Recently, Ann Mroz wrote a thought-provoking piece in Tes about an apparent reluctance in female educators to self-promote. She cited confidence in one’s own talent, the willingness to promote it, the time constraints of the more traditional gender roles, and a fear of speaking out of turn, as potential reasons for this gender divide. It struck a nerve immediately.

For me, as a survivor of a female-only Catholic convent school upbringing, in a patriarchal middle-class family, with no distinguishable talent other than a general ability to pitch up at the last minute and do pretty OK in exams, shining had never really been an option. An inherent shyness, some social anxiety and a very obvious lack of any of the essential qualities on the traditional Princess job description, meant that I opted for a different path - supporting others. I roadied for flamboyant drag queens, I hung out with East End musicians, I wore a lot of black, and I got myself a back-office job at a prestigious musical organisation. I was drawn to the spotlight but was never quite brave enough to step onto the stage.

In time, and with the support of my DJ/entertainer husband (can you see a trend developing?) I started to dip my toe in the murky waters of the Walthamstow and Whitechapel karaoke circuits, singing first with him and eventually, six pints later, on my own. As my confidence grew, my husband turned the reverb down and the volume up…it turned out I could hold a tune!

And so it has been with my career and, more latterly, with my professional writing. As soon as I found out what it was, I wanted to be a business manager, was drawn to it, but needed a headteacher who believed in me to get me there. I found one, and I was able to grow into the role rather than be thrown into it. As I let go of my guide ropes, I began to believe in myself and started to stand unaided. Still not brave enough to really hold my own in an SLT meeting or to offer any real challenge, but I knew I was OK at my job and could do more with more experience and confidence. 

Then I moved to a much bigger, and much more ambitious school, with some pretty huge responsibilities and expectations. I blossomed into the role and achieved some remarkable things. But even there, with its traditional, rigorous atmosphere, extremely high expectations and highly respected and experienced head, I still felt held back, not truly part of the establishment and not truly able to fly. I suffered from self-imposed imposter syndrome, non-teaching syndrome, and speak-when-you’re-spoken-to syndrome, creating a safe place where I supported and advised, when asked, from the security of being well behind the front line as the head led the charge. It was the perfect hiding place for a shy do-er, and no one ever put me in the spotlight. But something was missing. My professional successes left me wanting more, the quickenings of an embryonic ego were becoming more apparent.

Then, a move to a new school happened, and new opportunities presented themselves. The change of atmosphere seemed to be a perfect fit, somehow I felt ready and able to use my voice, and I knew I would be supported in doing so. I joined Twitter, I started blogging and was lucky enough to have a few of my blogs re-posted in well known educational sites. People were interested in what I had to say - not what my school required me to so say, what I felt, me, a school business professional in my own right. 

Astonishingly, one morning, I found myself reading one of my own pieces on the Tes site - how the heck did that happen? Tes is something I used to deliver as a paper girl, back in the early ‘80s, to the great and good of Ilford town. It was a bloody nightmare, if I’m honest: a hugely heavy tome that would never fit through anyone’s letterbox and ended up getting ripped when you shoved it in. Thursday was Tes day and I always ended up with left shoulder ache because of it. My dad used to read it cover-to-cover before I was allowed to use it for lining the bed of whatever pet I was currently in charge. Interesting fact - the old style Tes was the most absorbent newspaper out there and perfect for puppy toilet training, quality stuff. 

Anyway, there I was, in it. A life goal I never knew I had, achieved. And it went on, I wrote more and more and the feedback was continually positive, to the point where I now feel like I have established myself as a proper grown up, with a useful purpose in life and most importantly, I feel brave enough to trust my own judgement, put my own opinions out there for public scrutiny, and potentially even advise and support others.

And that’s an amazingly rewarding and uplifting feeling. So my message to other existing or aspiring SBLs is this: your voice is valid, vital, welcomed and encouraged. Whatever you have to say, you should find a way of saying it. It can be as gentle and quiet as you need it to be, not all voices are loud, but all voices have a right to be heard. 

Me? Well, I’m all over it now, pushing myself to be 10 per cent braver, to take on new challenges and maybe even do some public speaking. I’m making connections with people I hold to be god-like, feeling the fear still, but doing it anyway. I’m even at the stage where I’m choosing my own backing tracks and telling my husband to turn the reverb on the karaoke down and turn the mic volume up, so my voice can be heard.

He’s refusing of course, but that’s why he’s good at his job, and I’m good at mine. 

Have a wonderful summer. 

Hilary Goldsmith is director of finance and operations at a large secondary school and tweets at @sbl365