Kara Stokes Coach

My high school psychology teacher was obsessed with The Simpsons. Every class involved a deep psychological analysis of a Simpson’s character’s behaviour.

At the end of year 12, he gave out a Simpsons-themed award to each student.

I was the last one in the class to be called up.

Anxious, petite and desperate to put 100 kms between my and my peers, I shuffled up to his desk. With my head down, avoiding all eye contact, he said, “You get the Maggie Simpson Award. Kara, you’re the dark horse. Quiet and unassuming. No one knows what you’ll do. But one day, you’ll surprise us all.”

Two decades later (and maybe a fraction more 😉) those words are still lodged in my head.

Until I was 30ish, I was always seen as the quiet one. The meek one. The eager-to-please one.

Over the years, I’ve shed those labels and let parts of me come out.

But a friend and mentor recently said to me, “You’re way smarter and more brilliant than you let anyone know.”

It was a firm, loving prod to own my intelligence.

I’m not University Smart. Or CEO Smart.

I’m Connect the Dots Between What You Say and What You Do Smart. I see beneath the words and feel the emotions you’re holding back.

I’ll never stand in a boardroom and wow people with my intellectual insights.

I’m much happier creating internal shifts that make individuals say, “That’s what I’ve been trying to say all these years! Thank you for putting it into words.”

Funny how I’m fab at encouraging people to let their thoughts rip, loud and proud. Yet I’m still keeping my brain on a leash.

Personal growth is ironic like that.

I was looking at my teenager the other day. Noticing her rolling eyes, curves that popped out of nowhere and independent thoughts. And I started reminiscing about the early years.

I spent nine years of my life negotiating with tiny humans who had big feelings about the structural integrity of a banana. 🍌

Back then, I was in survival mode. It was the most intense C-suite training program I didn’t sign up for. If you can stay regulated while a three-year-old has a meltdown in the middle of Coles, you can handle a board of directors.

The parallels are uncanny:

Ego Management: Realising everyone just wants to be seen and heard (and occasionally given a gold star).

Compassion Fatigue: Carrying the emotional load of a household, team, or company is tiring.

Snacks: 90% of professional conflict can be solved by ensuring everyone has a well-stocked snack tray. Yummy food brings smiles at any age.

Many leaders are still in those toddler trenches, trying to build a legacy. They feel like they don’t have the space to be creative because they’re too busy being the Chief Problem Solver at home and at work.

Those messy, unpolished years are what make your leadership worth writing about.

A perfectly curated life is boring. There isn’t a single TV show or movie worth watching that has everything go smoothly. Humans LOVE conflict, seeing the main character scramble out of trouble and unexpected plot twists.

Your messy leadership journey is why it’s so interesting.

Anyway, my tiny terrorists are all tweens and teens now. They don’t need me to help them dress, but we’re still negotiating the ideal number of ice-cream scoops.

If sharing your legacy and ideas in a book feels right for you, let’s chat. I’m a pro at getting words on a page at a pace that respects your calendar (and your teenagers).

Emails, invoices and to-do lists demand a logic-brain approach. They need to be strategic and make sense.

But there’s a kind of message that doesn’t arrive as language. It begins as a sensation.

A flutter behind your ribs (like a bird not quite ready to fly).

A heat rising across your chest, warm and slow.

You don’t write it down at first. You carry it.

It hums in your mind as you shower.
Rattles gently while you’re staring out the window, half-listening to someone speak.
It curls up beside you in the quiet, not asking for form. Just asking to be.

These messages don’t hide because you’re scared to say them. They stay close because they’re sacred.

Not everything wants to be shaped straight away. Some words need to be held in the body before they can be held on the page.

And when they’re ready, the words won’t feel clever. They’ll feel inevitable.

That’s when you know you’re writing to express your soul. (Instead of writing for the sake of being heard.)

Next time you notice a stirring as word form, let it sit. Time and pondering are the best way to nurture these sacred messages into the world.