Football found me through six other sports first. By the time I knew this was the one, I already understood what it meant to fall in love with something and chase it properly.

My career hasn't been a straight line. Six major surgeries — two ankles, two knees, two shoulders — and roughly six to seven years of my career spent in rehab rather than on the pitch. It's not something people see on a highlight reel, but rebuilding, physically and mentally, again and again, has taught me more about who I am than any trophy has.

I'm gay and Indigenous, playing a sport that wasn't built with people like me in mind. I've spent my career making sure that changes — not just for me, but for the next Indigenous kid, the next queer kid, and the next girl from a suburb like mine who's been told this isn't a path for someone like her.

Off the pitch, my community is what drives me. I sit on the Australian Olympic Committee's Indigenous Advisory Committee, and I care deeply about creating real opportunity for Indigenous kids and for anyone who's been dealt a harder hand — through KS17FC, through mentoring, through simply being visible. Representation isn't a talking point for me; it's the reason I started the clinics in the first place.

In 2016, I started my own football clinics for young female players because I wanted girls coming up behind me to have something I didn't always have — visible proof that this game was for them too. That belief drives everything I'm building now: the clinics, the keynote stages, KS Label, and every resource I can put into the hands of the next generation. From a kid in Quakers Hill with a dream to a Matildas trailblazer — this is just the next chapter.