I had a conversation recently with Dr Anne Welfare, one of the early researchers into sibling sexual abuse in Australia. In the 1980s, she and her colleagues were heckled for even raising the subject. Years later, another researcher apologised to her, recognising she had simply been ahead of her time.

At our Blue Borage Conversation Cafés, I’ve heard something that brings Anne’s decades of work into sharp focus. Survivors beginning sentences with:

I’m 56…
I’m 60…
I’m 75…
I’m dealing with post-disclosure…
I’m alone in this.

Fifty or sixty years after the harm.

Fifty or sixty years of carrying the impact without language, guidance, or community.

Anne and I spoke about the knowledge gap that still exists because sibling sexual abuse has remained so taboo. It is heartening to see the work being done with children and families today. And yet, what continues to stand out to me is how many adult survivors still fall through the cracks of our systems.

Many people I speak with grew up never hearing the words for what happened to them. There were no conversations to help make sense of it, no shared understanding, and often no roadmap for what came after disclosure.

I told Anne about a small-group series I’ve been shaping, based on Letting Go: The Pathway to Surrender by Dr David Hawkins. The idea came from curiosity rather than certainty. What does “letting go” actually mean for people whose lives have been shaped by unspoken trauma for decades? What might surrender look like when vigilance has been a necessary survival skill?

Anne paused and said, “Letting go? Yes. That is what you all need to do. You will need to learn to let go.”

I had nothing to say for a moment. I looked inside myself and thought ‘Can you let go?’ ‘What is it you’re needing to let go of?’ It felt like I needed to trust in myself, and keep walking towards this unknown. I’m not doing it alone.

“Letting go” is a phrase we see everywhere now, often flattened into something neat and motivational. But for people who learned early to hold everything together, the idea can feel abstract, even threatening.

Through our Conversation Cafés, something important has been happening. People are saying, “She said what I’ve had in my mind for years,” or “No one has ever named that before,” or simply, “I see it now.” Those moments tell me that naming what happened matters. Safety, language, and connection matter.

And still, I find myself wondering if for some of us, the next step is different.

Perhaps it’s moving from naming what happened to asking what we want our lives to feel like now.

Letting go is not forgetting.
It is not excusing.
It is allowing ourselves to stop carrying the weight alone.

As I look ahead, I’m holding questions rather than conclusions.

• What might our conversations become next?
• How do we create more lightness and room to breathe without bypassing truth?
• If we continue to speak about sibling sexual trauma, what outcomes are we working toward?
• And what supports survivors, parents, and siblings to move from constant responsibility into simply being?

These questions are shaping the next chapter of Blue Borage. The direction feels clearer, even if the answers are still emerging.