Storms, Snow, and Finding My Place
When the blizzard hit early in the week, it felt almost symbolic. Snow piled high across campus, cars struggled to move, pathways disappeared, and the wind howled relentlessly. For much of that day, people stayed inside, moving between buildings through Harvard’s underground tunnels, grateful simply not to be out in it. Although we did venture out for a bit to experience it first hand.
Then, almost as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm vanished. Tuesday morning broke clear, bright, and brutally cold — minus 12 degrees Celsius. For someone from Australia, this was not just cold; it was a completely different category of cold. I spent part of the afternoon walking around campus simply absorbing it all, breathing in the sharp air, marvelling at the sunlight sparkling across fresh snow, experiencing something entirely new.
Locals probably walk past people like me — stopping, staring, taking photos of snow — with a quiet smile. But as one of our lecturers said, humans are remarkably adaptable. “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.” I’m starting to think she’s right.
If the blizzard was Harvard’s way of saying hello, the days that followed were its way of reminding me why I came.
By midweek, the campus had settled into an intense but purposeful rhythm. People moved quickly, conversations were animated, and everywhere there was a sense that something significant was happening. Inside the classrooms, this wasn’t learning in the traditional sense. There were no passive lectures. Instead, there were debates, challenges and moments of silence and reflection.
And the people — extraordinary in the truest sense. Leaders from all over the world, each carrying stories of decisions made under pressure, organisations transformed, crises navigated. Yet the striking thing was not ego, but curiosity. People were genuinely interested in learning from one another.
At first, I felt the familiar flicker of imposter syndrome. What was I doing here among these individuals? But as the discussions unfolded, something changed. Harvard had not invited job titles. It had invited lived experience. My experiences — successes, failures, scars, and all belonged.
One comment from a lecturer has stayed with me. Leadership, he said, is not about having all the answers. It’s about having the courage to sit with the questions. In a world that rewards speed and certainty, that idea felt both uncomfortable and strangely liberating.
Outside the classroom, the learning continued in quieter ways. Over coffee, meals, and chance encounters in hallways, the polished public stories gave way to the real ones. Doubts. Missteps. Decisions that kept people awake at night. Leadership, stripped of mythology, revealed as a deeply human endeavour.
The gym became a sanctuary of sorts. I managed to get there a couple of times during the week, and it quickly became more than just a place to exercise. I also took my first ever Yoga class. Wow. It was somewhere to decompress, to clear the head, and unexpectedly, to connect. Conversations started easily there. Titles disappeared. We were just people trying to stay sane amid an intense experience.
Saturday afternoon brought a different kind of relief. A group of us walked into downtown Boston, heading towards the harbour. After days of structured schedules, simply wandering felt liberating. We followed parts of the Freedom Trail, passing the Old State House, moving through Quincy Market, and along the waterfront at Harbourside. The city felt historic and alive at the same time.
As we walked, we imagined what this same place would look like when we return for the spring session. No snowbanks. Warmer air. Outdoor cafés. The contrast between winter Boston and what lies ahead became a metaphor for the program itself — demanding now, but promising something lighter later.
Not all adventures were graceful. One afternoon, walking alone, I slipped on melting snow. The fall did more damage to my ego than anything else, but it was a sharp reminder of how treacherous conditions can be as winter begins to thaw. Snow may look pristine, but underneath it can hide ice, water, and instability. A useful life lesson, perhaps.
Saturday night was special in a different way. The Australian cohort gathered for dinner, and it was fantastic to relax with fellow Aussies in an environment that felt instantly familiar. Until then, there hadn’t been much opportunity to connect deeply as a group. That evening changed things. The conversation flowed easily, laughter came naturally, and for a few hours Boston felt a little closer to home.
More importantly, something clicked. I realised I was no longer just attending a program — I was part of a community. Our cohort had begun to gel, not just professionally but personally. The shared experience of intensity, uncertainty, and discovery was bonding us in ways that are hard to manufacture artificially.
Being here on my own has amplified everything. Without my usual support network, every small success feels significant. Navigating campus in sub-zero temperatures. Entering rooms full of strangers. Starting conversations that matter. Each moment stretches you a little further. Take Friday night, my first experience of an Ice Hockey game, a new place to navigate to in a new environment. As usual the support was just fantastic. Thank you Shilo!
By the end of the week, the fear that accompanied my arrival had not disappeared, but it had transformed. It had become respect — respect for the opportunity, for the people around me, and for the work ahead.
One evening, walking back to my room under a crystal-clear sky, the campus glowing softly against the snow, I felt something shift. Not mastery, not certainty, but a sense of place.
Week Two began with a storm that shut everything down. It ended with a quiet confidence that growth often starts exactly that way — uncomfortable, disorienting, and impossible to ignore.
And I have a strong sense that this journey is only just going to get better.
