No advocate grows alone

No flower grows without sunlight and water. Nothing blossoms without bees carrying its pollen, without soil made rich by the slow work of everything living and dying around it. A gardener tends, a season turns, and something blooms that no single element could have produced.

Similarly... every skill built in a training room, every boundary held under pressure, every moment of clarity in a hard conversation came from someone who taught, challenged, or stood beside me. The advocate I am now is the product of every mentor who made time, every colleague who told me the truth, every community member whose story changed how I see the world around me.

That is why I recognise the leaders (loud and silent) who came before me.

In Lived/Living Experience spaces, it’s becoming more common to acknowledge the expertise, endurance and power in a room. What’s less common is a deep understanding of why that matters.

I understand it as follows:

When I speak, I’m not standing alone. I’m standing with the people who opened doors before I even knew there were doors to walk through. The people who pointed out what I couldn’t yet see, who challenged assumptions, who named things that didn’t sit right. And just as importantly, I do this work for the people who can’t.

I now know all-too-well that advocacy has a language. Without access to it, it remains inaccessible and unintentionally exclusive. But just over two years ago, I didn’t have that language. I didn’t have the words for what I was experiencing, let alone the confidence to name it. That only changed when I first reached out to Consumers of Mental Health WA (CoMHWA).

What had felt like isolation and uncertainty began to transform into connection, understanding, and eventually, (respectful) resistance.

After sending emails to organisations across Western Australia, it the CoMHWA admin team (thanks for dealing with my emails, Bec) who connected me to Elaine’s local community groups. I remember walking into a room of strangers and immediately feeling that I was in the right place, among people who called themselves mental health advocates and who, like me, had no patience for surface-level inspiration or empty affirmations or jargon, and even less for case files and degrading patient notes.

At that time, even leaving the house was hard. I could manage a few hours if everything aligned, and even that took careful planning around food, around energy, around staying regulated. And still, in many ways, I was already further along than I had been in years. I was writing. I cared deeply about advocacy, even if I didn’t yet have a clear way to engage in it.

CoMHWA gave that something shape.

I went to the group every week. It gave me structure. It gave me a reason to show up, even on the days it felt impossible. And eventually, it gave me something more: the belief that I had something worth contributing. It introduced me to peer work not just as a concept, but as something real... something I could feel, something that finally helped me make sense of experiences I had carried alone for a long time.

Don’t get me wrong... there were moments of hopelessness, of regret, of questioning why I cared so much about work that could feel under-recognised, overwhelming, and emotionally demanding. There were times I resented how deeply this mattered to me.

But even with all of that (or maybe because of it) I kept going.

About a year later, I stepped into my first formal role as a Project Officer on the My Voice, My Rights, My Way project.

Around that same time, CoMHWA auspiced Integrity Initiative through its entire first year. Without that support, Integrity Initiative simply wouldn’t exist. That’s not something I can fully put into words. The scale of that impact goes far beyond practical support.

Because while the practical side mattered, it wasn’t the whole story.

CoMHWA gave me people. People who understand this work at its most grounded, grassroots level. People who know what it means to witness things no one should have to witness and still choose to show up. People who made space for me to get things wrong without letting those mistakes define me, and who asked only that I show up honestly and fully.

That’s what made CoMHWA feel like home.

Jules, Vince, Elena, Elaine, Robin, Rumbii, Mel, Charles, Justine, Joanne, Dany, Arana, Anne, Jeannie, Annabel and so many others. These are the people who taught me, shaped me, and stood beside me as I found my way.

As I move into a new role, I carry that with me. This organisation created a space I didn’t know I needed and will continue to create that space for so many others. I’m stepping into something new, but I’m not stepping away. I’m looking forward to continuing to watch, support, and contribute in new ways.

CoMHWA, thank you. You will always sit at the centre of how I understand Lived and Living Experience.

Whatever I build next, wherever this work takes me, CoMHWA is threaded through it. The soil. The season. The slow, patient tending.

It will always be part of how I understand this work, how I understand myself, and how I choose to show up for others, the same way you once showed up for me.