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!!

Oct 07

Why every educator should visit Hiroshima

I know that travel is a privilege, and that time, cost, family and work responsibilities, and physical and mental challenges can prevent many of us from travelling. But I am just going to put it out there … if you can visit Hiroshima, you should. And if you think this does not apply to you, because I have put the word ‘educator’ in the title, then think again. We are all educators – of ourselves, and of the adults and children around us – through the example we set, the way we conduct ourselves, and the impact we have on the world. So … what follows is for everyone.

As I was already in Japan for the Hakuba Forum last week, I planned a day on Monday this week to visit Hiroshima. As those of you who have visited already will know, it is a clean, modern city, well-planned and well-constructed, with useful underground walkways and a very efficient transport system. In the middle, however, there is an enormous space – a huge, solemn and poignantly beautiful Memorial Park. This was once a thriving business district, until 8.15am on August 6, 1945, when the bomb fell; now, it reminds anyone who visits of the pain and sorrow experienced by the citizens of Hiroshima. It is a space that is irrevocably dedicated to the active pursuit of peace, through generating a determination to ensure that we all commit to this kind of horror never happening again.

The Peace Museum is confronting; it describes in traumatic detail the almost unbearable reality of what happened in Hiroshima. I found it intensely harrowing to read the stories of survivors and victims, told through pictures and objects that belonged to them; the message is conveyed simply and powerfully – these really were just ordinary people, caught up in a sudden, unimaginable event that blew apart their lives. The museum makes it clear without doubt that the victims were not abstract figures in a history book, but people just like you or me: parents at work, children heading to school, young people trying to figure out what the future might bring for them. What I had not realised before visiting was that, on the morning the bomb dropped, thousands of high school students had been mobilised, alongside other citizens, to create firebreaks throughout the city in case of air raids, and so they were busy demolishing certain buildings. This meant that they were therefore out in the open and directly exposed to the blast; of the around 8,000 mobilised students, nearly 7,000 were killed instantly or died soon after from their injuries. As someone who has spent much of their life working with teenagers, this hit particularly hard.

When you stand beside the twisted remains of the former Industrial Promotion Hall (which you will recognise from pictures as the Genbaku Dome or Atomic Bomb Dome), which is only a short distance from the Hypocentre of the explosion, you can feel the eerily thin line between past and present. You look at the warped steel and broken walls of the Dome, and are reminded that this was once an ordinary office building in an ordinary city, around which ordinary families, friends, shopkeepers, teachers, and children lived and worked. Note that the bomb that destroyed it had a yield of about fifteen kilotons of TNT; today, nuclear weapons exist that are thousands of times more powerful; even the reinforced concrete of the Dome would be pulverised if one of today’s bombs was dropped. The scale of destruction now possessed by the human race in its arsenal of weapons is almost incomprehensible – and that makes the message of Hiroshima all the more urgent. We have to find a way to create a lasting human commitment so that this can never happen again.

We have not done particularly well in this quest since the A bomb was detonated over Hiroshima in 1945. While nothing quite meets the instant destruction (and subsequent years of pain and suffering) wrought by the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, countless wars have unleashed seemingly ever more sorrow. With geo-political tensions high, nothing feels more important at this moment in world history than that we forgive the past and move forward together – and that involves facing up to the past, recognising the harm that human beings can do to one another and to the world – and also realising and determining that we can make positive change happen, by starting at the roots of our behaviours, actions, beliefs and feelings.

Each of the thousands of historical micro-steps (many documented, many more probably not) that led to the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945 was an opportunity to stop, rethink, and regroup as a human race; while we see the bombing as inevitable with the hindsight of history, in actual fact, we undoubtedly collectively missed countless opportunities at the time to make change, and we have done so since. The opportunity to commit ourselves to a peaceful coexistence with one another and the planet is not lost, however, I firmly believe, but it will take discipline and persistence, in pursuit of seeking to do what is right for all of us. I am as certain as I can be that this can be achieved only by embracing our diversity and recognising our shared responsibility to one another; and in order to have a fair chance of doing so, we need to focus and re-focus, every day, on this goal and be strongly reminded of what can happens when we don’t. This is where a visit to Hiroshima really, really matters.

On the Saturday before travelling to Hiroshima, I was part of a panel at the Hakuba Forum Festival, alongside Governor Shuichi Abe of Nagano and Dr Kiyohiko Igarashi of Tokyo University, chaired by Tomoko Kumamoto, Founder of Hakuba International School on the theme ‘Restoring Trust in Divided Times’. The conclusion we reached was simple but profound: if we are to restore trust, we must focus on building good people – and commit ourselves to behaving, thinking, and feeling, with the best interests of our fellow human beings in mind. This message, and the message of Hiroshima, is not one of vengeance or anger or retribution for wrongs done in the past; rather, it is a message of simple, constructive peace, which starts with the self. This message reminds us that peace is not built solely on political treaties but on the daily practice of decency, curiosity, humility, and compassion.

For an educator – or indeed for anyone who is in a position to shape the minds or hearts of others – this message deepens our sense of responsibility for the stories we tell and the values we transmit, and it compels us to ask how we model empathy, how we nurture global awareness, and how we help young people see beyond difference. It calls us to teach history honestly and courageously, but above all to teach how to be good humans – and how to help others understand that compassion and forgiveness are choices we must make every day.

There are other places in the world that hold similar weight to Hiroshima, I know – far too many sites of human tragedy and reconciliation, of loss and of learning. We do not have to look far to see this unfolding under our eyes across the world, now, still. Visit some of these places if you can, because they change you. They are places of intense sadness and grief, but they also spur in you a belief that hope and action matter, and that from the ashes of destruction can rise an intense determination to do better, starting with each and every one of us.

So – if you can visit Hiroshima, you should, not simply to witness the past, but to take its lessons into the future – into classrooms, workplaces, communities, and families. Read those stories and feel the weight of the horror. And then translate your sorrow and horror into a renewed and loving imperative to do your bit to make the world a better place – and to teach and guide others to do the same.

It is, after all, up to each of us …

Sep 21

More than a braid: a metaphor for learning

As most readers of my writing will know, I do not normally post pictures of my hair online. I am not a ‘content creator’ (aka ‘influencer’) in the making, although I will confess to a desire to use the platform I have to make a positive difference in the world through challenging and supporting leaders to think ambitiously about their students, education, and the future of the world. My hairstyle, however, is not normally on the agenda, but I am making an exception today, because this photo that you can see is of more than a hairstyle – it is a photo that embodies a metaphor …

Those who know me will recognise immediately that this rather fetching style is not my customary look. The braid came about during a meeting of senior and executive leaders at Dalton School Hong Kong, in early September, as we worked together in person to prepare for an evening with parents to introduce new senior leaders to the community, and to talk about the exciting and powerful steps the school is taking as it moves into High School, honouring the vision of the Founders by developing a strong portfolio-based, dual language education. As we were all discussing how we should communicate ourselves on stage, and played around with various Dalton-themed props, one of our amazing leaders jumped in spontaneously, and redesigned my hair, to demonstrate in practice what could be, if we only thought differently.

I am, admittedly, only just writing about the experience now; life has a habit of crowding in, and as I pause in Doha airport on my way back to Edinburgh from Saudi Arabia, after a super 3 days challenging and supporting the senior leadership team at the British International School Jeddah, I find myself reflecting with energetic delight on the past few weeks. That particular meeting in Hong Kong remains vivid in my memory, not for the detail of the agenda, but for its atmosphere – it was suffused with laughter, with creativity, and with a refreshing sense of spontaneity. We achieved what we needed to, of course; the manner in which we achieved it, however, felt just as important as the outcome itself.

And this is where the braid becomes a metaphor. Education, like my hair that day, should be a process of weaving – delicate but robust strands brought together with patience and attentiveness; a pattern prompted by a need, and then drawing on the expertise of others around us. The outputs of real education form gradually, often unexpectedly, and always, always, with scope for individuality. The final braid, neat and pleasing, is worth having; it is the act of braiding, however – and the ‘why’ that lies behind it – that truly matters. The shifting of strands, the interplay of hands, the moments of amusement and surprise as something takes shape … these are what give the outcome its meaning.

Great schools, at their best, embody this spirit. They are places where process and outcome are not in competition, but in conversation; places where laughter and spontaneity sit comfortably alongside rigour and planning, and where the joy of learning is allowed to coexist with the seriousness of purpose. This is what makes education transformative – not the lovely neat braid itself, but the shared experience of creating it together. It is a genuine honour to be part of this process!

For in the end, education – like a braid – is most beautiful when it remembers that its strength lies in the weaving, not merely in the finished form. Perhaps we should reclassify education as a verb, not a noun … in any case, our task as educators is to look beyond … so, onwards and upwards together!

Aug 18

Do plants ask for help?

On my travels again over the past couple of weeks, I have been struck once more by the astonishing variety of vegetation in our world. Last week in humid Hong Kong, dodging astonishing thunderstorms and black rain, I paused to admire the massive fig trees which cling to walls and slopes, their aerial roots cascading like curtains. This week, in oven-like Dubai, sturdy palms and succulents stand testament to survival in arid heat. Next week I will be back in Scotland, a country which cannot decide whether it is hot, cold or wet … There, the greens therefore are lighter and gentler, and mosses and grasses spread across damp stone walls and into pavement cracks. Different continents, different plants; yet all of them thrive in their own way, in their own place.

View of trees on Hong Kong Island, taken from a window of Dalton School Hong Kong

Looking at this richness, I found myself idly wondering yesterday whether, when buffeted by the elements — especially in an age of increasingly extreme weather — plants are able to ask for help. They cannot uproot themselves and relocate to a more welcoming environment; they must endure where they are planted. But what happens if they are suffering and cannot get what they need? A rabbit hole of research later, I discovered what plant biologists already know: it turns out that plants do have ways of signalling their need.

When under attack, for example, some plants can release invisible chemical messages into the air, warning their neighbours of danger, and prompting them to strengthen their own defences. Beneath the soil, plant roots can link with other plants through fungal networks, sending coded signals and sometimes even receiving nutrients from stronger companions. Electrical pulses can travel across the leaves of some plants to carry a message of distress to other parts of the plant, triggering systemic protection. Some plants even change colour or form when stressed, deterring predators or attracting allies. It may not be communication as we know it, but it is unmistakably a call for support — and more often than not, the call is answered. How amazing is that?

And this, in turn, made me wonder about leaders. Do leaders ask for help enough? Leadership is hard; it requires energy, resilience, and constant attention. Yet so many leaders still see it as weakness to admit need. They push through alone, sometimes to breaking point, with all the damaging consequences for mental health that this entails. Importantly, ‘complaining’ is not the same as ‘asking for help’. As plants demonstrate, asking for help is targeted, intentional, and directed towards the specific support that is appropriate in the circumstances.

If plants can signal for help – and if the world around them is ready to respond, and does – then surely we can learn from this. Asking for help is not weakness, nor is it a last-ditch distress flare that scorches those best placed to assist … asking for help is connection. It draws others into our circle of resilience and ensures that we can continue to thrive where we are planted.

I very much believe that leadership, like nature, is an ecosystem. Leadership flourishes not in isolation, but in interaction – in networks of trust, generosity, and mutual response. Just as no plant survives without the soil, the air, and the unseen web beneath the surface, no leader thrives without acknowledging – and participating in – the interdependence offered by colleagues, systems, and structures. And thus the lesson extends: if even the silent life of plants shows that their need can be expressed and met, then we – agile animals and consummate communicators that we are – can surely ask.

Perhaps the real challenge is simply to trust that the world will answer … and to discover how much stronger we become when it does …

Jul 21

What have plants ever done for us …?

This week I am taking a break from the full-on coaching, speaking and advising of the past few months, which (since April) has seen me working with leaders and Boards in Shanghai, Jersey, Riyadh, Hong Kong and Hangzhou, with stops off at COBIS and IPSEF conferences in London in between; this week, by contrast, I am in Sydney, where I am catching up with a number of school leaders, and laying the foundations for some exciting new leadership team work in the region. And – as anyone who lives in or has visited Sydney will know – I do not have to go far in the city and nearby area to be surrounded by plants.

I love plants. I am not always as assiduous as they deserve in taking care of them at home; despite this, my study often resembles a mini-jungle, and I enjoy breathing in the oxygen that they produce, and watching their shoots emerge or retreat, as the seasons demand. Plants, I often say, are metaphors for the growth that occurs in the coaching process; being surrounded by them, I feel, is as symbolic as it is beautiful. Species of plants may vary from continent to continent, but their purpose and contribution to our world is the same.

So for anyone who ever doubted the power and benefits of plants, here is a short reflection on these quiet, resilient companions of our lives …

Plants hold space in a way that few other living things do; they simply grow, adapt, respond. They are a constant presence that asks for little more than some light, water, and the patience of time. In return, they offer us shade, beauty, nourishment, and a gentle but powerful wordless reminder that growth is always possible – even when unseen, and even when slow. Then, too, there is the ecosystem: plants do not thrive alone. They exist in interdependence with other plants, with fungi and pollinators, and with the air and minerals around them.

In essence, the same is true for leaders and leadership teams. Individual leadership growth is not usually a dramatic overnight transformation, but rather a slow unfurling, a turning of leaves towards the light, a shedding of what no longer serves, a rooting in deeper soil.. Moreover, the healthiest teams I have seen are not always the ones with the most striking blooms, but the ones which have quietly cultivated the conditions in which everyone can grow, with shared nourishment, mutual support, and space to breathe.

So many of the leaders I have worked with this year – across Asia, the Middle East, Europe and Australia – are navigating seasons of change. Some are budding with new opportunities; others are pruning back to essentials. The similarity with the lifecycle of plants is striking.

So as I spend this week navigating the parks of Sydney, admiring the fig trees, and marvelling at the vertical gardens that sprout from the very sides of buildings here, I find myself reflecting with gratitude on the lessons that plants keep teaching me – about hidden energy, resilience, rootedness, and hope.

Plants have long supported human beings – quietly, faithfully, without fanfare. As leaders, we simply need to pause long enough to notice … and learn.

May 17

On babies and governance

Travelling into London on the Elizabeth Line last weekend, on my way to the annual COBIS conference, I was sat opposite a baby, and I can honestly say that this was the best train journey I have taken in a long time; it was so enjoyable! The baby – probably, I would guess, aged 10 months or so – was on her mother’s lap, and as she interacted with the environment around her, she was – very evidently, and in rapid succession – possessed by a host of different emotions, from curiosity to delight, and from astonishment, through perplexity, determination, truculence and wonder, to sheer joy. When she saw a handrail, this baby wanted to chew it; when she spotted the floor, she wanted to stand on it; and when she caught the eye of a fellow passenger, she laughed out loud.

If you have forgotten how infectious a baby’s laugh can be, then take yourself out on public transport until you find a baby, and wait for them to laugh. Alternatively (and probably more practically), do a search on YouTube – I sincerely hope that the internet contains a whole section devoted to laughing babies. When you hear a baby laughing, you must know how impossible it is to stop yourself joining in; no matter the sadnesses in our lives, a baby’s laugh does its very best to assuage these. It is a joyous experience – a sense that in that moment, the universe is aligned, and the joy you experience in the fullness and completeness of the moment is amplified by the potential that lies ahead for that little human being, if they are nurtured well and guided wisely.

This baby on the Elizabeth Line was fortunate to have an attentive mother who gave her enough rein to explore, without actually letting her lick the accumulated germs on the seats around her, or knock herself unconscious on the nearby suitcases. Consequently, this little person was very evidently in the ‘growth zone’ between the freedom to learn and develop, and the safety of the boundaries that would ensure that she could come to no harm. She was neither let loose to roam the carriage, nor constrained in her buggy; her activity was purposeful, productive and in balance.

And it struck me – given that governance was on my mind on that journey to COBIS – that, in a nutshell, this balance between safety and boundary-pushing, is exactly what we want and need from governance. At the conference, I chaired a panel of esteemed governors from COBIS schools across the world, and governance experts, on the topic ‘Governors are Trained, not Born. Discuss’. Our aim was to explore and share experiences of best practice in training and developing Boards in the skills needed to fulfil their responsibilities, and we certainly did that; we also explored how good governance thrives. This is where the analogy with the baby struck me … good governance, like the baby, thrives best when there are clear boundaries, but with room to move within these, and encouragement to explore how to fulfil the challenging demands made of Governors, who have ultimate responsibility over schools, and who must ensure every plate is kept spinning, and every tightrope is walked with resolute confidence.

No-one is ever born a ready-made Governor, and even the most experienced of us must continue to learn, and keep practising the craft, if we are to be the best we can be. A shout-out, therefore, to all Governors; may your journey of learning about governance be as appropriately free and disciplined as that of the baby on Elizabeth Line, and may you – at least sometimes! – experience infectious joy in your work.