Dotty M

I’m currently off work sick due to burnout. My mental health is not good. I made the mistake of reaching out for mh support. I wouldn’t have done that unless it felt urgent because I’m autistic /nd and I know there isn’t really a mh service for us. I was told by the crisis team that I don’t meet the criteria. Another door shut in my face. No concern for how I can care for my disabled children while I get back on my feet either. Every system that should support, feels abusive to me. I’m taking things one day at a time and I’ve been doing some writing. It’s helping to organise the chaos in my mind.

The World as It Could Be

Being a changemaker sounds big and bold. But in reality, it often looks like this:

Crying quietly in your car after a meeting that went nowhere. Juggling your own survival while trying to help others feel seen. Getting up, again and again, because deep down you still believe people — and systems — can do better.

Over the years, I’ve worn many hats: advocate, organiser, community builder, mother, mentor, friend. Sometimes all at once. And every role has come with both deep joy and heavy emotional weight. There are moments that lift me — when someone says, “I didn’t think anyone saw me, but you did.”When a parent carer breathes out for the first time in weeks. When a woman in our community stands a little taller because she finally feels like she belongs. Those are the wins that don’t make headlines.

But they’re everything.

I hold a vision in my head all the time — a version of the world that’s fairer, softer, more human. Where people are supported, not shamed. Where our differences aren’t weaponised, but understood. I see glimpses of it every time community comes together — in rooms full of laughter, in shared rage, in collective hope.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned: for some, this kind of work is just a job. A role they clock in and out of. For people like me, it’s a way of being. It lives in my nervous system. It wakes me up at night. It bleeds into every conversation. It’s not just what I do — it’s who I am.

There’s an urgency, a fire, a constant drive to make things better

because the alternative feels unbearable. And that comes with a cost. Behind every joyful event, every workshop, every bit of change we push for — there’s frustration. Setbacks. People quick to judge, quicker still to believe false narratives. Systems that feel like brick walls. Constantly having to explain your worth, your need, your vision.

Sometimes it feels like you’re shouting into the wind. Sometimes it feels like no one is listening.

And still, you carry on. Because you have deep empathy.

Because you see people, not just who they are now, but who they could become if they were given a chance.

Because here’s what I know deep in my bones: This country would flourish if everyone had the chance to reach the potential I see in them.

I see brilliance in people who’ve been dismissed. Leadership in those written off.

Innovation in those surviving systems never built for them.

But that kind of thriving isn’t possible while so many barriers still exist.

Poverty. Prejudice. Red tape.

A lack of support, of belief, of care.

We don’t lack potential! we lack access!

And until that changes, people like me will keep fighting to open doors that should’ve never been closed.

I’ve learned this work can’t be done alone. You need people beside you who share your values.

Who show up even when it’s hard.

Who don’t ask you to shrink, soften, or explain your fire.

They’re your anchor.

Your mirror.

Your reminder that you’re not imagining it.

this world can be different.

And so I keep going.

Because I’ve seen too much light to let the darkness win.

Because change is slow, but not impossible.

Because I’m incapable of stopping.