I loved The Odyssey - like properly loved it, the kind of watching where you forget to check your phone. (Also, where you don't realise three hours have passed until you try to stand up and everything aches.) Sidebar: you have to see it at the IMAX - it feels like short-changing the experience otherwise. Getting back to my point: One of the characters was a lesson in distraction. He kept choosing to avoid the reality of the situation waiting for him. And I know that route. I'

The first time I ventured out on my own in public after my partner died, I made myself go back to a mall we used to spend hours in together (in hindsight, not the gentlest choice). It felt like almost every shop had a memory attached to it, which meant I spent most of the walk from the car renegotiating with myself about whether this was a good idea. It was not, for the record, a good idea. I went anyway, because I needed to reclaim my world and my space. I was wearing glasse

My old boss used to call me her FUF. It stood for something a lot less polite than "fixer," but that's essentially what it meant: the person who got called in when something had gone wrong and needed sorting, fast. I decided it was basically a promotion. (Sidebar: in case of any doubt, yes, it means f-up fixer). I used to wear it like a badge of honour. Being the one who could be trusted to sort out any mess felt like proof of my value, not just to her, but to myself. The mor

There was a period in my career when I could write a blistering email in under three minutes. Genuinely impressive turnaround time, if regrettable content. Basic instinct, in the most literal sense: no thought, no edit, straight to broadcast. Something would land in my inbox with a tone I didn't like, an expectation I felt wasn't being met, a comment that read as dismissive, and my fingers would already be moving before I'd decided anything. I'd type fast, hit send, and feel

This past weekend, I sat down to play We're Not Really Strangers - a card game built entirely around questions designed to take you past small talk. The experience was a reminder of how rarely, as adults, we're given structured permission to be honest. One card asked: What lesson took you the longest to unlearn? And I had to answer out loud. Not write it down, not think it privately and move on - say it, to another person, in real time. It was one of those moments, the kind y

This past weekend, I caught myself making a decision based on a future that didn't exist yet. My instinct was to step away. Nothing bad had actually happened. There was just a chance that it might. So my first instinct was to exit stage right. Gracefully, of course. But it was still running away. Looking back, it makes perfect sense. My time in consulting taught me to look around corners, anticipate risks and think several steps ahead. Those skills served me well in boardroom

Three years ago this week, I left Accenture. At the time, I thought leaving would be the hardest part. It wasn't. The decision itself had taken years to reach. By the time I handed in my resignation, I knew it was the right thing to do. I had thought through the financial implications, the practicalities, and what needed to happen next. What I couldn't plan for was everything that came after. I left because I wanted more freedom, better health and a career more aligned to pur

Clarity isn’t always the problem. At least, not in the way we think. Those who know me well know not to give me directions. Not landmarks. Not “turn left at the big tree” or “it’s just past that petrol station.” I’ve told people this. They don’t listen. If anything, they double down. They add more detail. More landmarks. More explanation. At some point, my eyes glaze over. I’m nodding, but I’ve already decided I’m putting it into Waze or Google Maps. They think they’re being

Zanzibar: 2006 I didn’t always struggle to step back. I stepped back easily when I trusted the person. I remember the first time I went on holiday with work friends. We were traveling to Zanzibar and I flew from Cape Town to meet them in Joburg. To this day, one of them still tells the story. She couldn’t believe I was the same person she worked with. I arrived with no idea what time the international flight was leaving. No details of where we were staying. No plan. I didn’t

Path Forward - Spier Light Art. There was a point in my career where I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to step back. I was leading a project in Europe. I was exhausted. And I knew I couldn’t keep operating at that level. But I didn’t let go. I didn’t want to be seen differently. At the time, the story in my head was simple: If I let go, I’d be seen as weak. As someone who couldn’t handle it. As someone who didn’t finish what they started. So I stayed for longer th

The more capable you are, the more you’re given. At first, it feels like recognition. You’re trusted with the complex work. The high-stakes projects. The things not everyone can handle. I remember when that started happening for me. I felt proud. It felt like I had made it. I had built a reputation. Someone who could get things done. Even when it was messy. Even when it was hard. And for a while, that worked. But over time, something shifts. What starts as recognition becomes

A familiar pattern from earlier in my career. I remember preparing for client meetings many times in my career. Before the meeting, I had to take my boss or colleagues through the deck. I must have reworked it five or six times. Tweaking the wording. Changing the visuals. Adjusting the tone. Trying to anticipate exactly what the feedback would be. Trying to get it perfect . We got into the session. They looked at it. And then asked me to change things anyway. The feedback was

Looking back, my warning signs were there long before I treated them as warning signs. Frustration. Reduced patience. Anxiety. Insomnia. Perfectionism. At the time, I didn't really clock that something was wrong. It had been building for so long that it just felt normal. When you don't know what you don't know, and you're not expecting much different for yourself, you keep going. Everyone else is. That's part of what makes early warning signs so easy for high performers to ig

Every year around this time, my nervous system used to rebel. Palpitations, stomach aches, nausea, out-of-control emotion. The kind of panic that started building in February, arrived with a bang in March and refused to leave until sometime in April. When I lost track of dates, I’d find myself wondering what was going on because I just didn’t feel like me. Then I’d realise what time of year it was and know exactly what was happening. I just had no control over it. March 11 is

Ahead of a keynote on sustainable ambition at a global leadership conference Resilience is one of the most praised qualities in leadership. We celebrate the people who keep going. The ones who absorb pressure. The ones who hold the room steady when things get difficult. Earlier this week I spoke at a global leadership conference, where I chose to explore the idea of sustainable ambition and the structural design required to carry it. While preparing for that talk, one thought

But many high-performing leaders build their identity around it. You’re reliable. You can handle pressure. You step in when things get messy. You’re the one who just gets on with it. On paper, it looks like strength. Underneath, it often feels like something else. A tightness in your chest before meetings. Snapping at home over something small. A sense that you’re carrying more than your role requires, but not knowing how to put it down. You wouldn’t call it burnout. You’re

I’ve always been ambitious. Driven. Competitive. Wanting to be the best. (The word smart*ss has been used a few times, along with some other choice descriptions). For a long time, I thought ambition was the problem. It wasn’t. Misaligned ambition was. There’s a difference. In my last few years in corporate, I was chasing titles as proof of worth. Each level felt like validation. If I didn’t get the next one, it meant I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t smart enough. I was somehow l

There was a point where I realised I didn’t like the person I was becoming. Not because I was failing and not because I wasn’t performing. But because physically, emotionally, and in my relationships, something was shifting in a direction I didn’t recognise. I was more impatient. More exhausted. Less joyful. I told myself it was the price of ambition. Until I couldn’t anymore. For a long time, I was trying to be the perfect corporate operator. Hit every KPI. Deliver with no n

When habits get mistaken for personality Many high-performing women describe themselves in similar ways. Driven. Reliable. High standards. The one who gets things done. The one people trust. These traits are often treated as personality, as “just how you are”. But more often, they’re habits. Learned early, reinforced often and rewarded consistently. And they made sense. Why these habits made sense At some point, being prepared kept you safe. Anticipating needs earned approval

Everything looked fine During our Wednesday walk, I took a photo of Logan (aka fur-child) on the promenade. He was in the sun. Calm. Completely himself. If you looked at that image alone, you’d assume all was well. On Friday, he had a seizure. On Saturday, the vet told me he had cancer and multiple organ failure, and that there was nothing curative they could do. Only palliative care. I fell apart. As an aside: I was also, unexpectedly, reminded of the kindness of strangers.