Finding ground after a childhood that never stood still

Content note

This post contains personal experiences of childhood trauma, family violence, homelessness, mental health distress, and loss. It is written from lived experience and focuses on survival, recovery, and building stability. Please read with care and take breaks if needed. If this brings anything up for you, support is available. In Australia, Lifeline is available on 13 11 14.

Foundations that never held

Growing up, nothing stayed in one place for long. Not our homes, not our schools, not our sense of safety. My childhood was shaped by constant movement through Cairns, drifting between houses, caravan parks, crisis accommodation, and wherever my mum could find somewhere for us to land temporarily.

By the time I reached high school, I had attended almost every primary school in the region. Each move reset my life again, new classrooms, new faces, no time to belong. We did not have a washing machine, so clothes piled up in corners and towers. It was a small detail that somehow captured everything else, the lack of structure, the sense that we were never settled.

I remember hitchhiking with my mum, staying with boyfriends when we could, relying on op shops for clothes. Child safety became involved early on, and I moved in and out of foster care, passed between adults who all told different versions of my story. Even now, that time feels fragmented. What I know for certain is that safety was rare and stability did not exist.

When stability did not mean safety

When I was nine, my father took custody of me. On the surface, it looked like things might finally calm down. Same address, fewer moves, a sense of routine. But emotional safety was still missing.

I learned how to survive by being useful and quiet. I felt more like a servant than a child, constantly aware of how little space I was allowed to take up. Eventually, the abuse I experienced from my father came to light. When my stepmother discovered what had been happening, the household erupted into chaos.

I ran away often. Parks, friends’ houses, anywhere felt safer than home. At thirteen, I was sent to live with my grandparents. For the first time, life felt close to normal. There was food, care, and consistency. My grandmother was a steady presence, someone who made me feel protected. That stability mattered more than I knew at the time.

But it did not last. My father wanted me back, and once again I was pulled away from the only place that had felt safe.

Being cut loose as a teenager

On a flight back from Cairns to Townsville, my father messaged me to say I was no longer allowed to live with him. I landed with nowhere to go.

When they picked me up from the airport, my belongings were already packed. I was told to find somewhere else to live and given a small amount of money they claimed they had saved for me. I was dropped at a friend’s house and had to beg to stay.

I missed school to work. I cleaned, helped where I could, and tried to pay my way just to have a roof over my head. Eventually my mental health collapsed. I spent time in adolescent mental health care, then moved into a young women’s shelter. I thought I was choosing independence, but really I was just trying to survive.

More than once, I lost everything I owned. Sometimes through threats, sometimes through betrayal, sometimes simply because I had to leave quickly. School became another unsafe space, filled with rumours, bullying, and a lack of understanding. I was treated like a problem rather than a young person in need of support.

Places that kept me human

Townsville Flexible Learning Centre changed everything. There were no uniforms, food was provided, lifts were offered, and staff treated us like people. For the first time in years, I felt accepted instead of judged.

Around this time, I lost a friend to suicide. Grief layered itself on top of everything else I was already carrying. I was still in supported accommodation, still learning how to feel safe in my body, still trying to exist in a world that had never felt steady.

Eventually, I moved in with someone who became my partner. For the first time, I experienced safety in a relationship. He was the first person I trusted enough to tell my full story. That relationship did not last, but the knowledge that safety was possible stayed with me.

Years of instability

What followed were years of moving between hospitals, shelters, short-term housing, and unsafe environments. I experienced threats, exploitation, and repeated homelessness. Sometimes I slept rough. Sometimes I relied on strangers. Sometimes I had a room, but never certainty.

At one point, I lost everything I owned in a bushfire. Another time, everything was stolen. I lived through winter outdoors in Victoria, constantly moving, trying to stay warm and survive day by day.

There were moments of kindness that kept me going. Food offered without question. A place to rest. Someone who listened. Those moments mattered, even when the systems around me felt cold and inflexible.

Returning to Cairns and building again

Eventually, I returned to Cairns. It was not easy, but it was familiar. With the help of women’s shelters, homelessness services, and eventually NDIS supports, I began to build something that resembled stability.

Support workers helped me navigate housing applications, healthcare, identification, and income. Mission Australia, hospital outreach teams, and long-term supported accommodation became the scaffolding that held my life together.

For the first time, housing lasted longer than a few months.

Understanding myself properly

During this period, I was diagnosed with ADHD and autism. After years of mental health diagnoses that never fully fit, this finally made sense. It explained my nervous system, my overwhelm, and the coping strategies I had developed to survive.

I realised that many of my behaviours, keeping emergency supplies, living out of a backpack, never fully unpacking, were not flaws. They were survival skills. It took time to believe that stability might actually last.

Moving from survival to purpose

With housing secured, I could finally focus on education and purpose. I completed a Certificate III in Community Services. I became involved in peer work, using my lived experience to support others navigating homelessness, mental health, and disability systems.

Each step supported the next. Housing made education possible. Education made work possible. Work brought a sense of contribution and belonging.

Looking back, looking forward

This story is not just about trauma or homelessness. It is about how no one survives alone. Stability is built from layers, housing, healthcare, income, relationships, and support working together.

I still carry survival instincts. I still prepare for things to fall apart. But now those instincts sit alongside hope, plans, and community.

Growing up Jazzyfizzles taught me how to survive chaos. Adulthood has taught me how to stay when things are finally safe.

Healing is not linear. Systems matter. And with the right support, people can build lives that once felt impossible. The scaffolding others helped build around me is now strong enough that I can help build it for others too.

And that, more than anything, feels like home.