Chapter One

Before I Learned to See the World, I Learned to See People

When I think back to my childhood, it isn't birthdays or Christmas mornings that come rushing back to me. It isn't even school.

It's my mother.

Some of my earliest memories begin in a small brick nursing home in Beenleigh, Queensland, Australia. It sat just across the main road from my school, close enough that, when the afternoon bell rang, I could be there within a few minutes. While other children made their way home, I'd cross the road and walk through the front doors of the nursing home where my mother worked.

I can still picture that building as though I were standing outside it today. It wasn't grand or particularly beautiful, but to me it was a place filled with kindness. The moment the heavy front doors closed behind me, I was greeted by the familiar smell of food, polished floors, fresh linen, disinfectant, and afternoon tea drifting through the corridors. It was the smell of caring. It was the smell of people looking after one another. More than anything, it was the smell of my mum.

Most afternoons, Mum didn't even know I was there. I never announced myself. Instead, I'd quietly wander the corridors until I found her, then I would stand back and watch her. She had a way about her. She was so caring and kind, and she loved her patients. I don't know why I was so fascinated. Perhaps even then, I knew there was something special about the way she cared for people. She never rushed, and she never made anyone feel like a burden.

She somehow had the remarkable ability to make every person she met feel as though they were the only person in the room.

Years later, people would ask me where my heart for serving others came from.

It came from watching her.

My mother often spoke about the residents who had been forgotten. She would tell me that growing old could be lonely, especially for those whose families had stopped visiting. She believed no one should ever feel invisible simply because they had reached the later years of their life. "Everyone has a story," she would often say, and she believed every one of those stories deserved to be honoured.

As a little girl, I listened.

As a woman, I finally understood.

Sometimes Mum would ask if I could spend a little time with one of the residents while she finished caring for someone else. I never thought twice about it. I would happily wander into their rooms, pull up a chair, and simply keep them company.

There was one gentleman I will never forget. Years before, he had been involved in a diving accident that left him paralysed. He couldn't speak, and communicating with him wasn't easy. His family had long stopped coming to visit, and, over time, the nursing home had quietly become the place where he would spend the rest of his life.

Yet every time I walked into his room, his whole face would light up. I didn't have any special skills. I wasn't a nurse. I was simply an eleven-year-old girl who played cards with him, helped him with his lunch when I could, and sat quietly beside him on afternoons that might otherwise have been spent alone.

At that age, I didn't understand what loneliness really was. I didn't understand what it must feel like to wait for someone who never came. I simply knew that he smiled when I walked through the door.

Looking back now, I realise that he gave me one of the greatest gifts of my childhood.

He taught me that people rarely remember the grand gestures. More often than not, it's our presence that matters. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another human being is simply letting them know they haven't been forgotten.

As I spent time with the residents, I also continued watching my mother. There are certain things about her I'll never forget. To this day, I have never seen anyone make a bed the way she could. Every corner was tucked with absolute precision. The sheets were perfectly smooth. There wasn't a wrinkle to be found. As a little girl, I thought she simply liked things neat.

Now I know better. She wasn't making beds. She was restoring dignity.

She believed every resident deserved to feel respected, cared for, and important. Whether anyone noticed her work or not mattered. Excellence wasn't something she turned on when people were watching. It was simply who she was.

As I grew older, I realised something else.

My mother never once sat me down and told me how to live my life.

She didn't have to.

She lived it in front of me every single day.

Without ever knowing it, she taught me that the measure of a person's character isn't found in the titles they hold or the recognition they receive. It's found in the quiet moments when no one is watching, and they choose kindness anyway.

I often say that serving others is in my DNA. That isn't just a nice phrase.

It's my life story.

It was born in the corridors of a small brick nursing home in Beenleigh, watching an extraordinary woman quietly remind people that they still mattered.

It was there, long before I travelled the world, long before television, long before real estate or leadership, that I inherited the belief that has guided every chapter of my life since.

That every person deserves to feel seen, heard, and valued.