Jul 27

Living the Curvy Life

Last Saturday morning, towards the end of my short visit to Sydney, I hopped on to the train into the city and sauntered cheerily down towards Circular Quay for a matinee performance of The Merry Widow at the Sydney Opera House. It had been a lovely week – one of those weeks that leaves you feeling grateful and with renewed purpose, derived from a combination of spending time with people and communities, including former coachees and those whom I have had the privilege of helping appoint into senior leadership roles. Talking strategy with the team at Chifley People, as they plan their further expansion into regional and international recruitment, was a particular joy. Perhaps the biggest surprise of this visit, though, was how I have suddenly started to see the visible world really differently – in lines, and tones, and shades … and this is as a direct result of staying with an artist and observing her work.

I hadn’t fully appreciated before this week just how much time artists spend really looking, with incredible acuity, at the world at the world around them – and just how infectious that way of seeing can become. It is actually quite difficult to describe exactly what changes – it is not that you suddenly become an artist yourself (even though I believe that each of us has an artist lurking inside us, waiting to be nurtured), nor is it that every view instantly becomes a masterpiece waiting to be painted; rather, you begin to notice things that you would almost certainly have walked past a few days earlier. Instead of seeing just a harbour, beautiful though it is, you notice the shapes that hold it together; instead of simply admiring a magnificent tree, you find yourself tracing its lines with your eyes, and you become aware of the way its branches seem to reach, twist and balance themselves almost effortlessly. Looking – really looking and seeing – becomes a slower activity, and a strangely more satisfying one.

And so it was that as I walked towards the Opera House that morning, and then again as I emerged into the sunshine a few hours later after a wonderfully enjoyable performance – silly, funny, spectacular in every sense – I realised that my attention kept returning to the curves. Obviously there were the great sweeping shells of the Opera House and the tremendous high arch of the Harbour Bridge, but once I had noticed those, I seemed to see them everywhere else as well – in the edge of the harbour itself, in the movement of the ferries across the water, in the branches of the trees, in the contours of the shoreline and even, it seemed to me, in the way people naturally flowed around one another as they crossed the concourse and walked along the quays. There are straight lines there too, of course, particularly in the manmade constructions, from the skyscrapers to the paving slabs, but the closer I looked, these straight lines no longer seemed to dominate the scene.

This thought about curves lingered … once it had planted itself in my head, in fact, it became rather difficult to let go of. Nature, after all, seems remarkably comfortable with curves. Rivers meander, coastlines wave, branches bend, shells spiral, leaves curl and waves roll endlessly onto the shore, never once appearing to worry that they have taken the most efficient straight line route. There is something very unselfconsciously confident about curves – something that that seems to speak of a sense of independence and self, and of growth, adaptation and response to the world around them.

My brain having been tickled with this thought, I found myself smiling at the thought that perhaps we spend rather too much of our own lives trying to straighten everything out. We like career paths that make sense when drawn on paper; we admire plans with neat beginnings, middles and ends; we become slightly irritated when life introduces an unexpected bend that delays us, diverts us or simply takes us somewhere we had never intended to go. Yet, when I look back over my own life, I cannot honestly say that the most important things happened because I followed a particularly straight line. Almost every opportunity that has mattered has arrived through somebody I met unexpectedly, a conversation that was never meant to happen, a disappointment that only much later revealed itself to have been an opportunity in disguise, or a decision that felt rather uncertain at the time but proved, with hindsight, to have been exactly the right one. Looking back, the curves have nearly always been where the interesting bits lay, where the learning happened and where entirely new landscapes popped up into view. They may not always have been the straight route I might have wanted to choose in advance, but I am phenomenally grateful that life provided them for me, and that I followed them.

I wonder whether that is why those curves around Sydney Harbour felt so strangely satisfying to look at. Yes, they are extraordinary achievements of architecture and engineering, but perhaps they also remind us, quietly and almost subconsciously, of something much older than themselves. However remarkable human beings become, we are still responding to patterns that have surrounded us throughout our lives – patterns of growth rather than perfection, of movement rather than rigidity, and of possibilities unfolding, rather than outcomes being predetermined.

I have found myself returning to that thought several times since Saturday. We often talk about wanting a straightforward life, a straightforward career or a straightforward answer, as though straightness were automatically something to aspire to; yet I am no longer entirely convinced that it is. Perhaps living well has rather less to do with following the straightest possible path than with learning to appreciate the curves while we are travelling along them.

There is, I think, rather a lot to be said for living the curvy life … I hope you are blessed with one too.

Jul 16

“Where are you from?” Some early-morning thoughts on identity

Sitting in a taxi this morning on my way to Edinburgh Airport, enjoying the freshness and extraordinary light of a 4.30 am foray into the Scottish landscape, about to exchange the Scottish summer for the Sydney winter – the only material difference, of course, being the longer day in Scotland at this time of year –  I found myself musing on the question of identity. In between looking out for the rabbits who inhabit the roundabouts near the airport – a habit I have been unable to shake since the children were little, when part of the joy of going to the airport lay in looking for the ‘bunnies’ – I began thinking about a lively conversation with my parents yesterday, during which we were trying to work out who, exactly, we were. Are we Scottish? Part English? British? European? Human? Who are we, after all?

This is, I know, a common question for those of us who live and work internationally, and one that will resonate with many. People often ask me, “Where are you from?” and I never quite know how to answer, so I usually end up saying that I am based in Edinburgh, but that I travel a lot. And that is true … in part, at least. Edinburgh is home; almost certainly, it is the home to which I will return as the years pass and old age begins to creep in. It is not, however, the whole answer.

I know, however, too, that part of me lives wherever each of my children is. Part of me lives where my parents are, and where my in-laws are. Part of me lives where my friends are. Part of me remains in every place in which I have ever lived, worked, loved, struggled, laughed, learned or felt that I belonged. Part of me lives in Hong Kong; part of me lives in Sydney; part of me lives in Dubai. Part of me lives in all the places where I have formed a connection and where, in turn, those connections have helped to form me.

Perhaps, then, we carry our homes around with us. We unquestionably carry the accumulated substance of our past, present and imagined future wherever we go; we are never severed entirely from the selves we have been, the relationships that sustain us, or the possibilities towards which we are moving. Perhaps home is therefore less a single geographical location than a constellation of places in which we are physically present, emotionally invested, mentally engaged or spiritually at ease. We may be living out of a suitcase, or we may find ourselves briefly living in an airport lounge, a hotel room or a train station … wherever we are, though, we are living, and we are undeniably present. And that place becomes, for a moment or for a lifetime, part of where we are from.

It would, of course, be both culturally insensitive and rather daft to land in a new country and announce grandly, “I am from here.” Yet there is an element of truth in the idea that, as we scatter parts of ourselves around the world, we become an assemblage of all the places we have ever been. Our identities are unique because our journeys are unique. We are shaped by our origins, but we are also shaped by the people we meet, the places we encounter, the relationships we nurture and the futures towards which we are moving.

Perhaps the most honest expression of identity is simply this: I am me – past, present and future; I am who I have been; I am who I am; and I am who I will become. And if we can continue striving to become more consciously and generously ourselves – not only for our own sake, but for our families, our communities and the wider world – then that feels to me like a worthy endeavour.

So, these are my early-morning musings as I head off to Sydney, another one of the places I am from. I wish you well, today, in this moment, in all the places where you are, where you have been, and where you will be. May you find richness in the unique accumulation of places, people and possibilities that has made you who you are.

Jun 28

High Society at the Barbican – and knowing ourselves well enough to thrive

In a moment of pure and wonderful self-indulgence last week, I booked a last-minute – by which I mean actually on the day – ticket to see Cole Porter’s ‘High Society’ at the Barbican in London … and it was fabulous. It had an amazing cast, including Felicity Kendal and Helen George, a brilliant orchestra, and a sparkling set. It was, quite simply, phenomenal: such fun, so silly, so enjoyable, so memorable, and so wonderfully uplifting.

There was, however, a reason for this indulgence — or at least, there was a very good reason for me to recognise that it was exactly what I needed. First thing that morning, I had been in conversation with a superb trio of leaders in education who are passionate about wellbeing — Dean Clayden, Caz Jude and Berna Bouwer — as we recorded the latest Outstanding Schools webinar, which is now available here. Please, please do request to watch it, because it was a wonderful discussion, with profound insights (I personally found the discussion genuinely inspiring), and also with practical learning that is immediately implementable … you really must watch it!!

So inspiring was this conversation, in fact, that when two of my meetings that afternoon were postponed because of the heat, I leapt at the opportunity to do something different, in order to feed myself, and restore my balance, in a way that I know works for me. For me, that means something deliciously high-quality, uplifting, sensorially rich, unusual, and out of the ordinary. Throw in a dash of having to navigate some complex logistics to ensure that I could get there, enjoy it, and still accommodate my later online Board meeting, and my bliss was complete.

One of the key messages of the Outstanding Schools webinar was that we need to know ourselves first, in order to be able to manage our wellbeing; and leaders, in turn, need to know their staff before they can begin to determine what wellbeing actually means for them. Wellbeing is not, as we sometimes think, a fluffy concept. Wellbeing, when done well, is a honed and disciplined approach to ensuring that we are in the best possible place to do what we are really tasked to do – mentally, physically and emotionally. It is also something over which we have more agency than we sometimes realise – or remember.

This ownership of our personal wellbeing does not mean that we should berate ourselves for falling short of some imagined, Insta-perfect lifestyle; quite the opposite, in fact, especially given how toxically anxiety-making such threads can be. Our goal, therefore, is not to ‘perform’ wellbeing, but rather to focus on understanding ourselves well enough to nourish ourselves appropriately, and to recognise what restores us, what energises us, what steadies us, and what enables us to be at our best.

So, step one: work on getting to know yourself better. Step two: give yourself what you need in order to be the best of yourself, and to thrive. Because when you thrive, those around you are more likely to thrive too … and when everyone thrives, so too does the world. So – in the week ahead, work on your understanding of yourself, and don’t be afraid to jump at opportunities that emerge.

I, meanwhile, am still humming the tunes from ‘High Society’!

PS I am really enjoying curating some webinars for Outstanding Schools – if you are interested in being on a panel, and helping me create some brilliant webinars, do get in touch … and do sign up for the next webinars! Here is the link you need – https://www.outstandingschools.com/ , or contact me on LinkedIn – https://www.linkedin.com/in/drhelenwright/

May 19

The wisdom in baked beans: talking about what we love

Tucking into a hearty breakfast at my hotel in London last Sunday, in readiness for a day ahead at the annual COBIS conference, I found myself lingering over my baked beans. The reason for this … I was captivated by a conversation at a nearby table, where an electrician was talking energetically about his job. I could not help myself – his skill and knowledge of his craft were evident and compelling; I was fascinated! The wiring of air conditioners is clearly more complex than I thought, and it is now obvious to me how people should not underestimate the planning for the electrics in major events. Do not ever take this for granted! Heavy doses of pragmatism pervaded his descriptions, of course; I was able to appreciate his challenges as a contractor, and this simply added to my fascination. I learned so much!

It struck me, as I sat there listening, that accumulated knowledge is a beautiful thing – a wonder to listen to. There is something deeply human about hearing somebody talk about something they know well; not to impress, albeit with a sprinkling of pride, but simply because years of experience have settled into them and become part of how they see the world. Expertise, especially when worn lightly, can be incredibly stimulating to witness. It carries wisdom, judgement and unique stories within it – all of which are worthy of sharing. We live in an age which often prizes immediacy, speed and instant, discardable knowledge; there remains, however, something profoundly grounding about listening to somebody who has actually spent years learning, refining, practising and understanding, and who wants to do it right … arguably, this is a glimmer of Aristotle’s ‘phronesis’ in action, unfolding before my (really rather tasty) baked beans.

Perhaps, too, this is why conferences can matter so much when they are at their best. At COBIS, experts talk the language of education, and so much knowledge becomes available through conversation, challenge and shared reflection. One of the great privileges of working in education is that most educators genuinely care about what they do; when they gather together, they often cannot help but talk passionately about schools, children, staff, safeguarding, governance, inclusion, learning, leadership … all underpinned by human potential, and – not to be too dramatic about it – the sustainable future of the world. Sometimes these conversations happen on stages or in workshops (as indeed they did at a superb line-up at COBIS); often, however, the really interesting moments happen over coffee, in corridors, in taxis, or while waiting for sessions to begin. This too was absolutely the case at the COBIS conference; it was a place where people tested ideas aloud, wrestled with complexity, and revealed their accumulated wisdom – wisdom which rarely fits neatly onto PowerPoint slides, not least because so much of this accumulated knowledge has become so obvious and assumed by those speaking and sharing.

So, to the electrician I overheard that morning … thank you for letting me listen in, learn, and marvel at your knowledge. You made me think; you inspired me to capture my thoughts, and to share them with others. I really hope that you had a great week ahead!

Mar 15

Why every school leader needs a stint in rehab

At one point last Friday morning, as I addressed the audience at the 21st Century Learning Conference in the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre, I noted that I had observed that teachers and leaders, when they leave the profession, almost always seem to need some form of rehabilitation in order to readjust to ordinary life. If you have ever, as a teacher or school leader, found yourself itching to organise an unruly queue at the Post Office, or have automatically taken the lead when a gate change is announced at the airport … or if, conversely, you fall into a sloth-like lethargy at semester-end, when you are deprived of the stimuli of day-to-day life in school … then the chances are pretty high that you, too, will need a stint in rehab at some point.

Let me be clear – I am not talking here about the full-on celebrity detox associated with noxious substance abuse, or any other well-documented addictions, albeit that I am certain I have read somewhere that school leaders exhibit addictive personalities at a higher-than-average rate compared to the general population … No – here, I am talking about the rehabilitation that is needed to recover from an over-proceduralised, over-bureaucratised, overly metrics-driven system that marks our schools today. As Beyoncé didn’t quite say, but might have done, had she been addressing a different audience, ‘If you like it, you should have put a policy on it’. Even before our students and teachers enter the school gates on their first official day as part of the school community, they have been subjected to scores of policies, forms, handbooks and guidelines. Processes abound in schools (and in numerous other organisations designed to support the public good in society); in fact, we are so used to these systems and structures that it can feel disturbingly destabilising if they are absent. Have you ever visited a school or public institution where for some reason you have not been given a lanyard or visitor’s badge … and where, as a consequence, you have felt on edge for your entire visit?

What is challengingly insidious, of course, is that we can (almost always) justify every single one of these systems and structures. Safeguarding, fire regulations, legal requirements … none of these are optional in schools. There is also much to be said for systems that oil the wheels of the organisation, so that (in theory, at least) more focus can be given to learning. I have found myself on numerous occasions placing a positive spin on near-disasters in school, and reminding people that ‘a frustration is merely an opportunity to create a system’. Systems are useful, structures are helpful, policies and procedures are there to support us all.

And yet, and yet … there is a tremendous looming danger that comes with the weight of these systems. It might be too dramatic to describe this as a crushing weight, but if we are honest, there will likely be many occasions when we experience it as stifling. Occasions when we know that we are not actually doing what a particular child needs, because it isn’t in the guidelines; occasions when the timetable runs the people, not the people the timetable. Structures may be good, desirable and necessary … but without deliberate space for judgement, flexibility and human response within these structures, they risk squeezing the life out of the education they seek to nurture and expand.

The key point I was making in my speech last Friday was that the Dewey-inspired educational thinkers and teachers of the early 20th century, from Maria Montessori to Helen Parkhurst, among many others, recognised this danger, way back then, and sought to create models that combined structure and rhythm with a fundamental belief in the human-ness of the child, in order to build schools which kept systems in their rightful place, ie as servants, not drivers. We actually don’t need to start from scratch, with a blank page, in our quest for recalibration in our schools. So much of the work has already been done for us. Start by re-reading Dewey and Dewey’s (1915) ‘Schools of Tomorrow’, and Helen Parkhurst’s (1922) ‘Education on the Dalton Plan’. Then turn your attention to the present, with Mehta and Fine’s (2019) investigation ‘In Search of Deeper Learning’. In each of these places, you will find solid, practical evidence that it is possible – indeed, essential – for schools to challenge their existing systems, in order to create space for genuine student-centred learning, not just the type of learning we sometimes kid ourselves is student-centred …

And remember … you might need to go cold turkey for a time before you can access this thinking really clear-headedly, and with courage. The Betty Ford clinic will have a place for you, I am sure … 🙂

Feb 02

What have conferences ever done for us …?

As I head to the BSME conference in Abu Dhabi this week, having sadly been unable to attend this year’s WISE conference (which I have really enjoyed since its inception in 2024), and also having missed the Middle East School Leadership Conference (which I have really loved too in recent years), I find myself wondering about the purpose of conferences, and how to articulate this really effectively. My wondering is prompted in part by coaching conversations I have had recently with a couple of colleagues about how they might make the most of the conferences that they have ahead of them; in part, however, it is because I just like to wonder and question, and – particularly – to challenge assumptions. Writing is a form of processing; if I can articulate thinking, I can lay it open to scrutiny – mine above all, but hopefully in a way that can stimulate our collective thinking too.

On the surface, conferences are easy to describe: people gather … experts speak … networking happens … coffee and pastries are consumed at a pace that would alarm most health professionals. But the moment you try to pin down the true value of a conference, this is sometimes less clear. A conference can be energising or draining, profound or transactional; I have been to conferences that changed the way I think about the purpose of my life, and I have been to conferences that mainly changed how I think about ways to make hotel seating more comfortable.

So, what IS the point of conferences?

One answer is wonderfully simple: conferences remind us that we are not alone. Leadership can be a curious combination of visibility and isolation; you are surrounded by people, and yet your thinking can become oddly solitary. A conference interrupts that, by reminding us that there are others wrestling with similar dilemmas, and others trying to make sense of the same shifting landscape. That matters more than we sometimes admit, because in actual fact, much of professional life is arguably a performance of competence; conferences, however, at their best, give us permission to be learners and connectors again.

Another answer is that conferences are where – if we are open to this – we go to restore our courage and become re-emboldened in our determination to do what really matters in our life and work. This emboldening might not be dramatic, but it could be. It might be the courage to have the harder conversation back at work, or the courage to try a different approach when the old approach is familiar and safe, or – perhaps hardest of all – the courage to stop doing the thing that is no longer serving. Something happens when you sit in a room with hundreds of people and realise that the question you have been avoiding is being asked out loud … collective attention to a problem has a kind of force which can make certain truths harder to ignore.

And then there is the gift of clarity and perspective. Good conferences do not simply add information to the repository nestling in our brains; they bring a brisk and fresh reordering to it. Good conferences make you step back from the immediacy of emails and operational decisions and look again at the deeper patterns within yourself – not simply the trends and direction of travel in your sector, but also the emerging tensions or uneasinesses you can feel but have not yet named, as well as the opportunities  for you and others that are not obvious when you are close to the ground. That perspective is not actually an optional luxury; rather, it is part of responsible leadership. After all, a leader who never steps away from the day-to-day, risks becoming very efficient at yesterday’s work, but not tomorrow’s …

And yes, conferences are about professional learning; I do think, however, that we sometimes misunderstand what that learning actually is. If you go to a conference hoping to collect ‘strategies’ or ‘answers’ in the way you might collect pens or stress balls from the various exhibitors, you will often come home disappointed. The best learning at conferences, I have come to appreciate over the years, is not a list of tips (although those can be helpful too); rather, it is a sharpening of the process and skill of our own judgement and thought. A good conference can be a kind of intellectual bootcamp – as refreshing as it is exhausting, and certainly an exercise that sets us up for future intellectual fitness. And because mind, body and spirit work together, a really good conference will speak to all three of these dimensions with opportunities to reflect, relax, and regroup.

Conferences can provide any or all of the above … the real question, of course, is not actually what conferences can do for us, but what we can do in response to the opportunities that conferences provide. If we can answer that clearly – personally and honestly and deeply – then the prospect of the conference ahead of us opens up brightly and enticingly. It becomes something we choose, intentionally, in service of the wider work that awaits us afterwards, but that starts even before the conference begins.

So … if a conference awaits you this week, embrace it! Prepare, reflect and engage … and enjoy!!

Onwards and upwards!

Jan 18

When laughter is the best medicine … and when it is not

I remember exactly when I first encountered ‘Laughter Yoga’ – it was in June 2024, at the Hakuba Forum in Japan. I remember very clearly that I was rather sceptical, and more than a little trepidatious … but the introductory exercise we experienced, as part of our journey of self-connection and world impact, was surprisingly exhilarating – and enormous fun! I laughed SUCH a lot!

I enjoy laughing – I really, really do! It is one of my favourite activities, and – now that I think about it, as I write – I might even consider putting it on my CV and/or LinkedIn profile. 2026 has started for me with a whirl of activity, including an inspiring and vigorous 10 day visit to Hong Kong to support Dalton School Hong Kong in my capacity as a Board member, and then a motivational 2 day stopover back in London with the coaching team from Wellington College Education China. In both of these spaces, there was much laughter – real laughter – the best kind of laughter – spontaneous, unguarded, and sometimes bordering on the slightly uncontrollable. It was the kind of laughter that takes you by surprise, catches you in the throat, and then spills out anyway, into a glorious explosion, with ripples that reach far beyond.

It is easy to underestimate the physical impact of laughing, until one does it properly. Deep laughter tightens the stomach muscles, draws breath sharply into the lungs, and sends a warmth through the chest that is almost visceral. It changes posture; shoulders drop, jaws unclench, faces soften. There is a reason why people talk about laughter as medicine, even if the phrase is well-worn: in moments of shared – and often unexpected – humour, something loosens, because tension drains away, if only briefly, and even in highly professional situations, we remember that we are above all human, before we are professional, analytical or strategic.

In Hong Kong, as in London, that laughter was often born of shared experience, where we shared the common absurdities of leadership (which inevitably accompany its successes), as well as the unspoken understanding that some days are simply hard, and that others are unexpectedly joyful. There is a particular power in laughing together in a professional context, because it creates connection and trust. Laughter reminds teams that they are not alone in their thinking, or their fatigue.

Yet, there are days and circumstances when laughter feels out of reach; there are times when laughter feels entirely inappropriate, or even impossible, because we live in a world where the news, more often than not, carries a heavy weight, reminding us of shocking conflict, injustice, environmental anxiety, and human suffering. There are moments when laughter catches in the throat not because of joy, but because it feels discordant with what we are absorbing. To pretend otherwise would be glib, and to insist on cheerfulness in the face of genuine grief or fear can feel hollow.

It is important to name this; laughter is not a moral obligation, nor is it a human right (although it would be amazing if it were). There are times when the right response is stillness, reflection, or sorrow; there are times when humour would be a distraction, rather than a balm.  Emotional honesty really matters, and there is courage in allowing ourselves, and others, to sit with discomfort when that is what the moment demands.

But even in these really, really hard moments, laughter has a quiet persistence. It waits, poised like a cat, ready to pounce. It reappears unexpectedly; in a shared glance, a small irony, a moment of levity that does not erase the seriousness of the world, but coexists with it. It does not fix what is broken, but it can give us just enough lightness to keep going, to keep caring, to keep showing up.

So, as I unpack my suitcase and prepare for a wonderful week online, with some phenomenal coachees, and in some forward-thinking Boards, I am holding on to that memory of laughter in person – the sound of it, the feel of it, and the way it reminded me why human connection matters so much. The world may give us many reasons to feel heavy, but if and when we can, let us try to laugh; not to diminish what is hard, but to strengthen ourselves for facing it.

Onwards and upwards! Have a wonderful week!

Jan 11

Why discomfort matters

Over the weekend, I have been putting the final touches to a talk I am giving at the BSME Annual Conference in early February, and during my reflections, I have found myself thinking more and more about discomfort. This flow of thought is unsurprising – my talk is entitled ‘5 Uncomfortable Truths for School Leaders’, and I am drawing on a range of observations and reflections to prompt school leaders to at least consider facing up to some challenges for the future – and discomfort is at the heart of this process.

Discomfort itself, however, I realise, is also arguably another challenge in its own right; discomfort is something we might have to work hard to face up to, and to embrace. Pause for a moment and reflect on what associations come flooding into your mind when you think of the word ‘comfort’; hold those thoughts and feelings, and then repeat the process with the word ‘discomfort’. If the idea of discomfort is elating, stimulating and uplifting, then you can stop reading now … if not, read on …

To the best of my understanding, discomfort – from a neurological perspective –  is closely associated with how the brain responds to uncertainty, novelty and perceived threat. When we encounter situations that stretch us – cognitively, emotionally or socially – the brain’s threat-detection systems are activated, and these take us into a level of high alert, where we prioritise vigilance and efficiency over ease. This is a deeply ingrained response which is not ‘comfortable’ for us, and yet because the human brain is evolutionarily biased towards conserving energy and maintaining predictability, it is not always very keen on this discomfort, and it reminds us of this.

However – and this is the kick – research in neuroscience and psychology consistently points to the same paradox, namely that learning and development depend on precisely these moments of strain. Physical growth relies on stress and recovery; cognitive growth relies on effort, error and recalibration; emotional growth relies on tolerating ambiguity, frustration and uncertainty. Moderate levels of discomfort stimulate adaptation, strengthening neural connections and increasing capacity over time. When challenge is entirely absent, development slows; when it is overwhelming, systems shut down. Growth occurs in the space between – where discomfort is present, but still manageable.

Seen in this light, discomfort is often an indicator that we are operating at the edge of our current competence, where expansion is possible. The question, therefore, is not whether discomfort should be eliminated, but rather how we should recognise, interpret and work with it – individually and collectively.

One of the most powerful leadership lessons I learned was very early in my career as a school leader, when I was still making the transition into senior leadership – I read a short leadership booklet which listed the top ten mistakes that leaders make. Mistake no. 10, which is imprinted on my mind, was ‘seeking to make staff comfortable’, and when I read that for the first time, I remember very clearly my strong negative response, because I believed then (and still do!) in taking care of all of the people in our organisations, and this statement seemed to fly in the face of my commitment in education to creating healthy ecosystems in schools, where human beings can thrive.

As I read further, though, I came to understand entirely what the ‘mistake’ meant, because – as the author laid bare – one of the worst things we can do in an ever-changing world, and ever-changing school environment, is to keep our people comfortable and stable. When we do, we risk the organisation being less able to serve the (again, ever-changing) needs of its students and parents, and we then put at risk the future of the organisation itself – which in turn risks completely upending the lives of staff. Seeking to make staff comfortable, however well-intended, is actually the unkindest move of all. How many of us have fallen into this trap over the years?

This revelation has shaped my leadership, my coaching and all my activity since; it is out of the deepest kindness, care and love for those around me that I seek to challenge and stretch. Real care, I have absolutely realised, does not lie in smoothing every path or removing every source of tension; rather, it lies in being willing to have difficult conversations, to resist the urge to over-reassure, and to hold steady when others would prefer immediate comfort over longer-term growth. Comfort can feel like kindness in the moment; over time, however, it can actually become a subtle form of neglect. Challenge, when offered with integrity and respect, is not a withdrawal of care but an expression of it, and it is a signal that we truly believe that others are capable of more than their current habits or assumptions might suggest. And when those around us rise, we all rise.

Building discomfort into our lives is therefore incredibly important – both at a personal and organisational level. In leadership and in coaching, this often means creating spaces where uncertainty can be voiced, rawly, where complacency can be gently but firmly disrupted, and where people are invited to stretch – genuinely stretch – beyond what feels safe or familiar. Discomfort, in this sense, becomes purposeful rather than punitive; discomfort, when we embrace it, is actually a fundamental pre-requisite for learning, growth and development for us all, rather than the undesirable threat to our wellbeing that it may at first seem.

And as for what my 5 Uncomfortable Truths are … well, you will just have to wait to find out at the BSME Annual conference! In the meantime, sit with discomfort this week … and see what happens …

Jan 01

Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain: a stimulating read for the start of 2026

I do love reading – and the break between Christmas and New Year provides a wonderful opportunity to indulge, because emails are slow to arrive at this point in the cadence of the annual cycle, and rarely demand instant responses. Amongst the number of books into which I have immersed myself over these past few days, one in particular made me smile with intriguement and interest – Lisa Feldman Barrett’s ‘Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain’. I may be rather slow to the party on this book, as it was published in 2020, but books are books, and thoughts are thoughts, and once exposed to the world, they can be picked up at any moment, and appreciated for what they are. While it is true that the science of the brain is constantly evolving, the ideas in Feldman Barrett’s book resonated strongly with me as commonsense, based on what I have observed over several years in working with leaders, and they therefore (to my mind, at least!) merit sharing and amplifying.

Anyway, what a very readable and stimulating book this was … and if you haven’t yet read it, it won’t take you long, as it is short, sharp and crisp. Its main message is that even the advanced and sophisticated areas of our brain – the sections we think have outgrown our pre-stone age ancestors – are not actually primarily designed for thinking, reasoning or even feeling, but for something far more fundamental and pragmatic: every single part of the brain is actually designed to keep the body alive, by managing its energy resources. This is quite a comforting thought, actually, when you think about it; it is good to have our brain in our corner, for sure. The author describes the brain as a predictive organ, constantly anticipating what the body will need next and adjusting systems accordingly in order to keep us “in budget”. Thoughts, emotions, memories and decisions are not therefore separate ‘modules’ that switch on in response to the world; they are actually the brain’s best guesses, built from past experience, and are specifically designed to help the body prepare for what comes next – all in service of keeping us alive and well.

From this perspective (built, obviously, on thorough neuroscience research, albeit much debated globally), our emotions are not simply reactions to stimuli, but, more accurately, constructions the brain creates to regulate our internal systems efficiently. It is a deceptively simple idea, but one that brings quite an important lens to many of the assumptions we hold as human beings (and leaders) about rationality, emotion and choice … we do know, for example, that we can change our behaviours if we work on them, but we also know that this is hard to do; a logical step forward in Feldman Barrett’s direction of thought might take us to an even more extreme point, where we recognise that if we want to change what we do, we might have to go a lot deeper than just 10,000 hours of practice. Brain-body connection in practice … we have been talking about holistic education for years, and perhaps we should congratulate ourselves on our perceptiveness (even if there is still a long way to go to translate this into genuine practice).  

I loved one chapter in particular – Chapter 5, which explores the way our brains talk to one another, to use the author’s words, “in secret”: a delicious thought … just think about what is going on when you next meet someone or think about them! Feldman Barrett describes how our nervous systems are constantly influencing those around us, below the level of conscious awareness – through facial expressions, tone, posture and micro-movements that shape each other’s bodily budgets. We are, in this sense, biologically interdependent; my calm can help regulate yours, and my anxiety can just as easily deplete your resources. This landed powerfully for me when I reflect on leadership, teams and schools, where we often overestimate the importance of words and underestimate the quiet physiological signals we send all day long. If brains are budgeting organs, then leadership is not simply about direction or decision-making, but about the collective conditions we create for one another to function well.

That is a call to action, if ever I heard one … we definitely aren’t in this alone as leaders, and we might just need to take a few moments (or longer) to consider what this might mean for how we engage all of our teams in ways that actively support one another’s capacity to think, to cope and to flourish. Each of us, it turns out, has a shared responsibility for one another’s wellbeing and effectiveness. And the more clearly we understand this, and the more explicit we can be with those around us about it, the more likely it is that we will be able to harness this knowledge to unite our amazing brains in a concerted effort to keep us all well, thriving, and contributing to the safe future of the world.

So … Happy New Year! May 2026 be fruitful, thoughtful and engaging, and take us all forward, together!

Dec 18

When my brain is too full …

Mid-December is a time when I sometimes feel as though my brain is teetering on the brink of being over-full; while I know that this is biologically unlikely, there are moments when the sheer weight of pre-Christmas actions and decisions can bring the illusion of an organ on the cusp of overflow. To be honest, it is not an unpleasant sensation; I find that my senses are sharpened, and the anticipation of a potential breaking of the dam walls can be surprisingly exhilarating … but then, that is because over the years I have learned to saddle up, steady myself, and be ready for the ride.

I can still get caught off guard, temporarily, just as I did when I was a Head, particularly when I encounter unexpected unboundaried behaviour from others that brings a sharp flash of disappointment. I have learned, however, to recognise that thoughtlessness is often a signal of someone who is off-balance themselves; as a result, I now find it easier to climb back on to my perch more quickly than in the past, grounded in the knowledge that it is my responsibility to respond with empathy and understanding.

What really makes this possible, I have realised over the past decade, is the practice of releasing the pent-up thoughts and ideas in my head, and allowing them to turn into a flood of utter gratitude – gratitude as a powerful, galloping wave that bursts free from mind and heart, spilling into the world around me, soaking into the words on the paper in front of me, and into the cracks of everyday existence. This is gratitude that honours the people and moments of the recent past, stirs energy and excitement for the new calendar year ahead, and yet still luxuriates fully in the present moment.

So – here is a glimpse into my mid-December flood of gratitude … not quite a stream of consciousness, but almost! I am resolutely grateful for …

Early-morning coaching sessions, when the world is hushed, and insights and questions grow organically, with powerful intent.

The deep satisfaction of watching a well-facilitated conversation change its temperature; not dramatically, but just enough to allow creative thinking to breathe again.

The joy of a beautifully phrased sentence in a draft report, where thought, rhythm, and purpose align.

Airports – those liminal spaces where endings and beginnings brush past one another without ceremony.

The steady companionship of colleagues and collaborators who understand the work, without needing it to be explained.

A good cup of Japanese green tea, drunk slowly, when there is nowhere else I am supposed to be.

The privilege of being trusted with other people’s stories, ambitions, anxieties, and half-formed hopes.

Laughter around a table – laughter that has nothing to do with productivity, outcomes, or next steps, but which rather bubbles up into pure joy.

The persistent courage of school leaders trying to do the right thing in a world that rewards speed over thoughtfulness.

A brisk walk in the fresh air that untangles a complicated situation and translates it into pragmatic solutions.

The discipline of writing itself; not as performance, but as a way of finding out what I actually think.

Moments of disagreement – opportunity – that are handled with generosity, and leave everyone a little wiser and connected, rather than diminished.

The humbling reminder, again and again, that leadership is not about having the answers, but about creating the conditions in which better questions can be asked.

Hugs with my children – the kind when you do not want to let go, and don’t have to.

And the fact that my parents are still alive and that I enjoy spending time with them.

The sense, as the year edges towards its close, that my work still matters – and that it is possible to do it with both seriousness and joy.

And so … if you are on your knees in this mid-December, then my best advice is to take a breath, pause for a moment, saddle up, and let the white horses of gratitude loose. And enjoy the ride!

Onwards and upwards!!