About 5pm a couple of weeks ago I was sitting at my desk when I called back a missed number. It was a News Corp reporter who had been ringing me for about 15 minutes. “What could they possibly be wanting from me?” I thought, as he introduced himself in the sort of tone that immediately makes you panic to the point of dizziness. “I’ve got some posts you’ve made on Facebook,” he said. My ears started to roar. “What? What posts?”

The next day I was splattered across the front page of Melbourne’s Herald Sun while the entire state of Victoria muttered “Who?” into their morning coffees. (Unless you’re unbearably familiar with Australian underground punk bands, or the minutiae of local leftish politics, you’ll have no idea who I am. I’m Joanna Nilson and I’m a former Greens candidate.)

My notoriety came about because, four years ago, I was in one of those secret Facebook groups for women. It a place where we could be rude and ridiculous, full of braggadocio, vulnerable, sad and truthful. We thought it was a safe space. I was – we all were – very naive.

I joked about shoplifting and minor recreational drug use. I made off-colour remarks. I was foolish. After a while the group started to implode and I left. I had forgotten about it.

Legislators should not just be from a background of wealth and privilege, groomed for politics for decades

In the meantime I’d developed an interest in politics. Well, I’ve been interested in politics my entire life. But politicians didn’t look like me. They certainly didn’t sound like me or anyone I knew.

It was while working for charities and not-for-profits that I started to see the critical impact of legislation and funding. I see, on a daily basis, the damage that a lack of affordable housing is doing to this country. The people who are on public housing waiting lists, the throngs turned away from services, the increasing number of rough sleepers.

There has been much written about this. But the problems are just as evident in my own social network. The wildest dream of people my age is to simply be middle class. To not live in fear of the landlord telling you that the dive you’ve been living in is being sold for a couple of cool million.

I’ve seen friends exhausted from working in hospitality, having their penalty rates taken away, no breaks and no days off. Young mothers losing it with the isolation inadequate parental leave brings, along with a lack of postnatal care. Young male friends killing themselves because society squashes and oppresses them. Others suffering in silence because they can’t afford mental health treatment.

“All right,” I said to myself. “Let’s give it a crack.” I wasn’t a lawyer or a trade union official or a former staffer, but there was all this other stuff. Stuff that I knew about.

So I signed myself up, was vetted and passed preselection. I wanted to learn about campaigning and get better at public speaking.

That brings us back to 5pm on 1 November. My knee-jerk reaction, in a fit of panic, was to shut down and deny everything he was saying to me. Half an hour later I realised the better thing to do would be to own up and step down as a candidate. I didn’t want to be a distraction. I was there to learn. I still am.

Then I was syndicated as far as the eye could see. A thief, they said. A dumb druggie. The shame was, and is, paralysing.

What I’ve come to realise is this: we’ve all said and done stupid things on the internet, especially if you’re under 40. That’s what normal people do.

What politics needs is more normal people. Nurses, activists, single mothers, social and disability workers, tradies and young people.

Legislators should not just be from a background of wealth and privilege, groomed for politics for decades, with power to make their mistakes vanish. Young people without these resources are going to have the spectre of social media looming over them if they put their hands up. But we have to ask ourselves some big questions about what we deem to be acceptable foibles in our representatives.

My political career may be over – for now, anyway – but I’m a citizen and what I have to say should still count. Politicians need to be representatives of the people. They need to come from our communities. They need to be our neighbours, friends and family – people who have had life experience. And people who have made mistakes.

• Crisis support services can be reached 24 hours a day: Lifeline 13 11 14; Suicide Call Back Service 1300 659 467; Kids Helpline 1800 55 1800; MensLine Australia 1300 78 99 78

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