My Impossible.

Today I want to talk about something at the heart of every great journey — resilience. Whether you’re leading a team, growing a business, or forging your own path, resilience is what transforms challenges into triumphs.

Resilience is the process, and the outcome, of successfully adapting to difficult or challenging life experiences. Every innovation, every success story, every transformative idea started with someone who refused to give up.

So here’s my story. My journey. My impossible.

At 18 months old, when this photo was taken, I was just learning to walk. Like any toddler. But unlike most toddlers, I was about to learn something far more important — how to adapt.

I don’t remember my first steps. I don’t remember the exact moment my life changed. I was too young to understand what a spinal cord tumour meant, but I was about to learn what it meant to be a fighter before I could even say the word. Cancer of the spinal cord. They removed it — but I was left with permanent damage to the nerves, muscles and tendons of my right leg, and the doctors thought it unlikely I would ever walk properly again.

The age when most toddlers are running into everything, my parents were running me to every doctor they could find. There were multiple surgeries. There wasn’t much anyone could do except leave my parents with a sense of doubt — and a list. A list of limitations, of barriers, of “impossible” things. You can’t do this. You shouldn’t do this. Be careful of that. That’s pretty much what I heard for the next sixteen years.

But they forgot one thing. They were limiting someone who had never learned to accept limits.

I was just a kid who wanted to run, play and fit in. Instead I was facing a battle that would define me forever — and, though I didn’t know it then, reveal my true strength.

In primary school the playground is a lonely place when you’re the kid who moves differently. When you’re the one who can’t run in PE. When you can’t keep up with the games the others are playing. Kids don’t know how to take you. They don’t know what’s wrong with you, so they stare. Kids can be unkind. From that early age I remember being different and wanting, more than anything, to be like everyone else.

As a teenager it only got harder. I struggled with my mental health, and the internal fight felt impossible to win. Some days I couldn’t even look at myself. I was ashamed, embarrassed and angry. I didn’t want to be “brave” or “inspiring”. I just wanted to be normal. All day kids would sneer, make fun, stare — and then I’d get home to nasty messages on the answering machine. There were days when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain, when the whispers cut deeper than any surgical scar.

My parents made me go to school every day. I hated them for it. I begged them to let me drop out. I didn’t understand the lesson they were trying to teach me — but it would shape my mindset, and fuel my determination, for the rest of my life.

You might be wondering why I’m sharing this with you, or how it’s relevant to your life. Because life isn’t about waiting for things to be perfect. It’s about adapting, innovating, and redefining what’s possible.

If I look back now, I’m connecting my dots. From here, they make sense. The hardship I endured was just dots along the journey. My most recent dot: the CrossFit Games in Texas. A dream that seemed impossible.

Think about your dream — the one that seems just out of reach. The goal that makes your heart race but also makes your stomach twist with doubt. That feeling is knowing you’re standing at the edge of something great. It’s a sign you’re alive, that you’re pushing boundaries, that you’re daring to dream beyond what feels comfortable. Every dream worth chasing feels like this. It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to ignite a fire that says: I can, and I will.

Everything changed the day I walked into a CrossFit box. The coach told me to go and pick up a bar and do squats. He was treating me the same as everyone else in the class — and it stopped me in my tracks. Something I’d wanted my whole life. Not being helped. Not being pitied. Just being accepted. He didn’t see limitations. He saw possibilities.

For the first time, someone asked me what I could do instead of assuming what I couldn’t.

My first squats and lunges weren’t pretty. But in that moment I wasn’t the kid with the spinal tumour any more — I was an athlete working on her lunges. My disability didn’t disappear. My focus shifted from what I’d lost to what I could gain. Every adaptation became a puzzle to solve. Movements I thought impossible became challenges to conquer, and slowly the body I had once resented became my source of pride.

In December 2022 I went to DUC and saw other adaptive athletes for the first time. I was blown away. Competing in front of thousands of people, adapting the workouts to suit their bodies. How brave, I thought. Maybe one day I’ll have the confidence to be out there with them. That weekend I went home and researched adaptive CrossFit — and found a whole division of athletes with a range of disabilities, seated, visual, intellectual — and an Adaptive Games. I followed them, mirrored how they trained, learned their stories, and started adapting my own.

In January 2023 I signed up with a coach, who kept floating the idea of competing. I kept saying I wasn’t ready — I didn’t want to be in front of everyone and embarrass myself. At the very least, she said, come and meet her and a bunch of other athletes.

That first step was the Oceania Throwdown, and it was so much more than a test of fitness. I remember walking into the venue with nerves and anticipation coursing through my veins. Then something magical happened. Surrounded by athletes who shared a passion, I discovered I wasn’t just an individual participant — I was part of something larger. For the first time I felt truly seen, truly included. In that community I wasn’t the girl with “the leg”. They saw an athlete. A competitor. A member. And slowly, that’s who I became. I began to believe it myself.

I left a different person. I registered for DUC, Australia’s national competition, and qualified. Each rep, each challenge, was proof of growth — not just physical, but personal. I wasn’t just competing. I was transforming from someone who dreamed into someone who achieved.

Then came the CrossFit Games — a journey that would test every fibre of my being. It starts with the Open, that global crucible where thousands compete hoping to be among the few. Making the Semifinals felt like validation. But Texas? Standing at world level? That was something else entirely.

The path there was brutal. Training wasn’t just hard; it was a relentless cycle of pushing past perceived limits. Frustrations, injuries, setbacks. Balancing a full-time job with elite sport was like conducting an intricate, exhausting orchestra: early mornings before work, late nights after long days, weekends consumed by training, meal prep, eating when I wasn’t hungry, protecting my sleep. Sacrificing social events and personal time. There were moments of doubt, moments my body screamed to stop and my mind questioned the path.

But here’s the truth: I kept going. Not because it was easy, but because it was meaningful. Every drop of sweat, every moment of struggle, was writing a story of resilience.

Today I stand here not just as an athlete, but as someone who discovered the extraordinary power of persistence. I am proud — deeply, profoundly proud — of the journey. Proud of the person who showed up, day after day. Proud of the athlete who refused to be defined by limitations. This was never just about competitions. It was about discovering what I’m truly capable of.