A Year of Not Knowing

In February 2025, I had three days of blinding headaches. These ignored Panadol and began knocking on my skull to try and get my attention.

I went to the doctor.

Then scans.

Then waiting.

A month later: a growth on your pituitary gland.

 “Probably benign,” they said.
“We won’t know until we operate.”

You could watch it. Or choose removal.

After a few conversations with a neurosurgeon (a profession where calmness is both reassuringly comforting and mildly terrifying), I booked surgery for late November.

And just like that, I began a year of not knowing.

The First Response

At first: denial.

I carried on. Facilitated programs. Wrote proposals. Talked to leadership teams on adopting an “above the line” mindset while quietly spiralling down the Dr Google rabbit hole of risks. A very modern form of irony.

 But eventually the specialists started. More scans. More “we don’t think…” followed by “…but we can’t be certain.” More reality, more potential complications.

That’s when uncertainty moved in properly.

I discovered something interesting.

My mind could sometimes stay positive.

My body could not.

In the middle of workshops, rooms where I normally feel most at home, I would suddenly tremble. 

My breathing would go shallow. My head was filled with roaring anxiety. Words I have said for 20 years would disappear halfway through sentences.

Nothing humbles a facilitator faster than forgetting what you were confidently explaining 8 seconds earlier.

I would pause. Breathe. Ground. Come back.

Outwardly, the session continued. Inwardly, I was negotiating with fear.

How I Coped (Avoided)

The fear wasn’t constant. It came in waves.

And when it came, my response was… activity.

 I doubled down on a personal superpower: doing things.

Work. Clients. Travel. Selling our house. Moving. More work. My calendar became a very powerful anaesthetic.

I wasn’t consciously avoiding anything.
But I also wasn’t exactly sitting with it either.

Looking back, I can see it clearly: I was using helping others as a way not to help myself.

When your job is supporting people, it’s surprisingly easy to hide inside competence.

You get appreciation. Gratitude. Purpose.

You also get a very convenient reason not to stop. I was protected by busyness.

 
Post-Surgery Perspective

I’m writing this now in January 2026, 39 days after surgery.

Recovery is slower than I imagined. Energy is inconsistent. Some days feel normal, others feel like my body forgot to recharge overnight. It’s been uncomfortable and painful, yet the experience leaves you with a strange clarity.

Here’s the first thing that landed:

Work matters far less than I treated it.

I have always cared deeply about my clients. I still do. But I now see something uncomfortable.

 I have often put work first, not because it was truly important, but because it was easier.

There is a particular trap in helping professions. Caring for others can become a socially acceptable way to avoid caring for yourself.

You feel purposeful and useful. You can put your own needs aside.

I can now see how often I told myself:

I’ll look after my health when the task list is finished.

The task list, as it turns out, is immortal.

The Leadership Lesson I Didn’t Expect

We talk a lot about leadership resilience.

What I learned is this: Resilience is not pushing through. Resilience is allowing reality to interrupt your self-image.

For most of my career, I’ve tried to be reliable, capable and composed. That identity served me well until life asked a different question, where none of that could make a difference.

Uncertainty is confronting because it removes our favourite leadership tools, such as competence and control. There was no plan I could easily deploy other than just waiting. And waiting does not care how organised your inbox is.

What’s Changed

I don’t think the lesson is “work less” or “life is short.” Those are true but shallow. 

The deeper shift for me is this: Health isn’t one priority among many. It is the platform that makes every other priority possible.

For years, I treated well-being like a maintenance task, something you schedule after the real work is done. 

It turns out well-being is the real work. Everything else is built on top of it.

I’m also noticing something else.

When I show up with clients now, I’m less interested in helping leaders perform better and more interested in helping them live better. Performance still matters. But performance without aliveness is just a polished version of exhaustion.

Many of us, as leaders, aren’t overwhelmed because we have too much to do. We are overwhelmed because we never step out of the role. And roles are heavy things to carry 24/7.

A Quiet Realisation

The year of not knowing did something else I didn’t expect. 

It made me more honest with myself.

I now see how easy it is to build a life where you think you are admired, useful and effective… and still be slightly absent from your own experience.

You don’t notice it happening because it looks exactly like responsibility.

Until something interrupts you.

For me, it was a small gland at the base of my brain deciding to get my attention in a very dramatic way.

Not a leadership development method I’d normally recommend. But an effective one.

If you take anything from this, maybe it’s this:

Don’t wait for a medical event to renegotiate your relationship with work.

Your calendar will always volunteer you for more than your body can handle. At some point, the body collects the invoice. And it does not accept extensions.

Nearly two thousand years ago, Seneca observed that we are not given a short life; we make it short by postponing living. We stay busy with everything except our own lives, always planning to begin properly later.

This year, quietly asked me a question I had been avoiding: Why was I postponing myself?

I’m still working that out. But at least now, I’ve started earlier than I otherwise would have.