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Nav Sanghara is CEO of , which runs five primary schools in London and Kent. She is a former headteacher, teacher and teaching assistant. She writes:

When I was 6, the teacher asked us to bring in a photo of something that meant something to us. I brought in a picture of me with our cat. I remember being sat in the circle, waiting for my turn to talk, and getting so nervous and so stressed out, thinking that I could not tell everyone my cat had an Indian name, which was Minoo. So I made a name up - a name I thought was “normal”. My mum still has the piece of sugar paper with that picture glued on to it and the words underneath read “Nav playing with her cat Tabby”.

My Mum and Dad were both Indian Sikhs, but they had been raised in Kenya and had attended international schools. They came to England (separately) when the National Front was a big presence, but we also lived in a very diverse area of London. So my experience growing up was so layered and, looking back, navigating that was clearly difficult when I was trying to find my own identity. I remember my brother and I using a word with our Indian friends once that we thought was Punjabi, but they just looked at us confused. It turned out it was actually a Swahili word my parents had adopted. So it was complicated - and it showed me the importance of community when different people come together: creating new shared experiences, understanding new codes of being.

My parents never had a fixed idea of the career I should pursue. My Dad had ended up on building sites after being refused a place at university on residency rules. He got on with it, worked hard every day, rose up the ranks, and ended up overseeing the Athletes’ Village at London 2012. He loved his team, he was committed to what he was doing. And that’s all he wanted from me: to work hard and do my best. I am so grateful for the freedom that gave me.

My Dad passed away suddenly - and unexpectedly - a month before I started my first headship, and so that headship became part of my grief story. I was 31 years old, stepping into a hugely demanding role at an already difficult time in my life, but the role gave me purpose. Every time I wanted to quit, I just thought, “My Dad didn’t go through all of that in his lifetime, doing everything he could, never getting to his retirement, for me to go under as soon as he has gone.” He gave me the love and experience and ability to make sure the opposite happened. I was held through that period by my extended and chosen family, by people who simply showed up for me. But grief also taught me that there are parts of the journey nobody else can walk for you. Over time I had to develop the habits and tools to hold myself, too.

We’re a product of our communities, and we’re all part of multiple types of community that last for different lengths of time. Right from when I was a teaching assistant, I put that at the heart of my practice: understanding the communities that people were from, and building new communities for them to be part of. The scale has changed - from the classroom to leading a school to now leading a trust - but the principle hasn’t. I see my job as being successful if I have built that community and I have left communities in a better place than when I found them.

For so many reasons, kids don’t have the same starting points. So in the past when parents have come to me when something has happened and they want a child removed, part of my job is to help them realise that school is not just about learning to read and write: we’re here to learn about how to understand each other, to socialise, to behave. And also, that there will come a time when their child will need to learn those lessons and, as parents, they will need me to understand where their child is at, too.

Structurally and economically, we talk a lot about privilege. But the privilege of being loved is not spoken about enough, and everything - absolutely everything - can be influenced by that. Yet we have no control over being loved at all. It’s pot luck. I’m forever grateful I had that love from my Mum and Dad, but also my extended family. Some are not so lucky. What are we doing to recognise those children, to support them and make sure they experience consistent care, belief and belonging?

There’s a Sikh philosophy called Chardi Kala, which is sometimes translated as “relentless optimism”, but I think of it as an ever-rising spirit and the ability to hold on to hope and courage through adversity. If you have Chardi Kala, that will help you through this lifetime, because it’s easy to have optimism when times are going well, when you’re joyful, when everything’s smooth, but to have optimism when you are at your lowest ebb, when you’re in pain, when you’re suffering loss and adversity, that is the hardest thing. I think about that a lot in leadership. Your values are really tested in the toughest times, and it’s going to cost you sometimes to live out those values. So how strong are you? Are you going to stand by your values because it is the right thing to do?

I was lucky enough to be taken by the British Council and Department for Education to look at how Singapore’s schools operate. There, heads are placed in schools, you serve a number of years and then you are moved on to the next school. That does something really important: it extends the school community. It means that you are always looking to help others, you are always looking to leave things in a better way, you are making decisions to share resources or funding with those who need it more - because one day that school might be your school. We don’t build that sense of collaboration and community between schools consistently enough here, and we need to reflect on why.

When I speak across the sector, I’m often struck by how many women want to continue the conversation afterwards, particularly women who don’t always see themselves represented or reflected in leadership spaces. It has made me realise how much more we need to do to build meaningful networks of support and connection. That’s why I work with Evelyn Forde on the Women of Connection movement. If we don’t build those networks, we won’t change the status quo, and exclusion of these women from leadership spaces will continue.

Doubt is a big part of any leader’s life. There are days when I go home and think “Did I do enough?” or “Did I move fast enough?”. But every single time I have that bit of wavering or doubt, I have to remember that I cannot micromanage to control my own fears, I have to remember that we are all moving through life doing the best we can and it’s OK if sometimes that isn’t perfect. I wasn’t great at that during my first headship. I am much better at it now, and I am a better leader because of it.

My relationship with Sikhism and my spirituality has evolved over time. It has always been part of my culture and community - even my name began there, with the letter N chosen at the gurdwara before my family chose my name together. I’m coming back to that part of myself more consciously now: the feeling of being with my family, my cousins and grandparents, and that sense of belonging. I believe I am the product of a web of unseen hands in my community, hands that have opened doors for me and eyes that saw something in me I did not see in myself.

I’ve been a senior leader since I was 27 and I’ve spent a long time working at an extremely fast pace. I think I’m entering a different phase now. The work I do every day leading the trust, the work I’m able to do across the sector, and what we’re building through Women of Connection is still rooted in creating communities of support and belonging. I think the difference now is that I’m becoming more intentional about where I put my time and energy, the spaces I choose to be in, and the things I want to build. It isn’t about doing less; it’s about being clearer about what matters.

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