1. Share a time when being raw and real changed everything for you.

I don’t think it was just one moment — it was a collection of them. A slow, painful untethering from the identity I had outgrown, and the quiet rebellion of no longer pretending I had it all together.

It was the accumulation of small but weighty shifts — moments where I couldn’t keep up the performance anymore. Where the cracks started to show, and instead of patching them, I sat with them. I didn’t realise at the time that all those uncomfortable, anguish ridden moments — the mirror cries, the irritability, the softness where there used to be fire — were preparing me. Not just for what was coming next, but for who was coming next.

Perimenopause hit me earlier than expected, and it hit hard. My body was changing rapidly — shape, skin, sleep, hormones, hunger. And despite having over 20 years of experience in beauty, hair, skin, and image… I felt completely lost. My reflection felt foreign. My identity felt upside down. And I was angry — not rage-throwing things angry, but that low, slow, simmering frustration that no one talks about. The kind that builds when you’re trying to hold everything together while falling apart inside.

There were countless moments in the mirror where I thought, “Who even is this woman?” And honestly? Some of those moments almost broke me. They gave my soul a red hot run for its money. 

And then, in conversations laced with hairspray and vulnerability… I started to see I wasn’t alone. Something unexpected started to happen in the quiet behind the chair. In the reflection of the mirror with the trust of my clients as a hairdresser and beauty therapist — I started to hear the same words come out of their mouths. Women grieving their waistlines, their confidence, their spark. Women saying things like “I just don’t feel like myself anymore.” 

And in those sacred conversations, I started to tell the truth. Not the polished truth. The real one: That I was hiding too. That I didn’t know how to dress this new body. That I felt disconnected from my own image — and my own essence. The connection was instant. I saw the relief in their eyes — the tears, the ‘me too’. It was in those raw, sacred moments that healing began. For them, for me, for all of us.

I originally thought I was building a business focused on image strategy for midlife women — how to dress evolving body shapes, choose skin-supportive makeup, and shift hair colour with grace. And I still teach all of that — it's my zone of genius.

But what I didn’t expect was how deeply we’d need to go. I realised the missing piece had always been permission. Without the inner work — the unraveling of beliefs, the self-trust, the visibility blocks — women couldn’t and wouldn’t fully own their image. The outer work only sticks when it reflects the truth of the inner one. That mirroring the internal alignment with their external presence created a magnetic presence that couldn’t be denied. 

That’s when The Aligned Image Movement was truly born. It’s not just a business anymore — it’s a movement. It’s a safe space for women navigating mid-life to land. A space to keep telling all our truths - raw, gritty, humorous and evolving. We honour presence over performance. Truth over trends. Those moments of raw and real truth became the heartbeat of every decision, framework and program I now offer.

2. How do you balance vulnerability and leadership?

Honestly? I don’t think I ever intended to balance them. In the beginning of my career, I was too busy trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Because let’s be real — we’re taught that leadership should be polished, composed, perfectly packaged. That is something I have always inherently struggled with.

That version of leadership always felt itchy to me. Too inauthentic. Too clean. Too tight around the chest. It didn’t leave room for the woman who sometimes cries in her car, or moments of madness and inspiration that lead to genius.

The truth is, my most powerful leadership moments have come through vulnerability. Not in a sob-story-for-likes kind of way. But in the kind of way that says:  “Hey, I’ve been there too — and here’s what helped me find my way back.” Because when women see someone leading while still being human, it creates safety. It creates permission. And that’s what I care about more than perfection — I care about creating permission.

Vulnerability doesn’t mean I overshare or bleed all over my audience. I’ve learned that leadership means sharing from the scar, not the open wound. It means getting aligned before posting. It means being real, but responsible.

I still hold boundaries. I still know my role is to guide. But I never want to lead from a pedestal. I lead from the path. I walk with women — not ahead of them, waving a glittery “I’ve got it all together” flag.

There are days I’m showing up in full-glam, lashes on, hair curled, knowing exactly what I’m about to say. And there are days I’m in my oversized hoodie, recording stories on the fly, eyes puffy from crying over a client’s transformation or my own growth. Both versions are real. Both are leaders. And the magic for me is in letting both be seen.

The way I balance vulnerability and leadership is by staying connected to why I do this. I don’t serve women to impress them. I serve them to remind them — that they’re not too far gone. That they’re not alone. That becoming isn’t always pretty, but it’s always worth it. That they are worthy.

Leadership, to me, is being willing to go first — to tell the truth first, to crack open first, to say the hard thing first. But it’s also about holding the vision for someone who’s still deep in it. Saying, “Yes, it’s hard. And yes, you can do it.” It’s never about having it all figured out. It’s about holding space while we figure it out together.

So no, I don’t think I “balance” vulnerability and leadership. I integrate them. I weave them together — like threads in the same story. And I think that’s what makes the voice of The Aligned Image Movement resonate so deeply. Because women don’t want a role model anymore — they want a real model. And I’ll take the messy, meaningful truth over polished performance any day.

3. How has your authenticity made others feel seen or heard?

You know that feeling when someone says exactly what you’ve been thinking — but didn’t know how to put it into words? That’s the kind of feedback I get most often from women in my community. Not “wow, you’re amazing,” or “how do you do it all?” — but quiet, tear-filled messages that say: “Thank you for saying that. I thought I was the only one.” 

That’s what authenticity does. It opens the door for someone else to walk through — not because you pushed them, but because you left it unlocked.

For a long time, I thought I had to show up as the “expert.” Polished, prepared, maybe even a little untouchable. And while I could talk colour theory and style strategy all day long — that version of me wasn’t landing anymore. It wasn’t until I started talking about the days I didn’t want to get dressed, the nights I sobbed on my bedroom floor, or the strange disconnection I felt in midlife — like I had outgrown myself but didn’t know who I was growing into — that women started leaning in. It’s in the shaky stories — the ones you’re a bit nervous to share — where people find themselves.

And honestly? I think authenticity is less about what you say and more about why you’re saying it. I don’t share to be impressive. I share to be in service. I share to remind women they’re not broken, they’re becoming. That this stage of life isn’t a crisis — it’s a cracking open.

In my programs, in my content, even in casual conversations at the salon — I always lead with a little realness. Something soft. Something human. Because that’s the space where we’re most willing to be changed. It’s not just about being vulnerable — it’s about making it safe for other women to be vulnerable too.

And when a woman who’s spent the last ten years shrinking starts to take up space again…
When she sends me a photo in a colour she’d never dared to wear…
When she says, “I finally feel like me again”…
That’s not about makeup or outfits or clever brand messaging.
That’s the result of realness. Of showing up as my whole self, so she could remember she’s allowed to do the same. That's the magic. The juicy stuff that lights me up and keeps me going.

Authenticity, when done right, doesn’t spotlight you. It reflects them. And if I’ve helped even one woman feel less alone, less ashamed, and more alive in her own skin — then that’s the kind of success I want to be a part of.