Refilling the Well

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned as a school leader is this: if I want to lead with presence, I have to protect my humanity.

That might sound obvious, but in practice, it’s anything but. In a role that often demands constant visibility, endless responsiveness, and the quiet carrying of everyone else’s emotions, it’s easy to drift into a version of yourself that’s all output, all the time. You don’t even notice it at first. The messages keep coming. The mental tabs keep multiplying. And soon, the boundaries between “me at work” and “me as a human” start to blur.

For me, protecting my humanity means drawing some firm lines around my time outside of school. It means resisting the pressure to stay in work-mode after hours—even if it’s just through a screen. That’s why you won’t find me scrolling professional forums late into the night or lurking in Facebook groups filled with constant chatter about teaching strategies. Not because I’m disinterested. But because I care too much to let myself burn out trying to care around the clock.

Because I care, I unplug. I dream about motorbikes. I plan the next heavy metal concert I want to get to. I send dumb memes to my mates. I let my mind wander in directions that have nothing to do with education. I go looking for joy—not as a reward for getting through the week, but as a vital part of sustaining myself within it.

That’s what refills my well. And when it’s full, I return—not just as a leader, but as a better one. A more grounded one. A more patient, more present, more human one.

Te Noho Tahi reminds me, every day, that this isn’t selfish. It’s essential. It doesn’t ask us to perform wellbeing. It invites us to live it. To practise what we say we value. To model to others—without fanfare or Instagram-worthy bullet journals—that rest, play, and wholeness are not luxuries. They are core components of a sustainable life.

And this message isn’t just for leaders. It’s for anyone working in education, or in any caring profession, who feels the unspoken pressure to always be “on.” The quiet guilt that creeps in when you take a weekend for yourself. The sense that if you’re not constantly learning, refining, posting, improving, you’re falling behind.

Let’s be clear: you are allowed to turn off. You are allowed to breathe. You are allowed to not think about work for an evening—or a whole weekend—and still be deeply committed to your role. In fact, you’ll probably be better at it.

Because the most powerful gift we can offer our schools, our colleagues, and our tamariki isn’t perfection. It’s presence. And presence only comes from wholeness.

So yes, I step away. I lean into the parts of my life that have nothing to do with school. And then I come back—with more to give. Not because I forced it, but because I filled up first.

That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

Thought to end:

What refills your well?