I first had the idea for the Women’s Leadership Network after attending a program in Melbourne in 2017.

I came back feeling inspired—but also unsettled. Almost every woman I spoke to had similar stories: self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and questioning whether they were enough. At the time, I remember describing myself as “vanilla”. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

In one workshop, we were asked to create a hat that represented who we were. I made a plain white cone. Simple, neutral. Later I realised it echoed something harsher than I understood at the time—what I now know were “dunce caps”, once used to shame people.

That stayed with me.

When I returned to Darwin, I wrote a brief proposing a Women’s Leadership Network. And then I didn’t send it. For weeks, I sat with it. Telling myself I was refining it, but really I was hesitating. I was worried it wasn’t good enough, or that it would be questioned.

Eventually, I sent it anyway. And immediately regretted it. That is, until I received an email back from Maria, my Deputy CEO at the time, saying she thought it was a great idea.

That moment changed something for me—not because it removed the fear, but because it showed me I could act despite it.

Since its start, the Network has grown into monthly events and mentoring programs, now also extending online to reach women in regional and remote areas.

But what has stayed with me most isn’t the scale of it. It’s the number of women who speak about things like doubt and uncertainty, even while doing remarkable work.

And almost none of them describe themselves as courageous. They usually say it was “nothing” or “just what needed to be done”.

But I don’t think that’s true.

Because what I see is people moving forward while still unsure. Still uncomfortable. Still questioning.

Not in big moments, but small ones.

And I think that’s what courage actually is.

Not certainty.

Just action, before you feel ready.

For most of my life, I’ve struggled to say no. It’s mostly come down to not wanting to let people down. Not wanting to disappoint, or create discomfort for someone else.

So, I’ve said yes to a lot of things I probably wouldn’t have chosen if I’d paused long enough to realise I had a choice — which, of course, I did.

And once I say yes, I tend to commit fully. Even when it’s not something I particularly want to do.

A while ago, I was talking with a friend about a similar pattern we both recognised in ourselves. We were in one of those phases where nothing felt particularly compelling — work, relationships, even simple social plans all felt a bit “neutral.”

Nothing was a strong yes.

And somewhere in that conversation, we came up with something simple. Unless it was a “hell yes”, it would be a no. If the immediate response wasn’t a clear yes, then the answer would default to no.

At first, it sounded almost too simple to matter. But I’ve found myself returning to it again and again.

Because it turns out to be a surprisingly clear filter for almost everything — invitations, opportunities, plans, even ideas.

If I’m not genuinely energised by it, I now find myself politely declining. No overthinking. No justification spiral. Just a quiet no.

And it made me think about how much of our time gets filled with things that are only half-yeses. Obligations we didn’t fully choose. Commitments we didn’t fully question. Opportunities we didn’t fully want.

And what might change if we gave more space to the things that genuinely lit something up in us.

Not in a constant pursuit of excitement — but in a way that protects energy for the things we actually want to show up fully for.

My daughter is a swimmer. Lately, she hasn’t been enjoying it as much. Not in a dramatic way — she’s still happy to go, still committed — but it feels more like a chore than something she’s loving.

I suggested she might consider dropping down a group, just to take some of the pressure off.

Her response was immediate: no.

The thing is her decision wasn’t really about the swimming. It was about what it would mean. What people would think. What they would say. How it would look if she moved down. What it would signal about her status in the club.

We sat with it for a while. And I tried to reassure her that it really didn’t matter. But of course, to her, it did.

And it made me think about how often that same internal conversation shows up in other parts of life. How many of us stay in things we’re no longer enjoying because of what it represents, rather than how it feels. Our standing. Our reputation. The story it tells about us. How we’ll explain it if someone asks. Whether we’ll still be included.

Still be seen the same way.

Still belong in the same “group” we’ve mentally placed ourselves in.

And I found myself wondering how often we pause long enough to ask a much simpler question: Am I actually enjoying this?

Not is it impressive. Not is it expected. Not what it says about me. But does it still feel right to be doing it.

And how different things might feel if we gave ourselves permission to choose based on that instead.

I was having an awful day. You know those days where you want to put your head down and avoid the world a little? The kind of day where work becomes a refuge because concentrating on tasks feels easier than thinking about everything else going on around you.

So that’s what I did. I buried myself in work and focused on developing a presentation I’d been avoiding for weeks. It was the perfect task for that kind of day — absorbing enough to quiet my mind for a while.

When I finished, I sent it to a colleague whose opinion I value enormously. He’s one of those people who is known not just for his capability, but for his kindness.

I didn’t think much more about it until a reply arrived a few hours later. His feedback was warm, enthusiastic, and genuinely considered. He pointed out specific slides he liked. Reflected on how the content could work well in the workshop. Encouraged the direction I was taking.

The thing is, he had no idea I was having one of those days. He wasn’t trying to rescue me. He was simply being the kind of person he always is. Kind. Thoughtful. Generous with encouragement.

But it changed my day more than he probably realised.

And it made me think about how little we often know about what’s happening at the other end of an email, a conversation, or an interaction. We rarely know who is quietly struggling, overwhelmed, doubting themselves, or simply trying to hold things together.

And yet it takes so little extra effort to respond with warmth, encouragement, or care.

Sometimes a few thoughtful words can shift the weight someone is carrying without us ever even knowing we’ve done it.

And maybe that’s reason enough to choose kindness whenever we can.

Some people don’t like me. And when I say they don’t like me, I don’t mean mild disagreement or personality differences. I mean there have been times in my life where people have actively tried to damage my reputation, undermine my work, spread gossip about me, block opportunities, or push me out of organisations altogether.

For a long time, I struggled to understand it. People would tell me not to worry about it. To let it go. To remember that it was more about them than me. And while I understand the sentiment behind those comments, I’ve never found them entirely comforting.

Because at some point, when you find yourself in multiple situations like that, it’s hard not to wonder whether you’re part of the problem too. After all, I’m the common denominator.

But over time, I’ve noticed something else. Almost every single one of those situations eventually led me somewhere better. A better role. A stronger opportunity. More independence. Deeper relationships. Even my own business.

And the interesting thing is that there were many moments where I could have fought harder. I could have retaliated. Made complaints. Appealed decisions. Forced confrontations.

But instinctively, I usually chose not to. Not because it didn’t hurt. It did. But because deep down, I think I understood that dragging myself into prolonged conflict would probably cost me more than simply letting go and moving forward.

And maybe that’s the thing I’ve learned.

Not every attack deserves a counterattack. Not every misunderstanding needs to be corrected. Not every person who dislikes us needs to be convinced otherwise.

Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is continue building a life that feels peaceful, meaningful, and aligned — without getting trapped trying to win battles that were never really going to bring us peace anyway.

Maybe letting go isn’t weakness at all.

Maybe sometimes it’s trust that life will unfold more honestly if we stop forcing ourselves to stay where we’re no longer wanted.