The Courage of a Leader

Some leaders change policies.

Some leaders change structures.

But the ones who really stay with you are the ones who change you.

Karen Blue did that for me.

This post marks the beginning of something I’ve been meaning to write for a long time — a series about the people who shaped my leadership. This one begins with Karen. She was my principal when I started teaching in Mataura. Those who know her will know she’s small in stature but huge in presence.

She didn’t lead by pushing people forward. She led by walking alongside them.

She didn’t talk about greatness. She brought it out in people, quietly, consistently, and without seeking recognition.

“Paperwork can wait. People can’t.”

That was the biggest lesson I ever took from her. The person in front of her was always more important than the pile of admin behind her. If a child was upset, a staff member needed to talk, or someone looked like they were carrying too much, she stopped. She made time. She noticed.

There was no performative care. No scheduled kindness. Just deep, consistent presence.

“She looked after us because she truly wanted to, not because it was her job.”

You saw that in how she finished her day. She didn’t wait at the gate out of duty, she did it because she genuinely wanted to connect. She’d be there at the end of the day, smiling, asking questions, laughing with the kids. Not ticking a box. Just being part of their lives.

“What are you up to tonight?” she’d ask with real interest, and they knew she meant it.

She wanted to know them. She wanted to know how they were feeling.

And one day, that very act of connection led to one of the most memorable leadership moments of my early career.

The Trailer Story

I’d taken my senior students down to the local sawmill, a long-standing tradition where they donated sawdust to refill the school’s long jump pits. That day, we’d done the job and were returning to the second pit to finish spreading it. As I was about to drive the trailer across the field, a few kids asked if they could ride on the back, just across the grass.

It felt harmless. It was within school grounds. It was slow and safe. So I let them hop on and we drove gently across.

What I had forgotten, completely, was that the school assembly was still going. And as it turned out, the entire school watched as I drove a trailer across the field with a group of kids riding on the back.

I didn’t think much of it until Karen called me to her office later that day.

She wasn’t angry. She didn’t raise her voice.

She simply told me that she was disappointed.

And I’ll never forget the weight of that word.

I tried to explain that it had been safe, that the kids had loved it, that it was in good fun. But she quietly reminded me that every student and teacher had seen it. That whether I meant to or not, I had modelled something that wasn’t okay. It wasn’t about the trailer. It was about the example.

“It’s not what you did,” she said. “It’s what others saw you do.”

But here’s the part that stayed with me even more.

Karen hadn’t seen it herself. She didn’t hear about it through gossip or staffroom talk. She heard about it from one of the kids who had been on the trailer.

She had been standing at the gate at the end of the day, like she so often did, talking with the children, asking about their day, listening with genuine care. One of the students excitedly told her about the best day ever.

They got to go to the sawmill.

They helped out.

They got to ride on the back of a trailer.

They felt special.

And that’s how she found out. Through joy. Through connection.

And because she listened, she responded.

That’s what made the growling mean something. It wasn’t a disciplinary moment. It was a moment of care, wrapped in quiet correction. I hadn’t just let her down. I’d let myself down. And it stung because I knew how much she believed in me.

The Note That Still Makes Me Smile

Years later, when Karen applied for a wider community leadership position, she gathered references from colleagues and educational leaders. But she also did something most leaders wouldn’t think to do, she asked the tamariki to write references for her too.

One of them wrote:

“Mrs Blue is the best because she does not grow.”

He meant growl, of course, but the mistake made us laugh as a class, the staff and especially Karen. It was sweet and slightly poetic, because it was also true. Karen didn’t growl. Not at the kids. Not at the staff. She didn’t need to.

Her leadership didn’t come from volume. It came from presence.

From consistency.

From the quiet authority of someone who saw you, and helped you become better simply because you didn’t want to let her down.

The Tree She Planted

Karen is in the roots of my leadership. So much of what I do now, the way I show up for others, the way I lead with presence, the way I protect people over tasks, comes from seeds she planted.

“When I think of the Te Noho Tahi tree, Karen’s name is carved into the roots.”

She modelled advocacy. She stood with her staff. She believed in us more than we believed in ourselves.

I used to say I’d work wherever Karen was. That I’d stay as long as she stayed. But true to her way of leading, she encouraged me to grow, to develop my skills, and to move on when the time was right. When I stepped into my first principalship, she was the first professional I told. Her belief in me drowned out every shred of doubt I had.

And even now, when I feel unsure, I find myself asking:

What would Karen do here?

How would she make people feel safe?

What would she protect?

The answer is always the same.

People first.

Presence matters.

Paperwork can wait.

Try this

When you’re caught in the noise of school life, or you feel pulled in every direction at once, stop. Think about what really needs your attention. Ask yourself:

“What would Karen protect?”

And then protect that.