I didn’t understand the impact of my childhood until years later, but now I see how mental health—or the lack of it—shaped everything in my life.

Growing up, I didn’t know why my family was different. Why didn’t I live with my mum? Why was my dad angry and violent? Why did we move to a remote farm and cut everyone off? At 16, my dad kicked me out because I was gay. I ended up homeless, living on the streets of Sydney. Back then, I thought I was just doing what I needed to survive—working to pay my bills and stay in school. But I didn’t realise how much I had already lost: my family, sense of self, and future.

It wasn’t until years later, sitting with a therapist, that I started to understand. She said something that changed my life: “What happened to you wasn’t okay.” For the first time, I realised that the abuse, poverty, and neglect I experienced weren’t my fault. They were the result of something bigger—adults in my life who didn’t know how to handle their mental health and a system that didn’t support them.

My dad turned to alcohol and violence after losing everything. My mum cared for others but couldn’t ask for help herself. Our family fell apart because no one around us understood mental health or how to respond when things got bad. Looking back, I wonder—what if someone had stepped in? What if my mum had someone to talk to? What if someone in our community had the skills to help us before it all fell apart?

This realisation is why I do the work I do today as a community organiser. Community organising is about people—everyday people—coming together to fight for change. It’s about ensuring no one is left behind and everyone’s voice is heard. My experiences taught me that the most potent changes don’t come from the top down; they come from communities coming together, supporting each other, and demanding something better.

As a community organiser, I’ve seen this power firsthand. One of the most moving examples was the voice referendum. Yes, the referendum didn’t end the way we hoped. But what I saw during that campaign was something that can never be taken away: Australians who had never done anything like this before in their lives were out there, standing in the streets, knocking on doors, and having hard conversations—all with nothing but love and compassion in their hearts. These were people fighting for change not because it was easy but because they believed in something bigger than themselves.

It was undeniable. Every day, Australians unite around a common cause, showing the courage and hope that can move mountains. That is the power of community organising—bringing people together to fight for what’s right, even when the odds are against us. And while we didn’t win that campaign, the love, solidarity, and determination I witnessed will stay with me forever.

Mental health is another fight that needs this kind of collective action. It’s not enough to build new facilities or increase funding. We need to empower communities with the tools to help each other. We need to create spaces where people feel safe to talk about their struggles, where no one is ashamed to ask for help, and where support is available before it’s too late.

Community organising matters because it gives people the tools and confidence to create change together. It reminds us that no matter the challenge, we are stronger when we stand side by side. For me, it’s not just about policies or services—the connections we build, the stories we share, and the belief that we can make a difference.

Looking back at where I started, from a scared 16-year-old trying to survive to someone helping others find their voice, I know community organising saved me. And it can save countless others, too. Together, we can fight for a future where every person’s mental health matters, no young person faces homelessness alone, and communities are at the heart of the solutions we build.