My name was Hannah. I held an identity of family love in Katikati, Bay of Plenty. Childhood memories grew with learning to ride horses in the back yard of my grandparents home. Swimming lessons from my grandfather. Milkshakes made by uncles young enough to be an older brother. Ballet classes. My Mum, kind and caring. My Step-Dad who I knew only as Dad. Four Baby Brothers to teach how to walk and sometimes chase roosters around the yard. Homeschool, sometimes. Primary school, other times. 

At the age of ten my name was legally changed to Zoe. Along with this name change came an Adventure in Australia. A house bus era. Travels across Queensland and New South Wales. Settle in Lismore, park the housebus and start high school. Sunshine on beaches. Rain seasons. Siblings. Friends, Games of hide and seek. With long summer holidays back in New Zealand, where Hannah is a name used with a history of love behind it as I am called to a dinner table alongside a large, loud, Family. 

I am loved and of value.

When I was fifteen my biological father entered my life, turning these memories into past myths. Life Rafts I clung too. He introduced me to my siblings as Hannah, the Village as ‘his niece’, telling me that my existence must be kept a secret. But I belong to him. By refusing to acknowledge the name of Zoe, this man actively removed Hannah away from her home, isolated her, and created confusion to veil his true actions of grooming. Instead of a stable home this man built an inheritance of shame. 

In 2025 I found myself with a new identity, I learnt that the heavy secret I had been holding was in fact not a secret. I had been led to believe no one knew I was being abused. The reality: everyone knew (except for one person, her response will come to light in time)  I had kept the secret identity of Hannah in a box, stored in the darkest recess of my conscience and I sat on that box for over 20 years as I smiled outwardly to the world. Curating a version of myself that was palatable and acceptable. 

With the new knowledge that abuse had been reported to NZ Police, the school I attended and Oranga Tamariki tried to seek justice against my biological father. Within weeks of taking official action this man decided to end his life. We can speculate that this choice may be triggered by other events but the coincidence of timing screams of avoidance. While I can’t press charges on the deceased I can seek answers as to why this person was enabled and emboldened to act with confidence. I can ask, why did the systems who held a Duty of Care not simply ask ‘are you ok?’, instead, I was knowingly left with a violent sex offender who had a history of crimes against women and children.

The realization that the abuse on my body was known about and discussed without thought to my safety tapped into a part of me that I didn’t know existed, the Fighter. There was a seismic collision of who I wanted to present and who I really am. I could no longer hold back the truth. My wounds may now be on display but that is because I stood up off that old dusty box in the forgotten corner of my young adult life, lifted the lid and pulled Hannah out. I have forgiven myself for choosing to adjust to violence and I will no longer carry the blanket of shame handed to me. 

I spit it to the wind.

Here I stand. Two feet stood on solid ground. Healed. Loved. Valued…

Calling on you, the reader, to consider how you have been devalued, cast aside and given the responsibility to carry another person’s choice. We should never be expected to adapt to abuse, we should be empowered to stand tall and know that systems we live in will hold the perpetrators accountable.

My experience has taught me that there are gaps in response by the New Zealand Police and Oranga Tamariki that perpetrates use to their advantage. These gaps are filled with violence on our bodies and silent screams. 

This is my journey to remove these gaps. By requesting New Zealand Government place children at the centre of our policies and drive change through the spine of this country. 

The layers of this story are complex and my experience did not happen in a vacuum. 

I know that there will be closed doors along the way.

I know I will make mistakes. 

I know I will take up space. 

I know I am of value and will never dim my light again.

Survival is beautiful and life is for living. The abuser’s actions do not define me. My identity is my own and this is the true story of what really happened around me as I silently screamed for help. Help that was available. Help that was withheld. Help should never be an option to provide. 

@zozoesther