Shattering, Beautiful, and Unforgettable
Freya Kissane writes with such unfiltered honesty and emotional precision that you feel every tremor of her journey: the confusion, the longing, the small moments of youthful magic, and the devastating fractures that follow when trust is violated, and institutions fail the people they’re meant to protect.
From the opening pages of First, Do No Harm, Kissane captures the fragile intensity of young love and identity. Her reflections on “the moment that mattered” at a train station where hope and possibility spark like a kiss in the rain are tender, evocative, and recognizable.
Kissane distils adolescence into its purest elements: the masks we wear, the versions of ourselves others invent, and how a single fleeting experience can become a touchstone for years.
But the heart of this memoir lies in the labyrinth of fear, confusion, and gaslighting that descends when a young woman realizes that something in her world is dangerously wrong.
Kissane’s descriptions of feeling watched, undermined, or invaded convey the raw psychological toll of not knowing whom to trust. The scenes involving hospital stays, misplaced belongings, and warnings scrawled in marker evoke a deep sense of vulnerability.
What is extraordinary is Kissane’s structuring of these experiences as she folds in dark humour, self-awareness, and even surreal adventures, such as her unlikely collaborations with Rosemary and Mark as they “solve problems” from hospital armchairs.
These detours into creativity and escapism show how the mind fights to survive when reality becomes unbearable. They also highlight one of the memoir’s central themes: the importance of being taken seriously, especially when you have no proof beyond your own fear.
Kissane also touches, with great sensitivity, on the aftermath of violence. Rather than dwelling on the event, she focuses on what follows: the numbness, the disorientation, the loss of innocence, the painful silence. She captures that universal moment victims describe—when the world turns grey and ordinary tasks feel impossible. Her insight that the real wound is often in the aftermath rather than the act itself is quietly devastating.
One of the most powerful threads running through the book is the cost—and courage—of telling the truth. Kissane quotes Maya Angelou’s famous line about the agony of the “untold story,” and her entire memoir becomes an act of stepping into the light. She acknowledges the risks, the pressure to stay silent, and the people who tried to ensure she never spoke. Yet she writes anyway.
Kissane does not frame herself as a triumphant hero, nor as a figure of tragedy. Instead, she offers a portrait of someone learning to live with the shadows while still seeking colour, hope, and a sense of self-worth.
Kissane’s gift for storytelling comes to life in sharp, lyrical, often poetic prose as she captures fleeting sensations with the precision of someone who has spent years examining her memories from every angle. She balances vulnerability with wit, intellect with emotion. The writing is alive.
First, Do No Harm is deeply courageous, beautifully written, and unforgettable.