The Things We Measure... and the Things We Miss

I was sitting with a coffee this week reading through the Victorian Parliamentary Inquiry into the 2026 bushfires.

It is an important piece of work. Hundreds of pages of evidence, submissions and recommendations. The sort of document that should shape how we prepare for, respond to and recover from disasters in the future.

As I turned each page, I found myself nodding. Not because I was learning something completely new, but because I could put a face to so many of the words.

When the report spoke about the long term impact on mental health, I thought about the farmer who quietly told me he still couldn't sleep through the night.

When it spoke about community recovery, I thought about the volunteers unlocking halls, making sandwiches and putting the kettle on long before anyone from outside arrived.

When it spoke about compounding disasters, I thought about the families who have barely had time to catch their breath before facing another challenge.

The report tells an important story.

But the people have been telling that story for months.

Over the past six months, across the state but particularly in Murrindindi and Strathbogie. has taught me something that no report ever could.

Recovery doesn't look the way most people think it does.

From the outside, it can appear that life is getting back to normal. Fences are repaired. Roads reopen. Stock return to paddocks. Businesses unlock their doors again.

It is easy to mistake activity for recovery. They are not the same thing.

I've walked through communities where the physical scars were slowly disappearing while the emotional ones were only just beginning to surface.

I've sat with people who felt guilty because they thought they should be coping better by now.

I've listened to volunteers who were running on empty but kept showing up because they couldn't imagine letting their neighbours down.

I've met business owners trying to smile for customers while privately wondering how much longer they could keep going.

These aren't signs of failure. They are signs of being human.

One thing the inquiry reinforces is that recovery cannot simply be measured by what has been rebuilt.

If we only count kilometres of road repaired or kilometres of fencing replaced, we miss the person who has stopped attending the football club because they don't feel like themselves anymore.

We miss the couple carrying stress in silence because they don't want to burden their children.

We miss the volunteer who has looked after everyone else for months but has never stopped to ask how they're travelling.

Those things don't appear on a spreadsheet.

But they determine whether a community truly recovers.

Another theme running through the inquiry is the importance of local communities leading recovery.

I smiled when I read that because I've seen it every week.

Real recovery isn't created in boardrooms.

It's created when neighbours check on neighbours.

It's created when a local event gives people permission to laugh again.

It's created when someone walks into a community hall saying they nearly stayed home but leaves feeling just a little lighter than when they arrived.

That is why I believe so strongly in taking conversations to where people already are.

Whether that's a road side conversation, a football club, a shearing shed, a community hall or a local event, people shouldn't always have to come looking for support.

Sometimes support needs to find them.

Perhaps the biggest lesson for me has been this.

Recovery isn't about returning people to who they were before the fire.

Life has changed.

People have changed.

Communities have changed.

The goal isn't to rewind the clock.

It's to help people build the capacity to move forward with confidence, connection and hope.

That is why I continue talking about Capacity Before Crisis. Not because we can stop disasters from happening.

We can't.

But because we can strengthen the things that help people navigate them.

Strong relationships.

Trusted conversations.

Communities that know one another.

Leaders who understand that asking for help is a sign of wisdom, not weakness.

A sense of belonging.

These are the foundations that matter long after the emergency crews have left.

Reading the inquiry reminded me that reports have an important place.

They influence policy. They shape investment. They identify opportunities to do better.

But they will never replace the value of sitting across from someone, listening without judgement and simply giving them the space to be heard.

That's where I've learnt the most over these past six months. Not from reports. From people.

As Murrindindi continues its recovery, my commitment remains exactly the same as it was on day one.

To keep showing up. To keep listening. To keep creating spaces where people feel safe enough to have the conversations that matter.

Because one day this report will sit on a shelf.

The stories of the people who lived through these fires should never be put there with it.