The Kind of Leadership You Don’t See
Back in 2018, I was living in Wellington with my little pēpi on my hip, visiting my parents in Foxton. We were walking around the block—me and Dad—and we passed this house.
Something about it tugged at me. It wasn’t fancy, but I could see it. A garden, little gumboots on the step, the sound of whānau filling the walls. I knew in my gut: this is where I’m meant to raise my babies.
On paper, it didn’t make sense.
My business was rooted in Wellington. My friends, my work, our rhythm—everything was there. But when the gut speaks, I’ve learned to listen.
So we packed up, and came home.
Morning walks on our new street in Te Awahou Foxton with my eldest daughter
I thought I’d have two babies, maybe start a garden, meet friends at the library.
By the time the world shut down in 2020, I had two under two, a half-finished house, and a full heart—because we were building a life here. A slow, rich, community-filled life.
And then my little sister died.
Forever 29. A solo mama. One morning, she just didn’t wake up.
She left behind a little boy—three years old, all cheek and spark and softness. Her baby. And suddenly, the world wasn’t just cracked open—it was upside down.
When you’re a mum, and you lose your sister at the height of your collective motherhood journeys—grief doesn’t come in tidy waves. It’s loud and relentless. It shows up in the way your baby plays the same games you did together as kids. It echoes in lullabies. It steals your breath in the school pick-up line.
My younger sister was my built in bestie — forever 29.
I made a decision, not because it was easy—but because it was right.
I expanded my heart, home, and life to this little boy.
I became a mother all over again—while still grieving, still feeding babies, still running a business to keep a roof over our heads.
I was already juggling a lot— but I knew that I needed to step up and lead for my whānau.
Overnight I became a Māmā to three babies, three and under.
And when people ask me what leadership looks like—this is the story I think of.
It’s not always boardrooms or microphones.
Sometimes, it’s learning to calm a different child’s emotions in the morning while nursing your baby and thinking about the Zoom call you have during nap time.
It’s holding space for little hands while holding the weight of adult-sized grief.
It’s learning how to still love your work—even when your whole world has changed.
Somewhere in the grief cycle, I realised—if I hadn’t followed that quiet knowing and come home when I did, I might never have had this relationship with my nephew. I wouldn’t have lived around the corner. Wouldn’t have been the aunty who became a mother figure. Wouldn’t have had the village at my back, or the roots beneath my feet.
These kinds of seasons don’t show up in CVs.
But they shape you.
I truly believe parenthood is one of the greatest personal development courses of life.
These are the seasons that remind you of what matters. How to keep showing up. How to lead from love—not for applause or attention—but because it’s what the moment asked of you.
That’s what leadership is to me.
Quiet. Fierce. Devoted.
Sometimes its done in gumboots, with a full washing basket on your hip, a toddler at your feet and a heart that keeps expanding. Other times it’s done at the helm of decisions that have the power to influence an entire generation.
For me, so long as we move with the collective in mind — we can’t go wrong.
When legacy decisions are made — they’re not easy, but they will always be worthwhile.
