Inner Clarity, Outer Connection

Growing up in a working-class family shaped every part of who I am today. For my family, being working class in the '70s and '80s wasn’t just about hard graft; it was a way of life, grounded in pride and resilience. We believed in leaving things better than we found them—in showing up each day and doing right by others. It wasn’t solely about making ends meet; it was about living with dignity and respect.

I attended one of Scotland’s top schools, though this wasn’t by design—our house happened to fall within its catchment area. Most of my classmates came from homes where university was assumed, where conversations at dinner involved gap years and career plans. Meanwhile, in my house, university wasn’t even a topic. No one in my family had ever gone. I spent years feeling as though I was living between two worlds, carefully monitoring how I spoke, what I said, and constantly fearing I’d give myself away—that I didn’t quite belong.

The subjects that seemed natural to my peers—Maths, Science—felt like Everest to me. Yet give me a History text or an English essay, and I’d come alive. When I eventually decided university was my goal, I knew it would be no easy feat. I got a tutor (paid for through part-time work), attended evening classes, and retook my Maths Standard Grade qualification. I was determined.

Gaining entry to university was just the beginning. Teacher training followed, but I quickly realised I wanted more than a classroom in Scotland. I wanted to understand education from varied perspectives, to see how learning was shaped across different cultures. This ambition led me to Malaysia, my first step into international education.

The next decade took me from Malaysia to Germany, Singapore to the Middle East. Each new setting taught me something invaluable about teaching, about people, and about myself. In Malaysia, I learned patience in the face of language barriers. Germany showed me the importance of precision and structure. In Singapore, I saw the transformative power of high expectations, while the Middle East taught me the art of balancing tradition with innovation.

Working my way up to Principal of a large international school wasn’t merely career progression; it was about creating spaces where every student, regardless of background, could thrive. We ran multiple curricula simultaneously—A Levels for some, BTEC for others, and IB for those seeking different challenges. Each day brought fresh challenges, from managing a diverse staff to supporting students on their own educational journeys and guiding parents through various pathways.

Yet, amid all this, something kept nudging at me. During my National Professional Qualification for Headship (NPQH) programme, I encountered coaching for the first time. I went in sceptical—wasn’t this just another educational fad? But when I sat down with my coach, with no agenda or judgement, I found a space to think, reflect, and explore. Each session left me feeling lighter, clearer, more focused. It was unlike any professional development I’d ever experienced.

That’s when it clicked. Every step in my journey—from that uncertain schoolgirl in Aberdeen to the Principal guiding others on their paths—had prepared me for this. I began researching coaching programmes, looking for one that matched my values of integrity and authenticity. The training was intense—early morning sessions to accommodate time zones, practice coachees, deep personal reflection—but it felt right.

Today, I’m focussed on building a coaching practice that draws on all I’ve learned. The goal is to work with educators facing career crossroads, leaders navigating cultural challenges, and schools looking to embed coaching within their culture. When I think back to that girl in Aberdeen, cautiously choosing her words at school and in unfamiliar settings, I wish I could tell her that the feeling of being caught between worlds would become her greatest strength.

This is the heart of my coaching practice: creating spaces where people feel heard and understood, where they can face their challenges with honesty, and where they can find their own way forward. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is to listen, to believe in someone’s potential, even when they’re still learning to believe in themselves.