After leaving the meeting, I felt a heaviness in my chest that didn’t lift for hours. It wasn’t just anger or frustration—it was the suffocating weight of being misjudged by someone who held so much power over my life. The words “risk to children” kept echoing in my mind, over and over, each repetition a punch in the gut.

I spent the next day going over the report in painstaking detail. Every sentence, every word choice, every implication was scrutinized. I needed to understand how someone could make such a claim without evidence, without even speaking to me, and expect it to hold weight in an official setting.

I began drafting a response. I cited policies, laws, and official guidelines about probation and risk assessment. I pointed out clearly, fact by fact, why her assessment was not only wrong but could be considered reckless. I tried to keep my tone professional, but my anger seeped through—it was impossible not to feel the injustice of it all.

Each paragraph I wrote felt like a small act of resistance. I reminded myself that facts mattered, even if opinions seemed to overshadow them. I listed everything: my history, my record, the nature of my offences, the relationships in my life, and most importantly, the truth about my fiancé’s adult son.

Sending the response was both terrifying and empowering. I knew it might be dismissed, ignored, or even used against me in some bureaucratic way, but I refused to remain silent. I refused to let someone’s baseless opinion dictate my freedom.

Days turned into a blur of waiting and anxiety. Every knock on the door, every new email, every routine check-in made my stomach tighten. I couldn’t help imagining the worst-case scenarios, the possibility that this opinion could shape the rest of my time under probation.

Meanwhile, I talked to a few people I trusted, carefully, to get advice on what to do next. Every person I spoke to was shocked at the claim. “Risk to children?” they said. “That’s absurd. That makes no sense at all.” Hearing that gave me a strange mixture of comfort and renewed frustration—I knew I wasn’t alone in recognizing the injustice, but that didn’t make it any less real for me.

I started keeping a journal, recording everything I said, everything that happened, and every attempt I made to challenge the report. Writing it down helped me clarify my thoughts, but it also reminded me of how arbitrary the system could be when opinion replaces evidence.

After several days of silence, I received a response from the probation office. The report hadn’t been changed. The recommendation to remain in closed conditions stood. My heart sank. It was a crushing reminder that sometimes the system doesn’t correct itself, even when faced with clear errors.

I knew I had to escalate. I requested a formal review, submitting all the documentation I had collected. I explained, step by step, why the risk assessment was baseless, emphasizing that there was no evidence, no prior incidents, no reason to consider me dangerous to children.

During this time, I also reflected deeply on the meeting itself. I replayed her words, her demeanor, her insistence that it was “just my opinion.” I realized that this was not just incompetence—it was, at its core, an abuse of the system. A single person’s subjective judgment had the power to alter my life. That thought terrified me.

I began preparing for the possibility that the review might not go my way. I researched legal options, advocacy groups, and policy guidelines. I wanted to be ready, not just to challenge the decision, but to protect myself in any future encounters with the system.

Despite the fear and frustration, I also felt a strange sense of clarity. I knew who I was, what I had done, and what I hadn’t done. No report, no opinion, no bureaucratic misjudgment could change the truth of my life. I could only fight for it, step by step, document by document.

Days later, I had another meeting, this time with a senior officer reviewing my appeal. I walked in cautiously but with determination. I presented everything I had gathered, clearly and calmly. I spoke of facts, laws, evidence, and fairness. I left emotion at the door, but my resolve was clear.

At the end of that meeting, there was no immediate decision. But for the first time, I felt that maybe my voice had been heard. Maybe the weight of a single baseless opinion wouldn’t continue to shape my life. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental after weeks of uncertainty.

I continue to document, to fight, and to advocate for myself. This experience has been exhausting, frightening, and infuriating, but it has also strengthened my resolve. I have learned the importance of vigilance, preparation, and standing up for the truth, no matter how difficult it may seem.

Ultimately, this story isn’t just about me—it’s about the fragile nature of justice, the dangers of subjective opinion in positions of authority, and the necessity of speaking up when wronged. It’s a reminder that even in a system designed to rehabilitate and protect, human error—and sometimes bias—can have profound consequences.

And so, the fight continues. Every report, every meeting, every document is another step in reclaiming control over my life. I will not allow a baseless opinion to define me. I will not allow fear to silence me. And I will continue to document, challenge, and demand the fairness that should be the foundation of every interaction with the justice system.