'My daughter was murdered. In the months that followed, I discovered something deeply unsettling.'

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When my daughter was murdered by her ex-partner, our world spun violently. The grief, the disbelief, the hollow silence that followed — it was unlike anything I could've imagined. Her death is the worst thing that's ever happened to me. There is no comparing, no softening, no escaping that truth.

But in the months that followed, amidst the chaos of trauma and trying to piece my family back together, I discovered something deeply unsettling: that even in death, there is privilege. And I had it.

Watch: You Cant Ask That - Domestic And Family Violence Survivors Answer Why Didn't You Just Leave. Post continues below.

On the night my daughter was murdered, her son was delivered to us at 2am — in a singlet and a nappy. Nothing else. No clothes. No bag. No car seat. Just a traumatised child in the middle of the night, and a family now in shock trying to figure out what to do next. We live in a town where nothing is open at that hour.

We were in the thick of trauma, standing there asking ourselves, How do we change him? Do we use a towel? It was surreal. We were grieving, shattered, and yet somehow needed to shift into caretaker mode instantly.

When the sun came up and the shops opened, we had to pull ourselves together to buy clothes, nappies, formula, wipes — a car seat so we could even leave the house safely. But again, we were lucky. We had friends who stepped in. Friends who bought the car seat, made the calls, filled the gaps while we watched our lives crumble.

A photo of Mackenzie Anderson and her mum. Image: Supplied.

And again — privilege. We had the ability to pay for what we needed, the people to support us in those first hours. Many others don't. Many families are left in this exact nightmare with no safety net. No cash on hand. No village. No guidance.

Accessing trauma support in Australia only revealed more cracks in the system. Victims Services offers 20 sessions with a psychologist. But good luck finding one. The list is outdated. I spent hours — days — calling around, only to find that most either no longer accepted vouchers or had closed their books.

It took me eight months to find someone. And when I finally did, the sessions were short, impersonal, and mostly over the phone. It felt like a box-ticking exercise — not healing.

So I went private. At $250 per session, it was the only way to start truly addressing my trauma. And that's when it hit me: what happens to those who can't afford to do that? For them, the trauma becomes a lifelong sentence.

It affects their ability to work, their capacity to parent, their trust in others, and their sense of self. It's a vicious cycle that never ends because there's no meaningful help at the start.

Mackenzie Anderson. Image: Supplied

And it's not just me. My daughter's son — diagnosed with complex PTSD — is also being let down. Even with my background in health, even with connections, it's been an uphill battle. I've been told we're too complex.

I've called crisis hotlines, only to be told to present to the emergency department. But what will the emergency department do? I already knew they'd turn us away.

But what if I didn't? What if I showed up, broken and desperate, hoping someone would help — only to be let down again?

There have been times when I have been on my knees — utterly desperate for help for our family as we are swallowed in grief and trauma. And it doesn't matter if you can pay. Sometimes, the services just don't exist. The help just isn't there. And that is the most frightening truth of all. We need more. And we need it yesterday.

Even with my income, with education, with persistence — we're just keeping our heads above water. The cost of his care is enormous. But I'm acutely aware that I can call it a struggle, and not impossible. This is what no one tells you when you become the victim of someone else's violence: that grief doesn't happen in isolation.

It collides with red tape, with broken systems, with cold bureaucracies and closed doors. And if you're not resourced, if you're not connected, if you're not privileged, you're at risk of falling through every gap there is.

There is privilege in death. And acknowledging that is not shameful — it's necessary. Because until we face it, until we fix the systems that only serve the few, we will keep failing those already devastated by loss.

It's time to do better. For my daughter. For her son. For every family like ours, who shouldn't need privilege to survive tragedy.

Feature Image: Supplied.