What volunteering taught me about authentic leadership

Leadership can look remarkably polished from a distance. In broadcasting, the set is bright, the questions are sharp, and every contribution has a visible role. In my work as a presenter, journalist, author and speaker, I have learned how quickly people equate composure with command. A microphone, a byline or a packed room can create an illusion of certainty. The most useful leadership lessons, however, came from a place with no script and no interest in my CV.

During one of my volunteering experiences, I joined a community meal service in Melbourne. I expected to be given a neat task and a reassuring sense of purpose. Instead, I helped receive deliveries, wipe tables, refill tea urns and keep a small serving area orderly while volunteers from different backgrounds worked shoulder to shoulder. The organisation operated with the lean resources common to many Australian not-for-profits: a few paid coordinators, a committed roster of regulars, and a timetable that changed when a school holiday arrived or a supplier ran late.

What struck me was the tone. The welcome was warm but practical. A coordinator greeted our group with Australian directness: “Grab an apron, ask if you’re unsure, and we’ll show you how we do things.” There was plenty of easy banter, but nobody confused friendliness with vague responsibility. “No worries” softened a handover; it did not excuse a missed task. This was a very different performance of leadership from the studio, where clarity travels through a microphone rather than across a table.

That experience changed the way I think about authority. Authentic leadership is not a personality type that happens to appear on camera. It is a daily practice of service, attention and honest work. It also widened my understanding of the platform I founded, This Girl Is On Fire: empowering women works best when leaders model how to take responsibility, remain teachable and build others up rather than waiting for applause.

Leadership starts with service

The first lesson was simple: service sets the standard. A volunteer does not get to call herself a leader because she has taken charge of a shift. She becomes useful by arriving prepared, learning the local system and accepting that the outcome belongs to the community, not to her résumé. That distinction keeps ego in its proper place.

I learned this while trying not to slow the line. A spare pair of hands still needs direction, and confidence is no substitute for a clean apron, labelled trays and an accurate count. The coordinator checked details without criticising; she named what was working and what needed attention. My background in broadcasting may describe the visible work, but the kitchen taught me the less glamorous foundations: prepare, listen, adjust and leave the place better than you found it.

This matters in corporate settings too. Event hosts and speakers are often rewarded for energy and control, yet audiences remember whether a team felt supported or merely managed. Service-first leadership creates a different atmosphere. People know what is expected, why it matters and whom to turn to. That clarity is more durable than a dramatic entrance, particularly when the work is serving people rather than selling a message.

Humility opens the door to learning

Volunteering placed me among people whose expertise I did not possess. I knew how to read a studio, shape a conversation and deliver a keynote. The volunteer coordinator knew how the regulars took their tea, which families needed particular trays, and how to calm a last-minute staffing problem. Recognising that difference was not performative modesty; it was basic competence.

Humility also meant noticing where my own habits could get in the way. I initially wanted to improve everything. A local supervisor suggested I first watch how the room worked, because volunteers had developed shortcuts that made sense in their environment. That advice was both generous and practical. In Australia’s egalitarian workplace culture, a title rarely guarantees deference; competence and approach do. A leader who listens can gain trust quickly, even from a room of strangers.

That kind of self-awareness matters because empathy without practical follow-through can become sentiment. The useful question is not only whether you care, but whether your actions remove a real obstacle for someone else. I moved from wanting to offer answers to asking better questions: What had worked before? Who had been overlooked? What would make this easier for the person who arrived after me? Those questions turned leadership into a shared act of interpretation and made me more useful in my professional work.

Listening is a leadership skill

At the meal service, the most important information was often quiet. A volunteer might hesitate before opening a tin of beans, a regular might say the chairs were difficult to reach, or a delivery driver might explain that the crates had been left in the sun. Authenticity depends on noticing these small signals, because leadership that ignores them is merely efficient at the wrong thing.

Years of preparing media interviews taught me to listen for what is said beneath the rehearsed answer. The same discipline helped on the volunteer floor. I began to see the difference between hearing a request and understanding it. A shooting and observation guide I encountered during media work offered a useful parallel: a camera trained only on the wide shot misses expressions, gestures and context, just as a leader focused on the headline can miss the human detail that determines whether an event feels welcoming or exclusionary.

Listening also required restraint. Not every person’s story needed to become content, and gratitude did not give me permission to turn a vulnerable moment into a headline. I learned to ask permission, explain the purpose of a photograph and step away when someone wanted privacy. That restraint is a form of respect. Trust grows when people know that access to their circumstances will not be used carelessly, and a leader who listens without taking over helps others find their own voice.

Trust is built through reliability

Once listening shaped my attention, reliability gave it substance. The coordinator trusted volunteers with the urn because they arrived on time, remembered the routine and reported a problem early. She did not need to supervise every movement. Trust had been assembled from repeated small acts, none glamorous enough for a speech but strong enough to support a whole service.

Many Australian companies organise employee volunteering days or offer paid leave for community work, making the charity sector part of the people and culture landscape rather than a separate world. In those settings, teams may be casual in conversation and still demand punctuality, clear handovers and follow-through. In a lean charity, one absent person can place real pressure on the rest; in a busy event company, one unconfirmed detail can become a safety issue or a poor guest experience. Reliability means understanding dependencies rather than merely completing your own visible task.

I began applying that lesson outside volunteering. Before an event, I ask what could fail quietly: missing access information, unclear responsibilities, an exhausted team member, a promised resource that was never booked. This is not glamorous checklist theatre. It is respect for the people carrying the work. When something does go wrong, saying “I knew and did not act” is not leadership. Naming the gap, taking ownership and communicating early rebuilds trust far better than blame.

Boundaries protect meaningful work

A surprising lesson was that authentic leadership requires a healthy no. Volunteers with overloaded schedules often continued because they did not want to disappoint anyone. The coordinator had to create permission to decline extra shifts, yet also ensure critical roles were covered. Saying no was presented as good stewardship of the team, not a lack of commitment.

Commercial opportunities can create a parallel trap. A polished invitation may sound like visibility, but visibility is not the same as alignment. My reflections on declining poor fits came from learning that every yes consumes energy and sends a signal about what matters. An event or brand that conflicts with your values can dilute your credibility and prevent you from offering the audience your best.

In the Australian corporate speaking market, visibility can open doors quickly, yet organisers and teams still value speakers who can turn a stage into useful insight. Boundaries are not walls, and they are not about sounding important. They protect the quality of your contribution. The point is not to hide from responsibility; it is to accept responsibility for the commitments you do make. When I host or speak, I can remain warm, flexible and ambitious while holding a clear line around preparation, fairness and respect.

Adaptability works best with clear values

Service changes quickly. Deliveries arrive early, volunteers become ill, rain slows a move and the number of guests grows without notice. The kitchen did not need a leader who controlled every variable; it needed someone who could see the new picture and help the team respond. Calm was useful only when paired with a decision.

My approach to handling sudden changes follows the same principle. A last-minute speaking change may be unwelcome, but panicking rarely improves the room. Clarify the brief, identify the essential message, brief the people affected and accept that delivery may look different from the plan. Values remain stable while the format moves. That is why flexible leaders can be trusted: they do not treat a changed plan as a failure of character.

Australian audiences often appreciate directness in moments of disruption. They may say “What’s the plan?” or “Let’s sort it” rather than wait for theatrical reassurance. I respect that plainness. Direct communication does not mean abruptness; it means giving people enough information to act. In volunteering, business or public life, the best response to an unexpected change is usually a simple answer to three questions: what has happened, what will we do and who needs to know?

Turning reflection into everyday leadership

I do not regard that volunteer shift as a symbolic episode that neatly changed my career. Its influence is quieter. It altered my preparation, the questions I ask and the way I watch a team. When I write or speak about resilience, I want the advice to be grounded in real behaviour, not motivational slogans. People need to see leadership as something they can practise in ordinary moments.

Two sets of habits now travel with me. The first shapes what I do while serving:

• Arrive early enough to learn the local rhythm, not merely claim credit for the task.
• Ask for context, then listen for what has not been said.
• Make the handover clear and leave the next person better equipped.

The second carries into professional leadership:

• Say yes to aligned work, even when it is less visible.
• Decline work that conflicts with values or exceeds healthy capacity.
• Communicate changes plainly, protect standards and admit mistakes early.

These habits are relevant to the work I do with organisations, audiences and event teams. They also matter for women who are often expected to be confident, accommodating and endlessly useful without being given real authority. For women balancing health pressures, caring responsibilities and professional ambition, setting boundaries and taking charge of conditions is empowerment, not selfishness. Through This Girl Is On Fire and my speaking work, I want to model a version of success that includes other people’s dignity and the ability to sustain it.

The volunteer experience gave me a better definition of authenticity. It is not performing certainty, collecting credit or making a busy day look effortless. It is taking responsibility for the conditions around your contribution. Leaders earn trust by serving competently, adapting without losing their values and making space for other voices. When we lead in that way, leadership stops being a spotlight and becomes a practice people can feel.