Tiny Triumphs

When people ask me what it’s like to be a headteacher, they’re often expecting a sweeping answer — something about vision, strategy, leading learning, driving standards.

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And yes, those things matter. But here’s the secret: they’re not what actually keeps me going.

What sustains me, what lifts me on the hardest days, are the tiny triumphs — the small, unplanned, often fleeting moments that remind me why I do this strange, relentless, joyful job.

The moments that can’t be found in a self-evaluation form or captured in a data dashboard.

The moments that nobody outside school would notice, but that fill me up enough to come back tomorrow and do it all again.

Every conversation can matter

It can happen first thing in the morning: I’m walking across the playground when a small child from Year 5 suddenly appears beside me, looking up thoughtfully.

They pause but to say, with complete sincerity:
"I like your grey hair. It makes you look wise... but also a bit tired."

And then they skip off, utterly unaware that they’ve just summed up my entire headship in a single sentence.

Do you get these moments too? Those completely unexpected, brutally honest comments from children that simultaneously make you laugh, wince, and reflect — all before 9am?

Because in that tiny observation was a little gift: a reminder that children see us as we really are — not just as “the headteacher” but as a human being who, yes, is wise (thank you, child!) and maybe, just maybe, does look a bit tired sometimes.

And honestly, that moment stayed with me far longer than the emails I read that day or the meetings I attended.

Do you collect these comments? Do you jot them down somewhere? Or, like me, do you keep them quietly tucked away in your mind, to pull out when you need a reminder that it’s these small, unexpected joys that keep you going?

When small acts are huge

Then there are the moments that seem small on the surface but carry far greater weight.

I’m walking past the Reception outdoor area, not really focussed on what was around me, when she spots me.

This little girl — whose short life has already included more trauma than most adults could bear, whose behaviour can be stormy, whose trust has been so hard-won — stops what she’s doing, smiles, and simply holds out her hand.

No words. Just an invitation.

And so I stop.
Technically, I don’t have time. But how can I not stop?

Because in that small gesture — the smile, the reaching out, the quiet confidence that I will accept — she’s telling me something much bigger than words can express.

She’s showing me that, for this moment at least, she feels safe. That I am safe. That trust, hard-earned and fragile, is being offered.

She takes my hand and leads me straight to the water tray, where she gently swirls her fingers and splashes with quiet concentration.

And I stay.

Not because it’s scheduled. Not because it’s on any action plan. But because this is the work too — this is culture, this is connection, this is healing.

How often do we give ourselves permission to pause for these moments?
How often do we recognise that these tiny, almost wordless interactions might be the most significant part of our day?

When this child, who has so many reasons to mistrust adults, invites me to play, she’s showing me her progress — not in reading ages or attendance figures, but in confidence, attachment, emotional safety.

And isn’t that worth everything?

Staff acts of kindness

Even the smallest acts of kindness between colleagues can feel like triumphs worth celebrating — little moments that show not just camaraderie but the deep care that can exist within a strong school culture.

One moment I’ll never forget was before a teacher’s wedding. She was juggling the final preparations. A part-time member of staff quietly offered:
"I’ll take your class on the Friday — no need to arrange cover, I’ll do it for free. You go and get ready for your wedding."

No fanfare. No expectation of thanks or praise. Just a simple, generous offer made quietly and wholeheartedly.

This is what a healthy staff culture looks like: people noticing each other’s needs, stepping in without fuss, lifting each other up in moments when it matters most.

Do we as leaders stop often enough to recognise these acts? To say thank you not just for what staff do for the children, but for what they do for each other?

Because while policies and performance targets matter, it’s these acts of kindness that shape a team.

This is the culture that carries us through the hard days — a culture where people feel safe, supported, and cared for, not just by leadership, but by each other.

And in that simple, generous gesture — giving up a day, freely, to help a colleague feel less stressed before one of life’s big moments — I saw more about what made our school special than any metric or inspection report ever could.

Why tiny triumphs matter

You could argue that none of these moments will make it onto a report for governors or into your next Ofsted inspection.

They’re not the kind of “outcomes” we formally report.

But they’re the oxygen of the job.

They’re the reason we keep going on the hard days — when emails pile up, when budgets are squeezed, when behaviour challenges feel endless, and when the sheer emotional weight of headship feels overwhelming.

Tiny triumphs remind us why we chose this role.
They give us glimpses of growth, joy, humanity, and connection in a job that can otherwise feel dominated by policies, plans, and pressures.

What are your tiny triumphs?

So here’s my invitation to you:

If you’re a headteacher, teacher, governor, or even a parent — what are your tiny triumphs?

What are the small, easily-missed moments that lift your heart and keep you going?

Are you giving yourself permission to notice them?
Are you creating a school culture where these moments can flourish — and be shared?

Because while our work as leaders is often measured in big, visible ways — progress scores, attendance figures, inspection outcomes — our impact is often felt most powerfully in these small, personal, human moments that can’t be quantified.

Why we need to celebrate them

We need to celebrate these moments not because they make good anecdotes, but because they remind us that culture isn’t built in one-off events or grand announcements.

It’s built in these thousands of quiet, positive interactions.

And as headteachers, we have a responsibility not just to spot them but to share them. To tell our staff: “I saw that — and it mattered.” To encourage our teams to notice and appreciate these moments for themselves.

So next time a child runs breathlessly up to show you a page of writing, or a child shows the trust they have in you, or you overhear a small kindness in the staffroom — stop.

Notice it.

Feel it.

And remind yourself that these are the moments that really keep you going.