The nine simple words that defined my career

My father used to be a journalist. Once, when I was contemplating the same career, I asked him to tell me what the worst scene he’d ever come across was. Did I really want to do it? 

“A car was driving behind a truck filled with glass,” he replied. “I arrived before the ambulance.” And then some explicit details that I won’t repeat but, suffice to say, there was no chance of survival. 

It was my first introduction to a specific kind of journalism: the high-octane ambulance-chasing that most of us probably picture when we think about the work. 

From the very first day I watched a fluorescent red ‘ON-AIR’ light flicker to life and read a radio news bulletin, I knew I never wanted to chase those ambulances. I always wondered how that truck driver felt. I worried I was too soft. I never expected my approach would earn me any accolades. But, to my surprise, it did.

Left to right: Sally’s husband Charlie, Sally and Geraldine Bilston.

Recently I was named Journalist of the Year at the Mumbrella Publish Awards. Sitting to my right as my name was read out were the three people who got me there: FW founder and managing director Helen McCabe, my husband Charlie and my brilliant dear friend, a woman named Geraldine Bilston. 

In 2021, Geraldine made her way to our podcast studios in Docklands, Melbourne and spent roughly 70 minutes recounting the worst things that had ever been done to her by her former partner. FW was working on the first season of a new podcast about domestic and family abuse and she and her mum Anne had agreed to be interviewed for it. 

Geraldine’s nine simple words, “I am more than what was done to me”, have defined how I approach every single conversation in this space.

I was part of the team responsible for turning Geraldine’s words into lessons. Taking that pain and crafting it into something meaningful, something that could be of use to others. That’s usually why victim-survivors share their story: they want to help. They choose to relive the trauma of something that was done to them so that others might avoid it. 

After her interview, I met with Geraldine to discuss what she wanted to convey in her eponymous episode. I still remember a sense of confusion – distrust, maybe? – when I asked her what she wanted listeners to take away from it. “I don’t really like how journalists always use the bits where I cry,” she finally said. 

“Okay, we just won’t use the bits where you cry,” I replied. “Does that work?” 

Three years later, Geraldine Bilston is a senior policy officer as well as a lived experience advocate. She also serves as a sensitivity consultant for the third season of the podcast she was featured in, There’s No Place Like Home. I consider our friendship – along with the example set by two extraordinary women, Nina Funnell and Jamila Rizvi – to be the bedrock of the professional I have become. Geraldine’s nine simple words, “I am more than what was done to me”, have defined how I approach every single conversation in this space.

In writing this article, I asked her what she thought of our first interactions. 

“Your questions immediately struck me; rather than being told what you wanted from me, you asked me what I wanted from you,” she told me. “You were thoughtful and considerate about how you engaged with me, and it became apparent that you were very interested in upholding my dignity and respecting my agency while sharing my story.” 

This kind of praise makes me uncomfortable because the idea that I treat the subject of a story like a human being seems like the very least we owe the people who share their lived experience and expertise with us. But she’s right that this is not the way things are typically done. The idea of sharing a story with the subject of it for their feedback – which is what we do with every victim-survivor who features on There’s No Place Like Home – is admittedly atypical in the media. 

We as journalists must accept that sometimes we are the platform, not the author. 

There are a few reasons for this, I suspect. Not the least because it is faster to do it without consulting the person whose life you are moulding and shaping and framing. Journalism is nothing if not a sea of endless, urgent, changeable deadlines. It also gives the person you are talking about the ability to rebut and refute your creative work. It gives them power. It can be humbling to realise that you are amplifying someone else’s wisdom – that it is not wisdom you dug up on your own. 

Giving people who have experienced trauma a say over how their experiences are shared is not just the right thing to do. It also results in stronger storytelling. We as journalists must accept that sometimes we are the platform, not the author. 

It is the greatest honour of my life to be able to collaborate with the victim-survivors who trust us with their experiences. It is the greatest honour of my life to be able to call someone like Geraldine my friend. Three years since she first sat down in that Melbourne podcast studio, I can tell you this: she’s a lot more than that story, but I’m still grateful she trusted me to tell it.