For the past 20 years, the annual What Matters? Writing Competition has asked young Australians to write an answer to the question: what matters to you?

Inspired by the commitment of former Prime Minister Gough Whitlam to involving young people in shaping Australia's future, this national writing competition is open to students in years 5-12. It encourages young Australians to raise their voices and know that their perspectives are valuable, no matter their age, background or viewpoint.

The What Matters? Writing Competition is run by the Whitlam Institute within Western Sydney University. More about What Matters? can be found here.

Years 11 & 12, Winner, Jade Cleary, Scotch Oakburn College

The relentless glare of harsh sunlight bore down upon the two of us, scattering a golden hue across our faces. The silent sentinel, a tangled photinia hedge, lined the front garden wall. Our makeshift sanctuary, which you had created for me, lay vibrantly within this trash-scattered lawn. Shielded from the prying eyes of enigmatic neighbours, the rough, yellow blades of grass tumbled against my skin as we sat, side by side, weaving frail daisy chains. Ten years older than me, an easy number to remember, my sister possessed an aura of patience that eluded my youthful understanding. Despite the subtle twitch of growing frustration, she wore a serene smile, and her demeanour was like a steady beacon on a wind-swept ocean as she gently guided my small hands in delicately intertwining the feeble stems of daisies.

Just beyond the confines of our sanctuary, just beyond my sister’s weary eyes, loomed our mother’s house, supported by the assistance of Centrelink. It festered in the background like a plate of mouldy dinner, left by the kitchen sink, and the waft of cheap durries mingled with the sickly-sweet photinia at the front door. The thin concrete balcony was strewn with cigarette butts and on days like this, the household cat would perch on the rusted railing. Picking at the balcony’s peeling paint was a good pass-time as I silently watched the constant ebb of nameless figures coming and going. Primarily, men, they infected the house with their rough hands, and I dearly loathed those hands. Even so, none of that seemed to matter within our makeshift heaven.

Laying on that withered front lawn beside you, now adorned with a flimsy daisy crown, my fingernails dig into the dusty dirt below us. We stared up at the vast sky, the lazy clouds drifted across, in a scattered tapestry, as a steady wind blew on our toothy smiles. The world raged on under the same sky and beating sun, not that I would notice, after all, I was preoccupied with wondering when we could play again.

In a life filled with uncertainty, the simple act of sitting side by side, in a forgotten corner of our mother’s memory, constructed a bubble of tranquillity amidst the growing storms to transpire. My world was enclosed by a dishevelled garden of bedlam, with new weeds appearing every day, yet you made me cherish every daisy.

Countless years have passed since those carefree days of childhood, and our worlds have only grown increasingly anarchic with each passing second. Circumstances led us down divergent pathways, and now you reside hundreds of miles away and idyllic days in a front garden are obscure memories set aside by a cacophony of responsibilities and obligations. Yet, in between the mirth-filled phone calls and fleeting visits, newborn memories bloom like wildflowers. Each unfurling petal acts as a gentle reminder that amidst life’s tumultuous waves our lighthouse, of shared laughter, will guide us through any tempest.

So, as a chaotic symphony plays on, I take comfort in knowing that no matter where we may individually voyage, the echoes of our shared laughter will continue to reverberate as a tender reminder of what truly matters in this ever-shifting world.