The gap after escaping domestic violence – Kerryn Thrupp
We’ve become very good in New Zealand at telling people experiencing family violence to leave.
It’s a message reinforced through public awareness campaigns, workplace policies and frontline services. And to be clear, this progress matters. More people are coming forward and finding the courage to step away from dangerous situations.
But there’s a harder, quieter question we aren’t asking loudly enough – and that’s what happens next?
Because for many, leaving is not the end of the crisis, it’s the beginning of another one. When families flee violence, they often leave with nothing. No furniture, beds, kitchenware or children’s belongings. Safety comes first, as it must – but everything else is left behind.
But what follows is a reality we don’t talk about enough, the overwhelming, immediate task of trying to rebuild a life from scratch.
Family Court expectations don’t pause simply because someone has escaped harm. Parents are still required to demonstrate stability – the kind that comes with beds for children, a functioning home and a sense of permanence. But without that, they risk losing care, despite having done the hardest imaginable thing – leave.
At the same time, financial support for these essentials is often limited, delayed or offered in the form of debt. Some families can’t access support at all, while others receive help that stretches to just the basics, like a fridge or a second-hand bed. But that falls far short of what’s needed to create a liveable, dignified space.
So we’re left with a critical gap between escape and recovery, and that void is where many families falter.
The Salvation Army’s latest State of the Nation report shows family violence remains at some of the highest levels since 2018. While more people are leaving, our systems are not equipped to support what comes after, and without stability, the risk of returning to unsafe environments increases – not because people want to, but because the pathway forward is too fragile.
I’m a survivor of family violence and have experienced this first-hand. I left with my two young children and began the long, complex journey of rebuilding. Despite having a strong professional background, I found myself navigating a system that could get us out, but not help us to start again.
This is the reality that led me to found Woven Earth and provide that missing piece.
We furnish empty houses for families who have fled violence, transforming them into homes: not just functional spaces, but places that reflect the people living in them. We consider children’s interests, family needs and personal touches, because recovery is not just physical, it’s emotional and psychological. For a child who has lost everything familiar, a favourite toy or a bike can mean more than we realise and for a parent, a home that feels like theirs can be the foundation for healing.
Recently, we furnished our 1000th home in Auckland. It’s a milestone we’re proud of, but it’s also confronting. It speaks to the scale of need and right now, we’re needed more than ever, with 12 more homes to complete in the next two weeks alone.
But we’re also one of the only organisations in New Zealand doing this work and we can’t keep doing it alone.
Every week, we hear from agencies and communities across the country asking if we can help in their region and too often, we have to say no.
Meanwhile, families are spending months, sometimes years, in temporary or transitional housing without basic furnishings. We hear of homes with a single bed for a family of four, a table without chairs, a kettle but no toaster and no bedding, towels or toys for children. These are not conditions that support recovery, they’re holding patterns.
We also see systemic pressures that make rebuilding even harder, like families rushed into housing without time to prepare, a lack of support when children are returned to their care and a one-size-fits-all approach to assistance that fails to reflect real lives.
If we’re serious about breaking the cycle of family violence, we cannot stop at the point of escape, because safety without stability is fragile.
We need to rethink how we support families after they leave. That means practical, accessible, dignified support that enables people to rebuild, not just survive. It means recognising that recovery is not a luxury or an add-on, it is central to long-term safety.
Because if we don’t close this gap, we risk undoing all the progress we’ve made – and making our already bad statistics even worse.
Leaving should be the start of something better, but right now, for too many families, it’s just the beginning of another struggle.
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