When I think back to when I applied for the Laidlaw Programme, I honestly didn’t have a fully formed idea of what kind of leader I wanted to be. I just knew I cared deeply about research, about asking questions that mattered, and about trying to make some kind of difference, however small, in the world around me. I wasn’t sure what leadership meant beyond the textbook definitions or those glossy TED Talk versions of “inspiration” we’re so used to seeing. I thought maybe leadership would look like being the loudest person in the room, or the one with the master plan. But what I’ve learned through this entire journey, across the two summers, the leadership weekends, the research, the calls and the kids in Armenia, is that real leadership is much messier, quieter, and more personal than I thought.

The Laidlaw Programme gave me two big things: the space to explore leadership on my own terms, and the structure to push me past my comfort zone. Both were essential. If I had just been thrown into a leadership role without any kind of support or reflection framework, I think I might’ve defaulted to what I thought a “good leader” should be. But the leadership training weekends, and especially the one at the start, forced me to look inward first. That first session felt like someone had cracked open my chest and asked me to figure out what I actually stood for. I still remember the exercise where we had to name our values, mine were curiosity, compassion, and trust. At the time, I wrote them down because they sounded right. Now, after two years of living them in some intense, often uncomfortable, and sometimes hilarious real-world situations, I know those three words really are central to how I want to lead.

The leadership training was a strange mix of energizing and humbling. There were moments where I felt like I could actually see myself growing in real time, like when we practiced giving and receiving feedback, or the sessions on servant leadership and vulnerability. But there were also moments that exposed my blind spots. I used to think being emotionally resilient meant powering through. I learned that resilience actually has more to do with learning how to pause, breathe, ask for help, and be okay with not always having the answer.

Which brings me to Colombia.

The Leadership-in-Action summer in Armenia, working with Tejiendo Sueños de Esperanza, was probably one of the most intense and transformative things I’ve ever done. It was also the most exhausting. We arrived to the chaos of noise, color, heat, street dogs, and laughter. Every day felt like a whirlwind, playing games with the kids, improvising English lessons, getting used to the rhythm of the community. And then, in the cracks of it all, trying to conduct research on how Mobile School’s trauma-informed materials could actually be used meaningfully in this context.

Our project was hands-on, emotional, and sometimes really tough to navigate. I’ll be honest: the first two weeks, I felt overwhelmed and a little helpless. How was I supposed to lead when I didn’t even know what the right next step was? But I kept journaling, twice a week, as I’d committed, and that small act of reflection became a lifeline. I would sit down and write about what had challenged me that day, whether it was trying to comfort a crying child, or realizing that our lesson plan was completely misaligned with the kids’ energy levels. And I’d ask myself: What did I try? What did I learn? Where can I do better tomorrow?

But leadership in Colombia wasn’t just about lesson plans or team coordination. It was about holding space for things that were sometimes too big to process. The reality we witnessed on the streets of Armenia was hard, heartbreaking, honestly. I think one of the most eye-opening things was the level of poverty, and how deeply intertwined it was with violence, addiction, and neglect. We met kids as young as six or seven who were either completely alone or shouldering the burden of caring for a parent, usually a mother, addicted to drugs. Some were working full-time just to bring home enough to buy food. Or worse, to buy drugs for their parents so they wouldn’t be beaten or thrown out.

One day we gave out shoes on the street, thinking it would be a small act of kindness. But the second we opened the bags, it felt like we were in a refugee camp. There was pushing, shouting, people crying. Some tried to take extra pairs to resell, likely to buy drugs. Others were just desperate not to be forgotten. It was intense, not chaotic, but deeply human. I remember locking eyes with this boy, maybe ten years old, who grabbed a size that was clearly too small. He said it didn’t matter, he’d figure it out. What do you even say to that?

One of the kids showed us cuts on his hands from being beaten for wearing the “wrong” football jersey in a certain part of the neighbourhood. Another told us, very matter-of-factly, that his father had died and his mother was in prison, so he was living with a friend’s family. There was no bitterness in his voice, just this quiet acceptance of reality that no child should have.

And yet, despite all that, we were constantly being surprised by people’s generosity. These kids would offer us snacks they’d just bought with their last few coins. A teenage volunteer spent her entire afternoon helping us translate and refused any money or thanks. Parents, even if visibly exhausted or struggling, would still come up and thank us for being there. The humility we encountered was unlike anything I’ve ever known.

What does leadership mean when you’re faced with a reality like that? It’s not about fixing things, because we couldn’t. It’s not about pretending you understand, because we didn’t. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when you’re overwhelmed, even when your privilege makes you feel useless. It’s about learning to lead with presence, respect, and above all, humility.

I think the biggest shift I felt was in how I understood “impact.” Before, I thought impact had to be big. Now I see that offering someone your full attention, or giving them a space to laugh, or even helping them tell their story more clearly, those things are impact. They don’t fix poverty or addiction, but they do say: “You matter. You’re not invisible.” And that might be enough for that moment.

One of the biggest leadership lessons I’ve taken away from this is that presence matters more than perfection. The kids didn’t care if I had a fancy worksheet or a perfect lesson. What they cared about was whether I showed up fully, whether I looked them in the eye, played with them, remembered their names, listened when they told me about their day. That was the kind of leadership they responded to: grounded, human, consistent.

Working with Gabriel and Oliver also taught me a lot about collaborative leadership. We were different in personality and working styles, but we found a rhythm that worked. We had weekly debriefs, called each other out gently when someone was overcommitting or losing steam, and leaned on each other more than once. There was a particular moment I won’t forget: I was having a rough week, burned out, emotionally drained, and doubting myself. Gabriel pulled me aside and just said, “You don’t have to do everything alone.” That reminder, simple as it was, felt like a turning point.

We also ended up creating Tejiendo Sueños de Esperanza’s entire online presence from scratch, something that hadn’t existed before. From building their website to filming and editing videos that introduced the kids and told the story of the project, we tried to give Tejiendo Sueños de Esperanza a digital identity that matched the beauty and resilience we saw on the ground. It wasn’t glamorous work, just hours of capturing moments, translating stories, picking the right music or visuals, but it felt deeply meaningful. That process taught me that good leadership isn’t always about being out front. Sometimes it looks like amplifying someone else’s voice, making their work more visible to the world, and stepping back so they can be seen.

The intercultural aspect of the programme was also eye-opening. Between my research on historical women in mathematics, the first summer’s archival deep dives, and this second summer in the field with an NGO in Colombia, I had to constantly shift my perspective. Academic rigour and empathy don’t always sit easily together, but through Laidlaw, I learned how to hold both. I learned how to speak across differences, not just language differences, but worldview differences. How to listen deeply, to understand before jumping to “solutions.” How to honour another culture’s way of doing things without trying to “fix” it.

This brings me to what I gained from the overall programme. More than any one skill or achievement, Laidlaw gave me a deep sense of self-trust. Before, I often second-guessed myself, my instincts, my decisions, my worth in a room. Now, I still question myself (I think that’s healthy), but I do it from a place of curiosity, not self-doubt. I’ve grown more comfortable with discomfort. I’ve learned how to speak up when something doesn’t sit right. I’ve learned how to step back when someone else has the better idea. And I’ve learned that sometimes, leadership is just quietly showing up, again and again, especially when it’s hard.

The networking side of the programme was also meaningful in ways I didn’t anticipate. Whether it was Zoom calls with scholars from other universities, leadership webinars, or our group project meetings with Arnoud Raskin (founder of Mobile School), I was constantly learning from other people’s approaches, mistakes, and convictions. Arnoud, in particular, had this grounded charisma that really stayed with me, he led from belief, not ego. That’s something I want to emulate.

Looking forward, I’m not exactly sure what path I’ll take, maybe data science, maybe further research, maybe social impact work. But I do know that being a Laidlaw Scholar has reshaped how I see my place in the world. I no longer feel like I need to wait to be “ready” to lead. I know now that leadership is something you grow into by doing, by listening, by messing up, and by trying again.

As for how I want to give back to the programme, I already feel such a strong sense of responsibility to do so. The resources, support, and trust I was given? I want to pass that on. I want to mentor future scholars, especially those who might feel like leadership isn’t “for people like them.” I’d love to be involved in reviewing applications, speaking at Laidlaw events, or even supporting other group LiA projects that are still forming. I also plan to stay connected through the Scholars Network, sharing resources, experiences, and hopefully publishing more of my work. I’m currently revising my research on The Ladies’ Diary and the role of women in early mathematics, and I’d love to continue that conversation within the Laidlaw alumni community.

In the end, the biggest shift I’ve experienced is this: I used to think leadership was about being in charge. Now I think it’s about being in service, of a vision, of a community, of a shared future. I’m grateful, humbled, and honestly still surprised by how much this programme has shaped me. And while this may be the “final output,” I know this isn’t the end. It’s just the end of the beginning.