The Soil I Grew From | From Fremantle to Bali and the world

My roots, my people, my teachers, my becoming, and the seeds I choose to plant. Before I tell you what I've created, I want to honour where I came from.

A personal reflection.

None of us arrives in this world alone.

We're born into stories already unfolding. Stories of love and loss, of migration and survival, of family and sacrifice, of people searching for safety, belonging and a better future.

Mine began in Fremantle, Western Australia.

I was born into a single-parent family. My mum was 44. My dad was 27. Our family carried European and German roots, connected to generations who came to Australia looking for new beginnings.

I sometimes think about how extraordinary that is. How the choices of people I'll never meet, in places I may never see, became the soil my own life grew from.

We're all the continuation of stories that began long before us.

The question this piece answers

Who shapes who we become?

The quick answer. For me, it was a mother who showed me what strength looks like, a father whose absence taught me presence, a brother who showed me rootedness, teachers who saw something in a cheeky boy, and people who opened doors I couldn't have opened alone. Almost everything I do now is a way of passing on what they gave me.

What I experienced

My mother, the powerhouse. Her strength. Her determination. Her capacity to keep going and build a life. She showed me what a woman is capable of, not as an idea but as something I grew up around. I think that's part of why I feel so called to support heart-centred leaders, so many of them women. Women with extraordinary gifts who don't need someone to give them their power, but sometimes need the right environment, support and people around them to express it fully. I know where that appreciation began. With my mother.

My father, and the gift of presence. His absence taught me about presence, about the man I wanted to become, and what it means to show up. I can honour him without pretending everything was easy. I can recognise what was missing and still be grateful for what was given. (I've written more about this in My Father's Absence Taught Me Presence.)

My brother, and the example of building a life. He showed me the steadiness of building a family and a home, of commitment to the things closest to us. Our paths haven't always looked the same. That doesn't make either less meaningful. We can grow from the same soil and reach toward different horizons. Freedom and rootedness aren't enemies.

The teachers who saw me. I was curious, energetic, cheeky, sometimes acting out, sometimes needing someone to see past the behaviour. My Year Four teacher, Mrs Feigat, saw a boy who needed to be believed in. Mr Rees and Mr Caporn inspired me to write. I couldn't have known what those seeds would become. Around fifteen years later, I'd written a book, and I brought it back to CBC Fremantle, the school that helped grow me. Someone planted a seed. I nurtured it. And one day I got to bring the fruit back to where it began.

The people who opened doors. I moved out at seventeen, worked, and funded my own education. I finished my bachelor's at the University of Western Australia. And there were people who helped me take steps I couldn't have managed alone. Kerry Smith helped me find a pathway into my master's when I didn't have the money to fund it. That door led to opportunities to learn and serve, including helping develop a hip and groin rehabilitation program for young athletes. To my knowledge, it's still used. I've watched young people progress through it, some reaching the top levels of Australian football.

What I learned

Real impact doesn't always need an audience. Most people using that program will never know my name. That's fine. The point was never to be recognised. The point was to make something useful. The most meaningful things we do often become part of something larger that keeps serving long after we've moved on.

You can have something beautiful and still not be on the same path. There was a time I had what many would call a beautiful life. A two-storey home in the southwest of Australia. A dog. A loving relationship. And I could feel something calling me beyond it. A plane in my vision. A wish to explore and create a life with more freedom. The person I was with was moving toward a different future. Neither vision was wrong. They were just different. Love matters. But alignment matters too.

Freedom is about being able to choose. Bali called, and I followed. Nature, community, creativity, a different rhythm. Then the pandemic came. Movement was restricted, and many people faced extraordinary uncertainty. I became aware of how much my earlier choices had shaped my own circumstances: the ability to work from anywhere, to earn through relationships and service, to stay adaptable. That freedom was a gift, not a reason to feel superior. It reminded me what becomes possible when we deliberately build skills, relationships and options into our lives.

Contribution starts at the front door. With my own health and character. My family. My dogs. My friends and neighbours. Then, as capacity grows, further. Impact at scale means little if I forget the people right in front of me. Go first. Nourish what's close. Let the contribution expand naturally.

The wisdom I'd pass on

What I received is what I now give.

Invest in the roots. Health. Education. Nature. Relationships. Opportunity. The next generation. When we nourish the roots, we don't have to force every branch to grow. We create the conditions, and life does what life does.

Let the next chapter be simpler. After years of learning, building and experimenting, I feel the vision getting simpler. Quality over quantity. Depth over noise. Coherence over constant expansion. Fewer, deeper relationships. More time for family, love, movement, nature and joy. I don't need to carry every dream, build every business, or stand on every stage. I want to plant seeds others can nurture, and be present for the people I love.

Hold the whole story. I'm not only the sum of my achievements, or only the product of my wounds. I'm the love I received and the care I missed. The people who believed in me and the choices I made. The things I built and the things I released. Wholeness isn't the absence of difficult chapters. It's the capacity to hold the whole story without rejecting parts of myself.

Where this does not reach

Not everyone had someone who saw them. If no teacher or mentor believed in you, that wasn't your failing. It's also never too late to become that person for someone else.

Gratitude doesn't erase difficulty. I can be thankful for my roots and still acknowledge what was hard. Both are true.

Family history needs care. Stories about where our ancestors came from and why often change as we learn more. I hold mine with curiosity.

The evidence, named and dated

• Emmy Werner and Ruth Smith, Overcoming the Odds (1992), from the Kauai Longitudinal Study, which followed a cohort of children from birth into adulthood. Many children who did well despite difficult starts had at least one caring adult who believed in them, often outside the immediate family, such as a teacher or mentor. It supports what Mrs Feigat, Mr Rees, Mr Caporn and Kerry Smith gave me.
• Personal, and labelled: everything else here is my own story.

The shift

I used to see my story as something I'd overcome.

Now I see it as something I was given, and get to pass on.

One thing, for the next day

Think of one person who saw something in you before you could see it yourself.

If you can, tell them. If you can't, do for someone else what they did for you.

The spine of it

None of us arrives alone. Fremantle, a single-parent family, European roots. My mother's strength, my father's absence, my brother's steadiness. Teachers who saw a cheeky boy and planted seeds. People who opened doors. Impact doesn't need an audience. Love needs alignment too. Freedom is the ability to choose. Contribution starts at the front door. What I received is what I now give. Invest in the roots. Hold the whole story.

Questions people ask

How much do teachers and mentors shape us? A great deal. Research following children over decades found that one caring adult who believes in a child can make a real difference to how their life unfolds.

How do I honour a difficult upbringing without denying it? Hold both: gratitude for what was given and honesty about what was missing. Neither cancels the other.

What does it mean to "nourish the roots"? Investing in foundations, health, education, relationships, nature, so growth can happen naturally rather than being forced.

How do I pay forward what I was given? Notice what someone gave you, then offer the same to someone else: belief, an open door, a lesson, or your presence.

I'm grateful for the people who saw something in me, believed in me, and opened doors for me. My life's work is to do the same for others, and help them create a future even more beautiful than the one I inherited.

From the soil I grew from, to the seeds I choose to plant.