Shona Reid is a proud Eastern Arrernte woman. She is the South Australian Guardian for Children and Young People and has worked to advance the rights of children, young people, families and communities for over two decades.
I was born into a family that gives their time. We grew up quite poor in a little town called Burra in South Australia, and mum went back to work soon after I was born, so my Nanna looked after me. I remember my tiny hand clenching her dress as she briskly walked from one side of Burra to the other as she sold Avon products, with my little legs running as she took what felt like giant strides. Nanna never really had a job per say, but she had us and her community. As a young Aboriginal woman herself she was ‘sent’ from the Northern Territory into domestic service in South Australia, it was her marriage to my ‘white’ grandfather that provided her a safe exit from such servitude. My Nanna made the best of what she had, she was truly amazing to have thrived during a time of overt and pervasive racism. What made here even more amazing was how she took every opportunity to give, even when it seemed the world was pushing against her. I remember clearly even as a small child peering behind her skirt on Avon door knocks, how she treated her door-to-door sales as a community service, a way of connecting, a way of giving community care to other women in Burra. As small child, I saw the time she invested into listening to their stories, and I understood that my obligation was to carry that part of her into my way of being.
When we would go with her to church on Sundays, she’d always say how much she loved the sound of the coins clanging into the collection plate. She told me that it meant someone had given all they possibly could, because you don’t hear that sound when the rich people put notes in the plate. So, I grew up with the idea that you give as much as you can when you can. It’s not the amount that matters, but the act of service to your community. I think you can take that into different areas of your life, and I certainly saw it play out with parents as well. I feel very privileged to have grown up this way and in a rural community where giving is more visible than it is in a city.
People often think about giving time, but you can also give your story. For me, sharing the deeply personal Stolen Generation story within my family is one of the most meaningful forms of giving I have. When I offer those details, I’m simply not recounting history – I am gifting people a way of understanding Australia differently. It is knowledge, context, truth-telling and perspective, offered with the hope that it deepens empathy and shifts thinking. Story is a form of currency in my culture; it is how we teach, how we heal, and how we invite others to see the world through a more generous lens.
When I think about giving I don’t see it as a narrow or transactional act. True philanthropy – whether formal or informal - requires emotional investment. It asks something of our heart, not just our wallet. And when emotional generosity meets financial contribution, the two amplify each other. They create a circular economy of care, where people are nourished by giving and receiving in equal measure.
I believe women sit at the centre of this. Not because we give more, but because we often give differently. Women know how to hold complexity - we give emotionally, intellectually, spiritually and practically, all while still finding space to invest our financial resources back into our communities. We weave these different forms of generosity together in a way that feels natural to us.
And when those elements braid together - story, heart, intellect, action, investment - something powerful happens. It doesn’t just create change; it sustains it. It builds communities that are stronger, more connected, and more compassionate. It shapes a future for our children that is grounded in reciprocity, responsibility, and the privilege of looking after one another.
I give financially, but the part I love most is giving with my children. It matters to me that they don’t just see generosity - they practice it. We choose organisations together, especially those quieter corners of the community where need is high, but attention is low. Bedford Industries, for example, is one we return to often. It’s a place where people with disability are supported into meaningful employment, dignity and independence.
I also give through governance - a form of giving that people rarely name, but one that shapes entire systems. Sitting on boards requires time, emotional labour, and a willingness to carry responsibility for the wellbeing of others. I choose boards that speak to my values. Ronald McDonald House Charities allowed me to support rural families travelling to the city for their children’s medical care - a world I know deeply as someone raised in regional Australia.
And then there’s the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust. Its origin story - the largest door-knock campaign in Australian history - still moves me. Everyday people opened their doors and offered what they could. That single day created a fund that now sends Australians across the world to gather knowledge that reshapes policies, legislation and community life back home. To me, that is circular giving at its most elegant: generosity flowing forward across generations.
I also give through social justice work. One of the most challenging examples was when I accepted a position on a Rio Tinto Advisory Board in the aftermath of the destruction of a sacred cave. At the time, I was CEO of Reconciliation SA, and I knew the risks - reputational, cultural and personal. As an Aboriginal woman, stepping into that space was not simple. But I also knew that change rarely comes from the sidelines. If there was a moment for truth-telling, for cultural accountability, for repairing relationships, it was then.
People sometimes ask why I would take on a role like that. My answer is simple: because giving is not always comfortable. Sometimes giving is stepping into complexity so your community does not have to carry the burden alone. Sometimes it is bearing the discomfort of others so that truth has room to breathe. In that situation, giving was not about me. It was about what our community needed from a company that held enormous influence.
In a colonial lens, obligation is seen as heavy - something imposed. But in my cultural world, obligation is a privilege. It means you have something to offer. It means you are trusted. Looking back, I see that moment, and many others, as an honour: to stand in a difficult space, on behalf of community, and offer what I could.
Giving has taught me humility, because it reminds me that none of us moves through the world alone. It keeps us human. When we give - whether it is time, story, money, care or courage - we expose something of ourselves. Active giving makes us vulnerable, but in that vulnerability there is also immense power. It is the power to influence, to uplift, to connect, to shift the conditions around us.
If we lost the capacity to give, our entire social fabric would unravel. Systems don’t hold communities together - people do. And the threads we weave between us are made of acts of generosity, reciprocity, responsibility and grace. Yet when we broaden our understanding of what giving can look like, and allow ourselves to give in different ways, we unlock something extraordinary. We move from charity to transformation; from transaction to relationship; from scarcity to shared strength.
What I’ve learned is that giving is not a one-way action - it is an invitation. It asks us to step toward each other with openness. And when a community receives giving with grace, without suspicion or hierarchy, something beautiful happens: we thrive, collectively and unconditionally. We become a community capable not only of surviving hardship, but of imagining and building something better for the next generation.
I want us to embrace giving in its fullness, because it has the power to shape the kind of community we all long to belong to. We are living in a time marked by anger, division and exhaustion - but giving interrupts that cycle. It is one of the few self-fulfilling prophecies we can control. The more we give, the more space we create for generosity in others. And slowly, anger loses its hold - not just on our streets, but in our national conversations, in our politics, even in the way legislation is drafted.
At our core, human beings are wired for connection. We are meant to build each other up, to raise our children collectively, to lean into the strength of a village. That is our oldest instinct, and yet modern life has pulled us further and further away from it. Giving is one of the ways we find our way back.
I hope people embrace giving however they can - whether through large acts of philanthropy or the smallest gestures of kindness. The scale has never mattered to me. What matters is the intention, the practice, and the personal responsibility we take for shaping the world around us. Giving is a discipline we pass down, a way of teaching our children not just how to receive, but how to contribute to something larger than themselves. Sometimes the most powerful form of giving is simply talking with our families about being good humans, about community, about showing up for others.
We may not see the impact immediately. Cultural shifts rarely appear overnight. But I am willing to wait. Because when this way of being takes root - when children raised in generosity become adults who lead with generosity - the change we see in ten, twenty or thirty years will be profound. It will be the kind of beauty that lasts.
Shona Reid, a proud Eastern Arrernte woman, is South Australia’s Guardian for Children and Young People and the Training Centre Visitor - roles that entrust her with promoting, protecting and advocating for the rights of children and young people in out-of-home care and youth detention. Her work spans systemic oversight, legislative accountability and direct engagement with some of the state’s most vulnerable young people.
For almost two decades, Shona has dedicated both her professional expertise and personal commitment to advancing the rights and wellbeing of Aboriginal children, young people, families and communities. Her career has taken her across the child protection, youth justice and out-of-home care sectors, with a strong emphasis on regional and remote communities, including the Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands. She is known for her ability to navigate complex environments with cultural integrity, strategic insight and a persistent rights-based lens.
Before her appointment as Guardian, Shona was CEO of Reconciliation SA, where she led statewide efforts to strengthen relationships between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal South Australians. She has also held senior positions across government, including in the Parliament of South Australia, Aboriginal Affairs and Reconciliation, and what is now the Department for Child Protection.
In 2020, Shona was awarded the Distinguished Alumni Award from Flinders University, recognising her outstanding service to Aboriginal children, young people, families and communities - a reflection of work that is both professional and deeply personal.
