Purposeful Leadership Kylee Dare

I have so much admiration for people who chase down goals that demand real persistence, a solid plan, and the grit to see it through when it gets hard, really hard. This weekend, that person was my eldest.

On Sunday he ran the Sydney Marathon. 42.2 kilometres, rolling hills and a brutal final climb right near the finish line. It’s the kind of course that tests you when you’ve got nothing left to give. It was his second marathon in just 8 weeks. His first world Major.

Here’s the thing that puts it in perspective: historical estimates suggest fewer than 1% of people alive today have ever crossed a marathon finish line. Running one is rare.

Anecdotal research suggests running a marathon is about much more than physical fitness. Self-esteem, purpose, personal achievement and improving mental health are among recognised motivations for taking part. And there is plenty of science to back them up (ABC 31/7/26).

I’m obviously proud of him. I’m impressed by anyone who competed on the day. That’s a small, hard-won club to belong to.

“I wasn’t asking how busy you are.”

For years, if someone asked me how I was going, I had a stock answer. “Busy.” “I’m fine.” Words delivered on autopilot, and then the conversation moves on. Then one day someone didn’t let it go. They said:

“I wasn’t asking how busy you are. I was asking how you are.”

I didn’t have a good answer.

I’d gotten so used to giving the version of the response that keeps things moving, I’d almost stopped noticing there was a difference between the two questions.

Looking back, I think a lot of us build that reflex as we take on more senior roles. Answering honestly takes time, it invites follow up questions, and, if I’m honest, some days the true answer would probably have unsettled the person asking. So “fine” becomes the efficient answer. The safe one.

What I’ve noticed since is that I can tell within a sentence or two who’s actually asking and who’s just being polite. And I suspect most people can tell the difference too. That includes which one I am, in any given conversation.

I don’t think this is a personal failing. I think it’s what a culture that rewards a fast, tidy answer trains us to do. Is it enough though? No, not for me.

Have you noticed your own version of the “I’m fine” reflex?
What usually triggers it?

Some rooms just feel alive. You can feel the energy, the possibility. Yesterday was like that.

At one point, I had a conversation with one of our leadership pathway participants about exactly that. The difference between working from home and being in a room with other humans. Not the convenience or efficiency trade off, but the deeper one: the shared vulnerability, the energy that builds when people think out loud together, the wisdom that only surfaces because someone else’s honesty gave you permission for your own.

There is magic in those rooms. Problems get worked through together, not alone.

Another participant put it differently describing the friendship that’s been built over months of doing this work side by side.

I walked away energised. Full of possibility. Reminded that we need more rooms like that one.

I am grateful to be doing this work with these people.

When did you last sit with your own thoughts for longer than it takes to brush your teeth?

At a recent fundraiser, of Pro-Torque said something I haven’t stopped thinking about. She spoke about moving so fast, she kept delaying stopping for fuel. Even when the red warning light was on, she kept driving.

That was me.

Partner at a professional services firm. Always juggling, always running. My husband would get in my car and find it on empty. Or I’d call him, stranded. Engine stopped. Again.

He was not amused.

I thought I was being efficient. Really, I was postponing the breakdown.

Aristotle said it. Richard Carlson echoed it centuries later. Same quiet truth: reflection is one of the most underused tools we have.

You can’t know yourself at full sprint.

Reflection isn’t a luxury. It’s the fuel stop most of us keep skipping, even when the light is flashing.

The car always stops eventually.

The question is whether you choose when.

“There’s no right or wrong way.
It’s more important that we understand each other.”

Someone said this in the room during this workshop.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

This is what six months of real leadership development looks like.

Not a straight line.
Not a highlight reel.
A room full of people doing the honest, sometimes uncomfortable work
of becoming better leaders.

Some arrived settled.
Some are right in the thick of the struggle.
Both are exactly where they need to be.

Moved to witness it.
Every time.

Some places settle into your bones.
Australia’s Red Centre is one of them.

Desert plains stretching to weathered ranges. Rocky gorges carved by time. A sky so full of stars it feels like the universe leaned in close. And Uluṟu, watching the world’s most famous rock blush crimson at dawn, then deepen to ember at dusk, while a didgeridoo hums into the silence.

But this wasn’t just a holiday. It was reverence.

Uluṟu and Kata Tjuṯa are UNESCO World Heritage sites, and more importantly, sacred to the Aṉangu people, the traditional landowners who have held this place for tens of thousands of years. To be welcomed into it is a privilege that asks something of you: Your attention and presence, and your humility and gratitude.

Not “spiritual” (that word gets overused). Something quieter and truer than that word can carry.

The stories and experiences from this place have settled deep in my heart, where I expect they’ll stay.

If you ever get the chance - go. And go slowly.

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We’ll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.

[We Shall Keep the Faith - by Moina Michael, 1918]

Some mornings, a feeling arrives before the alarm does.

Not always a welcome one.

Rumi wrote about this in The Guest House. The idea that every emotion that shows up in us deserves to be met at the door, not turned away. Joy. Grief. Shame. Malice. Each one, a visitor with something to teach.

It’s a beautiful concept. And a profoundly useful one for leaders.

Because the instinct (especially in professional life) is to manage emotions out. To perform composure. To keep the house tidy for the guests who are watching.

But ’s work on Emotional Agility offers a more honest path: treat your emotions as data, not directives. Get curious about what they’re signposting. Move through them, rather than around them.

That’s not softness. That’s self-awareness at its sharpest.

The leader who can name what they’re feeling, and stay curious about what it’s telling them, makes better decisions, builds more trust, and leads with far greater range than the one who’s simply learned to keep the door shut.

Your emotions aren’t the problem.
Ignoring them is.

[Almost ready to sit my Emotional Agility Certification exam - yikes]

Be like Max. 🤍

Marshall Rosenberg said, “Your presence is the most precious gift you can give another human being.”

I’ve just finished the Emotional Agility Workshop in Byron Bay with Dr Susan David. One of our invitations was simple: give someone the gift of being truely seen.

I had my own experience of being seen , and that’s where Max comes in.

At SOMA, Byron Bay. I was struggling to navigate the hill with my walking stick. Max, who maintains the property, drove me down to the hill to the Dome in his buggy and he said,

“It seems unfair you can’t see the property properly. Let me show you around.”

And he did.

The Lotus Pond.
The bee hives.
The spot where he sees the koala.

He didn’t need to. He just saw me.

Leadership isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s a buggy ride and a little extra kindness.

Be like Max. ✨

Hello, Byron