Writing about my experience working at the Downing Centre District Court as a Court Officer for three months back in 2011 has really brought back a lot of feelings. I feel shame, humiliation — and in so many ways, I feel angry.
On one hand, I’ve let the issue go. But on the flip side, it’s still a raw wound.
I think about it now and I’m a middle-aged woman. A sixty-year-old man doesn’t seem old to me anymore, and it wouldn’t feel unrealistic to become romantically involved with someone that age now. But back then, I was 29 years old. The judge was 60.
My housemate kept telling me he sounded like a dirty old man, and she asked why on earth I liked the way I interpreted that he was behaving. In many ways I feel the judge was completely out of line. There was a massive power imbalance. But it did feel like we danced a mutual dance.
The way they let me go just ruined me. It ruined me. I’ve never experienced an emotion or a shift in my own being like I did that day. I know it happened 14 years ago, but recently I made a decision I was going to claim workers compensation from the courts.
I have evidence of how this very experience completely ruined my life, caused reputational harm, wrecked my employability, and completely fucked with my head. I did a lot of research into workers compensation, and from what I found, I could be looking at at least $250,000 if someone took the case and sought special circumstances for the time that’s passed. On top of that, I could potentially seek damages of over $500,000.
It looked pretty appealing for a hot minute.
I contacted a no-win-no-pay law firm in Sydney and told them my story. They wrote back saying they were at capacity and couldn’t take on any more workers compensation claims, but they encouraged me to try other firms.
And I’m 100% certain that if I got approved for special circumstances, I would get something for what happened.
But then I remembered something: That is not who I am.
I don’t want to seek compensation from the courts for something they could never really pay the full value of. I don’t want to get the poor old judge in trouble for being what I have interpreted as a shameless flirt. I do want my boss and the senior court officer to be held to account for laughing at me but ultimately, I say:
Fuck Worker's Compensation.
I am so much better than that. You could offer me $2,000,000 and I wouldn’t take it.
I don’t want a cent from them, or anyone, because while it was, at the time, the worst thing that had ever happened to me, you cannot put a price on the life I’ve lost as a result of the cruel, degrading, and unfair treatment from a bunch of fuckwits at the NSW District Court.
Speaking of lawyers and the law, I finally sorted everything out with the volunteer organisation. But that’s not before I discovered just how much of a big deal my case had become.
To re-familiarise you with what happened: I started volunteering without having filled in the correct paperwork, including a police check. I asked them numerous times if I’d completed all the onboarding tasks, and they told me I was good to go. After I’d already started, someone from HR asked about my police check. I told them I hadn’t done one and that’s when the drama began.
My file said I was terminated, and I threatened to get a lawyer because I didn’t want that on my record.
The other issue was a conviction I thought had been spent, for using my mobile phone while driving. But because the police check was for working with vulnerable people, it came up. That needed to be investigated.
The whole thing was a mess.
Eventually, I heard back: my conviction wouldn’t impact my ability to volunteer with them. They said someone would be in touch to let me know when I could start again.
So I emailed them, asking if they needed anything further. No response. I followed up with another email, asking if they’d received my first one. Still nothing.
I called and left a message. A woman from another state called me back and had no idea what I was talking about.
Eventually, someone did respond via email. I asked if I could be put on this weekend’s roster.
Again: silence.
So I wrote back with a full timeline of everything that had happened. I asked, very clearly, that if there was another issue, someone should tell me so I could seek internal support from the larger organisation, or alternatively seek external advocacy.
That finally prompted a response. The manager of the entire national program called me personally. She told me there had been a full investigation into my case. They had seen the emails I’d sent, where I’d asked for help and been either ignored or given incorrect information.
She apologised. She said they had let me down. She thanked me for my passion and for sticking with them. Honestly, it’s incredible how many hoops I had to jump through just to get back to volunteering.
I started back this morning. One of the people I spoke to was a man I’d spoken with a couple of months ago. He asked if there was service where someone could call him just to have a conversation. I remembered him. I saw the note on his file. So I stayed on the line and had a long chat with him. When we finished, he thanked me. He said it was nice to have someone to talk to.
But honestly, I should be the one thanking him. He was such a beautiful soul. And after everything, the emails, the phone calls, the silence, the fight to be heard — that one conversation made it all worth it.
I just finished watching a two-part David Attenborough series, and it was truly amazing.
Something I learned: young puma siblings — also called mountain lions or cougars — are incredibly close in their early lives. After spending their first few months nursing and playing under their mother’s care, they start learning to hunt together. They grow up side by side — stalking, tumbling, sharing kills, sometimes sleeping in a pile of golden fur. For a little while, they are their entire world.
But then — as they near adulthood — something ancient and inevitable takes over. Around 18 to 24 months, the instinct to carve out territory kicks in. And with no ceremony, no goodbye, the siblings part. Sometimes it’s peaceful, sometimes it’s a sudden scuffle. But either way, they vanish into their separate wildernesses.
They may never meet again.
When I watched this segment on young pumas, I was deeply moved. It reminded me of my brother and I. So I sent him a message and told him that when they’re young, sibling pumas are great mates — and then, when they grow up a bit, they part. I then told him it reminded me of us. And it’s sad.
This was his response:
“We were not great mates when we lived together. We fought more than any siblings I know of.”
Those two sentences hurt my feelings more than anything has in a very long time.
I felt it physically — a kind of hollowing out inside me.
My brother and I fought a lot as we got older, yes. But when we were younger, I truly believed we shared something special. A bond. I thought we had a common experience — especially growing up with the particular, unique shape of our parents’ lives.
I’ve talked a bit about wanting to buy Mum’s old house in Canberra because it reminds me of my childhood. So much of that has to do with the bond I thought my brother and I shared.
For him to dismiss it like that — so bluntly, so casually — didn’t just hurt. It robbed me of something. It robbed me of my childhood.
And without it, I feel like I have nothing.
All those years I thought we were in harmony — I was alone. And now I can feel it.
I want to hug someone. But there is no one to hug.
I was alone then. And I’m alone now.
