I was about twelve minutes into a meeting about one of my daughters when I realised I was no longer listening as a mum. I was listening as a Deputy Principal.
It wasn't intentional. In fact, I'd walked into the meeting determined not to do it. I had every intention of being the calm, collaborative parent who nodded thoughtfully, asked good questions and trusted the professionals sitting around the table. Instead, somewhere between "Thanks for coming in today" and "We've noticed...", my professional brain quietly took over. As the conversation unfolded, it was like watching one of those crime investigation boards where all the bits of string suddenly connect. My brain was mapping interventions, thinking about staffing, considering communication strategies and mentally drafting an action plan before anyone had finished speaking. There was also probably a colour-coded spreadsheet forming somewhere in the background. It was at about that point I had to remind myself of one very important fact: this isn't my school.
I've lost count of how many meetings I've attended over the past couple of years about my daughters. Some have been routine, some more complex, but every single one has presented exactly the same internal tug-of-war. On one shoulder sits Mum, who simply wants to understand what's happening and ensure her girls are happy, supported and learning. On the other sits Deputy Principal, who has spent years solving problems in schools and quietly thinks, I know a way through this. The challenge is that only one of those people was invited to the meeting. And despite what my Deputy Principal brain occasionally believes, it wasn't her.
People often tell me I have an advantage because I understand how schools work. They imagine I have some secret decoder ring that makes parent meetings easier. The truth is almost the opposite. Knowing how schools operate means I understand why things aren't always straightforward. I know about staffing shortages, competing priorities, legislative requirements, finite budgets and the thousand invisible decisions that happen before morning tea. I know there is almost always more to the story than what parents can see, and I have enormous respect for the complexity of the work because I live it every day. But it also means I can usually see what I would do. And that's where the tension lives.
If I'm honest, there have been moments where I've wanted to lean across the table and say, "Have you thought about...?" or, even worse, "At my school we..." Those four words should probably come with a warning label. Nothing says, "I promise I'm here in partnership," quite like accidentally launching into an unsolicited consultancy session. I can almost feel my ex-husband giving me the look from across the room - the one that says, “For the love of all things holy, don't start talking about reviewing policies and procedures”. So far, I've resisted. Mostly.
The reality is that I don't know their school. I know schools. There's a significant difference. Every school has its own culture, relationships, history and constraints. Every leadership team is working with information I don't have and balancing priorities I'll never fully understand from the visitor's chair. The strategy I'd implement in my own context may be entirely inappropriate in theirs. Knowing the context isn't the same as owning the context, and I think that's one of the most humbling lessons leadership keeps trying to teach me.
Leadership trains us to notice gaps. We anticipate obstacles before they appear. We naturally look for better ways of doing things because that's literally what we're paid to do. After enough years, it becomes less of a skill and more of a reflex. The problem is that not every reflex should become an action. One of the greatest disciplines of leadership isn't learning how to speak; it's learning when not to.
That doesn't mean pretending I don't have experience. It doesn't mean sitting silently when genuine advocacy is needed. As a parent, I'll always ask questions, seek clarity and push for what's best for my daughters. That's my responsibility. But advocacy and authority aren't the same thing. One seeks understanding…the other seeks control. I've come to realise that partnership only works when everyone understands the role they're there to play. Mine is to build trust with the people who spend every day teaching and caring for my children, not demonstrate how much I know about education.
The older I get, the more I realise this lesson has very little to do with schools. Most of us eventually find ourselves in rooms where we have more experience than the person leading the conversation. Maybe it's at work. Maybe it's on a committee. Maybe you're mentoring someone earlier in their career. Maybe you're watching someone tackle a problem you've solved a dozen times before and every fibre of your experienced little heart wants to jump in and save the day. Sometimes that's exactly what's needed. But just as often, what people need isn't another expert in the room. They need someone willing to trust them enough to let them lead.
The irony isn't lost on me that the very behaviours I hope parents bring when they're working alongside my own school are exactly the behaviours I have to consciously practise when I'm sitting on the other side of the table. Life has a funny way of making us live the lessons we spend our careers teaching. Humility isn't pretending you don't know something. It's recognising that your knowledge doesn't automatically entitle you to the steering wheel.
As leaders, we spend years learning how to step up. Maybe one of the hardest lessons is learning when to step back so that someone else can learn how to be responsible for leading well in that moment. Staying in your lane isn't about diminishing your expertise; it's about respecting theirs. Even when you're quietly convinced they're about to miss the turn.
And yes, every now and then they probably will.
But unless they're heading straight for the lake, they're still the one holding the steering wheel. My job in that moment isn't to reach across and grab it. It's simply to be Mum, and leave the Deputy Principal in the car.
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