I was lying on my Shakti mat the other night when my daughter came into my room wanting to talk. She was upset because she’d been feeling jealous of one of her friends. So, we sat together and talked about it for a while. We spoke about how caring about someone means wanting good things for them too — that jealousy doesn’t have to mean resentment or wanting to take something away from another person.

After the conversation, I kept thinking about jealousy. Because we tend to treat jealousy as something shameful. Something to hide, suppress, or pretend we don’t feel.

But what if jealousy isn’t always a bad thing?

What if, sometimes, it’s simply information? A signal pointing us toward something we might want for ourselves. What if instead of burying it, we became curious about it?

They ran a marathon. Signal: Maybe I’ve been wanting to challenge myself physically too.

They went on an amazing holiday. Signal: Maybe I need to prioritise adventure, rest, or saving toward something meaningful to me.

They got a new job they love. Signal: Maybe I’ve outgrown where I am and it’s time to start working toward something different.

Because perhaps jealousy isn’t always about competition. Sometimes it’s simply awareness. A quiet recognition of something we long for, admire, or hope for ourselves. And maybe when we stop treating jealousy as something ugly, we can start using it more honestly — not to pull other people backwards, but to help propel ourselves forwards.

Perhaps we don’t need to feel ashamed of the feeling.

Perhaps we just need to listen to what it might be trying to tell us.

The other day, I saw a news article about a fire at one of Australia’s oil distilleries. Half-jokingly, I sent a message to a friend saying that, while I’m not a conspiracy theorist, the timing of the fire seemed pretty wild.

He replied saying it was probably more likely that operations had increased rather than anything suspicious — and that what I was noticing was probably Apophenia.

The human tendency to perceive meaningful patterns or connections in unrelated events. A cognitive bias.

I was immediately a bit taken aback. I try very hard not to be biased. And if I’m honest, the comment hit my sense of self more than I expected it to.

These days, bias feels like a dirty word. Something negative. Something harmful. Something we should be above.

So, I found myself sitting with it for a while afterwards. And eventually, I realised something uncomfortable but probably true: I do have biases. Sometimes I read meaning into things that may not be there. Sometimes I project my own thinking or assumptions onto situations or people without fully realising it.

And maybe the issue isn’t whether we have biases at all. Maybe the issue is whether we can see them when they appear.

As uncomfortable as it was in the moment, I’m actually glad he pointed it out.

Because being unaware of our biases is probably far more dangerous than having them in the first place.

The other day, I realised something that surprised me. My daughter had been quietly carrying doubts about her ability in a particular area. She hid it incredibly well. So well, in fact, that I had absolutely no idea it was there.

Until someone made a comment that confirmed those fears.

It wasn’t said particularly well. And, if I’m honest, I don’t think it was intended to land the way it did.

But it did. And she felt the full force of it. All the confidence we had worked to build seemed to collapse almost instantly.

It took me a while to untangle exactly what had happened and what she was really thinking underneath it all. But once I understood, something else happened too.

I was able to remind her of who she actually was. To help her see herself more clearly again. To remind her that she was capable. That she deserved to be where she was. That one comment didn’t suddenly rewrite everything that had come before it.

And the remarkable thing was how quickly things shifted. That same afternoon, she performed like herself again.

It made me think about how powerfully criticism lands when it touches a doubt we already secretly carry.

But maybe the opposite is true too. Maybe belief lands hardest when it comes from someone we trust. Someone who sees us clearly enough to remind us who we are when we temporarily forget.

And maybe that’s why encouragement matters more than we sometimes realise. Not because it flatters people.

But because sometimes a few steady words from the right person can quiet the voice telling someone they’re not enough.

A few weeks ago, I was at a Women’s Leadership event. Our speaker had just finished a fantastic presentation — reflecting on her career, her challenges, and where she is now.

A few questions followed. Then someone near the back put their hand up. She spoke softly and hesitantly, as though she wasn’t entirely sure whether to speak at all. She reflected on the speaker’s comments about everyone having a role to play, about stepping outside comfort zones, and about finding things we are passionate about and pursuing them.

Then she asked a simple question: What if I don’t want to?

There was a pause in the room.

The speaker had spoken about fear — about how we often don’t do things because we are afraid, and how we need to push through that.

But this question felt different.

The woman explained that she understood all of that, but that she simply didn’t want that kind of life.

She didn’t have those aspirations.

She didn’t want to pursue more, or stretch further, or build something bigger.

She just wanted something else.

And I found myself pausing. Not because I didn’t understand her. I did. I completely did.

Because sometimes we do get caught in expectations, or pressure, or the quiet pull of what we think life is supposed to look like. And in doing so, we can forget to ask a much simpler question: What do I actually want?

And sometimes the answer isn’t growth or expansion or more.

Sometimes it is quiet.

Peace.

Certainty.

Stability.

And that can be enough.

The other day, I reached out to a work colleague and apologised. We’d had a minor difference of opinion. Nothing major, but she had seemed clearly exasperated, and I wanted to acknowledge my part in the interaction.

Truthfully, I wasn’t even entirely sure what I had done wrong. The frustration had seemed to sit more heavily on her side than mine.

But I also tend to believe that situations like that are rarely created by one person alone. So, I called her and left a message saying I was sorry for any discomfort I had caused, and that I wanted to make sure things were okay between us.

She didn’t return the call. No problem.

But when I next heard from her, it became clear that she had doubled down.

And what struck me was this: By apologising, it seemed she had taken that to mean I was entirely responsible for what had happened — which therefore meant she carried none of the responsibility herself.

That hadn’t been my intention at all.

What’s interesting is that this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this. There have been several moments in my life where I’ve apologised in an effort to soften a situation or repair a relationship, only to realise later that the apology had shifted the balance of responsibility entirely onto me.

And once that happens, the apology stops functioning as repair. Instead, it becomes leverage.

That’s the part I’m still trying to understand.

Because I don’t actually mind apologising. I’m comfortable acknowledging my part in things, even when it’s uncomfortable.

But I’m beginning to realise there’s a difference between taking responsibility and absorbing all of it.

A friend recently suggested that instead of apologising, I could try thanking people for their patience or understanding instead.

Maybe.

I haven’t fully landed this one yet.

I just know I’m trying to find a way to stay true to myself in conflict without unintentionally making things harder — for me or the other person.