An Open Letter from a Woman Who Didn’t Survive:
Dear Pauline,
It came to my attention, from where I now sit, that you recently declared across the media that domestic violence is “a two-way street.”
I am writing to you because those words did more than reveal ignorance.
They erased me.
Before the man who eventually murdered me succeeded in taking my life, I did everything women are expected to do.
I tried to keep the peace.
I tried to make the relationship work.
I forgave.
I hoped.
I believed his promises.
I tried to protect my children.
Years before my murder, another man attacked me with a knife.
He also turned that knife on our two children.
The only reason any of us survived that day was because I pretended to be dead.
When he left the room, I ran, bleeding and screaming, carrying enough courage for all three of us.
My children lived because I escaped.
A few short years later, I could not save myself.
My children survived again, but this time they would spend the rest of their lives carrying something no child should ever carry: the murder of their mother.
So when you describe domestic violence as “a two-way street,” I wonder what road you imagine I was travelling?
Because I wasn’t travelling beside him.
I was trying to outrun him.
From this perspective, where politics no longer matters and truth is no longer negotiable, it is surprisingly easy to recognise certainty built upon ignorance.
It is a dangerous combination when someone who does not understand violence speaks about it with absolute confidence, especially when they hold a public platform.
My lifelong friend Carol was working in a domestic violence shelter the day she received the phone call telling her I had been murdered.
Carol understood.
She had grown up in a home shaped by domestic violence herself.
She knew, long before she worked in women’s refuges, what coercion feels like.
She has spent nearly forty years standing beside women like me, listening to stories that rarely made the evening news.
It wasn’t a two-way street in my home.
It wasn’t a two-way street in hers.
It wasn’t a two-way street for the thousands of women and children who have sought refuge in shelters across Australia.
Every day, an extraordinary army of workers, advocates, counsellors, police, lawyers, court staff, volunteers and refuge workers quietly help women, children and their beloved pets rebuild lives after years of coercive control, intimidation, terror and violence.
They understand that domestic homicide is almost never the result of “mutual conflict.” It is most often the final act of a long campaign of domination.
Words matter.
When influential people minimise coercive control or suggest equal responsibility where none exists, they don’t simply misunderstand the problem.
They make it harder for victims to recognise what is happening to them.
They make it easier for perpetrators to hide behind myths.
They delay our collective maturity as a society.
Your public life has often been built upon identifying groups of people as problems to be feared or blamed.
Asian Australians.
African Australians.
Muslim Australians.
Aboriginal Australians.
Your pattern is familiar: certainty without understanding.
Domestic violence deserves better than another slogan.
Before I died, I wasn’t simply “a victim.”
I loved my children.
I loved making beautiful things with my hands.
I laughed with friends.
I survived inner challenges that many people never knew about.
I dreamed about an ordinary future.
I was so much more than the way my life ended.
Yet history remembers me as another woman murdered by a man who believed he had the right to decide whether I lived or died.
That wasn’t a two-way street.
It was a dead end built by coercion, fear and violence.
If there is one thing I wish for you, Pauline, it is not shame.
It is understanding.
I hope no one you love ever has to discover the difference between political rhetoric and the brutal reality of domestic homicide.
Because once you have stood where I stood…
or where my children stood…
or where Carol stood that day the telephone rang…
you never again mistake violence and murder for mutuality.
Sincerely,
J.
*Update.
A very heartfelt thank you to everybody who has shared my post.
It wasn’t until 20 years after Janet’s murder that I was able to write the following.
The Day Janet was Murdered:










When the Graffiti Comes Down. Removing Trump’s name from another man’s legacy.
Posted by carolom on June 14, 2026
*Continuing a series of articles documenting Donald Trump’s use of coercive control in leadership.
A few months ago I wrote about the strange familiarity of Donald Trump attempting to place his name over institutions that existed long before him.
As a former youth worker I had seen the pattern before. The most challenging adolescent boys I worked with were often those who felt compelled to write their names across communal spaces.
They tagged walls, bus shelters & shared property, not because it belonged to them but because they needed to see themselves reflected back.
It was less an act of creativity than an act of possession.
Territory marking
Visibility
Power
Seeking significance & attention by defiling public property
This week the story took another turn.
A federal judge ordered that Donald Trump’s name be removed from the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts ruling that the board had exceeded its authority & that only Congress could alter the institution’s name.
Workers have now begun dismantling the signage & restoring the original title.
The image of those letters coming down is powerful because it reminds us that branding, especially when it is coercive, rooted in the intention to elevate a single man above all others is not the same as belonging.
Public institutions are repositories of shared memory, not blank walls waiting for the latest ego to leave its mark.
John D Miller, the former NBC marketing executive behind The Apprentice famously reflected, “I helped create a monster.” Link to video
He later described how the public had been “bombarded” with carefully curated images of Trump branding until the image itself became the product.
In many ways that saturation campaign never ended. The stage simply became larger.
The audience became the world.
Perhaps that’s why this moment resonates so deeply.
The removal of the signage is more than an administrative correction,it is a reminder that history, law & collective values can still push back against the relentless, grandiose drive to remake everything in one man’s image.
In my years working with significantly troubled young people, there was hope that maturity would bring a growing capacity to share space, respect boundaries & understand that not everything has to carry your name for your life to have meaning.
Healthy adulthood is built on contribution not possession & postulation.
Those who study narcissistic, grandiose behaviour know that status, control & public recognition are not superficial concerns.
They sit at the very centre of the personality structure & as a result challenges to grandiosity & ownership are often experienced not as disappointment but as injury.
When the symbolic graffiti comes down, the need to restore power can emerge elsewhere.
It will be worth watching not only what happens next, but who may become the target of retaliation for removing one man’s name from another man’s legacy.
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