When Being Good Isn’t Good Enough

What happens when support, dignity, and voice are unevenly distributed?

Author’s Note:
This piece isn’t about blame, envy, or ego. It’s about reflection and recognition. It’s an honest account of a journey that was never meant to prove anything, only to ask: What happens when support, dignity, and voice are unevenly distributed? I’ve written it not for sympathy, but in solidarity with others who’ve walked similar paths quietly. If something in this resonates, you’re not alone.

“I was good at what I did, but that didn’t mean it was right for me.”

I trained and worked as a chef for a few years, lived abroad, then worked and trained as a lecturer. Now having taught for over 30 years. After redundancy, I channelled those skills into building a social enterprise to help others and on the outside, it looked like success. But on the inside, it wasn’t aligned with who I really am. This may surprise a lot of people who worked with and around me. I’ve always loved food and cooking, I still do but just not as a job. I never have. Yes, I can very teach well, but I knew deep down that teaching wasn’t my path. Even 20 years ago.

What people didn’t see was the cost. Behind that work was a young family to support, an unrelenting battle with the NHS for mental health and ADHD recognition, and years of internal chaos I had no language for. When I was made redundant, I did what I had to do. I masked, I pushed forward, I built. But it wasn’t enough for employers. Because doors kept closing, no matter how qualified I was, and I still haven’t passed an interview since 2000. So I built something from necessity. But the emotional cost was enormous. Not just for me but for my family, and at times, others around me. I still feel guilty about that.

People often said, “Just stick with what you’re good at.” But they didn’t see the other me, the one I was protecting. Sometimes we become brilliant at survival, not because it brings joy, but because it feels like there is no other option. We use our strengths to hide our pain, until one day, the weight of carrying both becomes just too much.

So eventually, it caught up with me. The passion I projected couldn’t be sustained. The pressure to hold everything together imploded, and at times, exploded. That just wasn’t who I truly am. It was only through a therapeutic retreat, run by a social enterprise in Wales, who truly understood trauma recovery, I found space to heal, finally breathe, and begin becoming the real me I was meant to be.

Now, I’m choosing alignment over appearance. Freedom and choice over performing resilience. Purpose over pressure. The work I’m stepping into, writing, shaping ideas, quiet advocacy, advisory using my lived experience, isn’t louder. But it’s more honest, authentic because I’m no longer just trying to be good. I’m trying to be the whole me, finally.

For years, food was the practical tool I used to connect, teach, and support others. And this is still important to me. But I now see it as something far more layered. A way to understand systems, express values, and create change that feels more inclusive in people’s lives. My shift isn’t about walking away from food or the difference it’s made; it’s about stepping further into work that reflects how I think, lead, and contribute best. It’s a quiet pivot, but one that fundamentally still inherently me.

Rethinking Entrepreneurship — On My Own Terms

Last year, I co-authored a chapter in the book Neurodiversity and Entrepreneurship, alongside Professor Anica Zeyen from Royal Holloway University’s Business Management School. It was a proud moment, not just because of the recognition, but because it captured something I’d struggled to articulate for many years. Yes, I’m very entrepreneurial, with a strong social agenda but I’ve never wanted to run a business. Something Professor Zeyen even reflected on during her inaugural lecture I attended, much to my surprise.

That statement ‘not wanting to run a business’ might sound contradictory for some, especially in a world that often celebrates the solo entrepreneur, the self-starter, the hustler, the all-hours founder so often praised on social media. But for me, those models never felt like home. I’ve done them, survived them, even been praised for them. But it never made me want to continue doing them and they’ve come at a huge cost. Because it still isn’t me.

In the book chapter, Professor Zeyen writes about this tension, how many of us, particularly those who are neurodivergent, may be highly creative, full of ideas, and driven by purpose, but not suited to the structures or expectations that come with traditional entrepreneurship. It’s a quiet truth that often gets missed in louder conversations about success.

Since contributing to that chapter, I’ve been reflecting more deeply on what this means for me. I’ve realised that my power lies not in building something alone, but in co-creating, in working with others who value dignity, structure, and authentic contribution. Something I’ve always known. I’m not looking for the spotlight. I’m looking for the right fit.

That’s why I’m now writing more publicly. I’ve embarked on an MA in Creative Writing at York St John University, which I love. Through my blogs, published articles, and platforms like the RSA, I’m slowly making visible a journey that has often been invisible, navigating ADHD, complex trauma, systems that didn’t support me, and work that never quite fit. What’s changed is not my story, but my readiness to share it.

I believe there is space for a different kind of leadership. One that doesn’t rely on performance or loudness. One that honours reflection, partnership, and depth.

A Quiet Reflection on Recognition and Voice

And as I’ve reflected more deeply, I realise I’m in a position I never sought, building something out of necessity, not aspiration. Yes, I launched a social enterprise with insight and great creativity that I have always had, identifying a gap of need at the time. But that happened because I couldn’t find meaningful work elsewhere. I didn’t fit the mould. And while I was masking for survival, I was also battling the NHS for recognition of invisible conditions that had shaped my life from childhood.

This isn’t a story of bitterness. It’s one of realism, resilience, quiet hope and sheer determination to do my best. Because I know I’m not alone in this experience with so many people walking similar paths, unseen and under-supported. Not because they lack talent or drive, but because the structures weren’t built with them in mind.

And yet, when stories like ours are finally told, they’re often only heard if delivered through a recognisable voice. If that public figure breaks down, seeks help, or speaks out, it’s a moment of national conversation. But when it’s someone like me or indeed like so many others, it can feel like those same truths land in silence.

Let me be clear, I’m not against celebrities speaking out. Many use their platforms to raise awareness around ADHD, trauma, and neurodivergence, and that visibility has its place. But they can afford to. They often have access to therapy, support, media, recovery, and a sympathetic public ready to listen. But what about the rest of us?

So this is an invitation, not for followers, but for collaborators. People and places who might resonate with this kind of approach. I’m exploring work that sits at the intersection of inclusion, storytelling, systems change, and support. I want to work alongside others to help make meaningful change. If that speaks to you, I’d love to hear from you.

Because not all changemakers look the same. Some of us are building a quieter revolution.

Postscript:
If you've read this far, thank you. I share not because I seek the spotlight, but because I believe stories like mine, like many of ours, deserve space too. Quiet truths matter. And they can shape change when told with honesty and care. If this spoke to something in you, I hope it reminds you that your voice also counts, whether or not it's amplified by a stage.

If you're interested, the book is titled Neurodiversity and Entrepreneurship 2024 Emerald Publishing.

You can also read my earlier blog, A New Year, A New Chapter, which set the stage for this shift.