Destiny's story: Motherhood and breaking free from intergenerational trauma

Destiny is an Aboriginal woman from Dunghutti country who shared her story with PANDA for NAIDOC week.

At 26 years old, I never imagined my life would look the way it does today.

I’m a single mum to two beautiful boys.

To most people, that might be where my story begins. But the truth is, my story begins much earlier.

I spent most of my childhood searching for affection, approval, and somewhere to belong. My childhood wasn't terrible, but it wasn't easy either.

My dad raised me as a single father alongside my grandmother. Dad worked hard and tried to give me everything I needed, but he battled alcoholism. Looking back now, I can see he was carrying wounds of his own.

My mum struggled with addiction and wasn't able to be the mother I needed. That left a hole in me that I spent years trying to fill.

Eventually I left the crowd I was spending time with behind. I went back to school, finished high school, and graduated at eighteen. For a moment, it felt like I was getting my life back on track.

Shortly after graduating, a boy from my past reached out. We reconnected, and within four months I was pregnant.

At first, I was happy. Ecstatic, even. All I had ever wanted was a family of my own.

But while my stomach grew, so did the control. The domestic violence started quietly.

It was yelling.

It was being told what I could and couldn't wear.

Who I could speak to.

Where I could go.

What I could do.

Then came the isolation.

The financial control.

The fear.

And eventually, the violence became impossible to ignore.

By the time my son arrived, I was already surviving instead of living.

I had moved into my own unit. I had been pushed away from family and friends until I found myself completely alone.

Then the world shut down.

My first son was born during the COVID pandemic. Support services closed. Mothers groups stopped. Families were separated. The little support I had disappeared.

Day by day, I withdrew further into myself.

Three years passed in what feels like a blur.

A blur of survival.

A blur of exhaustion.

A blur of trying to keep my head above water while pretending everything was okay.

The hardest part is admitting that I don't remember much of those first three years.

Not because I didn't love my son.

Because I was drowning.

One day, when he was around three years old, I sat down and realised this wasn't living.

I wasn't enjoying motherhood.

I didn't want to leave the house.

I didn't want to go to parks.

I didn't want to do the things mothers were supposed to enjoy.

Every day felt like I was simply making it to bedtime.

I remember thinking, this can't be normal.

This can't be all there is.

That was the first time I truly acknowledged that something wasn't right.

I started researching postpartum depression. I watched videos. I read stories from other mothers. I forced myself to leave the house, even when I didn't want to. I realised that isolation wasn't protecting me anymore—it was hurting me.

Most people didn't know how bad things were.

They saw struggle.

What they didn't see was the trauma underneath it all.

The fear.

The loneliness.

The depression.

The domestic violence.

The little girl who still felt unseen.

For so long, I thought I was failing at motherhood.

What I didn't realise was that I was carrying more than anyone should have to carry alone.

When I found out I was pregnant again, my first emotion wasn't excitement.

It was fear.

I looked at my oldest son and realised something that broke my heart.

I couldn't remember most of his first three years.

The memories were there, but they felt distant and blurred together, hidden beneath depression, survival, fear, and exhaustion.

I had spent so long trying to get through each day that I never got the chance to truly live them.

And I couldn't bear the thought of doing that again.

For years, I had believed asking for help meant I was failing.

Now I understood the opposite was true.

Asking for help was one of the bravest things I could do.

And the funny thing is, when I finally stopped trying to do everything alone, I realised I had never actually been alone.

My dad was there.

My grandmother was there.

My aunties were there.

No matter how many mistakes I thought I'd made.

No matter how many times I thought I'd let them down.

Whenever I needed somewhere to go, they opened the door.

Whenever I needed support, they showed up.

I hadn't always recognised it.

Sometimes pain makes it difficult to see the people standing beside you.

But they were there.

And little by little, I began rebuilding.

Not just for my boys.

For me.

Because somewhere along the way, I started to realise that I deserved healing too.

Not because I was a perfect mother.

Not because I had done everything right.

But because I was human.

Because every person deserves the chance to become more than the worst things they've survived.

I moved back to my grandmother's house.

Ironically, it was the place connected to so much of my childhood hurt.

But it also became the place where healing began.

Today my life looks completely different.

My days are simple.

I wake up.

I get the kids ready.

I take them to school.

I help care for my grandmother.

I keep the house running.

I search for work.

I learn new routines.

I learn how to love myself.

I learn how to heal.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered something I never expected.

I actually enjoy being with my children.

I enjoy sitting outside in the backyard.

I enjoy going for walks.

I enjoy the ordinary moments I once rushed through.

The moments I once thought I needed a break from have become the moments I treasure most.

My oldest son, Chance, still has his challenges.

Some days are hard.

Some days are really hard.

But Chance is one of the most incredible people I've ever met.

He has the softest heart.

The kind of heart that feels everything deeply.

The kind of heart that notices when someone is sad.

The kind of heart that wants everyone around him to be okay.

He's fiercely loyal.

Protective.

And smarter than most people realise.

Then there's my youngest son.

My baby.

The little boy who came into my life when I needed healing the most.

The things I struggled through with Chance at this age have felt completely different this time around.

This version of motherhood feels softer.

And sometimes that's beautiful.

Sometimes it's heartbreaking.

Not because I didn't love him.

Because I did.

More than anything.

But he got a mother who was drowning.

A mother carrying trauma, domestic violence, depression, and survival all at once.

My youngest son gets a different version.

A softer version.

A healthier version.

A version that's still healing but finally learning how to be present.

But then I remind myself of something important.

The version of me that Chance got never stopped fighting for him.

Not once.

Even on the days I was lost.

Even on the days I didn't know who I was.

Even on the days I felt like I was failing.

I still loved him.

And that matters.

The biggest lesson I'm trying to teach my boys is something I spent years learning myself.

Their feelings matter.

All of them.

The big feelings.

The messy feelings.

The angry feelings.

The sad feelings.

The feelings that don't make sense.

They're all valid.

Because feelings don't make us weak.

They make us human.

I never want my boys to feel like they have to hide who they are.

I want them to know they can talk.

They can cry.

They can ask for help.

And most importantly, they can be themselves.

Most of all, I hope they understand that where you come from doesn't have to determine where you end up.

Because every person has a story.

Every person carries something.

And no matter what chapter you're in right now, the story isn't finished.

You never stop writing it.

I know that because I'm still writing mine.