A wake-up call

I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was a cold, wet day. I was sitting in my nice warm office doing some work. I had planned to go out for a ride with my neighbour at lunchtime, but I just wasn’t feeling it. I was going to cancel, but I thought maybe that was me being sooky. After all, the Australian winter is nothing like the British one, and I used to take the horse out in all weathers then. Plus, I didn’t want to let her down.

So I put an extra layer on, went and got my mare out of the paddock, brushed her off, tacked her up, and met my neighbour at the end of the drive.

We rode the horses down our dirt road, across the main road, and up onto a little-used sandy track into the bush.

My Gypsy Cob mare (downgraded from the thoroughbreds I used to ride) had some attitude about her. She often wanted to go a little faster than I did—and today was one of those days.

We were trotting down the track and she was getting faster and faster, pulling at the reins more and more. So I was ‘checking’ her—little squeezes of the reins saying, “Hello! I am up here, you know, and I will control the speed, thank you.”

Her answer was a big “[Insert your choice of expletive] off, are you. I am.”

She broke into a canter and started bucking.

“Hang on, Phebe, I think I’m in trouble,” I shouted, as she then decided to go full tilt down the track and put in one enormous buck that sent me flying through the air.

Next thing I know, I wake up, lying on the cold ground and I couldn’t breathe properly. Phebe is standing over me with her horse in hand, on the phone to the ambulance, and shouting at me to keep still and not move. (Luckily for me, Phebe used to be an A&E nurse.)

Ignoring her, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and voice-activated a call to my husband. He picked up, and all I said was, “I’ve come off and I’m in trouble. Bring Harrison”—our son.

They arrived as the ambulance did. Harrison walked the horse home, who luckily decided that the grass nearby was attractive. They took me down to the Royal Melbourne Hospital.

Apparently, I had been unconscious for 10 minutes.

I had punctured my lung and had a haemothorax (blood had filled my lung).

I had also broken seven ribs on my left side, and five of them in multiple places—bits of bone floating about. I needed an operation using titanium plates and screws to reattach them.

I was lucky. Lucky to survive. Sounds a little dramatic—but I was. Horses are beings with a mind of their own.

This was five years ago, and although I got my first horse when I was 10 and have ridden most of my life, I have not got on a horse since.

My recovery was slow and painful, and not a day goes by that I don’t feel the ache in my ribs, the lack of flexibility when I bend down, or when I see the big six-inch scar down my side.

More importantly, I think someone was trying to tell me something. This was the third time I had a near-death experience—and all three involved horses.

I share this with you not for sympathy, nor am I trying to be dramatic. I share it because I believe in impact. In living fully. In making moments matter.

In my work, I am all about helping people live their best life—whatever that looks like for them. I want you to love the work you do. To feel that beautiful alignment when your strengths, your purpose, and your actions all pull in the same direction.

I help coaches help more people discover and use their strengths because I believe that when we know what makes us powerful, we can make better choices, build better relationships, and show up with more intention.

Someone said to me recently, “I don’t know how you fit in all the things you do.”

The truth is—I don’t always. But I try, because I love life, and I know it can change in an instant.

We never know when our time is up. That’s not meaning to be morbid—to me, that’s motivating.

Every day is a gift. Every day matters.

So, use your voice. Use your strengths. Use your superpowers.

The world needs what only you can bring.