The Cell, the Suit, and the Shape I Took

My Encounter with Ned Kelly

By Troy Lowndes

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Short of time? Listen to the voice over here.

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The year was 1979—almost a century to the day since Ned Kelly met his end on the gallows of Melbourne Gaol. I was five. And yet, the impression it left on me has never really faded.

About 25 years later, I was living in Melbourne—from 2004 to 2010. During that time, I had plenty of chances to revisit the site. Each time, I shrugged it off. “Nah, seen it before.” But the truth was deeper than that. Something in me resisted. Some old echo still stirred—something unsettled, some flicker of fear I hadn’t quite shaken. Quietly pulling the brakes.

I remember a road trip around 2007 or 2008, heading from Melbourne to Mount Kosciuszko. We passed Glenrowan—the site of Ned’s capture. And I felt it again. A strange pull, like something wanted me to turn off the highway. I didn’t. That five-year-old was still in there somewhere. Still not ready to face it.

That first visit in ’79 still plays in my mind. Me, my parents (barely out of their twenties), and my two sisters, aged six and three. I remember the wax figure. The armour. That wild, makeshift helmet. The chest plate—scarred and heavy with story. Bullet-pocked, legend-soaked.

Then we got to the gallows. There was a plaque, packed with words. But one line cut through everything else: “Sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are DEAD.” Cold. Final. It burned itself into my brain.

We moved toward Ned’s cell. And suddenly… something changed. The air got thick. Time felt warped. A strange presence settled in. I felt it. I think my sisters did too. I froze. My parents urged me forward, confused. I was the brave one. The bold kid. But this wasn’t fear. It was panic. Full-body, hysterical panic. I begged to leave. Wouldn’t take another step. Tour over.

Now, decades later, as I start to give voice to a part of myself that’s always been there—but never had space to speak—I see that moment differently.

I used to think I was just brave. Turns out, I was good at hiding. Not lying—erasing. Disappearing into what people expected. Shape-shifting as self-preservation. Blending in to stay safe.

A lifetime spent moving through systems not built for minds like mine—systems that didn’t know what to do with neurodivergent intensity, creativity, or curiosity—taught me early how to shrink. To soften. To hide in plain sight.

What I felt back then… maybe it wasn’t just fear. Maybe it was recognition. Of injustice. Of rebellion. Of a hunted spirit—not just from some dusty old history book, but living, breathing, still out there in the margins. Still being punished for not fitting in.

Maybe that’s why Ned shook me so deeply. Not the myth. Not the outlaw.

But the mirror.

One I’m only just starting to look into—now, at fifty.