I was on my morning walk along the Yarra River in Melbourne when I saw them.
A dad, walking along, his little girl sitting up in the pram with a tiny beanie on. He was singing to her. Completely absorbed. Eyes only for her.
People were running past him. Riding past. I was walking towards him. The path was busy. And his eyes never lifted once.
He didn’t notice any of us. He didn’t care how his voice sounded. He wasn’t performing for anyone. He was just completely, entirely there.
It was the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in a while, and it got me thinking.
My very next thought was: would I do that?
Would I sing out loud on a busy path, with people flowing past me in both directions?
Honestly? No. Because I’d feel self-conscious about my voice. I’ve never loved the sound of it. In fact, I held off starting my podcast for years because of it. Years. The Leading You podcast almost didn’t exist because I couldn’t get past what I thought my voice sounded like to other people.
Who the hell cares!
And that’s exactly the point.
We hold ourselves back for an audience that isn’t paying attention.
Research backs this up. Constantly monitoring how we come across, editing ourselves, performing a version of ourselves we think others want to see, is linked to increased stress and lower wellbeing. We pay a real psychological price for the performance.
And for women, it runs deeper. Research on women and voice found that our relationship to how we sound is often a reflection of cultural conditioning we’ve absorbed over years. We second-guess our tone, our pitch, our delivery. We wonder if we’re too much, or not enough. We soften, qualify, edit.
I know I did. I used to hold back what I said for fear of how it would land. I shaped myself around the room I was in, the expectations I thought people had of me. I played a version of myself I thought was safer. More palatable. Less likely to be judged.
And what did that cost me? Genuineness. Presence. The kind of connection that actually matters.
Further research found that when people feel free to be themselves, they’re significantly more likely to speak up, challenge what isn’t working, and lead with conviction. Authenticity isn’t just a nice idea. It’s what makes leadership actually work.
That dad on the path wasn’t trying to teach me anything. He was just being a dad. Singing to his girl. Present in the most complete way.
But that moment was a reminder I needed.
The most beautiful, connecting, memorable moments don’t happen when we’re distracted or doing. They happen when we stop.
So here’s the question worth sitting with:
Where are you editing yourself for an audience that isn’t asking you to? And what would change if you stopped?