Leading in a World That Won’t Stop Talking
Every morning, before the day really begins, I step outside and plant my bare feet on the earth. I know. It sounds a bit weird. A bit earth-mother-goddess-standing-in-a-field-at-sunrise. I started doing it during Covid, when everything felt too much, when the days blurred into each other, when the weight of homeschooling three kids on top of work made my body long for something steady. Something real.
And then I never stopped. Not because I had some great epiphany about the power of grounding, but because, honestly, it just helps. It reminds me there’s something solid beneath me, even when the world feels chaotic. And, let’s be honest, it’s also a tiny act of rebellion, standing outside in my pyjamas, teeth chattering, while a robin watches me from the fence like I’ve lost my mind. Meanwhile, everyone else is inside, scrolling the news and making coffee like normal people who don’t feel the need to stand barefoot in the frost.
Some mornings, it feels like nothing. Just damp grass, cold air, a moment before the day begins. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, especially when it’s raining and my feet end up covered in slugs. But this morning, something was different. Everything was brown. Heavy, wet, winter-bare. The mud, the mulch, the mess. A landscape of noise, not the loud kind, but the kind that clutters, lingers, overstays its welcome. I looked at it all and thought, I know this feeling.
Because isn’t this what I’ve been struggling with? This pressure to put things out into the world, to add to the conversation, to say something. But also, the fear of adding to the noise. And then I saw them.
A clump of snowdrops.
Yesterday, they weren’t there. But today, there they were. Still, quiet, present. And suddenly, just by being there, they changed the whole picture. Because maybe that’s it. Maybe not everything that’s added to the world is noise. Maybe some things disrupt the noise, soften it, or cut through it just by being different. And maybe that’s what I want to do too.
For so long, I’ve resisted posting on social media because I didn’t want to contribute to the clutter. I feared my voice would just be another notification someone mindlessly scrolls past while half-watching Netflix.
But it’s not just about social media, is it? I see this fear everywhere, in leadership, in creativity, in the way we second-guess ourselves. The fear of being another opinion in an oversaturated space. The fear of speaking up and getting it wrong. The fear of adding, rather than contributing.
But maybe, like the snowdrops, it’s not about how much you say. Maybe it’s about what happens when you say it. Maybe leadership conversations don’t need more advice, more tactics, more urgency. Maybe they need more space, more permission, more quiet power. Maybe the best leaders don’t fight to be the loudest in the room, they become the ones who help others listen.
And perhaps that’s an invitation to all of us. To notice the small moments. The snowdrops in the noise. The things that make you stop, not because they shout the loudest, but because they don’t.
It doesn’t have to be standing outside in the cold, I’m fully aware this isn’t for everyone. - my husband thinks it’s weird! But whatever it is, find the thing that interrupts the autopilot. The thing that lets you pause long enough to see something you might otherwise have missed.
Because maybe leadership, and life, isn’t about more. And nor is it about less. Maybe it’s about stiller, quieter, deeper. And maybe, when we create from that place, we don’t just add to the world, we change it.
