wisdom of woke wombats.

"Wow! That's so cool!"

"Thanks!"

"You make it look so easy."

"And I've never been able to."

"Yeah, I used to be like that."

"Let me show you how."

It's Monday night. Last week. Less wintery, but not quite spring. I'm putting on my Hunter puffer slip-ons. Red, with fluffy insides. From London. That people always comment on.

Yoga just finished. My favourite vinyasa class. Taught by a yogi with enviable strength, formidable flexibility and archetypal man-bun. Who bakes cookies.

I'm upside down.

I started practicing yoga August 2018. Although naturally flexible. Fit. I found it hard. The stillness more than the stamina. The quiet more than the core. The breathing more than the bridges.

But.

It was the crippling comparison to others that contorted me.

Against yogis practicing for decades. And me. On day 13. Until the words of my first MBA lecturer Dr John Dixon, replayed:

"The only comparison you ever need to make is against yourself. No one else."

Hungry to learn. I exchanged curiosity for contrast, admiration for envy, inspiration for irritation. Embracing yoga as a way of life. And patience as the path.

At the end of a class. Half of the students with hands as feet, gracefully flipped upside down. For minutes on end. Like a wisdom of woke wombats.

Gob. Smacked. Awe.

I needed to learn how to do it.

The illusive, Free. Standing. Headstand.

Eight years later, as class closes, I am the solo-headstander. When asked how I do it. Make it look so easy, I give the same answer:

I practiced, daily. Every. Single. Night. For two years.

Before I got it. No longer needing a wall to hold me up. To make me feel safe. Before I trusted myself. To know I'm ok to stand, even on my hands. Even if I fall.

I never stopped practicing. I still do. Today.

Sometimes the fear gets the better of me. I'm convinced 'this time, in front of all of these people. I'm going to topple. Fall. Hurt myself.'

And I have.

It didn't stop me.

It pushed me to keep practicing. To master the move. Forsake the fear.

My leadership journey has been no different.

Spring 2023. I'm live on national radio. Advocating. Talking about stigma related to HIV and LGBTQIA+ communities and the impact on mental health.

Serious stuff. I'm on a roll.

Until.

I lost my train of thought.

My brain froze.

Everything went silent.

Blank.

I choked. Live. On. Air.

A seasoned CEO. An "expert" in the field. As prepared as I was…

It wasn't enough. I still fell.

From the floor, I had a decision to make.

Live in the shame. Or expose it?

Research shows leaders who admit failures publicly are rated 30% more trustworthy and their teams are 5x more likely to take risks and innovate than those who hide mistakes.

I posted a video telling the world I choked on air. That CEOs are human. That struggling is normal. That sometimes choking is the best you can do.

It went viral.

Not the interview. My confession.

People saw themselves in me. And permission in my admission of failure.

Eight years of headstands taught me falling alone, builds strength. One public failure taught me falling together, builds permission.

And connection.

The world doesn't need our perfection. It needs our willingness to be witnessed wobbling.

Especially. When we've fallen.

And upside down.

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