The Girl and the Key: The Story

This is the story that ultimately led me here — to The Girl and the Key: In Conversation.

It is the story of my beginnings, and of the moments — some quiet, some pivotal — that shaped who I am today.

There are eight chapters. They were originally shared on my LinkedIn page, written in real time and without polish. I have chosen not to edit them here. What you will read is the story as it was told — raw, imperfect, and true — complete with the edges and errors that come when you first start writing.

I am sharing it this way deliberately. Because sometimes it is the unedited stories that open the most doors.

Chapter I

Over the last few years, I have been asked more and more to share my story. Those who asked me suggested that it may help others on their path through life.

The often very loud critical voice in my head, that I have recently named Stern Babette, kept telling me that this is ridiculous, who the hell would want to listen to my story, and why would I have anything to say that may be helpful! But, I have decided to do it anyway. Who knows, perhaps someone will find it useful, and if nothing else, maybe a little entertaining.

As I sit down to write the story, I have decided to take the traditional path and ask myself the question of: what advice would I give to my younger self. I guess what is not surprising, is that the process provided me with insights about myself that I may otherwise have not gained.

As I started writing, one thing became clear. I discovered that a part of me, the part that still makes decisions and shapes my life today, is the little girl, with a house key around her neck, that has been making decisions thinking that the responsibility and results of all those decisions, and decisions made by others, rest fully on her tiny shoulders.

Bus stop 57 Św. Bonifacego, Warsaw, Poland

Election time.

One of my first strong memories is when I was 5 or so years old. I felt very proud to be walking to my kindergarten on my own, holding my small fabric bag that held my indoor shoes. Feeling tall and very grown up!

The kindergarten was less than 200 metres from my apartment block, just across a park. We were self-managing kids, the kids with the house key around our necks, and walking ourselves to school was just what we did.

My mum did shift work. Her shift would start at 7am and would finish at 2pm, the next day she would start at 2pm and finish late. Dad started work early every day.

On the days that mum started at 7am, I would wake up to breakfast already set out on our tiny kitchen counter. The whole apartment was 54 square meters. On those days, breakfast was often three sponge biscuits in a bowl; all I had to do was add milk.

I liked feeling that I could take care of myself. I felt independent and confident.

I don’t exactly remember how this came about, but my kindergarten teacher asked me if my parents had voted in the federal election. I told her they didn’t. A few days later, my mother was yelling at me that I should never, never, ever tell anyone about anything that happens at home. That if I say something wrong, my parents would go to jail and I would never see them again! I remember being very confused, upset and scared. From that time, I was continuously told that I talk too much, and was regularly reminded not to tell anyone anything about us.

Years later, I understood that the government was watching everyone, and people disappeared if their views didn’t align with the communist party line. My parents were trying to keep us safe.

When I look back at when my son was 5 and at other children of that age, my mind boggles at how a 5 year old could possibly understand and function safely in such a hostile environment. There are many worse situations currently occurring around the globe, and my heart goes out to those children and their parents. What a horrible, horrible way to live.

I started to build a shield around myself. Slowly over the years, brick by brick, building a façade. To the outside world I looked fine, everything was normal, but inside confusion and fear grew.

Bus stop 53 Czarnomorska, Warsaw, Poland

My primary school was a little further away than my kindergarten, but not by much, about 400 meters from the apartment block. It was close enough that if I happen to forget something, I could make it there and back, at a run, between the two school bells.

I liked school, especially mathematics at which I excelled. I also fell in love with reading. To this day I read every day.

By 12 I read most of the classics. I especially liked Greek, Roman and Middle Eastern mythology, anything by Jules Verne, Henryk Sienkiewicz and basically anything else I could get my hands on. At 11 I won the school prize for most read books in one year. In case you are wondering, yes I am an introvert. I do like spending time with people, but books were my first love.

I loved reading so much that I would read by the moonlight, which happened when it was bedtime and the lights were turned off. I also remember reading with a torch, hidden under the covers, so that my parents would not see. Just like Harry Potter!

On occasions when my mother felt I was reading too much, she would take my books and house key away, place me outside the door and tell me not to come back until dinner. I remember feeling a bit shell shocked, staring at the closed door, thinking what do I do now?! The only option was to wonder the park outside our apartment block, looking for kids to play with. Sometimes I found some, sometimes not.

In the early 1980s, the government instigated martial law in an attempt to counter growing political opposition, mainly the Solidarity movement. Life was drastically restricted, curfews were in place, and so were random searches. People still worked and met for celebrations, but we had to be home by 9pm. It was like COVID on steroids with additional fear as people kept disappearing.

My parents shielded my brother and I from most of it. But I remember food shortages, and shortages of other everyday goods, such as toilet paper. I don’t ever remember being hungry, or going without necessities, but food was often very basic.

I also never thought of us as poor. We were lucky enough to always have toilet paper, but it was common to go to visit others and find newspaper cut into squares placed next to the toilet. No matter how much you rubbed it together to soften it prior to use, it just didn’t feel great.

Throughout this time, there were many visitors at home and quiet conversations behind closed doors. I became very good at sneaking quietly to the door and listening in. I was a very curious child.

I can’t say I understood much of what was discussed but later found out that my father was involved with the Solidarity movement. In the end, it meant we had to leave the country.

Leaving Poland

The summer of my 12th birthday felt surreal. My parents sat my brother and me down in the living room and told us that we would be leaving Poland after the summer break. They said that we will be going on a 5-day holiday to Italy, and that after the 5 days, they will ask the Italian government to accept us as refugees.

All I remember is the fear. They told us that under no circumstances are we to tell anyone about this. If we did, they would be arrested and we would never see them again. We were told to act normal, enjoy the summer, and the first few weeks of school.

Looking back, I wish they didn’t tell us. It was a terrifying time. I was continuously worried that somehow the government will find out. They didn’t, and the day came to go to the airport.

We left early, wearing many layers of clothing, including winter jackets, as we could only bring one bag each.

At the airport my parents split up. I went with my mum and my brother went with my dad. They did this to bring less attention to the fact that we were traveling as a whole family.

I still remember the fear and the continuous reminder by my mother to act normally and not bring attention to us.

Finally, we made it onto the plane and to Rome. I don’t remember the flight.

Rome, Italy

Rome was wonderful. Loud, colourful and exotic. People were yelling everywhere, waving their hands around.

We got to visit the Colosseum, Trevi fountain, St Peter’s Basilica and attended a mass with the Pope - where my mother pushed through the crowd with me in her arm so that the Pope touch my forehead and bless me.

We ate pizza, slept in really uncomfortable beds and had the best of times.

At the end of the 5 days, we packed our bags and reported to an official-looking building. My brother and I sat on the sidewalk, guarding our four bags, whilst our parents applied for refugee status.

That night we slept a tiny room, on military beds, with very loud cicada playing its song just outside our window. I couldn’t sleep.

I didn’t know what was going to happen to us. I just knew that I would never be going home again. 

Chapter II

Capua, Italy

Two weeks later, Italy accepted us as refugees, and we were moved to a more permanent refugee camp site in Capua. A small old roman town, 40 kilometers outside of Naples.

We lived in housing built for the region in case of a volcanic eruption. The complex was surrounded by a tall fence with guards at the front who carried guns.

Our family were allocated a room that was big enough to put four military beds, a couple of metal double door wardrobes, a small table and four chairs. Over time my mum made it feel more like home, decorating it as best as she could.

Three times a day, we would line up in front of a cafeteria building for food. The food was served into a military style, metal stackable 3 tier containers which we would carry back to our room.

Once the fear settled down a bit, I enjoyed the new exotic tastes of pasta, bocconcini (which I love to this day), and of course, the glorious taste of Nutella!

I also learned most of Madonna’s songs as our English teacher used pop music in an attempt to teach us English, and Madonna was her favourite artist.

It was a tough time for my parents. There was no work for men, but mum managed to get a cleaning job, which then allowed us to purchase a few small luxuries, such as chewing gum.

I have a vivid memory of going to the supermarket for the first time. I felt completely overwhelmed! There was colour everywhere! And the shelves were full!

The colour came from the packaging. In Poland the shelves where mainly metal, and empty. If goods were available, they were kept at the back of the shop. Shops felt muted, with little or no colour.

I have a lot of fond memories from the year we spent in Italy. As a child, I ran wild, climbed trees, got to see Vesuvius, visited Pompei and played with other children of similar age. I learned Italian from Vietnamese children whose families have been living in the camp for many years.

It was also the first time I came across racism and the concept of privilege.

Another goodbye and a new beginning

After 13 months, Australia accepted our family, but the many Vietnamese families were not that lucky and spent decades waiting for a country to offer them a permanent home.

This is also where the child/parent relationship started reversing for me. I learned Italian quickly and became the family translator. When we had to go to the Australian embassy in Rome, it was my father and I that went. Somewhere along the way I became the head of the family. A role that I was not prepared for and continued to weigh heavily on me.

The day we left for Australia was bittersweet. I was leaving very close friends behind, knowing that I would likely never see them again. The bonds we formed were strong, as it often happens when going through traumatic, life changing experiences. It wasn’t fear that I felt, like it was when I was leaving Poland, it was overwhelming grief. But by this time, I was very good at hiding my emotions, I was expected to just get on with it, and so I did.

The four of us got onto the bus taking us to the airport, with one bag of clothes each and 100 US dollars in my father’s pocket.

Bus stop 2 Wayville, Adelaide, South Australia

After an arduous 24+ hour journey, of which I spent most of in the toilet vomiting and/or passed out in a seat, we arrived in Adelaide. We were escorted to our temporary home in Wayville, a suburb just outside the Adelaide city centre.

Adelaide is a beautiful city, surrounded by parklands on all four sides. Wayville is one of the leafy green, affluent suburbs at a walkable distance to the city centre.

After a brief rest in our beautiful, 3-bedroom apartment, we decided to walk into the city.

I remember everything was very green and clean. Italy for all its beauty and wonders was often quite dirty and littered.

It was October; the weather was mild. We made it into the city centre around 6pm. I have a distinct memory of my mother turning to my father and asking, ‘where the heck did you bring me!’. It was 6pm and the city centre was dead. No people, all shops shut. It felt desolate.

A feeling of dread settled into my belly. It was a long time before that feeling faded.

Bus stop 24A, St Marys

My brother and I were sent to a language centre for children. The centre was incorporated within Daw Road High School. My parents attended English classes for adults in the city, whilst trying to find work.

The beautiful accommodation we stayed in was heavily subsidised by the government. We had six months to find another home or pay full rent.

My father found a job first. He was a qualified tool maker and diesel mechanic. Jobs that are still in high demand today. My mother was a hairdresser but needed to complete a top up certification to be able to find a job.

We couldn’t afford the higher rent so after the six months was up, we moved into a tiny two-bedroom, third floor apartment located in St Marys next to three major roads. Public transport was important, so that worked well.

My family wasn’t particularly religious, but as many refugees do, we attended church every Sunday, and my parents made new friends. After saying goodbye to my close childhood friends twice, I wasn’t interested in making new friends. It was just too painful.

I also didn’t want to learn English. I understand now that it was my way of rebelling and dealing, or perhaps not dealing, with grief and trauma. Looking back, I wish that we had access to counselling and tools that would have helped us adjust quicker and better. It is wonderful that today, there is access to and more acceptance of such help.

Bus stop 18, Pasadena – High School

Eventually though, learn English I did. Or at least became proficient enough that after spending about a year in a language centre, I was sent to the second half of year nine in a public school.

The transition was made a little easier as the language centre was incorporated into a local school. When I say a little easier, it wasn’t by much.

With basic English and a heavy Eastern European accent, school was not easy. The only topic I had no issues with was mathematics. The five years of Polish education ensured that I didn’t come across new material until sometime in year ten.

In addition to trying to navigate the new language, I was dealing with a major culture shock, and let’s not forget puberty!

I couldn’t fathom why people walked around barefoot or didn’t dress ‘properly’. Polish culture is very formal. I grew up with people, especially women, having their hair and makeup done just to take the rubbish out. I had to be immaculate to be allowed to leave the house, yet here we were in a country full of people with no shoes, and wearing tank tops, which to me were undergarments! I love the relaxed culture now, but it took me a long time to become comfortable with it. Plus, everyone called everyone by their first name. That was simply not done in my culture; it still is not, unless the person is asked, and permission is given, usually after a shot or two of vodka.

So, while I was trying to navigate puberty, dating, and schoolwork, the child/parent relationship permanently reversed for me. I later learned that this is quite common in refugee families. Young children learn a new language faster, and parents start relying heavily on them to help the family survive.

From my early teenage years, I was navigating social services support for the family, attending job interviews with my parents, hairdresser training with my mother, looking for rental accommodation, negotiating payment plans, resolving traffic accidents, and anything else that required knowledge of the English language.

I also negotiated buying property, home loans, and disputes with tradespeople when things were not going to plan with the house we were building. There is nothing like being yelled at in Polish by the very frustrated parents while trying to negotiate with builders.

Perhaps not surprisingly, by fifteen, I started to rebel.

I was doing well enough at school, but with very little supervision, and my parents’ inability to check on my school progress, I started skipping school, dating and going out clubbing.

I still managed to get good grades, but long story short, in my last year of high school, I found myself pregnant. As my interest was in STEM subjects and I had good teachers, they strongly encouraged me to continue high school, but in the end, I left without graduating.

For some unknown reason, I seriously thought that I was mature enough to raise a family. It is very hard not to laugh at myself now, but being young and having no idea what it meant, and with my son’s father wanting us to be a family, it is the decision I made.

My poor parents didn’t know what hit them. I can only imagine the horror they would have gone through. To make it worse for them, I refused to get married. It took me years to understand what that cost them; they lost ‘friends’ as it was not acceptable within the Polish community to have a child out of wedlock.

Alex was born exactly two weeks after my twentieth birthday.

Bus stop 66, Beach Road, Christies Beach

Life got hard very quickly.

Looking back, I can see that I was too proud to ask for help. My parents would have helped to whatever extent they could, but for whatever reason, I was determined to do everything on my own. Perhaps it was to prove a point, but to this day, I don’t really know what drove that.

Alex’s father and I moved out of home, into emergency housing. We were provided with some basic furniture and set up a home. My son’s father, Paul, started a university degree, and we tried to be a family.

Overall, this was one of the darkest times in my life. There were times when food was in short supply, and I always knew, to the dollar, how much money we had.

Paul struggled with being a young father and a student, and in the end, dropped out of his studies. We lived in a very low socio-economic area with a high crime rate - we got robbed by our next-door neighbour. Police raids were a common occurrence in the area; I did not feel safe. I remember looking out of my living room window one evening and seeing a man being stabbed a few meters away. I have never felt that helpless and hopeless before.

When Alex was around one, my physics professor visited my home and tried to encourage me to come back and finish high school. I gave it a go, but Alex didn’t sleep very well at night, and I found I was just too tired and overwhelmed to continue.

Eventually, he started sleeping better, and I started working part-time to support us. By this time, his dad and I had separated, and I moved into a slightly better part of Adelaide. At least there were no more neighbours trying to kill me or each other.

Life was hard. I was a young single parent, with no education and a part-time job as a sales assistant in a smallgoods shop. A job that wasn’t going to provide long-term for my son. I remember thinking: this couldn’t be it! This couldn’t be what our life was going to be like.

Something had to change. 

Chapter III

University

I was determined to provide a better future for my son. In a way, he became my guiding light, my inspiration.

Finishing high school wasn't for me, but somewhere along the way, I heard that universities accepted mature entry students via an examination that showed you had the aptitude for learning.

This was a different type of fear! Trying to deal with the incessant negative voice in my head, aka Stern Babette, telling me that I just wasn’t smart enough, that my English wasn’t good enough, or the ‘who the hell do you think you are that you can do this!?’.

At times like this, it really helps if you have someone in your life who believes in you. Even just a little. I didn’t tell many people I was going to sit the test, that was just too scary! But I did share my aspiration with a couple trusted friends.

I was careful who I spoke to, some people want to keep you down just for daring to move towards success or taking any steps to improve yourself or your circumstances. I believe this is because your steps towards growth force them to reflect on their lives, and they may not like what they see.

We are often more afraid of success than we are of failure. Success often means that you have to leave some people behind and that can be extremely hard. But you can’t succeed if someone is continuously pulling you back and making you doubt yourself. You need to let those people go, and that in itself is not easy.

When I was researching how to prepare for the test, and at that time it meant making a lot of phone calls to various educational institutions, I found a short course in an adult learning centre that helped me prepare. Luckily, it was inexpensive as money was really tight.

I remember going to the exam, feeling scared out of my mind. Nervous as hell and trying to focus on the questions. Many deep breaths later, and actively ignoring Stern Babette, the exam was done and the waiting for the results began.

I forgot to mention that throughout my research, I decided on a commerce degree. My motivation was simple: get a degree that would give me the biggest chance of getting a secure, stable job that would support my son.

The results were being published in the newspaper. This was before the internet made our lives so much easier! A friend of mine drove into town at midnight to get an early edition, while I stayed home with my son. My parents were waiting by the phone to hear the results.

I got in. I still have the newspaper clipping somewhere. Excuse me for a minute whilst I go and dig it out.

Amongst pages and pages of names, there was mine: Monika Sikora, B.Comm. I felt stunned.

It’s hard to describe the extreme feeling of joy, with equal amounts of petrification mixed into it!

When my brain started functioning again, I called my parents, and in the not-so-wonderful Polish way, my father’s comment was: Well, you got in. Now let’s see if you’ll make it through the first year.

Relationships

I will pause here for a moment to talk about dating. I didn’t date a lot when my son was young and there where many years during which I was single. Between raising Alex, studying and working there really wasn’t much time for anything else. When I did date, I was very careful who I introduced to my son.

I have also witnessed, and at a point later in life, experienced domestic violence, hence why I was very careful who I brought into my home. Sadly, I have found that violence against women spans all socio-economic spheres and has not diminished so far in my lifetime. If anything, COVID-19 resulted in a significant increase in domestic violence. We have a lot to do to fix this tragic issue.

Bus stop 27A Flinders Drive, Flinders Uni

I found a small two-bedroom unit to rent close to the campus, quit my part-time job and found daycare for Alex. The first day I had to drop him off at care, my heart broke. He hated being left there (at least at the start), and it really worried me and pulled at my heartstrings. For those of us that need to go to work, or study, and have young children, life is never easy. It doesn’t help that there’s still a lot of stigma about women putting their kids into daycare. It makes me feel very sad to think of all the negativity we experience. We should be supporting mothers, not making things harder for them.

Over the years, I’ve heard it all. ‘How could you do this to your child!? He’s going to grow up without love, and you are just dumping him into care! What kind of a person are you?’ I also received a lot of negative comments from people about being an unwed mother. It just wasn’t done. Just to make it clear, it was my choice not to get married. It is not something I was interested in. Of course, this meant that my poor son is stuck with a very long, hyphenated, complex surname.

Today, being an unwed mother is much more accepted, but I was rejected by many in my social circles. It got quite lonely at times. Luckily, I had a small, but strong, positive support network. A couple of those friends are still in my life today; some have come and gone. I have been blessed with meeting many amazing people along the way. I look forward to new friends that will come into my life as I explore new paths.

I have learned to actively seek out support and offer same in return. None of us do it alone. It took me years to learn to accept help when offered, and many more years to learn to ask for it.

It is a daily struggle for me not to take on too much. I still find it hard to recognise when I should be asking for help, but it is getting easier. We really are not meant to do it alone; in fact, we never do. It takes many people to create the wonderful community we call Australia.

Besides having wonderful friends, who know me with all my imperfections and yet are still with me, I sought professional help.

Over the years, I found amazing counsellors and psychologists who created a safe space for me to work through trauma and the everyday struggles we all experience. They armed me with tools that helped me at first, survive and ultimately thrive.

Uni was tough. Especially the first year. I knew nothing about accounting, economics and law. I had to learn again how to learn, and I had to do it fast! Plus, I was still learning English which made things more difficult. To this day I struggle with the pronunciation of some words, like available, it always feels like a tongue twister to me!

I envied the younger crowd that could focus on their studies 100% and participate in social and sports groups. For me it was: get up in the morning, get my son ready for childcare, go to uni, pick up my son from care, cook dinner, spend time with him until 7pm, get him ready for bed, read him a bedtime story, study until 9 or 10pm, and do it all over again the next day. Life became a blur, but I kept moving forward.

Sometimes things got so hard and dark that I had to focus on one day at a time, or part of, and just manage that. Later on in life I came across a quote that I wish I knew then: Sometimes courage is simply being able to say, I will try again tomorrow. It would have helped on the days when I felt overwhelmed, struggling to move forward.

I remember one day, I had an economics exam coming up, and I accidentally cut my hand when I was washing dishes. Being a single parent meant that I had to pack my son into the car, whilst trying not to get blood on everything, and drive to the hospital to get stitches. I sat in the waiting room, preparing for an economics exam, with my son on my lap, waiting for the doctor. I got many interesting looks that day.

First professional job

During my second year, my lecturers started talking about getting work experience. The advice was that as an adult entry I will find it very difficult to find work, as the accounting firms were looking for younger graduates. This really worried me. I really didn’t know any better, and to a large extent, this fear shaped the first part of my career.

Halfway through my second year, I saw a two-week job experience placement being advertised with a small accounting practice that specialised in insolvency. I applied and was selected.

The next problem was finding enough money for a suit, shirts and office shoes. It wasn’t easy, but I managed. There were many wonderful second-hand shops around. Today, you can find inexpensive items online.

I had no idea what I was doing. Looking back, the firm didn’t do a great job with either its undergraduates or any new starters. There was no training or induction. I simply got shown to a desk, and told to write a letter to a creditor.

I remember sitting at my desk, mind blank, trying to figure out what I could do next.

I was very lucky that I sat next to a wonderful young woman, Leah, who had about a year or so of experience. I am forever grateful to her for taking me under her wing and helping me learn and manage.

The job was tough. Not only because this was my first professional job, but also because of my dream of what it would be like to work with professional people was shuttered rather quickly.

My parents were both tradespeople, and so were most of their friends. I assumed that professional people were actually, you know, professional, and acted with integrity and respect. They did not.

My heart broke a little when I realised this. On top of it, I landed in a male-dominated industry, where a dog-eat-dog mentality prevailed, with very poor treatment of women.

It really wasn’t fun, but I did make a few friends and learnt to survive. I didn’t feel that I had much choice, and going backwards was not an option.

Driven by fear of not getting employed by other accounting firms due to my old age, late 20s, I took the part time job I was offered. This meant I had to shift to part time study as well, as the job required daytime hours.

I learned to deal with crazy workloads, taking dozens of phone calls from creditors a day who often lost a lot of money, whilst working to really tight legislative deadlines. I learned to deal with death threats, suicide attempts, angry directors, angry shareholders, angry creditors and being called every name under the sun by people who lost it all.

On the positive side, over my 10-year insolvency career, I got to trade many different businesses including petrol stations, farms, exporters, security firms, restaurants, kiln factories and many others.

I grew really tough, learning to handle sometimes insanely difficult situations, such as a staff member of an Australian meat export company I was operating, being held hostage with his family in a Middle Eastern country.

None of my education to date provided me with the tools to deal with these scenarios. The firm partners simply expected you to deal with it, or leave.

On top of that we were continuously told that the labour market was tight and there were no jobs around. So, I stayed.

So many refugees face similar challenges. We come from different cultures, and we often come from countries where we are taught to fear, or at the very least not to question authority figures. We also don’t have the networks and connections that help people understand that there are other options. Today, the internet is a wonderful tool that helps people connect and explore options.

Additional qualifications needed

After graduating and coming on board with the firm full time, I commenced my post graduate studies. I needed to become either CA or CPA qualified to advance and work towards a liquidator’s licence.

At this point my ten-year plan was: get my post graduate study finished, stay sane and somehow make sure that what little time I had with my son was of the highest quality.

By this time, I had started learning how to ask for help. I was lucky, my mother was able and willing to help me with my son. She would get up at 6am every morning, drive 20km to my house and take Alex to school. Then she would pick him up and look after him until I came home from work around 6pm. She also stayed with him when I had to work late, which was a fairly common occurrence.

So, the routine was slightly adjusted but basically continued in a similar way to what I had been doing before. Get Alex ready for school, go to work, come home, spend a couple of hours with him, read him a story before bed, get asked for what felt like an ocean of water by Alex, who didn’t want to sleep, and study. On Saturday, I studied for around 6 hours, then took care of housework, laundry, and shopping. Sundays were set aside for my son; we would do something fun together.

When he got a little older, and when I started earning a little bit more money, we would go out to dinner every Wednesday night. It was our date night, and a good way to keep connected.

It is interesting what we find to be a chore vs a pleasure. Because of my full-time work, I was unable to take Alex to school. So, when I could, it felt like a gift. This usually only happened when I used my annual leave to study for exams. Sadly, his friends thought I was his older sister and my mum, his mum.

Laundry and ironing were not a pleasure. I learned quickly what fabric washed better and only required little or no ironing, if hung to dry just the right way. Alex learned how to iron his school shirts, which basically meant that during winter only the shirt collars and cuffs were ironed! The rest, as he pointed out to me, were under the jumper and it would be silly to waste the time ironing something that no one would see! 

Chapter IV

CA vs CPA

The firm I worked for was a Chartered Accounting (CA) firm, and the expectation was that all graduates obtain the CA designation. Without the designation, there was no advancement or pay rise.

When I took the full-time job, I became financially worse off. This was due to the government subsidies no longer being available to me - including subsidised medical costs and rent assistance.

It took about four years before I was back on the same footing. However, I knew that longer term we will be better off. Basically, it was important for me to progress and earn more money.

I really struggled with the CA studies. It required contact hours and group assignments, which I found difficult to manage. I didn’t have the same flexibility as other students, who didn’t have young children.

Around this time, I was being pushed out of the firm I worked for and had to find new work.

This is a story for another time, but basically, it is not a good idea to drink too much at a work function and tell your boss’s wife that her husband is the biggest #&@$%^ you’ve ever met. It did teach me to deal with issues as they arise rather than let loose at the most inappropriate moment.

As it often is, things do work out better than we fear, and I felt a lot of fear during this time. Looking for another job in a tight labour market was scary, but I managed to secure a job with another insolvency firm.

It was a bigger firm, and stars aligned for me a little more there. The firm was going through a growth period, and they were seriously investing in their people. The work was still tough and workloads high, but I had the opportunity to expand my knowledge base into other aspects of accounting practice, such as auditing, financial accounting and taxation. All of which came very handy later on.

The firm was also open to staff getting either a CA or a CPA designation, as some of the partners in the firm were CPAs. After struggling for a while with the sense of failure, Stern Babette was in full swing, and I changed my study to CPA.

The main driver was the fact that CPA study was a 100% exam with no contact hours or group assignments. This meant I was able to manage the study around work and Alex. The catch was that you had to get at least 75% score to pass.

In the end, I was very proud to get my CPA Australia designation, including attaining a Certificate of Merit, awarded to the top 5% CPA candidates, for outstanding result in the Business Strategy and Leadership subject of the CPA Program.

Networking

As part of my associate CPA membership, I got to attend networking events tailored to women in the accounting profession. These events changed my life.

Up to this point, I was basically the only, or one of very few women attending work functions. I will share a little bit more on how much fun these functions were later on.

Attending these events, organised by and held for women, simply opened up my world and helped me get to where I am today. There is something very special and different about these types of events. I always felt more relaxed and welcomed.

At one of these events, the organising committee called out for new members. I wanted to get involved, but Stern Babette was very loud in my head. At this point in my career, I felt very small, and I didn’t think what I had to contribute would be of much value. Basically, I didn’t see myself as a worthy candidate.

I didn’t have examples around me that showed me a path or helped guide me. One of the really difficult aspects for refugees is that we often don’t know how to fit in. We don’t know what’s acceptable and what’s not. Once again, the internet is a wonderful tool to help in these scenarios, but it wasn’t available to me.

In the end, I decided to ask one of the committee members what the role would involve. I found out that a lot of it was about helping set up a room and guide attendees in. That I could do.

It was a wonderful growing experience. The women were very welcoming, and my confidence grew. They encouraged me to get involved more, including facilitating events. This was quite scary, especially because my English was very heavily accented, and some people had a difficult time understanding me.

I stayed involved for many years and helped grow the success of the events. I also made many connections, which not only helped me with my career, but also with my personal life. There were many wonderful women that provided me with advice on raising boys and other life matters.

I should probably mention that the façade I started building when I was a young child, continued to solidify during my early career years. It became quite thick, to the point where it just became me. This meant that I didn’t trust anyone and found it almost impossible to open up to people about my life.

For many of us that come to Australia as refugees, from countries where we are can’t trust the government, and fear is a normal part of life, the shift to trusting is really difficult. It is hard to know what to say, no matter how simple, to whom. So, sharing the often heavy load of life is tough.

Over the years, I’ve had to work hard to let go of that. Being part of the committee, and meeting women that would share their stories, really helped me with that. To this day, I still occasionally feel surprised at the many random acts of kindness, love and care that those close to me show me.

Spend your time with people you like

As part of my professional life, it was expected that we network with the aim of bringing business to the firm. This meant wining and dining with lawyers, bankers and auctioneers, who for the most part were male. It also meant a lot of drinking.

I remember many a year, when by the time Christmas came about, I was so over eating and drinking that over the two-week holiday period, for which the firm was closed, I didn’t drink any alcohol or eat much food.

The nice part of going along to networking lunches and dinners was that I got to go to restaurants that I would not have been able to afford to go to on my own. And I did have a good time at some of them, but for the most part, it was me, the only woman, with a few men who, after a few drinks, deteriorated into fairly unpleasant company. There is not much fun in participating in a discussion about whether women’s natural breasts feel and/or look better than those post-plastic surgery. I should mention that on this occasion, the gentlemen did land on a natural breast being much more attractive, which may be encouraging to some.

My time was, and still is, very precious to me. I’ve never really had much time for leisure, and as my confidence grew, I made the decision to not spend time with people I don’t like and/or share common values. Even from business perspective it wasn’t worth it. The reality is that you are unlikely to get business from people that you don’t connect with. And I couldn’t connect with majority of these people.

International Women’s Insolvency & Reconstruction Confederation (SA)

The longer I was in practice, the more frustrated I became about the lack of support available.

I watched many people, men and women, come and go, because yes the job was and continued to be tough - we dealt with people experiencing what most likely is the worse time in their lives - but a lot of it was due to lack of support from the firms.

I saw both men and women being completely overwhelmed by the job, crying when they thought no one was looking, and/or drinking to excess to manage the stress. One of my colleagues, a young woman, was sent out to deal with a director of a company, that had just entered into liquidation, and found him hanging. Once she called the office and dealt with the police, she was expected to return to the office and keep working. This was the norm.

I also got very tired of going to functions and being the only women there. Most women avoided these functions, if they could. I often wondered how many women there actually are.

A few years into my career I decided to reach out and see what the numbers were and test if there would be women interested in meeting and creating a support network.

I asked one of the liquidators I worked with if he knew any. He gave me two names, which I added to my very short list.

What happened next was simply amazing. When I reached out to these women they jumped on board. Not only were they interested, they all knew at least one more woman that was as well.

We met and floated ideas about what the network could look like and what its function would be. Did we want to keep something informal or formalise it into something more solid? It was clear from the start that there was a strong need, with quite a few women feeling isolated and yearning for connection.

We decided to set up an incorporated not-for-profit member organisation. I was asked to be the inaugural president. A role I was proud to take on. This is not to say that it didn’t came with a lot of fear and uncertainty, my internal critic was shouting loudly! But the need was greater than it was.

A curious thing happened. We came across an astonishing amount of resistance from our male counterparts. They actively tried to shut us down. I was told by the industry leaders in South Australia that we couldn’t do it, that a profession body already existed and supported the profession. The fact that suddenly about 70 women came out of the woodwork, didn’t seem to make the point to them that the profession wasn’t supporting them.

All we were doing is setting up a network to connect and support each other. We were not setting up a new profession body. Yet the resistance was great.

It got so bad at one point, that besides being asked why we want to set up a knitting circle, we could just do that at home, firm partners were telling women not to be involved and that they couldn’t attend events during work hours. We responded to that by holding the events either as a breakfast or after work hours.

There’s one distinct moment that has been cemented in my mind. I asked the secretary of the professional body to give me two minutes at an industry dinner to promote the network, ask the leaders to sponsor an event, and encourage their staff to join.

He agreed. So, there I was, standing in front of mainly male audience, basically a sea of black suits, asking for their support. At this point, one of these wonderful males, called out ‘Maybe if you bring me the membership form on your knees!’.

The sad thing was, it didn’t surprise me. Yes, I felt stunned for a moment, but then I just thanked everyone and got off the stage. There’s never a point in engaging in what would be a fruitless conversation.

The unexpected result of this unpleasant display of misogyny was that another, more enlightened man, a partner in a national firm, offered to sponsor our first event.

Today, the network we created - now rebranded as WinSA - continues to grow and support professionals across the industry. What began as a simple idea between a handful of women has become a lasting organisation, one that stands for inclusion, connection, and change.

I’m proud to say that WinSA welcomes both women and men—because real progress isn’t about exclusion, it’s about creating space for everyone to thrive. 

Chapter V

Governor’s Leadership Foundation

During my insolvency career, I moved firms three times. It was the best way to get a pay rise.

Looking back, I realise that one of the biggest challenges for me—then and now—has been prioritising my wellbeing and articulating my worth. I’ve never been good at thinking of myself first and definitely not great at negotiating for myself. I’m great at it for others, but for some reason really struggle when it comes to me.

I’ve become better at it but still have a long way to go. It seems to come quite naturally to some of my male colleagues. Only recently have I learned to even ask, “Is that your best price?” when shopping for major items—which has saved me significant money. I wish I’d done that decades earlier!

Part of this, I think, stems from having to take care of others from a young age—first my family after we left Poland, and then of course my son. The concept of putting myself first was foreign to me, and only recently, after experiencing serious health issues, have I begun learning that lesson.

But back to the story.

About a year after co-founding the International Women's Insolvency and Restructuring Confederation (IWIRC), I came across the Governor’s Leadership Foundation (GLF) program—a program that changed my life.

I was reading one of the many professional publications, I needed to keep up with for my CPA designation, when I saw an advertisement for the program.

The more I read, the faster my heart began to race. The program promised to build powerful connections between individuals, organisations, and the wider community. It focused on developing outward-looking leaders with strong collaboration skills. It taught that a leader’s greatest value is the impact they can have on the world around them.

To this day, GLF provides unique and unforgettable developmental experiences for South Australia’s emerging and established leaders.

Only 40 people are selected each year. Participants meet some of the state’s top leaders—including the Governor, the Premier, and other government and industry leaders. They travel to remote First Nations communities to hear Elders’ stories, visit farmers to learn about their challenges, speak with prisoners to understand life at the margins of society, and so much more.

It sounded incredible—and that’s when the critical voice in my head kicked in: What the hell are you thinking? Why would they pick you?

With doubt running through my mind, I reached out to a couple of close friends. Trusted advisors with my best interests at heart. Even that took courage. I felt strangely embarrassed, raw, and exposed. In fact, it felt harder to do than years earlier, when I considered applying for university.

I kept researching the program and attended an information session. The stories shared by previous participants fuelled my drive to apply. Writing the application took a few weekends of writing and re-writing, and re-writing again.

I had to do something I wasn’t good at: clearly articulate my achievements and explain why they should select me. I asked friends to critique my application and help me recognise my strengths.

So often, we’re blind to how others see us. I could easily list my shortcomings—but articulating my strengths? That was a challenge.

The day I found out I’d been selected for an interview, I did a little dance! Not very graceful—but full of joy. Getting to the interview stage gave me a much-needed boost. Maybe, just maybe, I had something more to offer.

The night before the interview, I drank far too much wine. Looking back, I recognise that as self-sabotage. Interestingly, the friend I drank with didn’t stop me. The fault was mine—but it made me reflect on the kinds of friends who enable our weaknesses instead of our strengths.

Needless to say, I was very angry with myself the next day. I felt awful—but I made it to the interview.

I can’t remember the questions, but I remember the room. It was in the historic Goodman building—high ceilings, tall windows, and the feeling of history unfolding. The setup was standard: three panel members across a table, me on the other side. I sat facing the light, feeling very small.

I must have said something right, because I was offered a place. It felt bittersweet—the program cost $11,000, and I didn’t have the money. My employer supported me by giving me Tuesdays off to attend the program but wouldn’t cover the fee.

Then I learned about scholarships. I applied and, to my amazement, was awarded a $7,000 scholarship and allowed to pay the balance over the year. It wasn’t easy—my salary wasn't large, and I was still paying off student loans—but I managed.

Opening retreat

The opening retreat was over 15 years ago, yet I remember it as if it was yesterday.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m introverted by nature. Connecting with new people has always been hard. To say I was uncomfortable is a huge understatement.

Yet there I was about to spend three days in a closed retreat with 39 other participants and facilitators. I have often felt like an imposter throughout my university and work life. Worried that someone will find out I don’t belong and ask me to leave. That feeling was quite intense that day.

But I kept up the façade. I acted like I belonged.

It was at this retreat that I experienced my first “opening circle”—each person answering: Who are you? Why are you here?

Such simple questions. But I couldn’t answer them. I couldn’t open myself up to strangers with honesty and vulnerability.

I’d spent a lifetime hiding. It started by growing up in a communist country, where fear of losing my parents stopped me from talking to and trusting people. That tendency solidified during my insolvency career.

It’s hard to describe what I experienced that GLF year. During the retreat, people opened up—sharing their hopes and fears. By the end of the first day, we were bonded in a way I had never known. I didn’t know trust and connection could form so deeply, so quickly.

The year changed me. Some transformations came quickly, others took years. Some are still unfolding.

I didn’t become an open book—but I did start taking small, tentative steps. I learned that sharing our stories empowers others to share theirs. That creating space for others, and truly listening, honours their lives—and helps us all heal. And this world has a lot of healing to do.

I also learned that a small group of people can change the world. In fact, it’s the only thing that ever has.

Just one person—like I did with IWIRC—can reach out with the simple goal of making a situation a little better.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Change is hard because we don’t want to lose what we have, and it feels like we will if we let change through the door.

There are also so many injustices in the world. So many things that are wrong, and yet so many things that are beautiful and amazing.

That year, I felt overwhelmed, inspired, scared, uplifted, confused. I lacked the words to explain to those closest to me about what was happening, but I stayed open to what I was reading, hearing and seeing, absorbing as much as I could.

Quitting

What became crystal clear was that my job no longer aligned with who I was. It felt like a physical ache.

The irony? My 10-year plan was finally coming together. I’d done the studies and was planning to get my liquidator’s licence after GLF.

Instead—I quit my job.

For the first time in my life, I resigned without a backup plan.

I can’t describe how scary that was. My son was still young and had learning difficulties that required expensive tutoring. I was saving for a new car because the one I had was barely hanging on.

It came down to this: buy a car or buy myself three months to focus on GLF and find a job better suited to who I was becoming—a job where I could contribute to society more meaningfully.

For the first time, I put myself first. And to this day, I know it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

South Australia Police

I gave myself six weeks to just be. I took Alex to school, walked my dogs, read books, and immersed myself in GLF. It felt glorious.

One of the many gifts of GLF was exposure to passionate, dedicated public servants. They inspired me to explore the public sector.

The call to serve has always been strong in me. The more I learned about the ethos of public service, the more I knew it was right for me.

I came across a forensic accounting role with South Australia Police. It felt like a natural next step—financial investigation was a big part of my insolvency work.

That said, I was nervous.

Government recruitment is very different to the private sector. My previous roles came through a tap on the shoulder or recruiters—usually just a resume and a chat.

This was different. It required a tailored application letter. Thankfully, a friend in the public service helped me. Without his guidance, I wouldn’t have succeeded.

Interestingly, the process of letting go and allowing someone close enough to help was a challenge. He ripped my application to shreds and pushed me to write better, clearer, with stronger examples of my achievements.

Here it was again, learning how to own and showcase my achievements. Further, it was letting go of the need to appear strong and capable, allowing someone to see my imperfections. It hurt, but without it, I would not have been successful. I guess these times are called growing pains for a reason!

My three years with SAPOL were a mixed bag—meeting incredible people (detectives have a wicked, dark sense of humour), learning combinations of swear words I never imagined, going on police raids, making new friends, and developing new skills like producing expert court reports and giving evidence.

Due to a potential conflict of interest, I was asked to step down from my role as president of IWIRC. Letting go was easier than I expected—IWIRC was well established, led by passionate women, and I knew I was leaving it in safe hands.

SAPOL is a para-military organisation—very hierarchical, which I struggled with. There was a stark contrast: on one hand, it was full of honourable, courageous people committed to public safety and justice. On the other, the hierarchy and “golden handcuffs” (the police pension) created a culture where people tolerated behaviour they might not otherwise.

I’ve often been told I have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Basically, I take on fights that I have been told are not mine to fight. But I believe that the behaviour you walk past is the behaviour you endorse.

That belief got me into trouble more than once—including at SAPOL, when I spoke up about conduct I found unacceptable. I’ve paid a heavy price for standing up—missed promotions, sleepless nights, self-doubt, health issues.

I’ve asked myself many a time if I would change how I approached these situations. The advice I was given by many over time was usually something along the lines of: It’s not your problem. If the person affected isn’t raising it, why should you? If you don’t like it, leave.

So would I tell my younger self to walk away, to turn a blind eye? The answer is no. If anything, I’d tell her to be bolder. To speak up sooner. To have more faith in herself. To trust that doing the right thing matters.

Yes, there’s a cost. It would be naïve to think that attempting to right a wrong, especially when it means calling out inappropriate behaviour in more senior or influential people, comes easily. But the cost of silence is greater.

I would tell her to trust her moral compass. To invest in her wellbeing. To surround herself with people who support her. To know that not every fight can be won—but that shining light on darkness always matters.

Abuse thrives in darkness. It cannot survive the light.

But all that came later.

Telling Dad I joined SAPOL

One challenge I didn’t expect: telling my father I’d joined the police force.

I grew up being told not to trust the government, to fear the police and military. That fear was real for us.

In the end, it felt like ripping off a band-aid stuck to a hairy leg. I took a deep breath—several, actually—and yanked it off.

It hurt. Strangely… he didn’t say a word. 

Chapter VI

The European Union Visitors Programme

My Governor’s Leadership Foundation (GLF) program year continued during my early days at SAPOL. One of the many wonderful experiences I had during that year was receiving an invitation to lunch with the Governor of South Australia.

Of course, I accepted — as did two other GLFers. We were told the European Union Ambassador to Australia would also be in attendance. I will explain why that’s significant a little later.

I was genuinely excited to receive a formal invitation in a beautiful envelope with gold writing and the Government House emblem. I’ve always loved stationery, so this was a perfect detail added to an already incredible experience. It felt special.

In preparation for the visit, I read everything I could get my hands on about South Australia and the European Union — just in case I got a chance to speak with either the Ambassador or the Governor.

It was a wonderful day. My GLF colleagues and I arrived at the Government House gate, handed our invitations to the security guard, and after verifying our names, he let us through the main gates.

Walking up to Government House felt magical. We were about to meet the Queen’s representative and walk through a historic building I had never imagined I’d step inside — let alone be invited to.

There was a surprise waiting for us. Instead of a large luncheon, it was just the three of us dining with the Governor, his wife, the Ambassador, and his wife. It was just the seven of us. We sat in a beautiful, historic room, surrounded by exquisite art... and we ate fish and chips! Served on a beautifully laid table with fine crockery and silverware, brought out by formally dressed servers — white gloves and all. Only in Australia could you have such an experience. And yes, they were the best fish and chips I’ve ever had.

One of the many benefits of the GLF was the exposure to — and interaction with — senior leaders. There I was: a refugee, from a humble background, still carrying a fear of authority from childhood. My father was a mechanic, my mother a hairdresser. I still spoke with a strong accent and occasionally stumbled over words. Yet there I was — having lunch with the Governor!

The conversation was extraordinary in how ordinary it was — just people meeting for the first time, exchanging thoughts.

That’s one of the many insights I took from GLF: our leaders are everyday people, with similar struggles but with perhaps a stronger drive to make change at a broader level. They strive for a better future, managing professional and personal relationships as best as they can, experiencing loss, pain and joy, just like we do. And they are flawed, just like we are.

During my preparation for that lunch, I came across something that sparked my curiosity: The European Union Visitors Programme (EUVP). The EU invites young leaders and opinion-formers for a tailor-made study visit to meet Members of the European Parliament, EU officials, and other stakeholders. Since 1974, over 5,000 visitors have taken part — just over 170 from Australia and New Zealand.

The programme aims to foster mutual understanding and shared values. The more I read, the more excited I became!

The concept of vastly different cultures coming together and working for a greater, common good, captivated my imagination. How do countries that have been at war with each other over the centuries find common ground and building a better future together?

I wanted to understand how this was possible and bring what I learned back to contribute to Australia’s multicultural story, in any way I could.

But then came the questions — the doubts (courtesy of Stern Babette, my ever-critical inner voice). Did I have something to offer? Would I be considered a leader? How could I stand out? Only five people are selected from Australia and New Zealand each year — competition would be high.

But getting into GLF had already taught me that the impossible is often possible when you throw a bit of faith into it. That my story and experience held value. That when something calls to you loudly, it's worth your time, energy, and hope. And perhaps most of all — it taught me to be brave.

One of the standout GLF speakers for me was Stephen Pallaras KC who was the Director of Public Prosecutions at the time. A brilliant orator, he had us completely captivated. I’d done a bit of public speaking and chaired events before, but I wanted to improve. So, I reached out to him for advice.

To my surprise, he agreed to meet. He gave me some excellent public speaking tips (more on that another time), and when I asked how to stand out in the EUVP selection, he simply said: “Fly to Canberra and meet the EU Ambassador.”

I was stunned.

Me? Call the Embassy and ask for a meeting with the Ambassador? What would I say? Why would they even see me? And how would I afford the trip for what might amount to a 15-minute meeting that could get cancelled?

Over the years I started practicing mindfulness and yoga, and I’d learned the power of a few deep breaths. So simple, yet incredibly powerful. So, I breathed. I also reached out to a few close friends that supported me over the years for encouragement.

Then I picked up the phone and called the Embassy. And — to my surprise again — I got a 15-minute appointment.

I dipped into what little savings I had, booked the flight, and flew to Canberra.

The meeting was over quickly, but it ensured that the Ambassador and his staff could put a face to the name on the application. They met me in person, and that, without a doubt, was key to getting selected.

Roughly two years after meeting the previous Ambassador at the Government House, I boarded a flight to Brussels.

Train Stop: Bruxelles-Schuman, Brussels, Belgium

I arrived in Brussels a day early to adjust to the time zone — and to catch up with my aunt, one of my dad’s sisters who lives in the city. That was a lovely bonus.

On my way to meet her, I nearly boarded the wrong train — an international one instead of a local line — and was saved by a fellow traveller’s question. It was my first time navigating Brussels solo. I felt a bit silly, but overwhelmingly grateful for how many people around the world speak English.

As expected, the trip was amazing.

Once again, I was surrounded by passionate public servants who had dedicated their lives to improving their communities. Only this time, the community was made up of 500 million people. The scale of the EU's impact was staggering.

I had the chance to visit 11 organisations, including the European Anti-Fraud Office (OLAF) in Brussels, the European Union Agency for Criminal Justice Cooperation (EUROJUST) in The Hague, the European Border and Coast Guard Agency (FRONTEX) in Poland, and the United Kingdom’s Serious Fraud Office in London. Along the way, I met over 70 incredible people doing meaningful, complex work.

What became clear to me, very quickly, is that individuals can make a difference. That was both uplifting and terrifying.

Uplifting because the energy and drive of the people I met were contagious. Terrifying because I realised how much responsibility rests in every decision we make — or fail to make.

Love the EU, hate it, or feel indifferent — the institution has helped prevent war in the region for over 70 years and has helped lift millions of people from poverty.

This experience further cemented my commitment to public service. My path may not be traditional, but I want to keep supporting my community, however I can.

It also opened my eyes to opportunities I never knew existed. While it took time for them to solidify, this trip gave me new reference points, new ways of looking at life— and a network of amazing people I would reconnect with later in life.

On a more personal note, I loved being surrounded by so many languages. Sitting in a café in a city I’d never been to before, eating delicious food and watching people from all walks of life go about their day — it was pure joy.

I remember thinking: we may not speak the same language, but we all share the same desires — good weather, food, drink, and company. And I, for one, want to spend my life helping people thrive — so they too can enjoy the simple pleasures of life in peace and safety.

This trip also helped me see something I hadn’t before: The value I was already bringing.

There was something profound in realising that heads of departments and subject matter experts had cleared time to meet with me — to speak with me. I did my best to quiet that inner critic, to be present, and to lean into the conversation with curiosity.

Reflecting on my story made me realise — I had once felt nervous and unsure of my worth in those rooms. But now, as someone often on the other side of those meetings, I thoroughly enjoy time with people who are curious and eager to learn. I don’t see them as inexperienced — I see potential, courage, and hunger for growth.

And I gain just as much from those conversations as they do. There’s something wonderful about seeing that moment when something clicks for someone and a new way of thinking opens up for them, and I still love the moments when it happens for me!

I returned to Australia full of passion, purpose, and drive.

If you’ve ever doubted whether you belong in the room, I hope this part of the story reminds you that you absolutely do.

Don’t wait for permission or until you feel "ready." Be curious. Ask questions. Take the risk.

You never know what doors might open.

If my story resonates with you, I’d love to hear yours.

Drop a comment, connect, or share this with someone who might need some encouragement today. 

Chapter VII

Health Issues

Throughout the first 10 years of my career, I suffered from major headaches—headaches I later learned were caused by a water-skiing accident I had in my 20s, and worsened by stress and tension.

One of the lessons I wish I’d learned much earlier was how to let go of things I can’t change. I wonder how much of that was related to the little girl with the house key around her neck—who had learned to look after others first and didn’t know when or how to ask for help.

Eventually, after trying many different health professionals, I found a wonderful physio who recommended a gifted remedial massage therapist. Together, they’ve helped me manage the headaches.

He also recommended a particular pillow—which now travels with me everywhere. I get teased about it a lot! In one of my previous roles, I travelled frequently across the country. Even for one-night trips, I had to check my luggage just to bring the pillow. I used to feel embarrassed, but now I’m happy to provide a light comedic relief to those in need.

While I was in the EU, I started experiencing serious allergic reactions. Parts of my body would swell up for no apparent reason—uncomfortable, unglamorous, and at times, potentially life-threatening. It went on for over five years. I tried every treatment under the sun, mostly without success. It was a tough period. Eventually, my body found its balance again, and I returned to a more normal, active life.

That was until the pandemic. Unfortunately, when I fell ill with COVID, it turned into long COVID. The initial illness lasted about eight weeks, and the recovery has been slow and ongoing. These past few years have been difficult.

But strangely enough, they finally taught me (I hope) just how important it is to look after my health. There’s nothing like spending months mostly in bed—feeling hopeless, scared, and lost—to give you time to reflect on life, while trying to find a path back to health.

But back to the story.

Tram Stop Tarntanyangga/Victoria Square, Adelaide

Meanwhile, I came to the end of what I could learn at SAPOL. There were limited development opportunities for non-sworn officers, and I began looking for other roles.

When an executive-level forensic accounting role came up at the Australian Taxation Office (ATO), I applied—and was selected.

The ATO is a large and complex organisation. Throughout my private practice and SAPOL careers, I’d interacted with the organisation semi-regularly and thought that I was quite familiar with its functions.

What I didn’t appreciate was the vast machinery behind it all—and the many opportunities for development and growth the ATO would offer me.

As I mentioned earlier, I’d met incredible public servants through the Governor’s Leadership Foundation Program and during my European Union visit. That continues to this day. I keep meeting hardworking, dedicated professionals who ensure our government—amongst many other things— collects the money needed to run our wonderful country.

The work is demanding. At the director level, we deal with what many refer to as "wicked problems"—those complex, seemingly unsolvable issues that impact millions.

Navigating complexity is challenging, but also deeply rewarding.

One of the many benefits of working in such a large organisation is the immense diversity of work and the many opportunities for personal growth that come with it!

I’ve worked across all taxpayer segments—from individuals lodging their income tax returns to small, medium, large and international businesses dealing with the complex tax system. This has included supporting everyone from vulnerable clients to some of the most prominent and wealthy members of our society.

I’ve had the privilege of working on—and leading—initiatives in risk management, cybersecurity, automation, digital transformation, media and communications, information and communication technology (ICT), and of course, the many aspects of front-line services.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Stewardship

Stewardship, to me, is simply taking care of what we’ve been entrusted with.

Public service, at its heart, is all about stewardship—leaving the world better than we found it. It also happens to be one of my core personal values.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been fortunate to work with amazing public servants—people who go above and beyond simply because they believe in serving their community. People doing their best, every day, in whatever capacity they serve.

Being innately curious and wanting to understand the vast organisation I was now a part of, I started reaching out to areas adjacent to mine. The corporate plan and internal information web helped me a lot, but there’s nothing like meeting with people face to face and learning what they do.

Looking back, learning how to network during my early career days—something that did not come naturally to the introvert that I am—really helped me here. I now look at networking as an opportunity to learn more about people, rather than being the cold sales pitch it used to feel like to me.

Networking now is simply a way of building my understanding of how people can help people—and have a bit of fun along the way. Helping people is something that brings me great satisfaction and I no longer shy away from building new relationships.

Plus, there’s something empowering about rolling up your sleeves and getting to know how different parts of an organisation operate—whether it’s working alongside frontline staff supporting clients by phone or in person, or gaining insight into how our communications and ICT systems enable both our people and the community.

Time and time again, I’ve found that if you approach people with genuine curiosity and openness, they’ll give you their time—no matter their level.

From Risk to Opportunity

Before the ATO, I’d held specialist and team leadership roles. That gave me a strong foundation for the next stage of my career. But I quickly realised the scale of what I was now delivering was bigger than anything I’d experienced before.

Stern Babette—the inner critic—was back. Over the years I have learned to manage her better. Practicing yoga and mindfulness helped me to be aware of her, letting her talk as she will but not attaching emotion to it. (Ok, that's still a work in progress.)

I also came face-to-face with the limitations of that little girl with the key around her neck. To succeed, I now had to learn how to let go of having, or expecting to have, all the answers and shift my world view from only seeing risks to opening myself up to a world of opportunities.

It hasn’t been easy.

Much of my career had been focused on the darker sides of human behaviour. My default was to look for what could go wrong. It made me a great investigator—but it was also holding me back.

It is hard to describe the amazing job opportunities that organisations such as ATO offer. The culture encourages growth—not just through formal training but via mentoring, secondments, and shadowing.

I started putting my hand up for things that resonated. Not always successfully—but I kept at it. My motto became: “If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.”

And then came Kerry—mentor, guru, wise woman, and ultimately a friend.

Kerry helped me navigate complex relationships, challenged my assumptions, and pushed me to expand how I saw the world.

Through the Governor’s Leadership Foundation Program, I learned that we each see the world through a unique lens—and that we can change how we see things. Kerry made me put that into practice.

Back then, my initial thoughts about most things would usually jump to risk and why something wouldn’t work. Kerry challenged me to find at least one opportunity in every situation. I wrote “What’s the opportunity?” on a post-it note and stuck it on my screen. That poor post-it note ended up looking pretty rugged by the time I threw it away. But eventually, it became second nature.

That’s not to say I stopped seeing the risks—I just widened my lens to include the exciting world of possibilities.

It also helped me become better at guiding my teams toward the goal we’re working towards—that light on the hill—even when it’s still a long way off.

Rapid Growth

Not long after that, my personal mobile rang on one January day. It was my birthday and I’d taken the day off.

A colleague reached out about a role: Director of Risk and Strategy. The good news was that it would mean a permanent promotion for me; the challenge was that the role came with a host of complex problems. She was honest—and encouraging saying: “If anyone can deal with this, it’s you.”

By this point, I’d been acting in director roles for some time and secured a place on a director order of merit list. After a lot of thought, I decided to take a leap of faith and accept the role.

After a week of handover, I was in the role. I was excited—and a little terrified. The teams were national, as were the other directors.

I remember writing my first email to the department head. I drafted it in the prescribed format, read it, re-read it, printed it, went through it word by word, and then re-read it again. After a few deep breaths and a short walk away from my desk, I realised I was being completely ridiculous—and finally hit send.

Eventually, I learned that perfection is the enemy of done—but it took a few more years before I truly accepted that not everything has to be perfect. In fact, nothing is.

One of the first things I did was establish regular meetings with my fellow directors. I wanted to learn—and was lucky to discover a supportive, collaborative group. We solved a lot of challenges together.

During this time, my father was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. The two years prior had been difficult—we noticed changes in his behaviour and cognitive abilities, but no one could pinpoint what was happening.

Back at work, the role expanded. I was promoted again, now leading the director group I’d just joined.

Meanwhile, the perfectionist in me kept rearing its head. I pushed myself—and my teams—to deliver everything to the highest standards, which often meant working 60+ hour weeks. But my staff could see where we were headed. Because they shared the vision—the light on the hill—we were striving toward, they followed suit. The commitment and passion for what we were aiming to achieve were palpable.

We made tremendous progress, especially with the new digital transformation project we had been tasked with delivering.

One of the main reasons I’m drawn to public service is the impact I get to make on people’s lives every day. The thing is—most people will never know it was me, but I will. I feel incredibly fortunate to have a job that aligns with my values and moral compass. And I’m not alone—the majority of people I work with feel the same way. It’s contagious.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, I know that what I do that day will make a difference. It might take many small steps to get there, but we’re always moving forward.

During this time, my direct manager and I built a strong relationship. Although she was based in New South Wales, we stayed in regular contact.

Kerry continued to be my trusted mentor—always there as a sounding board and offering valuable advice when I needed it. She also began gently (or sometimes not so gently!) introducing the concept of self-care, which, at the time, felt somewhat foreign to me.

Kerry could see how hard I was working and often reminded me to take care of myself. I wish I had listened. Unfortunately, it took a few more years—and a serious illness—before that lesson finally began to sink in.

And then things changed once again. 

Chapter VIII

A Hard Lesson to Learn

My manager called to let me know she was retiring—and that she had recommended me to step into her role while a permanent replacement was found.

I was speechless. Then, petrified. All I could think was: I’m not ready!

But once my mind kicked back into gear, I thanked her for thinking of me and asked what the role involved. I have to say, that most of that conversation was a blur. There was a buzzing in my head as I tried to listen and absorb the next steps. Even Stern Babette was unusually quiet.

Roughly a year after the birthday phone call about the director role, I was acting in an Assistant Commissioner role.

It didn’t go well. I worked six days a week, often 10+ hour days—14 and 16-hour days weren’t unusual—and still, I couldn’t get through the workload.

Looking back, I can see the pattern: there I was again, the girl with the key around her neck, trying to do everything herself. I still hadn’t learned how to delegate properly or ask for help. I felt the buck stopped with me—I had to read every document, understand every detail, and make every decision.

But with 100 people reporting to me, that just wasn’t possible.

On top of this, my father’s care needs were increasing, and my mum needed more and more help.

When the acting role ended, my confidence took a hit. The feedback I received was fine—but not stellar. I felt like I had failed.

The silver lining was returning to a role I genuinely enjoyed. But harder times were ahead. My new manager and I just didn’t get along. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t connect with her. With my confidence already shaken, this made things even harder.

I started losing sleep and couldn’t shake the growing feeling of failure. Years later, someone told me no one noticed. That still astounds me—that my façade had become so polished, no one could see the cracks.

Each day, I got up, went to work, apparently delivered great results—and quietly, I kept falling apart.

Around this time, Mum went overseas for six weeks. It was her well-deserved break. My dad came to stay with me, which had become our norm when mum travelled.

Dementia is a cruel disease. It slowly steals the person you love. I watched my father disappear piece by piece—sometimes he was at peace, other times full of fear. My heart broke every time I saw that look of confusion on his face.

But there were beautiful moments too. I drove him to his care facility each morning before heading to the office—I really enjoyed that. We found a wonderful place—Myrtle Bank Cottage—set in a regular house. It became his second home. He loved it there. The staff were highly trained, kind and exceptional.

There’s one memory that still makes me smile. My son usually picked up Dad in the afternoons and stayed with him until I got home. One evening, I walked through the door to find them sitting at the dining table—having a beer and colouring in. Yes, colouring in! It became one of Dad’s passions in his later years. I have a photo of that moment somewhere. Excuse me while I go dig it out.

But things got harder. Myrtle Bank Cottage called to say they could no longer provide the care he needed. With Mum still overseas, I had to make quick decisions. I took time off work to care for Dad and find a respite facility. I can’t describe how difficult that time was for all of us.

Meanwhile, back at work, I had a major decision to make. My current role—with its travel requirements and difficult dynamics—wasn’t working anymore.

In the end, I stepped down and took on a project that didn’t require travel. For the first time since my early career, I also wasn’t managing staff—and honestly, it was a relief.

The project itself was rewarding. I joined a multi-disciplinary team to deliver Australia’s first tax gap estimate for high-wealth individuals. It was world-leading work, and I’m very proud of what we achieved.

But sleep remained elusive. I finally admitted that I needed help. Fortunately, my doctor referred me to a psychologist who helped me through it all.

I started to unpack some deep-rooted trauma and big life lessons. I learned about black-and-white thinking—and how children who take on adult responsibilities too early often grow up believing they must solve everything alone. I was one of them.

It helped me understand why I’ve often been told I have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility—and that it’s not always a good thing.

With time, I started sleeping well again. I also began learning how to set healthy boundaries.

From Specialist to Generalist

Then came another call. Kerry rang me out of the blue and asked if I’d come work with her. A director role had opened up in digital systems and support—specifically, she needed someone to lead the remediation team.

We agreed to meet the next day to talk more. That gave me time to look up the word remediation—English isn’t my first language, and I still come across unfamiliar terms.

“Remediation: the act of remedying or correcting something that is deficient or broken.” Perfect. I thought—I’m a good problem solver. I can do that.

The timing was ideal. My current project was wrapping up, and I was ready for a change.

Kerry and I spoke about the role—and about the fact that, by then, she knew me better than any of my previous managers. She’d seen behind the façade, warts and all. I felt vulnerable—but also supported.

One of the biggest growth opportunities in this role was that I was no longer the subject matter expert. I was leading data scientists and business analysts. I understood the outcomes we were trying to achieve, but I didn’t have the technical background.

That meant I had to let go, delegate, trust, and focus on building bridges across disciplines.

Looking back, I realise my earlier roles, with all my successes and failures, were preparing me for this. This is where I grew into a generalist—and a confident, resilient leader.

With Kerry’s guidance, I rebuilt my confidence. She supported me, challenged me, and gently (and sometimes not-so-gently) pushed me to grow.

My role continued to grow and diversify, but this time in a healthy, sustainable way.

On 29 April 2021, my father passed away.

Grief is the price we pay for love. There was so much grief, but also peace. The final year of his life was incredibly hard. His last week felt like torture—whilst I watched him slowly die. I’m so grateful to have been surrounded by kind, supportive people—at home and at work—who supported me through this time.

Another Phone Call

About three years into my digital services role, Kerry retired. It felt a little like losing my safety blanket. But I was ready to see what the next challenge would bring.

I had just completed the Australian Public Service talent development program for high-performing directors and felt ready for the next challenge.

The call came from my manager. She’d been approached by the head of the tax practitioner education and support area to see if I might be interested in a move. After discussion, we agreed it was the right move—for both the tax practitioner team and me.

The move was bittersweet. I had been so fortunate over the past four years. I worked with Kerry. My team was based in Adelaide, as were most of the wonderful directors I collaborated with. We had become very close.

My final gift from the area? Winning the Commissioner’s Above and Beyond Award for our contribution in digital services.

Levelling Up

On 6 January 2024, I started my new role as Director of Tax Practitioner Engagement and Experience.

It’s a perfect combination of my strengths: technical expertise, relationship-building, learning every day, and working with passionate people for a worthy cause.

This time, when I was asked to act in the Assistant Commissioner role—I said yes. I leaned in. I enjoyed it. And I did well.

So, where does this leave the girl with the key?

She grew into a leader who understands that sustainable impact isn’t made by doing everything alone—but by building trust, sharing responsibility, and creating space for others to thrive.

This story has been one of transformation—personal, professional, and purposeful. From early hardship to public service leadership, every step has sharpened my values, broadened my perspective, and deepened my resolve to lead with integrity.

This isn’t the end—just a pause. The next chapter will bring new challenges, new partnerships, and new ways to serve.

But for now, I’m closing this part of the story with clarity, deep gratitude, and a renewed sense of purpose.

One last thought

If I were writing directly to the little girl with the key, here’s what I would say to her—with compassion, pride, and a quiet kind of strength:

You did it.

You carried more than a child ever should have and still found a way to grow into someone who lifts others. You tried to unlock every door alone, not knowing that some doors open when you let others in.

You learned to lead not by knowing everything, but by listening, trusting, and letting go of the need to be everything to everyone.

You’ve turned that heavy key into something lighter—something you now carry with purpose, not pressure.

You haven’t lost your sense of responsibility—but now, you balance it with grace, boundaries, and self-care.

If I could tell you one thing, it’s this: You were never too much. You were never not enough. You were, and are, always becoming.

And now? Now, you open doors for others.