The day I found out my Herald article was being released I went into panic mode.

Full blown panic attack in the office. I was lovingly ‘ordered’ home on DV leave. With instructions to breathe. I couldn’t breathe because if I did, I would admit to myself I am weak and I will crumble. 

I cried the whole drive home. And my body was exhausted. I was shaking. 

And then I received calls from my inner circle that  said: ‘you found your voice…keep going…don’t let anyone take it away from you. …i’m so fucking proud of you…we’ve got your back….you will be ok…I love you’’

I panicked because now my mum will find out, my grandmother, my siblings who had suffered enough and then my whole maternal family will experience a nuclear bomb that I can’t even warn them about. I can’t warn them because of the heinous reactions coming my way and the complaints lodged with Oranga Tamariki and against NZ Police. With no legal counsel I was open to very serious consequences. 

But, then I remembered why I did this article. 

That people wanted to pretend that the abuse had ‘gone away’. 

That the system failed me. 

Several times. 

And I remembered that I was sacrificing my privacy to ensure: no child is left with a ‘bad person’.

The morning the article was released I went on a Mental Health Walk. I was shaking and couldn’t retain a thought in my overtired brain. And then: I saw the headline. Large and Bold. Someone has finally taken me seriously and I WILL be heard. 

The reaction I freely showed to my inner circle was that of Joy. It encapsulated years of grief suddenly lifting as I saw the headline and read my own words washing away a person’s bullshit public persona. 

The results? 

My family rallied.

My friends cried. 

My workplace provided ongoing support. 

I am now seen, valued and loved COMPLETELY. 

And I KNEW my life had changed

There are still roadblocks to push aside and battles to win. But daily I find someone who needs my voice to empower their own. I reclaimed lost family members and I remember that 

The Best Revenge is Life

Unprepared, I find myself at war

The green battle field is prepped

The swords are drawn

Each battle cry brings forth a Sister

Our roars are unbroken and the world will shudder

Wisps of repetitions surround me

Warm me. 

Reminding me to fight 

Time closed my wounds 

So that I may lead this last battle 

Voice the loudest song 

To reverberate across nations 

Sisters. We stand tall 

No man shall touch us 

No man shall have the right. 

Sisters. We who were ripped apart 

No more. 

Blue and Gold thread bring us repair 

Stitch by stitch we recover 

And battle ready we sing

We will fight with words 

Our enemies will know our rhythm 

We live 

We dance 

We love

For eternity; the best revenge is life

Reclaiming Identity | Te Whare Tapa Whā

The health model Te Whare Tapa Whā tells us that Taha is wellbeing. But wellbeing isn’t a shallow thing; it’s not a morning smoothie or a walk for your mental health. It starts at the root. It starts with your identity. Your foundation. Your whenua.

Think of whenua as your place of belonging—the space where the mask finally slips and you are safe to just be. Whether you are with whānau, friends, or at your mahi, it is the ground that holds you up. If you imagine your life as a house, your identity is the foundation. Your health—your taha—is the walls. When the foundation is weak, the walls groan and the roof tilts. When one wall buckles, the whole house feels the strain.

For twenty years, I didn’t know where I belonged. I didn’t know what to call myself. Am I Hannah Bush? Hannah Kane? Zoe Abraham? I was a confusing mosaic of names and nationalities, shifting like sand. Today, my feet stand on the only ground that doesn’t move: my own bravery. Step by step, I have reclaimed my whenua.

There are those who claim “Zoe” never existed, that I am chasing fame or coin. They say this because they were only ever introduced to “Hannah.”

To them, Hannah was a trophy. She was paraded around, placed on a pedestal as the long-lost daughter. But in the same breath, she was introduced to the village as a “niece.” She was a daughter when there was a financial gain to be had; she was a secret when she needed to be hidden. Her safety was traded for silence. DNA was weaponized to cut ties the moment child support was mentioned. Let me be clear: my mother never received a cent from him. She was the one who paid support after I was relocated. This man did not want a child; he wanted an extension of himself to manipulate.

Abuse does not happen in a vacuum.

It thrives on grooming, using shame and guilt as a shroud to keep us quiet. The statistics are a scream in the dark: New Zealand has the fifth worst child abuse record in the OECD. Ninety percent of sexual violence is committed by someone the child knows. One in seven boys will be abused by adulthood.

My “visit” to New Zealand at fifteen began with a phone call and ended with my passport taken. I never boarded that flight back to my mother. I ask the professionals: Does this constitute kidnapping? I’ll let you decide.

For decades, this adjusted my very DNA. I lived in fear of a man with hunting equipment who trained me how to “behave.” My abuse was reported twice to the police; it was noticed by my school and my community. Yet, no adult ever took me aside to ask if I was okay. The agencies traded responsibility back and forth while I carried the mental load of his crimes.

In 2025, the silence ended. I found out that my “secret” was known by almost everyone. My body went cold when I learned my police file had been “miss-assigned” and filed away without follow-through. But I am no longer a pariah. I am a threat.

I have reclaimed my whenua by looking at the women who came before me. I carry the legacy of Ruawahine Irihapeti Faulkner and the strength of four generations of women who lead with love and call out wrongdoing. I felt my grandmother walking in front of me as I entered that police station—clearing the way.

My goal is policy change.

By the end of 2026, I will submit a Petition to Parliament to place children at the center of our policies. We must close the gaps that predators use to their advantage.

To you, the reader: you are of value. Wash away the dirt that was placed on your body, it has no right to be there. I know I will make mistakes. I know I will take up space. I know I will never dim my light again.

I am here to give you permission to step forward. Your right to live whole and without shame is not a privilege. It is your human right.

Healed. Loved. Valued.

Love you, ZoZo