D is for Determination

From the Memoirs of Billie Harper, looking back on her learning journey.

Determination wasn’t loud. It didn’t charge in or rally a crowd. It showed up quietly—day after day—through routines, repairs, and refusal to give up on each other.

The ancestral journals of Lily, Peggy and Judith spoke often of how they stayed steady through storm warnings, hunger, and heartbreak. They used to say, “We keep going. Not because it’s easy, but because we’re needed.”

The Rebuild Years

During the Rebuild, determination meant walking for water when the systems failed—then walking again the next day. It meant planting seeds no one was sure would grow. It meant trying, and then trying again, without applause.

In our learning circles, we spoke of determination not as willpower, but as care made durable. The kind that stitches soles, salvages wood, patches nets, and reads by candlelight because someone still needs to learn.

For me, determination has always been personal. I think of Molly, rebuilding a comms network from scrap so isolated families could hear each other again. I think of Lily, Peggy Judith—their quiet courage after losing the men in their lives. With the men gone, so too was the male line of our family. Like many others, that part of our ancestry ended with them. And still, they kept going. Showing up. Holding memory. Holding family.

Jac, too—her determination to heal land and respect water. She listened deeply to Noongar elders, learning that restoration isn’t just about soil, but about story, kinship and time.

Determination isn’t perfection. It’s persistence. A long, steady commitment to what matters—even when no one’s watching.