Gentle Bearings of Truth

Unveiling stories with quiet reverence

Cathartic reflection often lives in private journals; lines I never intended to share. I could have left these thoughts tucked in my notebook, but there’s a quiet value in laying them before The Spencer Street End audience. After all, if a few neatly complied words can help others understand the work behind the scenes, why keep them hidden?

Not long ago, I received a simple email inviting me to lend my writing to a project I’d been asked to support. There was no fanfare, just a brief request to gather words, memories and observations from hearings and archival materials. In that moment, I felt quietly humbled, reminded that every person’s testimony was more important than my own. I was being asked to write the history of Victoria has brushed down by the Yoorrook Justice Commission in all its hearings, hundreds of received submissions and its access to thousands and thousands of pages of archival material. In my approach to undertaking such was to listen carefully; record faithfully; and always make room for others’ voices.

But before I replied, I paused. It took me a couple of weeks to work out whether to proceed. The deadline was tight; mere months to gather, distil and write. My dithering wasn’t helping the time pressure. I knew that failing to deliver could reflect poorly on me among my own networks. I spent long hours weighing the ask: was I ready to shoulder the responsibility, given the reputational risk with colleagues and community if I fell short?

In the end, I decided that if there was ever a time to step forward, it was now. It was an opportunity that would never arise again.

The team we formed was intentionally small and agile, tapping into broader expertise across the Commission. I won’t mention names here,I don’t want to embarrass anyone; there will be time for that later.

The team worked with lawyers safeguarding sensitive testimony, cultural advisers upholding languages and protocols, and Commission staff whose corporate knowledge ensured every word matched what had been presented before Yoorrook.

We drew upon on carefully crafted data‑sovereignty frameworks, and designers debated paper weight, font size and layout. In those early meetings, my role remained clear: to support their expertise and weave these contributions into a coherent narrative without ever overshadowing the source.

In meeting rooms in Collingwood, echoing council chambers, but grounded in culture and the echoes of ceremony, I found myself leaning forward with a notebook, pen poised. I usually spoke little, asking only clarifying questions when necessary. More often, I simply listened: to lawyers parsing language, to cultural custodians explaining ceremony, to elders describing the land. It was a privilege to bear witness, and I became acutely aware of the trust each contributor placed in this collective effort.

Some of the most profound moments were solitary. I spent long evenings at my desk reading transcripts by lamp light, tracing an elder’s handwritten page, watching each pause and punctuation mark as though it held a heartbeat.

There were times when grief seemed to hover between the lines; words unsaid, tears unshed. I learned that honouring truth sometimes meant waiting in silence until all that needed to be heard was given space.

Those intimate encounters left their mark. I found myself carrying fragments of testimony home, their weight settling in my thoughts and dreams. After hearings, when the last microphone clicked off and chairs emptied, I would retreat into solitude, opening my notebook only when I felt steady enough. It was clear that listening with empathy could strain one’s own reserves, and I was reminded that self‑care was part of the process of care.

At the same time, the stories themselves were diverse and powerful. Tales of resistance in all its guises. From language spoken in whispers to chants shouted and marched.

Through this work, the confirmation that the fallout from invasion and colonisation has not ended; it continues all around us is starker than ever. Yet the power of these testimonies and the enduring strength of our elders provided the impetus to carry on, reminding me that this effort is for them as much as it is for us.

Collaboration, as painful as it sometimes was, was constant. Counsel Assisting checked in on our phrasing to ensure legal clarity; cultural wellbeing officers reminded us to pause when a story carried too much burden; and the design team at Grindstone Creative invited us into discussions about paper grain and binding techniques, showing that an account’s form is never secondary to its substance. I came to see that every detail, down to the thickness of a page, speaks to respect.

The work culminated in a document that will be released in parts—vignettes, poetry, historical analysis and recommendations. Yet for me, the heart of this project has always been the trust placed in a series of small acts: a question asked softly, a transcript read carefully, a layout adjusted thoughtfully. My contribution was never about grand declarations, but about fidelity: to voices, to moments and to the enduring hope that truth can help us move forward.

My thanks extend to everyone involved: colleagues who offered guidance when my patience wore thin; cultural wellbeing officers who reminded us to pause and care when the weight felt too much; and the many others whose insights shaped each page. I’ll admit there were moments we I think we all felt overwhelmed, when deadlines loomed and emotions ran high. But those moments were met with understanding and support that carried us through.

Now that this project has come to a close for me, I sit quietly with gratitude: for every person who spoke; for every memory entrusted; and for readers who will, in time, meet these words with open minds. It is my hope that this modest reflection, humble in its scope, reminds us that truth-telling is never the work of one individual, but of many hearts and hands working together.

It belongs to the Commission whose hand it is given to the people of Victoria and beyond.

With this behind me, I’m ready to move on to new opportunities, carrying forward the lessons learned and the voices we have been privileged to platform.

My fervent hope is that the truth, as told by our people, will help those on the frontline working to improve outcomes through the spread of understanding; and help future generations recognise themselves in the stories of their old people and may that give them the strength to prosper.