Connie, Our Rock

They call her the dinosaur. Not unkindly, but with that particular mix of affection and exaggeration that only children can manage. The Trekkers have calculated her age to be somewhere around fifty-three billion years old. The joke has stuck, and Connie wears it with good humour.

But if she is the dinosaur, then she is also the bedrock. Connie is our rock, the foundation we build our school on.

“Connie is the glue that holds it all together.”

Connie’s history here goes back to when she herself was a child at this school. That continuity matters. It means she carries the stories of our place, the memory of what came before, and the understanding of how things work in our community. It gives her an authority that has nothing to do with titles.

More than a role

Officially, Connie is a teacher aide. But that phrase has never felt enough. At Tokoiti we call her a para professional. It fits better. It honours the breadth of her knowledge, the depth of her experience, and the way she takes on responsibilities that stretch far beyond the job description.

Too often in schools there’s an unspoken hierarchy: teachers get the Mr or Mrs in front of their names, while support staff are kept on a first-name basis. That divide quietly undermines the work of para professionals. It suggests their role is somehow less. Connie has reminded me again and again that measuring her worth against the path to becoming a teacher diminishes what she already is. She doesn’t want to be a teacher. She doesn’t need to be. She is invaluable exactly where she stands.

“Calling teacher aides future teachers undervalues what they already do.”

Quiet leadership

Connie leads in ways that don’t need fanfare. She supports new staff when we onboard them, both teachers and para professionals, modelling steadiness and clarity. She plays a central part in interviews, her knowledge of the community and the Trekkers is a kind of compass for me. She knows the way I work, and she knows how to see through to the heart of things.

For me, Connie is a sounding board. She is the opinion I value most because she will give it to me straight.

When it mattered most

I learned this in the hardest way. When I was suffering heart problems, more than one heart attack, the staff around me were wonderfully supportive. They made things easier, took things off my plate, carried what needed carrying.

Connie did that too. But she also looked me in the eye and told me what I didn’t want to admit: this was not sustainable. I needed medical help. She didn’t soften it. She didn’t let me hide behind my role. She said what needed saying. And I listened, because I knew she was right.

That’s leadership.

“She didn’t soften it. She didn’t let me hide behind my role. She said what needed saying.”

The heart of Te Noho Tahi

In many ways, Connie embodies Te Noho Tahi. She is steady, present, and quietly ensures that others can thrive. She doesn’t chase attention. She notices. She connects. She grounds us in ways we sometimes don’t even see until we stop to reflect.

Our Trekkers sense it too. They tease her about being ancient, but beneath the humour is affection and respect. They know she is always there, always reliable, always their rock.

A wider challenge

And this is where the challenge begins. In schools, leadership roles are almost always reserved for teachers. But what if the best leader in the room is not the one with the teaching qualification? What if the person who holds it all together, who carries the institutional memory, who grounds the culture, is a para professional?

What would schools look like if leadership was about presence, trust, and steadiness, rather than just position?

This question stretches further than education. In families, in workplaces, in communities — how often do we overlook the quiet leader because their title doesn’t fit the mould? How often do we assume leadership must look a certain way, when the person best suited is already leading from the side?

“What if the best leader in the room is not the one with the title?”

Connie makes me ask that question. She reminds me that leadership is not always loud, not always official, not always tied to the top of an org chart. Sometimes it looks like a dinosaur, estimated to be fifty-three billion years old, who quietly holds a school together.

And maybe that’s the lesson: that the rocks we build on are often the ones we take for granted.