Today’s travel blog post is completely out of the ordinary — not your typical story about charming towns, wineries, or hidden gems.

But as I mentioned before, our journey to Canberra wasn’t for sightseeing.

We came here for a far more meaningful reason — one that touches the very heart of who I am and why I write.

This morning, beneath a cold grey sky, we stood in the courtyard of Parliament House — that grand symbol of power and decision-making, its clean lines and white flagpole rising above the capital.

The air was sharp, the kind that makes your breath visible. A soft wind moved across the hilltop, carrying a quietness that felt almost sacred.

The courtyard was filled with shoes for the Head to the Hill 2025, organised by Brain Tumour Alliance Australia.

Hundreds upon hundreds of them — a sea of leather, laces, and silent stories.

Each pair represented a life touched by a brain tumour.

Standing there was like standing in the middle of heartbreak and courage woven together.

Some shoes were worn and faded, others brightly coloured. But it was the little shoes that broke me — tiny sneakers, sparkly sandals, shoes that should have still been running, skipping, dancing. Hearing the stories of the children behind them was almost unbearable.

Among those rows of shoes, I found mine — and with them, my story.

The moment my eyes met them, something inside me gave way.

My chest tightened, my throat closed, and tears came before I could stop them.

My shoes sat beside a pair belonging to Zoe, a beautiful five-year-old girl who loved unicorns, butterflies, rainbows, and dancing.

She had lost her battle with brain cancer before she even had a chance to start school.

I have a four-year-old granddaughter who loves rainbows too. In that moment, Zoe wasn’t a stranger. I could see her twirling, laughing, living her little dreams — and I could feel her family’s unimaginable pain. Even now, as I write this, the memory blurs the keyboard through tears.

Story after story was shared — stories of love, loss, courage, and unbreakable spirit.

Each one left the audience in silence, tears streaming freely.

I prayed that the politicians listening inside that courtyard would not just hear us, but feel us — truly understand the urgency. Brain tumour research and treatment need more funding. Desperately.

By the afternoon, I felt utterly drained yet strangely at peace — certain that I had been exactly where I was meant to be.

I’d travelled 1,400 kilometres to stand there, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Later, as I walked through Canberra’s quiet streets, the chill settling deeper into the evening air, I tried to process it all — the faces, the stories, the weight of what I had witnessed.

Professor Richard Scolyer spoke with such conviction, reminding us that cancer research does make a difference — that hope is real, and breakthroughs are happening every day.

My prayer now is that this same hope will soon reach those fighting brain tumours, that lives will be saved because of what we shared today.

That night, as I watched the evening news, I saw it all again — the courtyard, the shoes, the faces.

And there I was, walking among them. Seeing myself from the outside was surreal. In that moment, I realised that the shoes symbolised something far greater than individual stories of struggle and loss.

They represented every step we take together — every act of courage, every word spoken, every hand held — in the fight for something that truly matters.