Finding Healing in Bali:
A Journey Beyond Australia’s Silence on Forced Adoption
In Bali, I find myself far from the noise of Australia, the country that shaped me and yet never truly saw me. It’s a strange place to seek solace, an island of offerings, quiet shrines, and a culture that holds its past with reverence. Here, I am an outsider, but somehow, I feel more seen than I ever did back home. Back there, the silence was all-consuming, a constant hum of denial that demanded I bury my history and move forward as if the wounds of forced adoption were not rooted in every part of my life.
Australia issued an apology for forced adoptions over a decade ago, and to the public, that was enough. A moment of recognition, a ceremonial acknowledgment that let the rest of the country return to business as usual. But for people like me, the apology was just a prelude to a deeper pain – the realization that words would be the only support we would receive. Forced adoption had severed me from my origins, erasing the family I could have known, and as I tried to build my own, the echoes of that loss bled through. The cycles of trauma, hidden and unspoken, became threads in the tapestry of my family’s life, affecting relationships across generations.
In Bali, as I walk the narrow streets filled with offerings, each one a small act of remembrance, I can’t help but think of my birth mother. She still lives in Australia, and despite the ocean between us, we have found a way to support each other that defies conventional understanding. After our reunion, she became a lifeline – a mother in a way she was always meant to be but was denied by the country that tore us apart. The bond we share now isn’t typical, but maybe that’s fitting. We advocate together, standing up for others who still feel the invisible hand of forced adoption on their lives. In a world that took our relationship from us, we have created our own fragile sense of home in the space between us, one built on acceptance, resilience, and a shared commitment to unearthing the truth.
Yet, the impact of forced adoption is not something that belongs only to us. It permeates everything. My children, too, have been pulled into its shadow, inheriting the consequences of choices they never made. My son survived brain cancer, a battle that would seem like a victory to most. But that same fight left him without the mental armour to protect himself from the manipulations of those around him, influenced by a legacy he never chose. My daughter, bearing her own invisible wounds, holds onto resentment – for my son, for me, for a reality that none of us can seem to escape. It is as though the fractures from adoption’s aftermath ripple across generations, widening the distance where I only hoped to build a family free from the shadows of my past.
These complexities are invisible to most. People see the individual struggles, the estranged relationships, the fractured bonds, but they don’t understand the web of history that connects them all. They cannot see that adoption, and the forced nature of it, has irrevocably altered every part of my life, each bond, each relationship tainted by a legacy of separation. The price of this history, the grief and distance, remain hidden unless someone is willing to sit with me in a space of true acceptance – a place where the stories I carry can be laid bare, understood, and respected without judgment.
Bali holds its own kind of silence, but it is not like Australia’s. Here, the quiet seems to honour the past, with temples and offerings that acknowledge grief, loss, and the lives that came before. Walking through these rituals, I feel a strange comfort, as though the island itself understands something my own country never could. I wonder how different my life might have been if Australia held this same reverence for family and ancestry. If it, too, could recognise that healing cannot happen without truth, that silence does not erase pain but only buries it deeper.
And what of my adoptive family? Even there, the weight of forced adoption made its way in. My adoptive mother, burdened by her own hidden grief of also losing her first son, couldn’t separate her pain from mine. Rather than bridging the distance, she fed the narratives that would eventually turn my children against me. She, too, was a victim of this system, bearing the shame that Australia made all too easy to internalize until it grew into a resentment that she could only channel toward me. This bitterness seeped into my relationships with my own children, creating fractures that widened over time until even they chose to walk away.
Here in Bali, I can finally sit with all of it – the estrangement, the loss, the shadows cast over three generations of family. I think of my mother, who waits for me back in Australia, a survivor of the same trauma I carry, and the ways we have managed to hold each other up in a world that never meant for us to meet again. Our connection may be unconventional, but it is real in a way that few people can understand.
I look at my life through the lens of Bali’s rituals, through its constant cycles of life, death, and rebirth, and I wonder if Australia will ever be capable of such recognition. If it, too, could hold space for those it has wronged, to honour the reality of what forced adoption has done, not just with words but with actions that matter. The Australia I left behind has only begun to scratch the surface of acknowledgment. There is so much more beneath, waiting to be unearthed, but that would require a willingness to sit in the discomfort to confront the wounds it has long ignored.
Until then, I remain here, an outsider in Bali, but a place where the quiet holds a kind of reverence that Australia never could. This is why I am here. I want to find a space where I can hold these memories, this history, without the weight of denial pressing in. Because sometimes, distance is the only place where truth can finally breathe.
As I sit here in Bali, reflecting on the tangled journey of adoption, identity, and advocacy, I can’t help but see how the energy of this place has encouraged me to shed old expectations. In my previous articles, I explored the weight of Australia’s systemic failures in addressing forced adoptions and my call for a Royal Commission to finally bring justice to survivors. But beyond the national stage, this journey in Bali has shifted something deeply personal, calling me to confront both my own history and the forces that shaped it.
Here, surrounded by Bali’s constant cycle of renewal and vibrant spirituality, I find a profound parallel between individual and collective transformation. Just as Bali embraces the cycle of life, death, and rebirth in its culture, so must Australia confront its own past with the courage to rebuild from the ground up. Australia’s political system, too, faces a critical need for accountability – a “final passage” in which the country must shed its long-held avoidance and take responsibility for the pain it inflicted on so many families.
Shedding the Old:
The Adoptee’s Journey and a Nation’s Responsibility
In my experience as an adoptee, I’ve grappled with the narratives and expectations forced upon me. Adoption redefined who I was, disconnecting me from my birth family and leaving me to navigate a life shaped by the state’s decisions. Much like the personal transformation I’m undergoing here in Bali, Australia’s approach to forced adoptions is ripe for change.
Australia’s apology for forced adoptions was only a first step; it was a recognition of past wrongs but not a resolution. Just as I’ve learned to shed my own internalized narratives, Australia must let go of the tendency to offer symbolic gestures without taking meaningful action. Survivors of forced adoptions are not simply seeking acknowledgment; they are demanding systemic change and accountability – a Royal Commission that can finally shine a light on what truly happened and hold responsible institutions to account.
Identity and the Power of Truth
During my time in Bali, I’ve become increasingly aware of the power of identity – how deeply it shapes us and how much it matters to know where we come from. In Australia, adoptees have struggled with this same question, often finding that their birth records have been altered or erased. Birth certificates were rewritten to conceal biological ties, severing adoptees from their true identities and denying them their rightful stories.
This denial of identity is not just a personal loss but a political one. Accurate birth certificates, trauma-informed education, and accessible mental health services aren’t simply “nice-to-haves” – they are the tangible, essential steps required to acknowledge the harm of forced adoptions. Without these, the apology remains hollow, and the government’s promise of support feels more like a strategy to maintain its own image than a genuine commitment to healing.
Bali as a Mirror for Collective Accountability
Bali has shown me that healing is not simply an individual journey but a collective responsibility. Just as the Balinese honour their ancestors, preserving their stories and passing them down through rituals and celebrations, Australia must commit to remembering the stories of forced adoption survivors. An annual public acknowledgment day and education program on forced adoptions would not only honour survivors but also serve as a living reminder of the need for systemic accountability.
Australia’s political leaders, from Prime Minister Albanese to former Prime Minister Rudd, all have connections to the adoption story, yet they remain hesitant to push for meaningful reform. Bali’s emphasis on community responsibility could serve as an example for them – a reminder that healing cannot happen in isolation. Leaders must confront the legacy of forced adoptions not only as a historical issue but as a living wound that continues to impact survivors today.
A Call for Australia’s “Final Passage”
In astrology, Pluto’s final passage through Capricorn signifies a period of transformation – a tearing down of outdated structures to make way for rebirth. Here in Bali, amidst temples and traditions that emphasize cycles of renewal, I find myself reflecting on what it would mean for Australia to undergo its own transformation, to finally shed the old systems that have held survivors back from true justice.
A Royal Commission, a national redress scheme, and accessible mental health services are not just political steps – they are necessary acts of accountability that demonstrate a nation’s willingness to confront its most painful truths. Without this, Australia risks perpetuating the same cycles of avoidance and denial that it has used to sidestep the issue of forced adoptions for decades.
Moving Forward:
The Journey Home
I am reminded that this journey – both mine and Australia’s – is far from over. My time here has strengthened my resolve to continue pushing for change, not just for myself but for the countless others who continue to live with the scars of forced adoption. For Australia, the path forward requires more than apologies; it demands a willingness to dismantle and rebuild to finally create a system that values justice over convenience.
Bali has taught me that true healing requires honesty, community, and the courage to let go of what no longer serves us. Australia’s leaders must find the courage to confront the past, support survivors, and take action that goes beyond words. This is Australia’s chance to step up and set a new standard for accountability and compassion. Only then can we begin to heal, both individually and as a nation.
’ll be here for the next 30 years, sharing my journey through the complexities of adoption, loss, and belonging.
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