As a little girl, Anne Russell never dreamed of being a ballerina or a movie star. While her friends planned futures as nurses, doctors and firemen, Anne had a different answer.
‘I just want to save a life,’ she would say to herself, though even now, in her sixties, she is not sure where that conviction came from.
Looking back, she wishes she could have saved two.
Anne was 26 when she became a mother, and like so many women of her generation, she trusted the experts. When her doctor reassured her that drinking during pregnancy would not harm her baby, she had no reason to question it.
It was the early 1980s, a time when doctors still handed out cigarettes to calm nerves and a glass of wine was practically considered a health tonic.
Anne was newly married, living in the Australian bush, and expecting her first child. She had no real support system, no parenting books and no internet forums to turn to. What she did have, though, was a doctor – someone she trusted implicitly.
When she fell off a motorbike the morning after a big party, she went to her doctor in a panic. ‘I was drinking,’ she admitted.
‘Is my baby okay?’
Like so many other mothers of her generation, Anne followed her doctor’s advice without question
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he reassured her.
‘It’ll be fine.’
She exhaled, relieved. She had already quit smoking the moment she found out she was pregnant – if drinking was dangerous, surely her doctor would have said something.
Later in her pregnancy, after undergoing an amniocentesis, she hesitated before taking a Panadol for pain. She asked her doctor if it was safe.
He explained that there was more risk from the amniocentesis itself.
‘Go to the pub and have a few beers with your husband,’ he suggested instead.
‘It’ll stop early labour.’
Anne followed his advice without question. If Panadol required caution, but alcohol came with a doctor’s recommendation, what was there to worry about?
Anne’s boys Mick and Seth struggled throughout their childhoods with unexplained symptoms. It took Anne decades to get a doctor to listen to her, and give them a diagnosis
She didn’t even think twice when she was pregnant with her second son. That messaging was locked in for her: alcohol was safe for her baby.
When Anne’s first baby, Mick, arrived, Anne expected sleepless nights. What she didn’t expect was years of them.
‘He never stopped crying,’ she remembers.
‘He didn’t flinch at loud noises. He missed milestone after milestone.’
At six months, the doctor muttered something about possible retardation – a cruel term from a different time – and told her to come back when Mick was one.
For the next six months, Anne worked tirelessly to stimulate her baby, trying to pull him into the world. At his first birthday check-up, the doctor took one look at him and shrugged.
‘He’s fine.’
Except he wasn’t.
Mick struggled through childhood. He was smaller than other kids. He battled severe headaches, developed epilepsy, and later, a tumour in his jaw.
Then came Seth.
Anne thought she’d hit the jackpot – he was an easy baby, a great sleeper, a perfect eater. But as he grew, so did the cracks.
‘He was physically destructive, emotionally volatile. It was like a hurricane hit our house,’ she says.
‘He could talk the talk,’ Anne explains.
‘If you met him, you’d never know he had a disability. But the moment pressure was applied, it all unravelled.’
School became impossible. He started using drugs. He got jobs but couldn’t keep them. And then, the worst – suicide attempts. Over and over again.
Growing up, Mick was smaller than other kids and suffered with severe headaches. Seth was physically destructive and emotionally volatile
‘I was constantly trying to keep my son alive,’ Anne says.
‘And every time I went to a doctor for help, they made me feel like I was the problem.’
One even asked, ‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’
By then, Anne was desperate. Her son was slipping away, and no one seemed to care.
She was reading up on ADHD when she found it – one tiny mention, buried at the bottom of an article.
Foetal Alcohol Syndrome.
A lightning bolt struck her.
‘I felt sick. I knew. I just knew,’ she says.
Mick’s epilepsy. Seth’s impulsivity. The struggles, the delays, the battles. The puzzle pieces clicked together.
Even though Anne knows the science – any amount of alcohol can cause damage – there’s no rationalising away the pain of knowing she was the one who hurt her children
She expected that now she had an answer, help would follow. She went to her GP, armed with research. Nothing.
She knocked on more doors. Still nothing.
It wasn’t until she went to Canada that she finally got the diagnosis she already knew in her bones was true.
Even then, no support followed.
‘It was a horrible journey. I don’t even know how I got through it,’ she says.
There’s a special kind of guilt that comes with motherhood. The kind that lingers in the quiet moments, that whispers ‘you should have known better’.
Anne’s guilt is a different beast altogether.
‘I might as well have rolled over them in the driveway. That’s how it feels,’ she says.
She’s learned to build a brick wall around it.
‘I have to, or I wouldn’t be able to help my boys. But sometimes, that wall cracks, and it all floods in.’
Even though she knows the science – any amount of alcohol can cause damage – there’s no rationalising away the pain of knowing she was the one who hurt her children.
‘I was determined to be the best mother,’ she says.
‘I never wanted to be like my own mother, who always made me responsible for her emotions. But when I found out about FASD, I had to take a step back and realise… at least my parents gave me a fully functioning brain. At least I had the insight to get help when I needed it.’
Her boys, now in their 40s, have found their own paths. Mick is married with a child, working in mining. Seth, a father of four, is brilliant with tools.
‘There are times we both cry,’ she admits.
‘Seth will say something about his struggles, and I’ll whisper, “I’m so sorry.” He always tells me, “No, mum. Don’t think about it like that.”‘
She’s grateful for their kindness. But one question haunts her: What happens when I’m gone? The though keeps her up at night.
Anne could have let the guilt eat her alive. Instead, she’s turned it into a mission.
‘I’ve had mums tell me that because of my story, they stopped drinking,’ she says.
‘One woman came to me, nine months pregnant, and said, “Because of you, I didn’t drink.”
That’s what keeps her going. Because now she can save lives.
Her message to women today is simple: Don’t risk it.
‘It’s a gamble,’ she says.
‘You don’t know how it will turn out. And raising a child with FASD? It doesn’t just affect them – it affects the whole family.’
Her boys have pushed through. They have become the best versions of themselves. But what could they have been, if the advice had been different?
Anne will never have the answer.
But what she does have is a chance to make sure the next generation of mothers knows the truth.
Because now, there is no excuse.
What is Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD)?
Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) is a lifelong condition caused by prenatal exposure to alcohol, leading to brain damage and developmental challenges.
It affects cognitive function, behaviour, learning, and social skills, often resulting in difficulties with impulse control, memory, and emotional regulation.
The severity of FASD varies from person to person, as alcohol exposure impacts each developing baby differently. Despite its widespread effects, FASD remains underdiagnosed and often mistaken for other conditions such as ADHD or autism.
Where to find support
If you suspect that you, your child, or someone you know may be affected by FASD, support is available.
Visit the Russell Family Foetal Alcohol Disorders Association (RFFADA) for resources, information, and guidance on diagnosis and management.
For additional support, you can also reach out to NOFASD Australia, the national peak body for FASD or call their helpline at 1300 306 238.
Early intervention and understanding can make a significant difference. You are not alone.
