There is something both exhilarating and mildly terrifying about a really big idea. You know the kind. The sort that arrives quietly at first, perhaps in the middle of a meeting or halfway through a walk to class, and before long it has taken up permanent residence in your brain. It grows arms and legs. It begins to sound possible. Then, somewhere between excitement and implementation, you suddenly think: “Oh dear… what if I actually have to pull this off?”
As I currently sit deep in the curation of our next whole-school strategic plan alongside our senior executive and school council, I have found myself reflecting on this very feeling. Strategic planning is one of my favourite spaces to work in. I love the breadth of it all - the dreaming, the possibilities, the challenge of asking not just “what are we?” but “what could we become?” There is a peace I find in imagining something bigger, stronger and more purposeful for a community. I have found strategic thinking lately also has a funny way of reminding me of every ambitious thing I have ever attempted before.
Throughout my career, I have been incredibly fortunate to be entrusted with opportunities to lead significant initiatives. Sometimes I was invited into them. Sometimes I accidentally volunteered myself by saying things like, “You know what we could do…” a phrase that I used to cringe at myself over the second I said it.
These days, I genuinely enjoy large-scale vision curation and the challenge of bringing ideas to life, but in my recent work on our school strategic planning, I was reminded that I was not always this comfortable sitting in the discomfort of ambitious work. In fact, I can vividly remember the first time I was asked to drive a major initiative entirely on my own. I was in only my second year of teaching when I was handed responsibility for creating and leading a compulsory Year 7 music co-curricular program for over 200 boys. At the time, I still didn’t quite know how to get from one side of the school campus to the other efficiently.
The program itself was wonderfully ambitious. It connected directly to curriculum assessment while also functioning as a co-curricular experience. Students participated in orchestral and wind band pathways, progressed through a scaled advancement system, rehearsed both during and outside school hours, and had their achievements formally reported on in academic reports. Add to that semesterly concerts and entrance into external competitions… and I’d created a monster.
Alongside this sat a team of 26 peripatetic instrumental tutors from vastly different professional backgrounds. Many were balancing this role as a second or third job, which meant alignment, communication and consistency became a full-time project in itself.
Then there were the things University never really teaches you. Budget management. Instrument allocation. Repair schedules. Timetabling 200 students into rehearsal spaces that somehow did not physically exist. Learning the mysterious language of “NESA hours” and ensuring every requirement was being met while still preserving the spirit and joy of Co-Curricular music-making.
I remember sitting at my desk some afternoons feeling both utterly invigorated and completely overwhelmed. I was deeply aware of what I did not know, which, at that stage, was quite a lot. There were moments where I genuinely wondered whether my ideas were simply too big. Whether eventually someone would realise I was building the plane while trying to fly it.
And if I am honest, there were failures along the way. Emails forgotten. Systems that did not work. Conversations handled rather imperfectly. Timetables that resembled abstract art more than functioning structures. I learned quickly that having a strong vision is one thing; operationalising that vision is something entirely different.
However, perhaps the greatest lesson was this: big ideas are never brought to life alone. I learned to lean heavily on people who knew more than me. I asked questions constantly. I listened to administrators who understood systems better than I did. I sought wisdom from experienced staff. I learned that leadership is not pretending to know everything; it is having the humility to learn quickly and the courage to keep moving when things wobble… and I assure you they will really wobble!
To younger leaders especially, I would say this: do not let the fear of your own ambitious thinking convince you to shrink your ideas. The internal self-talk matters enormously in those moments. There will always be a voice whispering that you are under qualified, underprepared or perhaps slightly delusional. Sometimes you simply need to acknowledge the fear, laugh gently at it, and continue building anyway.
Because the truth is, many of the best initiatives begin with uncertainty. They begin with someone brave enough to imagine something larger than what currently exists. Not every idea succeeds perfectly the first time. Some fail entirely. Some need rebuilding. Some evolve into something completely different from the original vision. But failure along the road does not invalidate the journey. Often, it is the very thing that refines the work into something sustainable and meaningful.
Looking back now, I smile at that younger version of myself - equal parts enthusiastic and terrified, clutching spreadsheets, ensemble lists and probably an unnecessarily large coffee, and with all that incessant running around, I can assure you, the heels were often thrown off and the old comfy flats entered the picture (I know - God forbid)
What I did not realise then was that those overwhelming seasons were quietly teaching me how to lead change, how to hold complexity, and perhaps most importantly, how to trust that growth often sits just beyond the edge of comfort.
So if your ideas currently scare you a little, that may not be a warning sign. It may actually be the invitation.
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