If you’ve ever hiked the Great Ocean Walk in Victoria, you’ll know it’s an experience of breathtaking beauty, physical challenge, and unexpected moments of sheer joy. It’s also an apt analogy for my first six years as Principal at Henbury School—an incredible journey of resilience, reflection, and reward.
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Much like the ups and downs of that coastal trail, my time at Henbury has been marked by steep climbs, unexpected detours, and moments of quiet awe.
Henbury is a specialist school catering for young people from Year 7 to 12 in the northern suburbs of Darwin. One of only five standalone special schools in the Northern Territory, we are guided by our motto: ‘Preparing for Future Lifestyles.’ At the heart of everything we do is the aim to support our students in achieving individual autonomy and enabling their full participation in the economic, civic, and social life of the community.
Taking all of Term 1 this year as long service leave wasn’t a decision I made lightly. But continuing to push through was affecting my health, and I knew I wasn’t always showing up as the best leader I could be. The principal role never truly stops. I constantly argued with myself—justifying that it was better to turn up and keep going, even at the expense of who I was for my family. I found myself withdrawing from some friendships too, convinced I had nothing left to give—rather than taking the time I truly needed to reboot and return as both a successful leader and a present wife and mother. I felt a lot of guilt about the pressure my absence placed on the team. But over the last six years, there never seemed to be a “right” time.
Walking for six days along the rugged southern coast gave me the kind of clarity I hadn’t realised I’d been craving. With no emails, no meetings, and no Outlook calendar marking the hours, I finally had the space to slow down and think—not just about school, but about life.
Each day on the trail offered its own lesson. Some tracks were smooth and shaded; others, steep and exposed. There were moments I felt strong and capable, and others where I questioned whether I could keep going. It was, in many ways, a mirror of my leadership journey—demanding, humbling, and unexpectedly beautiful.
I thought a lot about the students and staff at Henbury—about what we’ve built together and what still lies ahead. I reflected on the importance of leading with presence, not just persistence. And most of all, I realised that stepping away doesn’t mean stepping back. In fact, it was only by taking that step away that I could see the bigger picture more clearly.
The Great Ocean Walk stretches just over 110km, beginning in Apollo Bay and winding westward to the Twelve Apostles. It’s typically completed over seven or eight days, but my sister and I only had six that aligned in our calendars. In true Principal fashion—full of optimism and problem-solving—I meticulously planned every kilometre to ensure we could finish in time.
Using both our cars, we devised a system to ferry ourselves to the starting points each day. I decided it made most sense to complete the final day of the walk first—starting from Wreck Beach car park and hiking west toward the Twelve Apostles, effectively walking the track in reverse.
Over the first two days, we covered just under 50km. The start of the hike is full of anticipation—your pack meticulously prepared, boots barely broken in. Similarly, when I began my principalship, I arrived with a clear vision, a head full of strategies, and a heart brimming with hope.
But no amount of preparation can truly ready you for the weight of leadership: decisions that shape young lives, the responsibility to staff, students, and families, the emotional toll of holding it all together.
Day 1 was a shock to the system—our bodies still catching up with what our minds had committed to. But we were fresh enough to recover well, soaking our legs in the cold waters of Port Campbell beach before setting out again the next day.
On reflection, Day 2 was massive. There’s that moment when you realise just how tough things are, and if someone had told you what lay ahead, you’d have said, “No way I can do that.” Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. It was nine hours of steep climbs and harrowing descents, where you had no choice but to adopt the ‘head down, bum up’ approach just to survive.
That brutal stretch mirrored my second year as Principal—2020 to 2021—the height of the pandemic. For a specialist setting like Henbury, the anxiety was amplified. Many of our students live with complex health needs, and COVID-19 brought with it not only fear and disruption, but a profound sense of uncertainty.
Then came the unexpected loss of a beloved student, compounded by a rise in challenges around student emotional regulation. On top of it all, I faced my first School Review at the helm, and a constant inner voice telling me I wasn’t good enough. I felt the weight of needing to protect my staff from any negative feedback, especially knowing they, too, were carrying heavy personal burdens.
In those moments, I believed I had to carry it all myself. But just like the increased weight of our packs on the trail, I came to realise that carrying everything alone isn’t sustainable.
By Day 3, the adrenaline had worn off. The aches had settled in. A sense of fear crept in too—what was waiting around the next corner? Were we going to face another brutal Day 2? We didn’t have long to wonder, as fresh challenges found us: one of our cars refused to start, leading to an impromptu mechanical adventure in Apollo Bay.
In hindsight, the distraction was a good reset. We topped up on tape for my knees, savoured a café coffee, and took the opportunity to slow down and reset our mindset. The terrain on the track changed too, and long beach walks fired up a different set of muscles. We were learning to pace ourselves, to listen to our bodies, and to adjust our expectations.
Year 3 in the principal role felt much the same.
At the time, I didn’t recognise I was burnt, but I knew I needed help. I started seeing a psychologist every other Saturday for nine months, confronting limiting beliefs and reconnecting emotion with thought. I also started walking each day again—something I had neglected in the mistaken belief that I didn’t have time.
The crises didn’t stop. But I began to realise that leadership wasn’t about carrying everything myself; it was about building a team to walk beside me. I learned to delegate. I leaned into others’ strengths. I stopped trying to prove myself by doing it all.
We adjusted our pace to avoid burnout—on the trail, and at Henbury.
Day 4 brought a surprising gift: momentum.
Our bodies adjusted. Our packs felt lighter. I remember standing at the Aire River lookout, soaking in the beauty, sharing trail mix and Nurofen with my sister, laughing, and realising we had found our rhythm. We weren’t afraid to let each other know when we needed help to get through the day.
Year 4 at Henbury mirrored that sensation.
Our systems were stronger. Our team was cohesive. Trust was deeply rooted. We refined our whole-school literacy and numeracy programmes, strengthened student voice through the NT Learning Commission, re-launched our major fundraising event—the Henbury Corporate Luncheon—relocated our café and op shop closer to school, and expanded vocational pathways for students.
I realised that things didn’t need to run through me to run well. Leadership wasn’t about control; it was about connection and trust.
I also carved out space to reflect beyond the immediate. Connections with the NT Principal’s Association, Casuarina Education Precinct leaders, and ASEPA gave me the support and perspective I needed.
Letting go of control and embracing vulnerability didn’t diminish me—it shaped me into a stronger leader.
By Day 5, the fatigue was harder to ignore. The magic was still there, but my ability to stay fully present had dulled.
Year 5 as Principal felt the same.
Henbury was thriving. Our work training facility, Henbury Precinct, was thriving too, with the whole community rallying behind our students. This support helped more of them secure meaningful employment after school. We launched our Mini Woolies program, saw dramatic improvements in student literacy, celebrated nearly a 100 percent NTCET graduation rate, and continued to strengthen our community partnerships.
I was even honoured with a 2024 Commonwealth Bank Teaching Award. Yet, as I sat between the Hon. Jason Clare and David Gonski at the ceremony in Parliament House, Canberra, I felt numb—like a robot going through the motions.
I was wearing down.
There’s a certain kind of exhaustion that can’t be fixed with a weekend. I kept pushing it aside, telling myself I’d rest later. But in leadership, “later” rarely comes. By the end of that fifth year, Long Service Leave wasn’t a luxury—it was a necessity.
On Day 6—the final stretch—we weren’t racing anymore. Every ache had a story. Every step, a sense of accomplishment.
Year 6 felt the same. The urgency of the early days had given way to something steadier, more grounded. I felt immense pride in the community we had built—the leadership capacity, the culture of dignity and high expectations.
But I also knew it was time.
Taking Long Service Leave wasn’t an escape—it was a decision rooted in strength, not weakness. I wasn’t walking away; I was stepping aside so I could return with clearer eyes and a fuller heart.
Sometimes, to really see how far you’ve come, you have to stop walking.
Stepping away gave me something I hadn’t realised I’d lost: stillness. In that stillness, I found not just rest, but perspective.
I remembered why I chose this work: the joy of seeing potential unlocked, the privilege of walking alongside young people, and the pride in leading a team that believes in every student’s right to a full and meaningful life.
The Great Ocean Walk didn’t just test my endurance—it restored my clarity.
I return to Henbury not with a new strategy or a big announcement, but with a deeper understanding of myself, my limits, and my purpose.
There were moments of doubt—questions about maintaining my rejuvenated self. So, I spent a Saturday morning at our Café before returning to school. Watching our students work away gave me all the signs I needed.
When I stepped into Term 2, I was in awe.
Students entered with their individual quirks and magic, and staff connected instinctively to create a safe, inclusive learning space. Like a beehive, intricate and alive.
There are always more kilometres ahead. More challenges, more moments of joy, more steep climbs. But for now, I’m exactly where I need to be—on the path, boots laced, heart open.
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