Category: business

Somewhere along the line, many of us were taught that being cruel to ourselves is a sign of ambition.

That if we constantly criticise ourselves, pick ourselves apart and focus on every flaw, we’ll somehow become better.

More successful.
More disciplined.
More impressive.

But there’s a very big difference between constructive self-evaluation and toxic self-criticism.

One helps you grow.

The other quietly destroys your confidence while pretending to be productive.

Self-evaluation sounds like:

“I didn’t prepare thoroughly enough for that meeting. Next time I’ll allow myself more prep time.”

Self-criticism sounds like:

“I always mess things up. I’m useless at this.”

One focuses on behaviour.
The other attacks identity.

That distinction matters more than people realise.

Because when criticism becomes personal, mistakes stop feeling temporary.
They start feeling permanent.

And once that happens, growth becomes much harder.

Most of us would never speak to another person the way we speak to ourselves.

If a friend stumbled during a presentation, forgot a point in a meeting, or got nervous speaking in front of people, you probably wouldn’t respond with:

“Well that was humiliating. Clearly you’re incompetent.”

You’d encourage them.
You’d reassure them.
You’d help them improve.

Yet internally, many of us go from “minor mistake” to “complete character assassination” in under ten seconds.

Humans are strange creatures.

Nature is full of examples of animals harming themselves under stress.

Bees sting despite the fact it kills them.
Some spiders eat their mates.
Tarsiers — tiny primates with giant eyes that look vaguely haunted — have been known to repeatedly bash their heads against trees when distressed.

Which, honestly, feels emotionally accurate after watching yourself back on camera or replaying an awkward conversation in your head at 2am.

But humans have their own version of self-destruction:
we turn moments into identities.

A bad meeting becomes:

“I’m bad at my job.”

A failed relationship becomes:

“I’m impossible to love.”

A mistake becomes:

“I always ruin everything.”

That isn’t self-awareness.
That’s emotional vandalism.

Real self-evaluation should always focus on solutions rather than blame.

What worked?
What didn’t?
What can I improve?
What would I do differently next time?

That’s growth.

Because mistakes are supposed to teach us — not define us.

Ironically, the people who are most capable often judge themselves the harshest.
They minimise what they did well and magnify every flaw until they can no longer see themselves clearly at all.

And perhaps that’s the real skill:
learning how to evaluate yourself honestly without becoming cruel in the process.

To recognise mistakes without turning them into identity.
To improve without self-destruction.
To grow without shame.

So maybe we should all spend a little less time behaving like stressed tarsiers.

And a little more time behaving like dolphins.

They seem to learn pretty quickly without smashing their heads into trees.

One of my biggest pet hates in sales has always been that ridiculous phrase:

“I could sell ice to an Eskimo.”

Years ago, I was running a sales training session. Probably 20 or 30 people in the room. And one bloke proudly announced:

“You can’t teach me anything. I’m the type of salesman that can sell ice to Eskimos.”

And honestly… I went straight off on one.

Because no. You can’t.

Or at least, you shouldn’t want to.

So I stopped the session and said:
“Alright then. Sell me ice.”

“I’m an Eskimo.
I sit on ice.
I sleep on ice.
I live surrounded by ice.
Every direction I look for the next hundred miles is ice.

So tell me exactly how you’re planning to sell me more ice?”

And he completely fell apart.

Because the whole phrase is nonsense.

But more than that, I actually think it says something quite arrogant about the way some people view sales.

Because if you genuinely believe that being brilliant at sales means convincing someone to buy something they clearly don’t need, then what you’re really saying is:
“I think my customers are stupid.”

And that’s probably the worst mindset you can possibly have.

People are not thick.

In fact, one of the biggest mistakes salespeople make is assuming they’re the cleverest person in the conversation.

Most of the time, they’re not.

Customers usually know far more than you think they do.
They know when they’re being worked.
They know when something feels forced.
They know when someone’s reading from a script.
And they definitely know when someone is trying to manipulate them into buying pointless crap.

You might get away with that once.

But trust me — nobody gets manipulated repeatedly forever.
Eventually people feel it.
And once trust has gone, it’s game over.

That’s why I’ve always believed real sales has far less to do with talking… and far more to do with listening.

Actually no — not even just listening.

Observing.

Watching.

Understanding.

Because sometimes customers don’t even tell you directly what the problem is.
Sometimes you have to properly see it.

And that’s where the Eskimo story changes completely.

Because no — you probably can’t sell him more ice.

But imagine this.

You notice he’s surrounded by frozen water.
You notice the challenge isn’t lack of ice…
it’s what the ice stops him doing.

And suddenly you reach into your pocket and pull out a lighter.

Now we’re talking.

Now you’ve got something genuinely valuable.

This tiny little thing suddenly:

• creates heat
• melts ice into water
• provides warmth
• creates possibility
• solves problems

So imagine what that lighter becomes worth to the Eskimo.

Probably far more than the ice ever was.

And I think that’s the difference between bad sales and great sales.

Bad sales is trying to force people to want what you’ve already decided to sell.

Great sales is understanding people well enough to recognise what actually improves their life, solves their problem, removes stress, creates opportunity or makes things easier.

That’s why the best salespeople I’ve ever met were rarely the smoothest talkers.

They were the people who:

• listened properly
• paid attention
• understood human behaviour
• noticed frustration
• spotted gaps
• recognised emotional needs as well as practical ones

And then connected the right thing to the right person.

Not manipulation.

Not trickery.

Not “hard closing”.

Just understanding people properly.

Ironically, the people most obsessed with “sales tricks” are often the weakest salespeople of all.

Because if your whole strategy relies on being smarter than your customer, eventually you’ll meet customers smarter than you.

Whereas if your strategy is built around genuinely understanding people, solving problems and creating value, you never really need to “sell” in the traditional sense anyway.

People naturally move towards things that make sense to them.

Which is exactly why you should stop trying to sell ice to Eskimos…

…and start figuring out who desperately needs a lighter.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about change.

Not the kind we talk about.

The kind we feel — when something that used to work… just doesn’t anymore.

And it reminded me of a book I was introduced to in my very first sales role, nearly 25 years ago:

Who Moved My Cheese?

Simple story. Big lesson.

The Setup

It’s set in a maze.

Four characters:

Two mice: Sniff and Scurry Two “little people”: Hem and Haw

All searching for the same thing:

Cheese — their version of success, happiness, security… whatever that means to them.

Two Very Different Approaches

Sniff and Scurry keep it simple.

-They don’t overthink.

-They don’t overanalyse.

-If the cheese isn’t there…

They move.

Hem and Haw?

-They plan.

-They analyse.

-They try to figure it all out.

But ironically — the more they think, the more stuck they become.

Sound familiar?

Then It Happens

They all find a cheese station.

-Life’s good.

-Predictable.

-Comfortable.

…..Too comfortable.

Hem and Haw stop running.

They hang up their trainers.

Until one day…

The cheese is gone.

What Happens Next Is Everything

Sniff and Scurry?

-They don’t panic.

-They don’t complain.

-They don’t ask “who moved it?”

They just go back into the maze.

Hem and Haw?

-They stay.

-Waiting.

-Questioning.

-Getting frustrated.

-Blaming.

Hoping the cheese will come back.

(It won’t.)

Eventually, Haw makes a move.

Not because he’s ready.

Not because he’s confident.

Because staying where he is has become more painful than moving.

And Here’s The Bit Most People Miss

When Haw finally finds new cheese…

-It’s better.

-There’s more of it.

-Better quality.

And he realises something uncomfortable:

👉 The signs were always there

👉 The cheese was always going to run out

👉 He just ignored it

Let’s Bring This Back to Reality

Because this isn’t about mice.

It’s about us:

In business.

In life.

🏁 How often do we:

Stick with what’s familiar because it used to work Ignore the signs because change feels uncomfortable Overthink instead of just… moving

Sniff & Scurry vs Hem & Haw (In Real Life)

Sniff & Scurry energy:

-Action over analysis Play to your strengths Move quickly when things shift

Hem & Haw tendencies:

-Waiting for things to “go back to normal” Overthinking every decision Letting fear dress itself up as logic

The Truth No One Loves Hearing

-The cheese will move.

-Your clients will change.

-The market will shift.

What worked last year won’t carry you forever.

And asking:

“Who moved it?”

…is completely irrelevant.

The Only Question That Matters

-Are your trainers still by the door?

-Or did you hang them up because things were going well?

Final Thought

Most people don’t fail because they made the wrong move.

They fail because they didn’t move at all.

If you’re feeling stuck right now — in your business, your results, your momentum — it’s probably not because you’ve lost your ability.

It’s because the cheese moved.

And you haven’t yet.

Time to get back in the maze

Why doing one thing at a time might be the most productive skill you can learn.

(more…)

If I’m honest, imposter syndrome is that guest that always seems to find its way onto the invite list — even when you swear you didn’t send it one.

You know the one. It sits quietly in the corner, smiling politely, while whispering in your ear that you’re not really good enough, experienced enough, clever enough, or ready enough. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t cause a scene. It just slowly seeps in, making you question everything you’ve worked so hard to build.

For me, that guest arrived in full force when I stepped into the hair industry.

I didn’t come in as a 16-year-old apprentice with scissors permanently attached to my hand. Instead, I entered well into my 30s as a Business Development Manager, carrying years of experience in sales, management, business and training. On paper, I looked like a safe bet. In reality? Salons were politely underwhelmed.

To be fair, I wasn’t completely green — I’d trained in nails and run a hair extensions business, so I had a splattering of hair knowledge and a taste of salon life. But that was very different to being fully immersed in the technical, fast-paced, incredibly skilled world I was walking into.

I quickly learned that no amount of business experience impresses anyone if you can’t tell the difference between an 8NB and an 8NA. And honestly? Fair enough. Hair is a craft, a language, a culture — and I respected that.

So rather than pretending I knew everything, I did what felt natural to me.

I listened more than I spoke.

I asked (probably too many) questions.

I watched, absorbed, and engulfed myself completely.

I wasn’t trying to become someone I wasn’t — but I also refused to let what I didn’t yet know define my place in the industry.

Over time, I found my footing.

Not behind the chair, but alongside the people who are. I’ve carved out my space in the overlap between science, business, and real salon life. I’ve thrown myself into making science easier to digest — translating complex ideas into something practical, usable, and genuinely helpful.

I bring my background in business, training and sales to support my partners, salons, and Trichologists to grow. And the beauty of it is that it’s never one-sided.

They teach me. I teach them.

That exchange — that mutual respect — is where the real learning happens.

And yet, even with all of that, imposter syndrome still pops up.

I’ve realised over time that imposter syndrome isn’t reserved for people who are new, inexperienced, or “still learning.” In fact, it seems to have a particular fondness for those of us who care deeply, work hard, and actually give a damn about doing things properly. If anything, it’s often the people who are most capable who feel it the most.

There have been plenty of moments where, on paper, everything looked impressive — experience, successful partnerships, growing projects, rooms full of incredibly talented professionals — yet inside I’ve thought, “Surely they’ll figure out I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” As if at any second someone might tap me on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, we’ve made a mistake. You’re not meant to be here.”

Even now — at 46 — that feeling hasn’t completely disappeared. And that’s okay.

I’m still learning. Constantly.

At 40, I passed my diploma in accountancy and bookkeeping with distinction — not for bragging rights, but because I genuinely wanted to understand things properly. Only recently, I passed my Level 2 in Digital Promotion for Business and completed Trichocare’s Introduction to Trichology course. I read, I research, I ask, I reflect — not because I feel “not enough,” but because I truly believe you can always know more, do better, and deepen your understanding.

But here’s the thing I’ve come to understand: that imposter feeling doesn’t mean you’re a fraud.

It usually means you’re pushing yourself, evolving, and stepping into spaces that matter to you.

Imposter syndrome thrives in growth.

It shows up when you’re doing something new. When you’re taking a risk. When you’re stretching beyond what feels safe. And oddly enough, that’s often when you’re doing your best work.

I’ve started to treat that little voice less like a verdict and more like a signpost. Instead of thinking, “I feel like an imposter, so I must be one,” I try to reframe it as, “I feel like this because I care — and because I’m progressing.”

Some days, that works beautifully. Other days, I still have to remind myself to breathe, trust my experience, and remember that no one has it all figured out — not even the people who look like they do.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re winging it, starting late, taking a different path, or quietly wondering whether you really belong — you’re not alone. You’re not behind. You’re not unqualified. And you’re certainly not an imposter.

You’re just human — growing, learning, questioning, and stepping forward one brave, slightly wobbly step at a time.

And honestly? That’s exactly where the magic happens.

Pull up your chair. You belong here.