you are special beyond words! And some day, you will be raising a 12 year old too! So glad you are here!
I was growing in age but I think a part of me felt like everything stopped the day I moved to a boarding school that was in a different State, far away from home, far away from the comforts that home brought, far away from the world I knew and into a place where the language was different, the food was unpalatable (the food at the boarding school was terrible) and the cold days got so bitterly cold that my fingers would burst into frost bite (we called them sausages).
There was a strangeness to growing up this way but I can't tell you what it was at the time - all I know was that it was hard and I wanted that experience to be over!
A part of little me was also tired and feeling alone from all the jokes and bullying made about how slender I was, with kids at school calling me 'skeleton'! Puberty had also done its thing and I was 'miss pimples' to others! I wanted to run away from it all! I wanted out so badly!
Yet even in the noise and discomforts of being 12 and feeling alone, I was not so alone. I had discovered poetry and art and found ways to channel my inner artist. I got the opportunity to stand on many stages representing my school with solo poetry recitations. Those were moments that I looked forward to, to stand before a crowd and recite my lines with passion and a knowingness. On other days it was the chance to use my calligraphy to write in people's letters when they asked me. Call it a writing assignment!
My thoughts often revolved on home, I wondered what my mum was doing, was she missing me? Was she thinking of me? Had my grandma gotten new chickens? Was my friend next door Elizabeth missing me? I couldn't wait to be home and share everything that had happened each term.
It was also at 12 that I got a sense of the concept of wanderlust. At the end of each term, my mother and step father would pick me up from school and we would embark on several days of road tripping - sometimes to the mountains, others to visit lakes, others to see hot springs that cooked your eggs in an instant, others were to parks and I remember one time seeing a whole flock of flamingos painting the sky pink when they all went in flight! Then there was the time when I got to ride an ostrich! I always looked forward to where else we would be going when schools closed.
School work was school work and somehow I managed to get it going, though I did get into trouble for lots of chatting in class. Perhaps I was always a story teller!
I felt caged by that boarding school experience but in so many ways it helped form the woman I am today.
I realise that I wasn't really dreaming or thinking about what the future would look like for me, I simply had moments to fill the time until I could move on to the next phase of my life (unknowing of what that was).
I have now become the woman who loves most things life...I love that I get to love, I love time with people, I love trips to galleries and sometimes my expression of art is moving paintings around my house and playing in my wardrobe (lol). I love being out in nature and enjoying the freedom it brings. I love music and sometimes cooking does turn into a kitchen dance session (Do not try this at home, lol). I still get excited by new experiences and the opportunity to travel.
I would say to 12 year old Yvonne... you are more resilient than you know. You have a zest for life that will take you so far. You will fall in love, meet wonderful amazing people and visit beautiful places. Hold fast to the longing you have of a better tomorrow because it is possible and achievable. Keep your mind and heart open to the new experiences that will come your way. Smile that big beautiful smile of yours and always know that you are special beyond words! And some day, you will be raising a 12 year old too! So glad you are here!
Im 12 years old - Mie mie W
All I could remember is my second elder sister teasing me and saying, “your mother is having another baby”. I was upset and saying that is not my mother, my mother is away and she will be back!
I was very close to my sister “Henny” she has been like my mother when my mother was absent.
My father had another woman in our home, since I did not know why she stayed with us, I knew she was my mother’s friend. She was really kind to me up to the time when I said she was not my mum, then she did not give me any more attention.
I remembered listening from the story tale about the evil step mother and sisters vividly that they are very cruel to their siblings, made them into slaves and thought about how that story related to me, my family and my story.
I remembered I had the best experience being in my childhood. Only after my mother’s away and never returned, I felt that I cannot rely on anyone! 3 of my bigger siblings have their own agenda and activity. I was the baby in the family, I did not get along with 2 brothers just above me, we constantly argued. One day he was really violent, leaving a big mark on my left wrist.
Of course despite all the good and the bad stuff that has happened in my life, I kept focussing on becoming stronger and stronger! No one can bully me, I became righteous in my world and I kept saying, I will not allow for myself to get defeated! I am in my own world, seeking love and tenderness from others, where sometimes this would confuse my childhood mind and experience!
I felt betrayed by someone that I worshipped, but later discovered the way I was spoken to was not right. He was a priest and I made an assumption that for someone to come from a place of worship of god and the church, that I could trust them (in this instance, that was not the case). I only discovered descriptions of mental abuse as an adult and later reflected on that time, as a time where I was not treated the way I should have been for a child.
Because of the family breakup, I did not have a stable place to stay. I lived from one home to another. I missed my mum and I rebelled a lot. I felt nothing was right for me, even though sometimes I was obedient to take direction and do what a child was told to do! I moved so frequently! I travelled from different states, from Jakarta to live in a missionary home in the hopes that I would get educated, instead, I became the “Nanny” for the people took me. It only lasted for 8 months. I requested them to send me home. I really did not have the family life that I always imagined with those people that I thought I would have!
Beside those things that happened to me in life, I survived to go on living. The “tips” to those who are reading this.....Never ever cut yourself short (I often think that way, when things didn't go the way I wanted them to, I had thoughts of leaving this world, but did not have the courage to take the action!) And so, here I am. I love to let you know no matter how hard you are experiencing the life that you are in! Remember, I have been and gone through so much in my life that you just can’t imagine but everything I have ever been through has got me to where I am today, and I can now see myself as strong and determined.
I cant say that life will always be easy, but what you do have is you, your mind, your thoughts, and you can guide yourself, no matter if you don't have the right ones around you, guiding you and you can check in with yourself when your thoughts are not serving you, and sometimes they wont.
My message to you, talk to someone, talk to anyone that who can get you out of your thoughts, if you are stuck!
Also speak to the one that you can really trust, your best friends at school! Your teachers that can hear your concern! Call the kids help line, or 000 in an emergency! Or go to the nearest hospital or police station if life threatening. Keep on being in communication about what is going on for you.
I was very close to my sister “Henny” she has been like my mother when my mother was absent.
My father had another woman in our home, since I did not know why she stayed with us, I knew she was my mother’s friend. She was really kind to me up to the time when I said she was not my mum, then she did not give me any more attention.
I remembered listening from the story tale about the evil step mother and sisters vividly that they are very cruel to their siblings, made them into slaves and thought about how that story related to me, my family and my story.
I remembered I had the best experience being in my childhood. Only after my mother’s away and never returned, I felt that I cannot rely on anyone! 3 of my bigger siblings have their own agenda and activity. I was the baby in the family, I did not get along with 2 brothers just above me, we constantly argued. One day he was really violent, leaving a big mark on my left wrist.
Of course despite all the good and the bad stuff that has happened in my life, I kept focussing on becoming stronger and stronger! No one can bully me, I became righteous in my world and I kept saying, I will not allow for myself to get defeated! I am in my own world, seeking love and tenderness from others, where sometimes this would confuse my childhood mind and experience!
I felt betrayed by someone that I worshipped, but later discovered the way I was spoken to was not right. He was a priest and I made an assumption that for someone to come from a place of worship of god and the church, that I could trust them (in this instance, that was not the case). I only discovered descriptions of mental abuse as an adult and later reflected on that time, as a time where I was not treated the way I should have been for a child.
Because of the family breakup, I did not have a stable place to stay. I lived from one home to another. I missed my mum and I rebelled a lot. I felt nothing was right for me, even though sometimes I was obedient to take direction and do what a child was told to do! I moved so frequently! I travelled from different states, from Jakarta to live in a missionary home in the hopes that I would get educated, instead, I became the “Nanny” for the people took me. It only lasted for 8 months. I requested them to send me home. I really did not have the family life that I always imagined with those people that I thought I would have!
Beside those things that happened to me in life, I survived to go on living. The “tips” to those who are reading this.....Never ever cut yourself short (I often think that way, when things didn't go the way I wanted them to, I had thoughts of leaving this world, but did not have the courage to take the action!) And so, here I am. I love to let you know no matter how hard you are experiencing the life that you are in! Remember, I have been and gone through so much in my life that you just can’t imagine but everything I have ever been through has got me to where I am today, and I can now see myself as strong and determined.
I cant say that life will always be easy, but what you do have is you, your mind, your thoughts, and you can guide yourself, no matter if you don't have the right ones around you, guiding you and you can check in with yourself when your thoughts are not serving you, and sometimes they wont.
My message to you, talk to someone, talk to anyone that who can get you out of your thoughts, if you are stuck!
Also speak to the one that you can really trust, your best friends at school! Your teachers that can hear your concern! Call the kids help line, or 000 in an emergency! Or go to the nearest hospital or police station if life threatening. Keep on being in communication about what is going on for you.
Deidre BWriter
Naomi PWriter
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Liz GWriter
Yvonne TStoryteller
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PlaceholderStoryteller
PlaceholderStoryteller
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Mie Mie WStoryteller
PlaceholderStoryteller
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We began with our stories... and now, it's your turn.
My reason for inviting stories of hope? I asked myself, how can I empower people, 12 year olds, to see that who they are, as they are matters? I remembered turning 12 and being 12 was filled with so many emotions for me. I realised sharing what being 12 feels like, might make it that much easier for another 12 year old to see, this is normal, I can do this, I can work through this, I can speak to someone, I matter, and I can be me.
Each of the contributors were invited to share their story:
I acknowledge you for the opportunity you have embraced to share your 12-year-old story, reflect on your journey and reach another young person who is waiting to hear your story, in the exact way that you express it.
To guide your reflection, here are those questions:
I want you to imagine being in a conversation with another 12 year old, when you are writing, such that you give the whole world and context of what happened and your experience, describe it in a way that let's this 12 year old in to your world.
- Rewind, your 12 years old - what are your dreams, hopes and wishes?
- Fast forward to today, what have you discovered about yourself, your dreams, hopes and wishes since then?
- What advice would you give to your 12-year-old self today?
By sharing your answers we hope to inspire just one 12 year old to see that their voice, their dreams, their futures matter. Your story can be the spark that reminds them to believe in themselves and to keep imagining what’s possible.
If you would like to contribute your story, share your details via the contacts page, and we will be in touch with you.
Each of the contributors were invited to share their story:
I acknowledge you for the opportunity you have embraced to share your 12-year-old story, reflect on your journey and reach another young person who is waiting to hear your story, in the exact way that you express it.
To guide your reflection, here are those questions:
I want you to imagine being in a conversation with another 12 year old, when you are writing, such that you give the whole world and context of what happened and your experience, describe it in a way that let's this 12 year old in to your world.
- Rewind, your 12 years old - what are your dreams, hopes and wishes?
- Fast forward to today, what have you discovered about yourself, your dreams, hopes and wishes since then?
- What advice would you give to your 12-year-old self today?
By sharing your answers we hope to inspire just one 12 year old to see that their voice, their dreams, their futures matter. Your story can be the spark that reminds them to believe in themselves and to keep imagining what’s possible.
If you would like to contribute your story, share your details via the contacts page, and we will be in touch with you.