The plight of mediocrity

The quiet fear that shaped my life's work

I was never great at anything at school.
Good, yes.
Outstanding? No.
And if I’m honest, that made me feel like less of a person.

Little did I know that feeling would become a massive driving force in the work I do now.

But it took me nearly 30 years to figure that out.

To explain, I need to take you back to 1991, the year I started secondary school. I’d adored primary school. I had the bestest friend in the world, Vanessa, and rather than worry about what we were doing with our lives, we simply hung out in trees and held competitions of who could build the biggest dam in the stream at the bottom of my road. It was idyllic.

Then came the big, scary all-girls secondary in town and coming to terms with Vanessa moving to a different school. At the end of Year 7, we sat exams. My new best friend Alice got 98% in maths, the highest in the year. And that’s when the quiet self-torture began.

I had sporty friends, arty friends, science boffs and maths whizzes. Everyone seemed to have a thing, something they were known for. Something that gave them a place.

Except me.

Even now, I still have to silence the voice that says I’m not quite great at anything.
Or, to reframe that more truthfully: I know I’m bloody brilliant at what I do…
But the childhood tape still plays on loop:

“I’ve got a loyal Instagram following... but it’s not millions.”
“I wrote and published a book... but it wasn’t a huge publishing deal.”
“People pay to hear me speak... but I haven’t done a TEDx.”

And so it goes.

Realising I wasn’t going to be an academic genius or a future Olympian, I started searching for something else that might make me stand out. I remember a classmate who had cystic fibrosis, and I’m so ashamed to admit this now, but I secretly wished I had something like that. Something that made me special.

Sounds awful, doesn’t it? But that wish came from a deep longing to feel seen. To matter.

Ten years later, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune form of arthritis. It was a big lesson in being careful what you wish for. It didn’t make me feel special. It made me feel broken. Ordinary in the worst possible way.

But it also helped me begin to understand what had been driving me all along.

A fear of invisibility.
Of fading into the background.
Of being good, but never quite enough.

And it’s only in the last few years, after a lot of reflection and unpicking, that I’ve been able to connect the dots between that fear, and the work I do now.

Helping women tell their stories isn’t just about business.
It’s about ensuring women like me, like us are seen, heard and remembered.

In my last post, I spoke about the fear of being invisible and how to work through it. For me, knowing that something I said or helped someone write or say made them feel braver, bolder, more themselves… whether for a moment or a lifetime… is everything.

It’s not about external validation.
It’s something deeper. More primal.
It’s a fight against invisibility.

A compulsion to speak, not just for myself, but for others who’ve also felt overlooked. Especially in spaces still dominated by louder, shinier, more ‘traditionally powerful’ voices.

This is why I teach storytelling. Not just because I believe in its power but because it’s my own personal weapon against being dismissed, underestimated or forgotten.

I don’t just want women to share their stories.
I need them to.
Because if we don’t, the world defaults to a narrative that excludes us.
And in that exclusion, I see the shadow of my own worst fear.
That my impact, my work, my voice could one day be reduced to nothing.

And I know I’m not alone in that.

Maybe you’re reading this and recognising your own version of that fear, that no matter how far you’ve come, it doesn’t feel like it counts. Not really. Not unless it’s certified, awarded, liked or shared by them.

But here’s the truth:
The world isn’t built to celebrate quiet brilliance.
It doesn’t hand the mic to women who colour outside the lines.
It doesn’t reward the ones who take the longer, messier, more human route to success.

Which is why we have to tell our stories. Ourselves.
Loudly. Clearly. Without apology.

Not the polished versions.
Not the highlight reels.
The messy, brave, beautiful truth.

Because that’s the thing about mediocrity, it’s not real.
It’s just the name we give ourselves when we’ve internalised the lie that we have to be extraordinary to matter.

But you already matter.
I already matter.
We matter, not because we’re louder, flashier or more successful than everyone else, but because we’re here. Living. Working. Showing up. Telling the truth.

And that’s what changes things.

So if you’ve ever felt like your voice doesn’t carry far enough,
If your story doesn’t feel special enough,
If you’ve done a lot but somehow still feel like it’s not enough...

Please know this:

You’re not alone.
And you don’t have to figure it out by yourself.

This is what I do.
I help women like us make sense of our stories.
I help you find the words to own your brilliance.
To take up space, not just online, but in boardrooms, meetings, books, movements and moments that matter.

So if this stirred something in you, if you’re tired of shrinking, of being ‘good’ when you know you’re so much more than that…

Let’s work together.

Because your voice matters.
Your story deserves to be heard.
And mediocrity? That was never your destiny.
Just a lie you picked up along the way.

Let’s rewrite that narrative. Together.

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The world doesn’t need more noise.
It needs more truth.
And yours?
Is worth hearing.