Introduction

This is not a comfortable read.

Tt was not comfortable to live.

It is not offered for sympathy,

nor for spectacle—

but because silence has protected the wrong people for far too long.

What is written here was not created for effect.

It was endured.

It was investigated.

And it was documented.

This is not a “story.”

It is a record of experience—

and the language of truth does not need embellishment.

What I’ve shared here does not speak from ideology.

It speaks from injury.

It speaks from abandonment.

And it speaks from the long and exhausting pursuit of something that should never have been

denied:

recognition.

What follows has been written to expose, not accuse.

To illuminate, not condemn.

To hold accountable—

not to harm.

It has been structured for you, the reader—

but written for those who were left unheard, unseen, and unprotected.

This is not an isolated case.

It is the reflection of a system.

And if that system is allowed to stand unexamined,
the harm will continue.

This is not just my experience.

It is the mirror of a broader truth—

a truth that must now be faced.

This Is My Experience

It is important to state from the outset:

this is not an anti-government sentiment.

What follows does not arise from ideology or bitterness—

but from profound disappointment,

deep disillusionment,

and the enduring shock

of how a simple, human request for truth

was met with obstruction, silence,

and systemic abuse.

I am nothing.

I know I am nothing—

because this is exactly how someone is treated

when they are believed to be nothing.

But I am not alone.

In this nothingness,

believe me when I say—

a great many Australians remain trapped

in the same dark game—

a game designed to ensnare, confuse,

and ultimately silence those

who dare to seek justice, accountability, and redress.

Margaret Hamilton—

a survivor of forced adoption, now passed—

once gave me a warning:

“Don’t say ‘story.’ Say ‘experience.’

If you say ‘story,’ people will think you made this up.”

And so, this is my experience.

What follows contains reflections that are honest,

raw, and often confronting.

It includes references to abuse, coercion,

childhood trauma, and systemic harm.

If you are a survivor—

or if these topics may be distressing—

please take care.

You don’t have to read it all at once.

And if, at any point, it becomes overwhelming,

I encourage you to pause,

reach out to someone you trust,

or seek support from a professional.

Your pain is real.

Your feelings are valid.

You are not alone.

You matter.

Systemic Coercion

On 26 May 2025, Queensland’s new coercive control laws are set to take effect.

These laws are intended to criminalise sustained patterns of abuse—

physical, emotional, financial, or psychological—

carried out to control, coerce, or dominate.

They are designed to address harm within domestic and family relationships,

focusing on behaviours such as humiliation, isolation, deception,

and psychological erosion.

But these same behaviours

are not limited to private homes.

For almost a decade,

the harm endured has not been inflicted by a family member, intimate partner, or carer—

but by a cast of villains embedded within the Queensland government:

apathetic, disconnected employees;

arrogant senior executives;

ill-informed, entitled director-generals;

and privileged, dismissive ministers.

Behaviours, actions, and administrative decisions not only carried out—

but protected, sustained,

and reinforced through the inaction of oversight bodies and the courts.

Systems charged with delivering justice

and safeguarding the vulnerable

instead permitted harm,

enabled abuse,

and denied justice.

This was not isolated.

This was not accidental.

It was systemic.

A false and misleading narrative was crafted and maintained—

ensuring the truth remained buried.

Bold-faced lies were told.

Information was withheld.

Documents were said not to exist—

or could not be found.

The involvement of a senior politician in my adoption was eventually revealed—

and repeatedly denied.

Even during two separate legal proceedings,

damning critical facts about my adoptive mother

and the circumstances surrounding my adoption to a drug addict, a mental patient who was legally

declared insane,

were aggressively and deliberately concealed.

Facts that would have fundamentally changed my preparation,

my legal strategy,

and the outcomes themselves.

The course of justice was not followed.

It was managed.

Manipulated.

Redirected.

Settlements were reached without full disclosure.

Legal decisions were made based on omissions and mistruths.

The government’s refusal to engage—its silence, denials, and evasion—

did not simply obstruct a single case.

It actively stalled advocacy for an entire community.

It denied the forced adoption movement a voice.

It preserved the status quo.

And through it all, the emotional and psychological toll was endured.

Rejection.

Gaslighting.

The quiet bureaucratic dismissal of lived pain.

Professional psychological support was sought—

not to heal,

but to survive.

To withstand the weight of being unheard, unseen, and invalidated

by systems that claimed to act in the public interest.

Every request had to be passive.

Every emotion buried.

Every protest muted—

just to remain in the room.

Just to be heard at all.

Even then, only maddeningly practised bureaucratic nods were received.

Polite, hollow agreement—followed by silence.

Inaction.

The denial of truth was permitted to deepen the hole—

a hollow carved by silence,

widened through evasion,

and filled, layer by layer,

with institutional lies.

These were not errors.

They were not misunderstandings.

They were deliberate strategies.

This was coercive control—

not in a private home,

but institutionalised,

legalised,

and weaponised by the government.

A relentless pattern of bureaucratic deterrence was endured.

Not designed to inform,

but to diminish.

Not built for justice,

but for exhaustion.

Lengthy delays became the reliable tool.

Never-ending red tape was allowed to replace accountability.

Legislation was no longer used to protect—

but to shield.

Requests for information—about a life forever altered without consent—

were denied,
dismissed,

and deflected under the justification of “public interest.”

Gaslighting stood in place of transparency.

Silence followed every submission.

Apologies, when issued, arrived hollow—

stripped of responsibility.

Each small advance was met with a larger obstruction.

These were not bureaucratic failings.

They were calculated responses—

engineered to preserve reputation,

to protect institutions,

and to avoid truth.

At the centre of it all—

an adoption file.

A record that should have documented care

became instead a box for secrets, lies, and shame—

sealed by policy,

protected by silence.

A box of consequence.

A symbol of everything hidden.

In myth, Pandora opened a box and unleashed the world’s evils.

Only hope remained.

Today, such boxes are held by governments—

labelled “exempt,” “confidential,” or “not in the public interest.”

When opened,

they reveal not just harm—

but the mechanisms that concealed it.

The Beginning of the Lies

At birth, I was taken from my mother.

Not seen.

Not held.

Removed—by order of the Queensland government of the day.

(Forced adoption in Australia is an enduring tragedy, not just a chapter of the past. The devastating consequences of these policies continue to profoundly impact countless lives to this day.)

During delivery, my mother was physically restrained.

The opportunity to see me, to hold me, was deliberately denied.

This was not a failure of process.

It was a deliberate act—

engineered to sever the bond between mother and child

at the first possible moment.

She was 19.

Sent to a maternity facility for unwed mothers—

a place defined not by care, but by punishment.

What followed was not incidental.

Poor nutrition was endured.

Medical neglect was normalised.

Forced labour was imposed.

Emotional deprivation was structured into daily life.

These were not exceptions.

They were policy.

They were the rules.

Coercion was applied.

Consent was not freely given.

Sedatives were administered.

Legal documents were signed while she remained disoriented,

intimidated, and misled about her rights.

Like so many others,

she was broken down—until submission was achieved.

Those papers—authorising the permanent removal of her child—

were signed while she was still bleeding,

still recovering,

still in pain.

For nine days, she endured systemic cruelty.

What she was told:

that her child would be given a better life.

What she experienced:

psychological pressure, physical trauma, and government-orchestrated control.

That was the beginning of the lies.

My first year of life was spent inside a government-run orphanage.

Rarely held.

Only picked up for feeding.

Left to cry.

The beginning of a life shaped by the effects of maternal deprivation.

Just before the end of that first year, a placement was made—

not with a loving or stable family,

but with a woman known to the government.

A woman with a documented history of addiction and mental illness.

Twice certified as a drug addict.

Multiple institutionalisations for psychiatric care.

Officially—legally—declared insane.

And still—

the placement was approved.

Repeated objections to her adoption applications had already been filed.

Child welfare officers raised grave concerns.

Warnings were submitted, documented, and ignored.

And yet—

after nearly five years in her foster care,

approval to adopt was somehow granted.

Why?

The facility she operated

housed addicts, alcoholics, individuals with serious psychiatric conditions,

and vulnerable children.

Despite multiple investigations and allegations,

it continued to be authorised as an acceptable placement.

Why?

How was this woman—this facility—approved?

Allowed?

Protected?

Just one year after the adoption was finalised,

the government removed two children from her care.

A declaration was made:

she was unfit.

No more children were to be placed with her.

And yet, for some reason, I was left behind.

In hell.

Kept in a place already deemed unsafe.

Known risk did not prompt removal.

Institutional decisions had been made.

They were not reversed.

Even after two documented suicide attempts—

interrupted by police intervention,

one at a building,

the other at a bridge—

the facility continued to operate.

Her authority remained intact.

Children remained in her care.

Abuse was permitted to flourish.

It was left to fester—

unchecked, unmonitored,

without consequence,

without control.

Why?

The Power That Protected Abuse

My name is Michael.

I am 55 years old.

Both victim and survivor of forced adoption—

and of every form of childhood abuse imaginable.

What was endured cannot be softened.

The childhood was not difficult—

it was devastating.

Unrelenting.

Inescapable.

A placement was made—

not into care,

but into cruelty.

Not with a loving family,

but with a madwoman.

A woman whose violence shaped every day of my early life.

The environment was not unstable—

it was hell on earth.

Every form of abuse was inflicted:

physical, sexual, emotional, psychological.

Not once. Not rarely.

Routinely.

The system that authorised the placement remained silent.\No protection was offered.

No accountability followed.

Only abandonment—

disguised as process.

In the years that followed,

suicide was considered the only escape.

From the injuries.

From the terror.

From the punishments, humiliation, and sexual exploitation.

From the incestuous acts of degradation carried out without consequence.

No teacher intervened.

No police officer stepped forward.

No nurse. No doctor.

No adult came to my rescue.

Betrayal was not incidental—

it was embedded.

Deception was not rare—

it was routine.

What unfolded was not neglect—

but design.

Not error—

but structure.

My path forward was not shaped by healing or redress.

It was carved through silence and obstruction.

What was sought was simple:

truth, understanding, and closure.

What was encountered instead:

coercive control, misconduct, and institutional failure.

That has been the architecture of my adult life—

the landscape I have been forced to navigate.

For almost a decade,

the truth has been pursued—

not to dwell on the past,

but to expose the systems that still bury it.

And what has emerged is devastating:

a life shaped more by lies than by truth.

Because what survivors seek is not apology—

but confession.

Not vague regret—

but precise acknowledgement.

Each harm must be named.

Each lie must be undone.

Only then can truth be known.

Perhaps the most disturbing truth to emerge

is the involvement of a senior Queensland politician—

someone with the power not only to endorse and legitimise,

but to protect the my adoptive mother who ran the facility where I was placed.

With that protection,

abuse was not just permitted—

it was sustained.

It was authorised.

Three questions have been raised—

repeatedly, clearly, and without answer:

Why this woman?

Why that place?

And what was the involvement of the senior politician?

No formal response has ever been delivered.

Only a single verbal assurance—

offered by two government employees and a Director-General—

has ever acknowledged the matter.

It was claimed:

that no political interference occurred.

It was asserted:

that the politician’s influence,

and the personal endorsement of my foster carer—

later my adoptive mother—

had no bearing on the department’s decision.

That no pressure was applied.

That no override took place.

That departmental objections had not been dismissed.

And yet—

despite repeated formal requests,

no evidence has ever been provided.

No documentation surfaced.

No accountability offered.

What remains is silence.

And silence, in the absence of truth,

is not protection.

It is complicity.

That, too,

was a lie.

A System Built to Conceal

A 2023 Right to Information (RTI) release confirmed what had long been feared.

(It can only be assumed the disclosure occurred in error.)

“Should Michael subpoena department records, he may be able to see information that pertains to

the suitability assessment [REDACTED], and these records may be considered detrimental to the

department.”

“[REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. The decision for

Michael to be adopted appears to have been intercepted by the then Minister of [BLANK].”

“I am concerned that the file seems to indicate that the Minister of [BLANK] at the time intercepted

adoption services to place Michael [REDACTED], against the assessment of the department.”

This did not suggest interference.

It confirmed that intervention had taken place—

and that such intervention had been permitted to override formal departmental warnings.

What should have protected, instead enabled.

What should have scrutinised, instead complied.

Political favour was allowed to displace child welfare.

And where objections were raised, they were dismissed.

The harm, as always, was carried by the vulnerable.

Laws once written to ensure protection—

the Right to Information Act, the Information Privacy Act, the Adoption Act, and the Child

Protection Act—

have since been reshaped.

Not to provide clarity,

but to preserve reputation.

Not to safeguard individuals,

but to shield institutions.

Mechanisms intended for transparency

have been turned into tools of silence.

Sections like 49 (“public interest”) and 47 (“exempt documents”)

are now routinely invoked to block access to personal history—

justified on the grounds that disclosure might damage the image of government agencies.

And so, truth became conditional.

Justice, optional.

And harm—institutionalised.

The Right to Information Act 2009, publicly promoted as a safeguard of openness,

has, in practice, been wielded to suppress history,

conceal systemic misconduct,

and silence the voices of those most affected.

This is not transparency.

It is strategic omission.

In 2012, the Queensland government issued a formal apology.

In 2013, the Commonwealth followed.

“We recognise that access to adoption records is vital…

We acknowledge that for too long, secrecy and denial have been barriers to healing and

understanding.”

— Queensland government, 27 November 2012

“We resolve, as a nation, to ensure these practices are never repeated…

We will continue to improve access to family histories…”

— Julia Gillard, National Apology, 21 March 2013

But the promises of access, truth, and recognition were never realised.

Spoken into microphones,

but never written into law.

Voiced before cameras,

but never enforced in policy.

The power to decide what can be known—

what must remain hidden—

continues to rest with those who created the harm.

And so, the harm continues.

Documents that reveal wrongdoing remain sealed.

Records that trace failures remain inaccessible.

Files that confirm political interference remain protected.

No adoption in Queensland has ever been formally recognised as forced.

Not one.

And without recognition,

there is no responsibility.

Without responsibility,

there is no justice.

If nothing has been acknowledged,

then to whom were these apologies truly addressed?

Without formal recognition,

they remain symbolic—

gestures designed to deflect public pressure,

to offer the appearance of responsibility

without the burden of accountability.

This is not reconciliation.

It is preservation—

of power,

of process,

of reputation.

The belief shared quietly among survivors is this:

They are waiting for us to die.

Delays are not incidental.

They are embedded.

They are strategic.

And when survivors do seek redress,

proceedings are often carried out in closed courts, behind sealed doors—

not for the safety of those harmed,

but for the protection of those who caused the harm.

Privacy is cited.

But what is protected is not the survivor's dignity.

It is the institution's name.

Outcomes are concealed.

Decisions are buried.

No one knows what happened.

No one knows what is possible.

And in that vacuum,

the forced adoption community is left silenced,

confused,

disconnected.

Secrecy.

Confusion.

Delay.

Distraction.

These are not bureaucratic inefficiencies.

They are tools—sharpened over time,

and wielded with precision.

The Illusion of Accountability

The public is led to believe that when something goes wrong, support is available—

that independent bodies like the Queensland Ombudsman,

the Office of the Information Commissioner (OIC),

and the Queensland Human Rights Commission (QHRC)

will intervene, investigate, and hold government departments to account.

It is also believed that elected officials—state and federal—possess the power to make things right.

That if the injustice is clear enough, if the evidence is strong enough,

someone in Parliament will act.

But this belief is a comforting illusion.

The reality is far more disheartening.

These oversight bodies do not possess the legal authority to enforce change or deliver justice.

Recommendations may be issued.

Reviews can be conducted.

Reports are written.

Conciliation may be offered.

But the outcomes are non-binding.

No department can be compelled to release withheld documents,

reverse a harmful decision,

or take responsibility for its failures.

Their powers are administrative and advisory—

not judicial,

not enforceable.

Even when overwhelming evidence of wrongdoing is presented,

these institutions remain constrained—

not by a lack of concern,

but by legislation designed to protect the very bodies they are meant to scrutinise.

Loopholes are codified.

Exemptions are routine.

“Public interest” is cited—vaguely and often—

as the justification for silence.

And so, the watchdogs become quiet.

They operate within the same structure that caused the harm.

And their capacity to intervene is denied before it begins.

Politicians fare no better.

Representatives from both sides of politics have been approached.

Experiences have been shared.

Documents provided.

Help requested.

But what has been learned is this:

those elected to serve the public are largely powerless to compel action.

They cannot force departments to disclose.

They cannot overturn judicial outcomes.

They cannot intervene in the workings of so-called independent bodies.

At best, they can raise a concern.

Write a letter.

Deliver a speech.

But when it comes to securing justice—

to holding government to account—

they are as powerless as the people they represent.

What is presented to the public as oversight,

as fairness,

as democratic accountability,

is in practice a closed loop—

a system built to appear responsive,

while in truth, protecting itself.

Survivors are locked out.

Truth is delayed.

Power is preserved.

This is not speculation.

This is lived experience.

The Fight for Truth and Legal Recognition

What is needed now is not merely financial assistance—

but support.

When this battle began, there was no roadmap.

Only hope.

Hope that truth would matter.

Hope that justice was possible.

Hope that someone—somewhere—would listen.

That belief was shaped by optimism, by trust,

and by an unguarded naïveté

that did not yet understand

the full extent of what would be required.

What followed was years of isolation.

Research carried out alone.

Submissions written in silence.

The truth pursued without legal guidance,

without institutional support,

without experienced advocacy.

A legal challenge is now being prepared—

not only to gain access to documents that were knowingly and deliberately withheld,

but to revisit and challenge the outcomes of two previous legal proceedings

that were shaped—irreparably—by that missing information.

First, to have the 2018 discharge of my adoption order formally reclassified—

not as an “exceptional circumstance,”

but as what it truly was:

a forced adoption.

Second, to challenge the validity of the deeds of release

signed during the 2018–2020 civil abuse settlement—

agreements entered into without access to critical evidence,

the absence of which fundamentally compromised justice,

and removed any possibility of genuine redress.

During that legal process, key information was not disclosed.

Among the documents concealed was evidence confirming

the direct involvement of a senior Queensland politician

in approving the adoption—

despite repeated objections from child welfare officers,

and formal concerns about my adoptive mother suitability.

This non-disclosure cannot be regarded as an oversight.

It was calculated.

It was deliberate.

And it constituted a denial of justice.

Under Australian law, misleading or deceptive conduct—

including the intentional withholding of material facts—

can render a legal agreement voidable.

The civil settlement was not entered into with informed consent.

Had the full extent of government involvement been known,

it would never have been accepted.

Reaching even this point has required navigating silence,

obstruction,

and rejection—

particularly from within the Queensland legal profession.

Despite the strength and seriousness of the case,

efforts to engage legal support have been met not with advocacy,

but with indifference,

dismissal,

and financial exclusion.

One Brisbane lawyer responded with the following:

“Thanks for the invitation to represent you in the below matter.

I presume you may be seeking a lawyer to act on a No Win No Fee arrangement?

If so, I would not be doing the matter below on those terms.

If however, you are seeking a lawyer on a paid basis, we would require funds in trust to meet the

legal costs with the engagement, and that initial payment will be $20,000.00.

I will not be communicating with you on the matter, and will close the inquiry down until I hear

from you about the request for our trust account information for the payment.”

This response is not unique.

It reflects a broader reluctance to confront the government.

Survivors are not met with legal empowerment—

but with silence and a paywall.

In Queensland, deeds of release—

especially those signed in government-related civil settlements—

are crafted to be final, binding, and virtually unchallengeable.

More often than not, the only legal representation available to survivors

comes through “No Win, No Fee” arrangements.

On the surface, these may appear accessible.

But in practice, they are deeply flawed.

Survivors are not supported.

They are processed.

Their pain becomes product.

Their trauma becomes transaction.

Truth and justice are not paramount.

Fees and finality are the goal.

These arrangements offer little in the way of genuine legal advocacy.

Cases are accepted based on profitability, not principle.

Survivors are pushed toward early settlement, not truth.

Complex or politically sensitive matters are routinely avoided.

Legal professionals working under this model are not incentivised to challenge the government.

In Queensland especially, a culture of quiet cooperation with government prevails—

where legal confrontation is discouraged,

and difficult cases are left unanswered.

Proper legal representation—skilled, committed, and independent—

is rarely available to those without significant financial means.

Retainers in the tens of thousands are demanded.

No public mechanism exists to bridge the gap between truth and access.

For most survivors, it is not a question of who to choose—

but whether help is possible at all.

Even organisations specifically tasked with legal assistance have failed to respond meaningfully.

The Queensland Law Society.

LawRight.
Knowmore.

Each approached.

Each informed.

Each walked away.

These agreements are often signed under pressure.

Without serious legal advice.

And without full understanding of the consequences.

This is not access to justice.

This is access to containment.

What results is a survivor—once again—

bound,

silenced,

and alone.

Once executed, these agreements prevent any further legal action—

even when new and critical evidence emerges.

To challenge one of these agreements,

a survivor must meet an almost unreachable legal threshold—

proving fraud, duress, undue influence,

or a serious breach of duty to disclose.

And even then,

the burden of proof falls entirely on the survivor—

who is often denied access to the very documents

that could support the claim.

This is the cruel paradox:

the evidence needed to challenge the release is being withheld—

because the release exists.

Government agencies understand this contradiction.

And they use it.

These agreements are not treated as instruments of resolution.

They are barriers.

They are tools of institutional control—

designed to silence survivors,

and shield the government from accountability.

This fight is not about legal technicalities.

It is about exposing a system

deliberately designed

to protect power

and punish truth-telling.

For me, this is not about financial compensation.

But everything the Queensland government has done to me

has been about money—

about avoiding liability,

denying accountability,

and containing cost.

This is not about revisiting the past for its own sake.

It is about formally correcting the public record.

It is about recognising that an adoption,

facilitated through deception, abuse of power, and political interference,

was never lawful,

never just,

and should never have been allowed to happen.

It is about calling it what it truly was:

a forced adoption.

Recognition—At Last

The only tangible breakthrough in this long and painful process

has not come through legal reform, political will, or institutional action—

but through sustained personal persistence, carried alone.

For years, the facility I was placed in—

operated by my adoptive mother and approved despite serious warnings—

remained excluded from the National Redress Scheme.

In that exclusion, those harmed were denied critical supports:

counselling, redress payments, and formal recognition of the abuse they endured.

The absence of this facility from the scheme was never publicly explained.

Its omission was treated as procedural, not personal.

Administrative barriers were presumed—

liquidation, incomplete records,

or the complexities of voluntary institutional participation.

Perhaps it was seen as too difficult.

Perhaps it was hoped no one would ask.

But someone did.

The matter was pursued directly.

The Department of Social Services was approached.

The question no one else had asked was raised:

Why was this facility excluded?

Why had no inquiry been made into its operation, or its ongoing absence?

The Department of Social Services was persuaded to intervene—

to engage with the Queensland government and request clarity.

And still, no transparent explanation was provided.

No justification was offered.

Only further silence.

That silence stood in stark contrast to the facts already in hand.

Because my adoption file tells a different story.

Contained within those records is irrefutable evidence

that a senior Queensland politician personally endorsed my adoptive mother—

despite formal objections raised by departmental staff.

That endorsement enabled her to operate the facility,

despite her history,

despite her instability,

despite clear and repeated warnings.

Political protection was not incidental.

It was decisive.

And it ensured that the harm continued.

No institutional review corrected this.

No government department intervened.

No support organisation stood forward.

What changed was not the system—

but the refusal of one survivor to accept its silence.

Through sustained challenge,

hat exclusion was overturned.

Not quickly.

Not generously.

Not voluntarily.

But through pressure—

applied until avoidance was no longer possible.

The Queensland government has now agreed

to act as a funder of last resort (FOLR) under the expanded scheme provisions.

This means that if an Independent Decision Maker determines

that a Queensland government institution is not equally responsible

for the abuse that occurred at the facility,

the government will still assume responsibility—

covering the institution’s share of redress payments

and the counselling support owed to survivors.

But in this case, no uncertainty remains.

The Queensland government is not marginally involved.

It is not peripherally accountable.

It is directly, undeniably responsible.

That responsibility is confirmed in my adoption file.

It was the government that approved the placement.

It was the government that overrode the objections.

It was the government that enabled the facility’s continued operation

under the protection of political influence.

This change did not arrive through conscience.

It was not offered as an act of goodwill.

It was forced—through quiet, relentless effort.

One survivor, asking the same question

until avoidance was no longer sustainable.

It is not justice.

But it is admission.

It is acknowledgment.

And for others still waiting—

those left without access,

without support,

without validation—

it is proof that the truth can still be uncovered.

That silence can still be broken.

And that the harm once denied

can no longer be ignored.

This Is Not Over

This is not just one man’s experience.

It is the exposure of a system that placed a child in danger,

concealed the truth for decades,

and now resists all accountability.

An adoption approved through political influence.

Abuse ignored.

Investigations avoided.

Justice denied through silence, delay, and obstruction.

For nearly a decade, truth has been pursued—

not for compensation, but for recognition.

Not to revisit the past, but to change the future.

Because what happened was not an error.

It was authorised.

It was sustained.

And it remains unaccounted for.

This is not a personal fight.

It is a legal and public challenge to a system

that continues to harm by protecting itself.

And if this can happen to one,

it can happen to many.

This is not just my past—

it is my present.

This is not a story—

it is my experience.

And it is an experience shared by thousands.

The pursuit of truth has never been about revisiting the past for its own sake.

It has always been about recognition.

About redress.

And about reform.

Every step taken so far has been done quietly, persistently, and alone.

And while everything possible has been done—

the next stage cannot be carried alone.

A respected barrister has been engaged—

someone who appears willing to assist,

potentially on a pro bono basis.

But to proceed further—

particularly to bring this matter before the Supreme Court of Queensland,

and potentially the Federal Court of Australia—

a solicitor will be required.

A prominent solicitor has been approached—

but no commitment has been made,

and no indication provided

as to whether they would act without payment.

The full extent of legal costs remains unknown.

It is assumed—though not confirmed—that an initial legal retainer may be required,

potentially in the tens of thousands.

Past experience has shown that legal costs can escalate quickly—

into the hundreds of thousands.

This is not an exaggeration.

It is a reality that renders justice inaccessible to most.

Legal action of this scale is not cheap—

and too often, deliberately placed out of reach.

Additional expenses are always anticipated:

administrative charges, expert reports, court filings, and court appearances.

Yet even these costs remain largely unspoken—

as if transparency itself were a privilege, not a right.

This is not a short-term pursuit.

It is a complex legal undertaking—

one likely to extend across years.

The exact costs, timeframe, and barriers cannot yet be fully known.

But transparency is owed.

And preparation must begin now.

Asking for financial help is uncomfortable.

It is not in my nature.

But I ask not only for myself.

I ask because the work done so far—

in securing recognition for the facility I was placed in,

in exposing political interference,

in fighting for access to documents deliberately withheld—

has already forged a path for others to follow.

And that path must remain open.

This legal action is not only about reclassifying my adoption.

It is about forcing a reckoning with the systems that allowed it—

and ensuring that it cannot happen again.

It is also about something larger:

a necessary turning point in Australian governance and judicial accountability.

Because if a government can override child protection assessments,

bury the truth,

conceal political involvement,

and then use that concealment to silence a survivor—

without consequence—

then no one’s civil rights are safe.

If you believe this does not affect you—

you are mistaken.

Accountability in government is not a niche concern.

It is the foundation of a just society.

It affects the integrity of public institutions,

the credibility of our courts,

and the protection of every citizen’s rights under law.

When governments are permitted to silence, conceal, and obstruct—

when courts allow harm to go unrecognised—

it is not just survivors who pay the price.

It is the public.

It is democracy.

It is every person who may one day rely on these same systems for fairness and protection.

This is not just my fight.

It is ours.

Because the moment we accept injustice as acceptable for some,

we allow it to become possible for all.

A Final Word

I am a real person.

This experience is real.

Every statement made is supported by evidence and documentation in my possession.

Names and specific locations have been deliberately withheld—

not to obscure the truth,

but to protect my privacy and the privacy of others.

Revealing those details at this stage could open the door to defamation claims—

claims that could be used to discredit, derail, or silence this effort

before accountability is achieved.

If you are in a position to contribute—

financially, professionally, organisationally,

or simply by sharing this truth—

whether as a journalist, a writer, a documentary filmmaker,

an advocate, or an ally—

please know that your support is received with deep appreciation and humility.

This is not a plea for charity.

It is an appeal for accountability.

Because what happens next

does not just affect one person.

It affects every Australian

who expects truth from government,

justice from law,

and integrity from the systems meant to protect us.

No matter the amount,

no matter the form—

your support matters.

You may not agree with everything written here.

You may not know what to believe.

But if even a part of this experience resonates—

if it reflects a system you’ve seen,

or a silence you’ve felt—

then perhaps this moment is shared.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for listening.

And if you choose to stand with me—

thank you for that, too.

All I ask is that you read with care,

consider what has been shared,

and—if you can—help ensure this effort continues.

Thank you for your time.

Thank you for reading.