Between Worlds: Finding Belonging in Nature

“What mob are you? "It’s a question I’ve been asked more times than I can count. Sometimes it’s curious, sometimes cautious, sometimes it comes with a knowing smile—because even if the bloodlines are mixed, even if the history is tangled, there’s something people can sense.

An unexplainable soothing comes when standing in the bush, a strange euphoria by the ocean, a sense of belonging that can’t quite be put into words. The body knows what the mind questions. The rhythm of the seasons, the subtle signs of change, the awareness of place—these things are felt, not learned.

And yet, with that connection comes grief. An acute awareness of the stories carried by Palawa women: lives uprooted, children taken, voices silenced, language lost. Even in the records of early convict women, there is sorrow. Some reoffended deliberately, choosing prison over “freedom,” because jail offered more safety than the outside world. That detail always sits heavy with me—it tells of a time when choices were survival, not freedom. Then my heart aches when I think of the Palawa girls 'oh my". Lutruwita certainly has a dark past.

When we lived in the Pilbara, Aunt Judy often stayed with us—sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months. She was elderly, but when the kids and I would take her out on Country, a sense of joy would overtake her. She would shift in her seat like a young, excited girl, repeating again and again: “That’s my Country.”

She would point to the hills, the gullies, the shifting red earth, and explain their meaning to my children. She showed them where the fresh water flowed, where to find bush honey, how to read the land’s hidden stories. What a privilege it was to be with Yindjibarndi royalty—her father was the song man. Together, we entered some of the most remote communities.

I was always sorely aware of my pale skin in comparison. But after a while, after mingling and being welcomed, the question would always come: “What mob are you?” When I answered Palawa, their response was almost always the same: “Oh… sad, sad story that one.”

And they’re right. It is a sad story—fragmented, heavy with silence. But it is also a story still alive, still being told, still seeking healing. Belonging isn’t always about certainty—it’s about listening. Listening to the land, to the stories, and to the quiet voice inside that says: you are part of this.