Kate is a quiet Australian…
The removal van pulled away. Kate watched its rusty bulk grind down the street and out of sight. That was that, all their possessions boxed, stacked and off to storage. For Kate and her daughter there was now a choice. They could erode their bond money staying in a hotel whist trying to secure a new tenancy or save the money and sleep in their car.
Kate snaps back from that moment. The scenario she fears is averted in a last-minute intervention by a friend. “I believe that anybody is just three steps away from a perfect storm,” Kate reflects. “It takes the lineup of a few destabilising events and any of us can be unseated.” She observes that marital breakdown, sickness, followed by job loss is one such lineup. Other factors help to calm the storm, such as our personal support networks, savings, and access to government support. However, there are some, potentially many, that have fallen through those safety nets.
Kate and her (primary school aged) daughter have had to move four times in three years. In her 50s and financially at ground zero, it looks like they will be subject to the whims of the rental market indefinitely. They have already ceased to fully unpack, hang pictures, or decorate. ‘Home’ exists in the relationship they have with each other, which is their only constant.
This latest move for Kate and her daughter has been one of the hardest, because of circumstances, and choices made following the first lockdown. They were living in a nice but small one-bedroom unit, yet their cosy ‘girl-pad’ became four walls of torment with a pushy employer that did not understand the complexities of homeschooling as a full-time working solo parent. They shared an ancient PC that would crash or stall loading a zoom, and a small 2-seater table for work, home-school, mealtimes, and play. As her employer became increasingly demanding, and her child became increasingly frustrated and distressed, Kate’s fears for her job began to escalate. Without a support network, with family overseas, Kate’s very real concerns of financial survival drove her to dark places.
“In my worst moment, I challenged myself. If I was feeling this scared and desperate, with the advantages that I have, how were others feeling and coping?” For Kate, it became painfully clear that the sequence of disasters faced by Australians, overlaid with the consequences of the pandemic, would be breaking even the most resilient. It’s likely that those who had never previously faced hardship and insecurity would be entering this new paradigm, whilst those who had faced it before were receiving the next great kicking.
At breakpoint, Kate quit her job. With a month’s pay and holidays in the bank, she set up a charity to focus on ‘resilience’, seeking solutions to systemic vulnerabilities highlighted during these times of disruption. For Kate, every day has served to reinforce the mission and it was personal.
A few months after setting out on her mission, the home Kate had once owned was sold and some equity returned. It was an oxygen supply that allowed Kate to reconcile accrued borrowing, whilst providing the capital to survive her start-up early months. But the capital was diminishing month on month, and as a start-up she could not find any financial support. Kate was not a ‘job seeker’, she was working 16 hour days though unpaid, nor was she a ‘job keeper’ – she’d yet to earn revenue, and thus she fell through that safety net.
“When we received notice that our rental was being sold, it was a gut churning moment arriving at exactly the wrong time.” Kate reflects that her equity had almost gone and as a person with ‘no income’, her chance of securing a rental was nonexistent. “I’d still got a few months’ cash for rent in the bank, but that doesn’t matter when you are in a pile of rental applications, competing with dual income couples or cashed up singles.” Kate tells of the night terrors that set in, her mind running from disaster scenario to disaster scenario, not knowing the way out.
“I’d sunk 18 months and all my equity into a start-up, I felt like I’d have to give it up, but I was in too deep and the mission was compelling. I needed to give voice to this pain, for myself, for other individuals, families, and communities. I needed to find answers.”
In the last days of financial survival, Kate was offered sponsorship by an organisation that recognised and shared Kate’s mission. In the next intervention, a colleague undertook to guarantor a rental contract for Kate and her daughter. Displacement was averted, the oxygen supply had been turned back on. A fragile state maybe, but stable for now.
As we head towards a federal election, we should ask if the voices of the ‘quiet Australians’ have changed. How many quiet Australians have had their world shaken to the core by fire, flood, pestilence, and pandemic? How many quiet Australians have been brought to their knees in unexpected ways and had to face it without their support networks. How many have lost loved ones and been unable to say goodbye? How many quiet Australians have been locked down with abusive partners? How many have lost careers, or lost homes, or lost their mental health?
A wise politician will now recognise that change of sentiment and know that the time has come to evoke systemic change and empower the resilience of individuals, families and communities – because this is our nation. It’s not a time for interpersonal banter, smears, and banal point scoring; that would be misjudging the sentiment of a nation.
Kate is an engineering graduate and the holder of an MBA from a top ranked university. She has 30 years’ experience in executive roles and leadership. She’s a mum and solo carer. Tonight, she has a home. I am Kate. Are you?
About the author:
Alison Howe is the co-founder of the National Institute of Strategic Resilience – tonight she has a home.
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