Being 54 is a privilege.
It’s not something I’m embarrassed about, or trying to hide, or trying to lie about. A lot of people don’t get to 54. I look around Glen Park Community Centre and there are many people who didn’t. Robin Murray, who was the manager here for a long time, passed away when she was 50. Susie, who volunteered here, passed away in her early 40s. I’m lucky and 54 is a privilege.
I was born in Melbourne, but Young, in country New South Wales, is my hometown. That’s where my Mum’s family was from and that’s where I grew up.
There were four of us girls. My parents separated when we were very young - we were all under five. Dad had an affair and left, and Mum pretty much raised us on her own in Housing Commission.
We lived in poverty. The house itself wasn’t the problem. It was a Housing Commission house but it was a beautiful house. It was brand new when we moved in. We had three bedrooms - two girls in one, two in another, and Mum had her room. We just didn’t have anything.
Mum didn't drive until we were older, so we walked everywhere. We often didn't have money for the school bus once we got to the age where you had to pay for it, so we walked.
We didn't go without food, but we certainly didn't have any treats. Mum cooked whatever we could get. She was the youngest of seven, so she had sisters and brothers who helped out. At Christmas we relied on food banks and things like that.
There was shame in being poor, absolutely there was. We were always clean and tidy, but there was no way any of us had the things other kids had. There was shame about where I lived too, because I lived in the worst street in town.
Mum's best friend moved two doors down from us and we were very close to her kids. I'm still very, very close to her and them - she's like my other mum. That was our friendship group. There were no neighbourhood houses. We just stuck together.
***
Mum struggled. I don't think she would have even called it depression. But when I look at what she went through, I don't know how she could have been anything other than depressed.
Her own mother died when she was 16 and she was the one who found her. Her father was a functioning alcoholic. Then Mum found her own husband in bed with her best friend and had to face raising four children on her own.
She was always physically present, but emotionally, she wasn't. My older sister pretty much raised us.
On the outside, I was confident, outspoken, steadfast. On the inside though, I was just this scared bloody little kid who had no idea.
I got teased because I didn't have a dad. Kids would say, “Oh, it's Father's Day. That's right, you don't have a dad!” Like I had any control over that?
***
I met a local boy when I was 17. He was from a very well-known family - from the wrong side of the tracks, but he was a really good man.
I was 21 when we had our first child, and the whole town was happy as they thought I was going to be left on the shelf because I was so old. I was 21! I married him and we had two beautiful girls, Payton and Kelsee.
But eventually I worked out that being married to a man probably wasn't my future. Not that it was him. It was just that he was a man.
I think being married and having children was something that was expected of me. When I came out as gay, Mum was devastated. My younger sister had already come out and Mum had been supportive, but I was her last chance at having a “normal” child.
I had married, I had had two kids, I had my own home. I was her last chance at normal.
Coming out in a small country town was awful.
I'd go to school to pick up my kids and there'd be a group of women standing in a circle and I knew they were talking about me. My kids got teased too. I remember Payton getting off the bus one day, crying and crying, because a little girl had told her, “Your mum's a big fat lesbian.”
I said, “Sweetheart, she's not lying. Mummy is overweight and Mummy is a lesbian.”
What else are you going to do?! I'm not sitting here throwing rocks at anyone else. That's your life. You live it.
Eventually, I moved to Melbourne with my girls. My youngest went to four schools in 12 months. Once she settled into school at Ringwood East, I couldn't move her again. So we stayed.
Leaving Young was hard because of my Mum. Despite often being quite an emotionally absent mother to us, she was a very present grandmother. That's probably why I stayed in Young for as long as I did. I didn't have grandparents, but my girls did. They were going to have the memory of having a grandmother, and that really mattered to me.
***
When we came to Melbourne, I worked in not-for-profit employment services, helping people get back into work. I'd done that kind of work in New South Wales too. I was passionate about employment because I knew where people were coming from.
I remember working with someone I'd grown up with who came from generational long-term unemployment, alcohol addiction and drug addiction. They'd never thought for a second they'd finish school, and they never thought they'd get a job. They were okay with that. But I wasn't. I got him a casual job at The Reject Shop. Now he’s the manager.
***
I found Glen Park Community Centre shortly after we moved to Melbourne. I came in to use the café and I remember thinking, oh my God, what is this place? Things like this didn't really exist where I'd come from - not at this level. It felt foreign to me. Odd, almost that there was a space, bricks and mortar and people, that just existed so somebody felt included. I don't think I'd ever experienced that before.
I joined the committee at Glen Park after awhile. And when the manager said she'd had enough, there had also coincidentally been a contract change in my own work in employment services. The chairperson asked if I was interested in taking the manager's job.
I said, “No, not really!”
It was part-time and I was a single mum. I needed full-time work. So they made the job full-time for me.
When I took over, there wasn't as much happening here. It was very quiet. The community shed, which now runs three full program days a week with around 46 learners, was being used for only about two hours a week. The café was also losing money.
I looked at the books and thought: this place should shut its doors. The café was bleeding it dry. I went to the committee and said, “We need to give this six months. If we can't turn the café around, we’ll need to close it.”
So we made a business plan, and we were able to employ a chef for pretty crappy money because… well, she was my wife!
Naomi and I had actually met years before when we worked together. She was a chef and I was a waitress. I loved waitressing – it’s still my favourite job. I'm a major cook and I love food. So perhaps it makes sense that food became such an important part of what Glen Park does.
The café survived and now it actually makes money, which is a very weird thing for a social enterprise.
And today, I think Glen Park has almost everything you could possibly need if you're living on the fringe.
If you're living with disadvantage, or if you've got some sort of barrier to participation, I think I set Glen Park up like this so it could be the place little Heidi back then needed. Or the place my Mum did.
Take our food bank - I call it a food bank with dignity. It's not just handing somebody a bag of food, ours is more like a shop. If somebody turns up and they want Weet-Bix, and we've got Weet-Bix, they get Weet-Bix. If they want coffee and not tea, they get coffee and not tea. They're not handed a random bag of food.
Everyone is part of our community and we know them. We know their husband's just had skin cancer removed. We know their child isn't going to school. We know their cousin's about to have a baby. We know they're engaged with The Orange Door or they're going to Uniting. We know those things and we can support them with those things. It's not just food for food's sake.
***
I've been managing Glen Park nearly 15 years now. It feels like a bloody lifetime!
I'm emotionally connected to this place because there's so much invested in it. People say I'm lucky because I work with my family. My daughters work here. Naomi works here. But the people who've been here for years are family too.
Kasie been here 11 years. Delise has been here nine. Heather's been here 11. Deb's been here almost eight. Our chairperson has been here as long as I have. Our treasurer just celebrated a decade.
Heather is one of the people I think about a lot, as when she first came here, she couldn't even make eye contact. Now, if you're not feeling great, Heather gives you a “Heav hug”. People from the community know that - they come in especially to get a “Heav hug”!
Naomi and I even got married here, underneath the oak trees.
And our rescue dog, Chubby, is usually in my office, and some people come here just to play with her.
This place changed my life, it changed who I am.
***
I thought managing a neighbourhood house would be a step backwards. That I'd be able to raise my kids and it would be easier. What a learning curve! It's the hardest job I've ever had in my life. Probably because it's the most I've ever given to a job.
Before, it was all about - I need to earn an income. Yes, my heart's in it, yes, I believe in what I'm doing. But this is a different kettle of fish altogether. Every part of Heidi is invested in Glen Park. I've spent so much time and energy making things work - sometimes to the detriment of myself and my family.
People look at things like our café, or having a social enterprise called Hungry4Success, that has an outlet now in Eastland and say, “You're lucky.”
It wasn't luck. It was bloody hard work. It was business plans and relationships and hours and hours of work. And there's a burden that comes with that.
If there's a complaint in the café, it ends up with me. If something goes wrong in a program, it ends up with me. If there's a recruitment problem, it ends up with me. It always ends up with me. I always say: muck flows uphill! And that's a huge burden to carry. Sometimes it's overwhelming.
That's the danger for neighbourhood houses.
People love them. People are passionate about them. People will keep giving and volunteering and doing more. But you burn them out. That shouldn't be the expectation.
Unfortunately, it is.
Without neighbourhood houses, especially in regional and remote areas, there'd be nowhere for some people to go. And if we lose neighbourhood houses, I think we'll start wondering what happened when we see communities becoming even more disconnected than they already are.
Every neighbourhood house doesn't have to do everything. I always say: find out what you're good at, but more importantly, find out what you're not good at.
Glen Park is not good at children's programs so we actively choose not to do them. Other houses are bloody amazing at them. That's their thing.
Our thing is food, emergency relief, employment, training, inclusion. People on the fringes come here. We have a big LGBTQIA+ community here too. But I don't care whether somebody who works here is gay, straight, trans or anything else, it's irrelevant to me. What matters is that somebody who works here respects everyone in the community. Because if you're only inclusive of one group, you become exclusive again.
***
There is one more thing I'd love to do. I want to create a cooking school for young, disengaged people. That's what I'd love to leave as a legacy.
I don't know whether I'm going to get there because I'm hoping to retire at 60. But I love the idea because hospitality is such a grounding industry. If you've got those skills, you can travel the world - they're transferable.
If you can teach a young person hospitality skills, particularly someone who's experienced disadvantage, you can give them something they'll carry across their whole life. You can set them up to succeed.
I understand education differently now. I finished Year 12 and had a good education, but I took a gap year, started working, got married and had children. I thought I'd never go to university. But then I found out about the Victorian Training Guarantee (or Skills First) subsidy that makes vocational education and TAFE courses more affordable.
I've got diplomas and advanced diplomas coming out my ears! I studied my arse off when I came down here - I just really wanted to do better. It’s an amazing opportunity for people.
***
In 2025, I was named Maroondah Citizen of the Year. I was standing there among all these other nominees and thinking about where I'd come from. Mum had passed away by then. But I had my immediate family there. I thought about 10-year-old Heidi.
If she could have seen me standing there, she would have thought: that's not you. You're an imposter. Even as an adult, part of me still felt a little bit like an imposter standing there. Because I look at what I do and sometimes think - isn't this what every human should be doing?
I am proud. Extremely proud. I look at the wish list I had when I first started at Glen Park and I've ticked it all and more.
I don't know what Glen Park will look like after me. We're starting to think about succession planning now, because nobody can do this forever.
I'm sure the manager before me didn't envisage what I would do with this place, and I won’t envisage what the manager after me does either. I hope it continues to help people living on the fringes.
That's how it should be.
It’s not something I’m embarrassed about, or trying to hide, or trying to lie about. A lot of people don’t get to 54. I look around Glen Park Community Centre and there are many people who didn’t. Robin Murray, who was the manager here for a long time, passed away when she was 50. Susie, who volunteered here, passed away in her early 40s. I’m lucky and 54 is a privilege.
I was born in Melbourne, but Young, in country New South Wales, is my hometown. That’s where my Mum’s family was from and that’s where I grew up.
There were four of us girls. My parents separated when we were very young - we were all under five. Dad had an affair and left, and Mum pretty much raised us on her own in Housing Commission.
We lived in poverty. The house itself wasn’t the problem. It was a Housing Commission house but it was a beautiful house. It was brand new when we moved in. We had three bedrooms - two girls in one, two in another, and Mum had her room. We just didn’t have anything.
Mum didn't drive until we were older, so we walked everywhere. We often didn't have money for the school bus once we got to the age where you had to pay for it, so we walked.
We didn't go without food, but we certainly didn't have any treats. Mum cooked whatever we could get. She was the youngest of seven, so she had sisters and brothers who helped out. At Christmas we relied on food banks and things like that.
There was shame in being poor, absolutely there was. We were always clean and tidy, but there was no way any of us had the things other kids had. There was shame about where I lived too, because I lived in the worst street in town.
Mum's best friend moved two doors down from us and we were very close to her kids. I'm still very, very close to her and them - she's like my other mum. That was our friendship group. There were no neighbourhood houses. We just stuck together.
***
Mum struggled. I don't think she would have even called it depression. But when I look at what she went through, I don't know how she could have been anything other than depressed.
Her own mother died when she was 16 and she was the one who found her. Her father was a functioning alcoholic. Then Mum found her own husband in bed with her best friend and had to face raising four children on her own.
She was always physically present, but emotionally, she wasn't. My older sister pretty much raised us.
On the outside, I was confident, outspoken, steadfast. On the inside though, I was just this scared bloody little kid who had no idea.
I got teased because I didn't have a dad. Kids would say, “Oh, it's Father's Day. That's right, you don't have a dad!” Like I had any control over that?
***
I met a local boy when I was 17. He was from a very well-known family - from the wrong side of the tracks, but he was a really good man.
I was 21 when we had our first child, and the whole town was happy as they thought I was going to be left on the shelf because I was so old. I was 21! I married him and we had two beautiful girls, Payton and Kelsee.
But eventually I worked out that being married to a man probably wasn't my future. Not that it was him. It was just that he was a man.
I think being married and having children was something that was expected of me. When I came out as gay, Mum was devastated. My younger sister had already come out and Mum had been supportive, but I was her last chance at having a “normal” child.
I had married, I had had two kids, I had my own home. I was her last chance at normal.
Coming out in a small country town was awful.
I'd go to school to pick up my kids and there'd be a group of women standing in a circle and I knew they were talking about me. My kids got teased too. I remember Payton getting off the bus one day, crying and crying, because a little girl had told her, “Your mum's a big fat lesbian.”
I said, “Sweetheart, she's not lying. Mummy is overweight and Mummy is a lesbian.”
What else are you going to do?! I'm not sitting here throwing rocks at anyone else. That's your life. You live it.
Eventually, I moved to Melbourne with my girls. My youngest went to four schools in 12 months. Once she settled into school at Ringwood East, I couldn't move her again. So we stayed.
Leaving Young was hard because of my Mum. Despite often being quite an emotionally absent mother to us, she was a very present grandmother. That's probably why I stayed in Young for as long as I did. I didn't have grandparents, but my girls did. They were going to have the memory of having a grandmother, and that really mattered to me.
***
When we came to Melbourne, I worked in not-for-profit employment services, helping people get back into work. I'd done that kind of work in New South Wales too. I was passionate about employment because I knew where people were coming from.
I remember working with someone I'd grown up with who came from generational long-term unemployment, alcohol addiction and drug addiction. They'd never thought for a second they'd finish school, and they never thought they'd get a job. They were okay with that. But I wasn't. I got him a casual job at The Reject Shop. Now he’s the manager.
***
I found Glen Park Community Centre shortly after we moved to Melbourne. I came in to use the café and I remember thinking, oh my God, what is this place? Things like this didn't really exist where I'd come from - not at this level. It felt foreign to me. Odd, almost that there was a space, bricks and mortar and people, that just existed so somebody felt included. I don't think I'd ever experienced that before.
I joined the committee at Glen Park after awhile. And when the manager said she'd had enough, there had also coincidentally been a contract change in my own work in employment services. The chairperson asked if I was interested in taking the manager's job.
I said, “No, not really!”
It was part-time and I was a single mum. I needed full-time work. So they made the job full-time for me.
When I took over, there wasn't as much happening here. It was very quiet. The community shed, which now runs three full program days a week with around 46 learners, was being used for only about two hours a week. The café was also losing money.
I looked at the books and thought: this place should shut its doors. The café was bleeding it dry. I went to the committee and said, “We need to give this six months. If we can't turn the café around, we’ll need to close it.”
So we made a business plan, and we were able to employ a chef for pretty crappy money because… well, she was my wife!
Naomi and I had actually met years before when we worked together. She was a chef and I was a waitress. I loved waitressing – it’s still my favourite job. I'm a major cook and I love food. So perhaps it makes sense that food became such an important part of what Glen Park does.
The café survived and now it actually makes money, which is a very weird thing for a social enterprise.
And today, I think Glen Park has almost everything you could possibly need if you're living on the fringe.
If you're living with disadvantage, or if you've got some sort of barrier to participation, I think I set Glen Park up like this so it could be the place little Heidi back then needed. Or the place my Mum did.
Take our food bank - I call it a food bank with dignity. It's not just handing somebody a bag of food, ours is more like a shop. If somebody turns up and they want Weet-Bix, and we've got Weet-Bix, they get Weet-Bix. If they want coffee and not tea, they get coffee and not tea. They're not handed a random bag of food.
Everyone is part of our community and we know them. We know their husband's just had skin cancer removed. We know their child isn't going to school. We know their cousin's about to have a baby. We know they're engaged with The Orange Door or they're going to Uniting. We know those things and we can support them with those things. It's not just food for food's sake.
***
I've been managing Glen Park nearly 15 years now. It feels like a bloody lifetime!
I'm emotionally connected to this place because there's so much invested in it. People say I'm lucky because I work with my family. My daughters work here. Naomi works here. But the people who've been here for years are family too.
Kasie been here 11 years. Delise has been here nine. Heather's been here 11. Deb's been here almost eight. Our chairperson has been here as long as I have. Our treasurer just celebrated a decade.
Heather is one of the people I think about a lot, as when she first came here, she couldn't even make eye contact. Now, if you're not feeling great, Heather gives you a “Heav hug”. People from the community know that - they come in especially to get a “Heav hug”!
Naomi and I even got married here, underneath the oak trees.
And our rescue dog, Chubby, is usually in my office, and some people come here just to play with her.
This place changed my life, it changed who I am.
***
I thought managing a neighbourhood house would be a step backwards. That I'd be able to raise my kids and it would be easier. What a learning curve! It's the hardest job I've ever had in my life. Probably because it's the most I've ever given to a job.
Before, it was all about - I need to earn an income. Yes, my heart's in it, yes, I believe in what I'm doing. But this is a different kettle of fish altogether. Every part of Heidi is invested in Glen Park. I've spent so much time and energy making things work - sometimes to the detriment of myself and my family.
People look at things like our café, or having a social enterprise called Hungry4Success, that has an outlet now in Eastland and say, “You're lucky.”
It wasn't luck. It was bloody hard work. It was business plans and relationships and hours and hours of work. And there's a burden that comes with that.
If there's a complaint in the café, it ends up with me. If something goes wrong in a program, it ends up with me. If there's a recruitment problem, it ends up with me. It always ends up with me. I always say: muck flows uphill! And that's a huge burden to carry. Sometimes it's overwhelming.
That's the danger for neighbourhood houses.
People love them. People are passionate about them. People will keep giving and volunteering and doing more. But you burn them out. That shouldn't be the expectation.
Unfortunately, it is.
Without neighbourhood houses, especially in regional and remote areas, there'd be nowhere for some people to go. And if we lose neighbourhood houses, I think we'll start wondering what happened when we see communities becoming even more disconnected than they already are.
Every neighbourhood house doesn't have to do everything. I always say: find out what you're good at, but more importantly, find out what you're not good at.
Glen Park is not good at children's programs so we actively choose not to do them. Other houses are bloody amazing at them. That's their thing.
Our thing is food, emergency relief, employment, training, inclusion. People on the fringes come here. We have a big LGBTQIA+ community here too. But I don't care whether somebody who works here is gay, straight, trans or anything else, it's irrelevant to me. What matters is that somebody who works here respects everyone in the community. Because if you're only inclusive of one group, you become exclusive again.
***
There is one more thing I'd love to do. I want to create a cooking school for young, disengaged people. That's what I'd love to leave as a legacy.
I don't know whether I'm going to get there because I'm hoping to retire at 60. But I love the idea because hospitality is such a grounding industry. If you've got those skills, you can travel the world - they're transferable.
If you can teach a young person hospitality skills, particularly someone who's experienced disadvantage, you can give them something they'll carry across their whole life. You can set them up to succeed.
I understand education differently now. I finished Year 12 and had a good education, but I took a gap year, started working, got married and had children. I thought I'd never go to university. But then I found out about the Victorian Training Guarantee (or Skills First) subsidy that makes vocational education and TAFE courses more affordable.
I've got diplomas and advanced diplomas coming out my ears! I studied my arse off when I came down here - I just really wanted to do better. It’s an amazing opportunity for people.
***
In 2025, I was named Maroondah Citizen of the Year. I was standing there among all these other nominees and thinking about where I'd come from. Mum had passed away by then. But I had my immediate family there. I thought about 10-year-old Heidi.
If she could have seen me standing there, she would have thought: that's not you. You're an imposter. Even as an adult, part of me still felt a little bit like an imposter standing there. Because I look at what I do and sometimes think - isn't this what every human should be doing?
I am proud. Extremely proud. I look at the wish list I had when I first started at Glen Park and I've ticked it all and more.
I don't know what Glen Park will look like after me. We're starting to think about succession planning now, because nobody can do this forever.
I'm sure the manager before me didn't envisage what I would do with this place, and I won’t envisage what the manager after me does either. I hope it continues to help people living on the fringes.
That's how it should be.
