I was invited back to my old secondary school this week to speak at their speech day.

On paper, it was a fairly straightforward brief. Five to ten minutes. A reflection on my journey since leaving. Something loosely described as “inspirational” for Year 12 students receiving their GCSE certificates, and for those just joining the sixth form.

In reality, it felt anything but straightforward.

Returning to the place where your academic identity first took shape has a way of sharpening memories. Not just of achievement, but of pressure. Of expectation. Of the quiet fear that you might already be getting it wrong.

I chose to speak honestly.

Not about a neat, linear path. Not about having a plan and executing it perfectly. But about zig-zags. About doors that closed. About the moment I realised that universities wanted an A-level I could not realistically achieve in the time I had, and that experiential learning was not valued in the way it increasingly is today. About letting go of childhood ambitions, including the one where I wanted to be a doctor, and finding a different way to give something back through healthcare and education.

I spoke about radiography. About teaching. About the long period where I treated my work in education as a side project, before realising it was actually the main story.

And I spoke about something I did not have the language for at their age.

I spoke about discovering, much later in life, that I am autistic and have ADHD. About how much of my early academic life was spent working harder to fit in, to keep up, to mask. And about the shift that came with understanding that difference is not a deficit, but a different way of seeing the world. One that can be demanding, yes, but also deeply valuable.

I had no idea how that would land.

What happened afterwards mattered more than the applause.

I’ve been reflecting since on how strange it feels to be asked to give an “inspirational” speech when I don’t experience myself as an inspirational person. When people talk about “inspirational” speakers, I think many of us picture CEOs, high-profile leaders, or people who have achieved something extraordinary and unmistakable. We don’t usually picture someone like me.

What I offered instead was honesty. About constraint. About changing direction. About the ways systems shape what is possible at different moments, and how long it can take to make sense of who you are within them.

What I was really trying to offer was not a set of answers, but a space to reflect. Some of that reflection might happen now. Some of it might not make sense until much later. And that felt important too.

The school’s SEN team stayed behind to talk. We spoke about neurodivergent students, about radiography, about university, and about what meaningful support can look like. They asked if I would be willing to stay in touch.

A parent came up to thank me for what I had said. They told me the speech was “right on the nose”. That even the students didn’t fully appreciate it yet, they were certain they would in the future. That comment has stayed with me.

And then I was handed a bunch of flowers. Completely unexpected. A small gesture, but one that carried weight.

Driving home, I kept thinking about how rarely we make space for this kind of honesty in education. We celebrate outcomes well, but we struggle to sit with uncertainty, constraint, and difference, even though those are the realities most people are navigating.

Grammar schools, universities, and professional environments are very good at rewarding certainty. They are less comfortable acknowledging that many paths only make sense in hindsight, and that progress is often shaped as much by systems as by individual effort.

What stayed with me most was not the speech itself, but what came after. The conversations that lingered. The questions asked quietly. The unexpected gesture at the end of the day. Those moments reminded me that impact is not always immediate or visible, and it is rarely loud.

Sometimes it shows up later, when someone hits their first real setback and remembers they are allowed to pivot.

And sometimes, it shows up as a small bunch of flowers at the end of the day, a reminder that honesty really does find its audience.