Real and Relatable Voice Award

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

There was a time when my life looked like a glossy magazine spread—the bubbly, put-together mum with four gorgeous kids and a charming, Ken-doll partner who made everyone laugh. But behind closed doors? I was a woman drowning in slow-motion chaos, desperately trying to hold together a life that was crumbling like a biscuit dipped too long in tea. The cracks started small. My intuition would whisper, "Something’s off here," when my ex-partner’s stories didn’t add up. But I’d silence it with rationalisations: "He’s just a super social guy," or "I’m just being paranoid." The red flags were there plus the unexplained absences, the way he’d vanish for "work trips" or tell me he had to go help someone with something at odd time, the gaslighting I got when I questioned his drug use ("You’re overreacting, babe, it’s just recreational"). But love, or what I thought was love, wears rose-colored glasses. And mine were glued to my face. The turning point came the day I walked into my home and smelled gas. Not just a whiff, thick, pungent, just wrong. I found the pipe under the stove cut through and heard the hiss of gas pouring out, and the exposed flame of the gas heater that I had turned off before going to work was on. My ex had set the stage for an explosion. In that moment, the last shred of pretense fell away. No more "perfect mum" masks. No more "Somehow I’ll manage" an unmanageable situation bravado. Just raw, animal terror: I knew in that instant, my ex had lost the plot and "We could have died." What followed was a crash course in survival. Police reports. Restraining orders. Nights in a shelter with my kids, weeks on the road living out of bags because as long as he was free home was no longer a safe place to be. We’d left everything behind. I remember sitting on a donated mattress, staring at my reflection in a mirror, thinner than I’d ever been, dark circles like bruises, and realising: This is what rock bottom looks like. I didn’t know it then, or for the next couple of years, but it’s also where rebuilding begins. Being raw about my story wasn’t just cathartic, it became liberating. When I started sharing the truth, first literally in whispers to other survivors, I was part of a peer group program and we all breathed a sigh of relief when we realised there were other women who faced the same struggles and challenges that we did. And then in time I started sharing on my podcast and women would clutch my arm and say, "Me too." Martha was one of my first guests and her strength was born from her struggles. When I heard women like Martha, that’s when I realised: shame thrives in silence. But vulnerability? It’s the wrecking ball that tears down the walls between "I’m fine" and "I need help."

2. How do you balance vulnerability and leadership?

Early in my coaching work, I worried that showing my scars would make me seem "unprofessional." Then a client said something that changed everything: "You’re asking me to be brave, but I can be braver when I know about how brave you have been too?" Now, I lead by leaning into the mess. In coaching sessions when a client says, "I’m so stupid for going back to him," I’ll share how I recycled that same shame, and how we’ll reframe it together. On stage, when nerves get the better of me, I’ll pause mid-speech to take a shaky breath and say, "PTSD still visits me sometimes. Let’s breathe through this moment together." But vulnerability without boundaries is burnout. So I practice things like "Selective sharing": I disclose enough to connect, not to trauma-dump. I practice Trauma-informed framing. Instead of saying "I was a wreck," I’ll say, "I used to think healing meant ‘fixing’ myself. Now I know it’s about coming home to myself." The potential magic? When women see me own my story, flaws and all, they give themselves permission to do the same. Masks can serve us as a way to cope when we are on our own, but when we have good support we can take off our masks and just be ourselves.

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

A listener once emailed me "Hearing you admit you didn’t know you were being abused made me sob. I thought I was ‘too smart’ to be manipulated. You gave me space to be kinder to myself." That’s the power of truth-telling. On Tiaras, Tears & Triumphs, I’ve had survivors share "You naming financial abuse made me understand that it is a way to disempower me and I am taking steps to handle my money myself." "Your episode on ‘gaslighting’ helped me leave before it escalated." But authenticity isn’t just about sharing, it’s about honouring agency. Some women heal by shouting their story; others heal by guarding it like a sacred flame. I remind them, Your pain is valid, even if no one else ever hears about it.