When we look back at some of the biggest shifts in law and practice, they rarely began in government offices or research institutes. More often, they started with ordinary people who endured extraordinary tragedy — and refused to accept that nothing could change. The recent ITV drama ‘I Fought the Law’ brings this home powerfully. It tells the story of Ann Ming, who campaigned relentlessly after her daughter Julie was murdered and the many failings that followed from the day Julie was reported missing. Her fight changed the double jeopardy law in England and Wales — a change many professionals and policymakers had resisted for 800 years.
There are many sad echoes between Ann’s story and those of the founder of the Ivison Trust Irene Ivison. Irene’s daughter, Fiona was murdered at only 17 years of age after being targeted, groomed and exploited.
These echoes are heard not only in the horrific circumstances of losing a child to an unnecessary and violent death, and in the ensuing failings of services and systems, but also in the monumental changes to legislation and approaches that Ann and Irene helped bring about. Their courage and insights are truly remarkable.
Irene channelled her grief into campaigning against child sexual exploitation, shaping reforms that are still felt today. Neither woman was a professional “expert,” yet both saw clearly what the system had missed.
When the unimaginable happens, those affected see not only their own loss but also the systemic failures that allowed it to occur. Families cannot overlook these blind spots — their perspective is unfiltered and uncompromising, often revealing truths that official reviews, inquiries, and strategies fail to capture. Professionals, bound by policies and procedures, may miss them. That is why we must equip professionals not only with rules and guidance, but with the ability to imagine — to see what families see before tragedy forces it into view.
This raises a hard truth: if these insights are so clear, why do agencies and experts fail to act on them sooner? Part of the answer lies in systems. Public services are designed to manage risk, follow procedure, and protect themselves from failure. These instincts, while understandable, can narrow vision. Innovation feels risky. Listening to uncomfortable voices can feel destabilising. And so, change often comes only when the pressure of public tragedy makes delay impossible.
In recent years, many agencies have begun bringing “lived experience” into training and professional development. This is welcome. Hearing directly from survivors, families, or campaigners can challenge assumptions in a way that no textbook ever could. But it must be done with care. Without a trauma-informed approach, there is a danger of turning someone’s deepest pain into little more than a case study and re-traumatising when the intention is anything but that. Done well, however, lived experience is not simply a testimony — it is insight and should be approached as such. It pushes us beyond compliance and reminds us of the human impact of our decisions.
Which leaves us with a difficult question: why is it that we so often listen, yet rarely hear until later’?
If lived experience gives us such clarity, why must grieving parents, survivors, and families be the ones to point the way? Shouldn’t professionals and the state be capable of seeing the cracks before disaster exposes them? Perhaps the true test of public service is whether we can learn to act on insight without waiting for tragedy to compel us. Irene Ivison, Ann Ming, and countless others turned unimaginable loss into the courage to demand reforms that professionals had failed to deliver. Their strength should inspire us — but it should also remind us that they should never have had to carry that burden.
As professionals, we owe it to them — and to the people we serve today — to break the pattern. Lived experience should not be the last word after tragedy, but the first word in how we design, deliver, and improve our services.
Stuart Piper, Head of Strategic Partnerships