Nearly two years ago, I sat in a conference room listening to Lloyd and Sue Clarke share their unimaginable story. Their daughter, Hannah Clarke, and three grandchildren – Aaliyah, Laianah, and Trey were brutally murdered by their son-in-law. As they spoke about their experience with the coronial process, their pain was evident, yet so was their deep love and resilience.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
I had known in advance about this session. As part of the conference’s organising committee, I was prepared – or so I thought. Our goal was to learn from families who had been through the coronial system, to understand what worked and what could be improved. But as I sat there, watching the Clarkes share stories of their lost loved ones – recalling a funny saying or a cherished memory – I found myself wondering: How do you ever recover from something like this?
For a decade, I was a coroner, witnessing first hand the aftermath of tragic deaths. I had seen horrific scenes, investigated thousands of deaths, and listened to families, first responders, and witnesses share their trauma. I had experienced grief and loss in my own life – losing friends, mentors, and family members. I knew trauma. I thought I had built resilience.
But as the Clarkes spoke, I felt something shift inside me. My body started to tremble, my hands shook, and tears streamed down my face. I desperately wiped them away, hoping no one would notice. Pull yourself together. But I couldn’t. As the session ended, my heart pounded wildly in my chest, a sob rising in my throat, demanding to be released.
Then, the next speaker put up a slide on burnout and vicarious trauma.
It felt like a punch to the gut.
I realised, in that moment, that I was broken. My dream job, the career I had devoted over twenty-five years of my life to, was no longer sustainable. My nervous system was shot. Years of exposure to trauma had caught up with me, and I could no longer ignore it.
That day, I unravelled.
Not long after that I resigned.
Since then, I have been piecing myself back together. I sought help from doctors, trauma specialists, coaches and holistic practitioners. I immersed myself in personal development, books, meditation, and yoga. I took time to reconnect with my family, whose unwavering love and patience carried me through. I learned that vicarious trauma is trauma. And I learned that healing is not linear, it’s messy, slow, and deeply personal.
In Japanese culture, there is an art form called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, making the cracks and imperfections part of its beauty. This philosophy teaches us that our scars do not diminish our worth; they make us more resilient, more beautiful, and more whole.
This is who I am now.
Repaired, but made all the more beautiful for my imperfections.
And if you, too, feel like you’ve lost yourself along the way, know this – your cracks are not your flaws. They are the golden seams of your strength, and you are more radiant than ever.
by Jacqui Hawkins
Empowerment Coach
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