From Surviving in Silence to Finding My Voice

I was born into a Polish family in New Zealand, the youngest of six children. Polish was the language of my home. My parents spoke to me in Polish, and I would answer them in English. In many ways, I grew up between two worlds, but the strongest memory of my childhood is not language or culture.

It is survival.

My father was an alcoholic. He could be mentally, emotionally and physically abusive. My Mama lived with the consequences of his volatility, and as a little girl, I somehow became one of her protectors.

I remember lying in bed with her, trying to keep her safe. I remember hiding in cupboards and under beds. I remember being dragged out and running away to relatives for shelter. Sometimes they took us in. Sometimes they had simply had enough of the drama and turned us away.

There were no easily accessible refuges like there are today. At times, we sought shelter through the Salvation Army, a convent or a priest. Wherever there was somewhere safe to sleep for the night, that became our sanctuary.

Even after my parents separated when I was around six, the fear didn’t disappear. I remember walking through our hometown with Mama and feeling anxiety in my stomach at the thought that we might bump into my father. I never knew which version of him we were going to get.

Then, when I was seven, something happened that would forever divide my childhood into before and after.

My brother took his own life in the bedroom next to me. He shot himself in the head.

I remember hearing my sister calling the ambulance. I was a little girl trying to comprehend something that no child should ever have to comprehend. My brother had endured years of abuse himself, and I believe that played a part in the pain he carried.

Strangely, I also remember the attention surrounding his funeral. I liked being noticed and cared for. Looking back now, I understand that a child who had lived amongst so much chaos was hungry for attention and safety. Somewhere along the way, drama and attention had become intertwined for me. It would take many years to understand that pattern.

There were other things I had to survive. Alcohol and cigarettes entered my world far too young. There was also sexual interference by my brother and one of his friends. When I eventually tried to address what had happened many years later, I didn’t receive the acknowledgement I needed.

Over time, I learned that sometimes preserving yourself means creating distance, even from family.

Yet my childhood wasn’t entirely darkness. I had wonderful cousins who were mentors in their own imperfect way. I also held strongly to certain values. I decided to remain a virgin until marriage, and I did.

At seventeen, I became engaged to a man twelve years older than me and married at twenty-one. That relationship eventually ended. A few years later, I married a lovely man nine years younger than me, and together we had two beautiful sons. That marriage also eventually came to an end.

Leaving was painful, particularly because children were involved. But we found a way to parent apart while still being connected through extended family.

Today, I have a good relationship with my ex-husband, his wife and children, and my ex-in-laws. Life has taught me that family doesn’t always have to fit a traditional shape. Sometimes family is biological, and sometimes it is the family we consciously choose and nurture.

My mother died when my second son was only four months old. My father died not long afterwards. By then, I had experienced enough beginnings and endings to know how quickly life can change.

But there was another part of me that had always wanted to be heard.

My voice.

In my late twenties, I became a professional singer. Before that, I had worked in sales, but acting and music became one of the great threads running through my life. I later became a singing coach and discovered how much I loved helping other people find their own voices.

When I moved to Australia, my life evolved again. I continued singing and coaching and began working in disability support. In 2019, I also qualified in Rapid Transformational Therapy and became a certified hypnotherapist.

I had begun to understand that healing wasn’t simply about surviving the past. It was about understanding ourselves well enough that the past no longer had to dictate the future.

COVID interrupted some of my plans, particularly the face-to-face therapeutic work I wanted to develop. But it didn’t take away the dream.

Today, my definition of success is very different from what it once was.

I live near Mooloolaba Beach in a beautiful apartment. The ocean is only about 750 steps from my door. I live simply. I don’t need enormous wealth or endless possessions to feel abundant.

What I have discovered is something I spent much of my childhood longing for without even knowing its name.

Peace.

I crave peace because I know what chaos feels like.

And I believe I have earned the right to protect that peace.

I still sing. I still coach. I work in a homeshare situation supporting a client, and I’m looking at where the next chapter of my working and creative life might take me. My eldest son has recently moved to Brisbane, and my youngest serves in the Army in New Zealand. I have people around me whom I love and a family that extends far beyond blood.

I’ve also recently begun a beautiful new relationship. I’m enjoying it for what it is today while looking forward to discovering where it might lead.

And I still have dreams.

I would love to write a song for a movie. I would love to combine music, intuition and therapy and work with children as a musical healer or voice therapist. As an intuitive singing coach, I want to keep learning and developing the skills that will allow me to bring together everything my life has taught me.

Perhaps there is something fitting about that.

As a little girl, I learned to hide. I learned to stay quiet, read the room and survive other people’s storms.

As a woman, I learned to sing.

And now, after everything, I am learning that my voice is not only something I use on a stage.

It is how I choose my life.

I don’t need chaos anymore. I don’t need drama to know that I matter.

I choose love.

I choose simplicity.

I choose the people who feel like home.

Most of all, I choose peace.