'When I was arrested at 17, I thought my life was over. One conversation saved me.'

I was super close with my parents. Every day after school, Mum would pick me up, and we'd head home to a warm, home-cooked meal. Weekends were for long walks in nature and family bike rides. At night, I'd snuggle up with my twin sister, Jenna, in our shared bedroom. We'd talk and giggle until we drifted off to sleep. Life was simple, happy, and safe.

But when I finished school and began studying hotel management, everything shifted. I quickly found myself in the whirlwind of hospitality life, where heavy drinking and drug use were part of the culture. It wasn't long before I was binge-drinking, taking ecstasy, speed, and cannabis, and staying out clubbing until dawn. I'd often head straight from the dancefloor to work or college. At the time, I thought I was living the dream. I felt invincible.

That feeling didn't last.

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I was still just 17 years old on the night my world came crashing down.

I'd been out dancing, and I'd been taking drugs all night. At the end of it, we piled into a friend's car to head home. Halfway there, red and blue lights flashed behind us. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. Armand Van Helden's 'My My My' was still pumping through the car's sound system, but I couldn't hear anything as we slowed to a stop.

I knew I was in trouble. I had 70 ecstasy tablets on me — there was no getting out of this.

By the side of the road, the police searched me and found the drugs. I was bundled into a divvy van and taken straight to the station. Three officers led me into a room and told me to take off my clothes and squat on the floor. I felt humiliated, degraded. I was fingerprinted, charged, and locked in a cell, where I remained for the next 14 hours.

There was nothing to do but listen to the woman in the cell next to mine, who was screaming and bashing her head against the wall. My mind raced in circles. I thought about my life — which felt like it was over. For the first time ever, I had thoughts about not wanting to live.

The invincibility I once felt had vanished. I was terrified of what was to come. I didn't know what juvenile detention was, but I knew I didn't want to end up there. I thought about my mum, how the police were probably at our house at that very moment. My heart sank as I thought about how I'd let her down. I didn't know when I'd make it home again.

After hours of mental torture, the police came to my cell and told me I could leave, pending a court date. Jenna was waiting for me outside the station. The moment I saw her, I burst into tears. I hugged her, trying to explain the nightmare of the last 24 hours.

When we got home, Mum told me that when the police showed up on her doorstep that morning, she thought I was dead. They'd turned the house upside down looking for more drugs. But despite everything, she stood by me. She was there every step of the way, including at my court appearance. I remember sitting in the Youth Court, looking around. I was the only one there with a parent. Where were the other kids' families? My heart broke for them.

The judge saw my mum sobbing beside me and gave me a one-year Youth Offending Team Order. I had to attend weekly meetings with a youth justice worker and go to drug and alcohol counselling. I'm convinced that my privilege saved me from a worse fate. Being white, middle class, and loved had shielded me. That realisation lit a fire in me, one that's been burning for 21 years.

But not all of the support I received was positive. I had three different youth workers throughout the year, which made it impossible to build trust. One of them asked me to meet him at the court for a session, even though he knew how much the place triggered me. I couldn't do it. I froze outside, unable to go in. Another worker cancelled our sessions with no notice, before reporting me as non-compliant.

One of my youth workers would sit across from me and share stories about her ex-boyfriend injecting heroin into her neck. I remember thinking, 'How am I supposed to be helped by this?' It was then that I realised I could do her job, and do it better. I wanted to help others in ways that the system had failed to help me.

When I asked her how to get her job, she told me to study youth work and social policy. So, I did. I volunteered with support services for young people, people experiencing homelessness, those exiting prison, and street-based sex workers. By the time I finished my degree, I knew that housing was the missing piece of the puzzle. Without a stable home, it's nearly impossible to thrive in other areas of life.

After years in the sector, I saw the gaps in the system and knew I had to do something about it.

In 2021, I launched Bridge It, a charity dedicated to providing holistic, wraparound support for young women who don't have the protective factors I had growing up. We run The Cocoon, a supportive housing program where young women who have experienced homelessness or the out-of-home care system can live in private apartments. It's more than just a roof over their heads; it's a secure home, a sense of community, and a place where they can rebuild their lives.

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The young women we support at The Cocoon don't have families to rely on. We do our best to fill that gap. My dream is to have Cocoons in every state across Australia, so no young person has to experience the horrors of homelessness alone.

Because everyone deserves what I had: a safe home, unconditional support, and a second chance.

Bridge It is an Australian registered charity providing homes to 17–21-year-old women who have experienced the out-of-home care system or homelessness. Our mission is to end youth homelessness by providing homes, community and high-quality support. Read more here and here.

Feature: Supplied.