All posts by Lianne Dominguez

Lianne Dominguez

Why Schools Need a Shared Understanding of High-Quality Learning

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It’s the start of the school year. Pencils are sharpened, classrooms prepped, staff meetings underway. You might have even rehearsed your Day 1 welcome talk in the mirror.

But under the energy of a fresh start is a question many educators carry quietly: “What exactly are we building toward this year—together?”

Not in the abstract language of mission posters, but in the real, daily experience of student learning.

We want students to thrive—to think deeply, grow independently, and feel safe enough to take risks. But let’s be honest: most schools operate with unspoken, misaligned, or overly abstract ideas of “high-quality learning.” And in a profession already stretched thin, that kind of ambiguity doesn’t just confuse teachers—it dilutes everything we’re trying to build for students.

This isn’t just a curriculum issue. It’s a culture issue.

In these first weeks of school, conversations about “instructional excellence,” “outcomes,” or “raising expectations” will flood CPD rooms. Leaders will begin rounds of instructional supervision and evaluation and quality assurance cycles hoping to spark growth.

But here’s the challenge: You can’t coach what you haven’t defined. You can’t evaluate what isn’t shared. And you can’t build alignment if everyone’s chasing a different ideal.

Without a shared understanding of high-quality learning, feedback becomes vague, supervision feels performative, and evaluation becomes about compliance, not growth.

I’ve seen it firsthand in schools around the world—as both a leader and an accreditation visitor.

What It Looks Like in Real Life:
  • A student says, “I love English because I know exactly how to improve.” Then shrugs in another class, “There, I just try to guess what the teacher wants.”
  • A teacher shares, “I want feedback, but every observer seems to look for something different.”
  • A house tutor, deeply invested in student well-being, feels disconnected from conversations about “learning,” despite being the first adult students turn to when learning feels hard.

These aren’t isolated moments. They’re symptoms of a shared definition gap—between what we hope learning is and what we’ve actually defined, modeled, and communicated together.

In a previous school visit, I asked a mixed group of staff: “How would you describe high-quality learning at your school?”

Nine different responses.

From “student engagement” to “depth over breadth” to “data-driven instruction” and “real-world connections”—all well-intentioned, but wildly varied.

And that’s the problem. When leaders and teachers operate with different mental models, we don’t just risk inconsistent practice—we risk eroding trust.

Instructional leadership isn’t just about walkthroughs and marking policies. It starts with pedagogical clarity.

When a community co-constructs a definition of high-quality learning, we:

  • Send consistent signals to students about what matters
  • Empower teachers to calibrate expectations without losing creativity
  • Create a compass for decision-making—across curriculum, feedback, supervision, reporting, and even student voice

It also gives us language that moves beyond just assessment:

What makes this lesson worth remembering ten years from now?

How does it feel to be known, challenged, and supported in your classroom?

These aren’t fluff questions. They’re the heartbeat of learning culture. And they often get lost when we’re too busy chasing scores.

One of the biggest leadership myths?

“We can’t move forward until everyone agrees.”

But clarity doesn’t require consensus. It requires courage. You need a shared starting point, not 100% buy-in.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

  • Start with story, not spreadsheets Ask teachers: “When have you felt most proud of your students’ learning?” Then mine that moment for what mattered.
  • Anchor in the mission If your mission says “global citizens,” ask: What evidence of that shows up in our lessons? Is it visible to students?
  • Frame it as culture, not control A shared definition isn’t a tool for top-down enforcement. It’s a living language that helps everyone—new staff, EAL teachers, learning assistants—row in the same direction.

I’ve learned this the hard way. Buy-in doesn’t happen after a PowerPoint. It happens when people feel the why in their gut, and see the how in action.

Here’s what I’ve seen in schools that build (not borrow) their learning definition:

  • Using student work and video clips as provocations
  • Making explicit links to the school mission and learner profile
  • Aligning the definition with supervision rubrics and coaching tools
  • Inviting students into the definition process
  • Revisiting the definition annually: “Does this still reflect who we’re becoming?”

Once this shared clarity exists, schools begin to shift:

  • Observations become reflective, not evaluative
  • Departments meet to talk learning, not just logistics
  • Peer walkthroughs emerge organically
  • Parents better understand reports because the school has a clear way to describe learning
  • Students recognize their own growth—not just through marks, but through meaning
What Accreditation Got Right

When I first encountered accreditation criteria asking for a definition of high-quality learning, I found it… prescriptive.

Now, I see it as protective.

Accreditation teams aren’t trying to lock us into a model. They’re asking: “Do your people know what great learning looks like here?”

Because clarity isn’t bureaucracy—it’s care.

It protects teachers from arbitrary expectations; it protects students from inconsistent experiences; and it protects leaders from drifting into strategy without purpose or meaning.

When schools anchor supervision in a shared definition of learning:

  • Feedback becomes actionable (“Let’s look at how this connects to our learning principles.”)
  • Growth becomes visible (“Here’s how your lesson supported learner agency.”)
  • Student experience improves—because the adults are aligned.

Instructional supervision, student agency, inclusion practices—they all benefit from clarity.

And that clarity begins with a simple question:

“What does high-quality learning look and feel like in our school?”

Where to Begin: Define, Don’t Dictate

You don’t need the perfect phrase. You need a conversation that matters.

Start here:

  • Ask 3–5 teachers: What does great learning look like in your classroom?
  • Ask a student after class: What do you think your teacher wanted you to learn today—and how did you know?
  • Reflect on your mission: Is it alive in how you talk about teaching?

Start where you are. Invite stories. Co-create meaning. Build small rituals that reinforce big ideas.

Because in the end, a school’s definition of high-quality learning shouldn’t live on a poster.

It should live in your classrooms. In your conversations. In your coaching, reporting, planning, and celebrations.

So as we step into a new school year—with new faces, new goals, and perhaps a few uncertainties—let’s remember this:

You don’t need perfect consensus. You need shared clarity.

Because if there’s one truth that carries across supervision, strategy, and student experience, it’s this: Clarity beats complexity. Every time. And when that clarity is co-created, lived, and felt—it doesn’t just change practice. It transforms culture.

Lianne Dominguez

Start With Intention: 5 Traps Educators Fall Into At the Start of the Year (and How to Reframe Them)

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Whether you’re new or returning, this is your back-to-school reset.

There’s something universally similar about the first days of school—no matter where you’re teaching, what title you hold, or how many years you’ve been doing this.

It begins with that jarring moment of realization: Summer is over.

The to-do lists you wrote in June—back when you felt fresh and ambitious—suddenly appear like fast-forward montages in your mind. All those books you planned to read, the routines you said you’d reset, the intentions you scribbled in journals…

Now it’s tomorrow.

School starts, and the gear shifts from reflection to reality—fast.

Everyone’s trying to make a good impression. Everyone wants to feel useful, impactful, seen. And quietly—almost invisibly—everyone is navigating a mix of hope, pressure, and performance.

Some of us are new to the school. Some of us are new to a role. Some of us are coming back with fresh energy—and maybe a few old habits we said we’d let go.

But here’s the truth: Whether you’re brand new or deeply rooted, the start of the year is your chance to reset. Not just your routines—but your mindset.

Below are five common traps educators usually fall into at the start of the year—and the reframes that can help you stay grounded, intentional, and human all year long.

Trap #1 – Over-performing in Week 1.

That first-week adrenaline can push us to overcompensate. We say yes to everything. We stay late. We try to be the most helpful, most competent, most polished version of ourselves.

But over-performing isn’t the same as belonging ; and intensity rarely leads to sustainability.

✅ The reframe: Consistency over intensity. Slow is strong.

The best way to build trust is to be real. Let people meet the actual you—the one still learning, refiguring out systems, asking good questions, and pacing your energy for the long road ahead.

Whether you’re new or returning, start with honesty. Build with care. You don’t need to prove yourself. You just need to be yourself.

Trap # 2 – Doing it all, early and fast.

Many educators don’t burn out in April. They burn out in August and just keep pushing.

✅ The reframe: Set boundaries now. Decide what you’ll protect.

Whether it’s your 20-minute lunch, your evening walk, your journaling time, or your family dinners—build your schedule around your non-negotiables, not the other way around.

Boundaries aren’t barriers to your passion – they’re what sustain it. Modeling this from the start isn’t selfish—it’s professional. It tells others (and yourself) that you plan to be here for the long haul, not just the launch.

Trap # 3 – Over-attaching to title or perception.

It’s easy to think our value is tied to our role—especially when stepping into something new. But even if your title hasn’t changed, the trap still shows up: believing you have to “prove” your place all over again, or that your worth depends on how visible you are.

But your impact isn’t determined by your name tag.

It’s shaped by how you show up when no one’s watching.

✅ The reframe: Impact is who you are when no one’s watching. Show up aligned, not just impressive.

The most memorable educators in any school aren’t always the loudest or most decorated. They’re the ones who create quiet ripples of trust, dignity, and care.

Trap #4 –Trying to control every lesson, every outcome.

It’s normal to want everything to go smoothly. But perfection is not the goal—presence is.

✅ The reframe: Be the adult who listens, who notices, who remembers.

That’s what students come back for, what colleagues trust, and what builds belonging.

When things get messy (because they will), don’t hide behind perfection. Stay open. Stay available.

Trap #5 – Blaming the system.

It’s easy to feel like building a school culture is someone else’s job—admin, policies, leadership. And sure, structures matter. But culture is built in moments, not memos.

✅ The reframe: Lead from your seat.

The way you respond in meetings. The way you greet students in the morning. The grace you show yourself after a hard day. That’s what culture is. And it starts with you—whether it’s your first year or your fifteenth.

Who you are at the start of the year doesn’t have to be a performance. It can be a practice. A practice in presence, in boundaries, and in showing up with purpose and leaving space for growth.

So wherever you are this August—new, returning, unsure, excited—pause and ask: What trap do I usually fall into and what reframe do I want to choose this year instead?

Lianne Dominguez

Reframing Value for Educators Coming from Small and Mid-Sized Schools

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Over the past few weeks, I’ve caught up with former colleagues who’ve recently transitioned from small or mid-sized international schools into some of the biggest, most established legacy institutions in our field. These were heartening, honest conversations. And one theme kept surfacing: the quiet, uncomfortable feeling of not being enough.

It starts early. Sometimes even in the first interview. They question their experience. Downplay their contributions. Wonder if their time in a small or mid-sized school will measure up in the “big leagues.” And once they’re in, that feeling lingers—through the first week, the first month, the first leadership meeting. Am I qualified enough? Do I belong in this space?

As someone who’s still working in a mid-sized school—where roles stretch wide, systems evolve quickly, and leadership often means building as you go—I recognize that tension. I’ve seen how easy it is to undervalue what we’ve done just because it didn’t happen within a legacy system.

But I also know this: leading in a small or mid-sized school shapes you in powerful, often underestimated ways. 

As a human-centered leader, part of my work is helping others see—and own—the full weight of their experience.

Moving into a bigger system isn’t about shrinking yourself to fit in. It’s about reframing what you already bring—and stepping into that next chapter with clarity, not apology.

This piece is for those navigating that shift. For those wondering if their scrappy, wide-ranging, deeply personal experience is “enough” for the big stage.

Here’s the reframe: you’re not behind—you’re prepared. You bring more than you think.

Let’s rewrite the script together.

The Small to Mid-Size Advantage

If you’ve come from a small school or a lean start-up environment, you know what it means to lead without a manual. You don’t get the luxury of silos. You figure out how operations, people, finance, strategy, and mission all need to move in sync—or everything wobbles. You don’t just study innovation—you live it, often with duct tape, heart, and last-minute coffee-fueled fixes. You adapt fast. You build from scratch. You become fluent in ambiguity.

If you’re currently in or coming from a mid-size school, you sit in a powerful sweet spot. You’re close enough to the ground to feel the pulse of your people, yet large enough to experience the realities of scale, legacy, and layered priorities.

You’ve likely experienced building or refining systems during transition, leading cross-functional initiatives while staying student-facing, balancing innovation with long-term sustainability, and learning how to grow without losing the heart of your school. In other words, you’re not just doing the work—you’re shaping the way forward.

You’re a builder, a bridge, and a translator. And that’s exactly the kind of leadership big schools need as they scale—without losing their identity.

Don’t mistake size for impact – bold leadership starts where systems haven’t been built yet.

What You Bring from Small and Mid-Size Schools

In international schools—especially in this era of rapid change and redefinition—your ability to adapt, build, and lead across roles is not a limitation. It’s exactly what this moment calls for.

Your work may not have happened under a spotlight, but its impact runs deep.

You bring…

1. Breadth of Experience: You bring the kind of wide-angle leadership that only comes from doing more with less. You’ve built bridges between departments, balanced competing priorities, and made things work even when the blueprint didn’t exist. That’s not just multitasking—it’s cross-functional, whole-school awareness. You see how the parts connect, and you lead with that clarity.

2. Start-Up Mindset: You bring the energy of a builder. You’ve launched programs, revised on the fly, scaled what worked, and let go of what didn’t. You know how to lead through ambiguity, pivot when needed, and keep the mission in focus. You don’t wait for systems—you create them. That kind of initiative isn’t just valuable—it’s future-proof.

3. Relational Agility: You bring deep relational intelligence. In smaller or mid-size schools, you’ve worked across year levels, departments, and parent communities. You’ve learned to listen, to hold space, and to lead through empathy and trust. You’re not just connected—you’re trusted. And that’s the foundation of any lasting culture.

4. A Living, Breathing Portfolio: You bring real, measurable impact—and you can show it. Your résumé may not carry a big-brand logo, but your track record tells a story of momentum, ownership, and results. You’ve built frameworks, launched initiatives, gathered feedback, and shaped outcomes. You don’t just describe your work—you demonstrate its effect. That’s the kind of credibility big schools can’t ignore.

Staying Visible and Ready

Even with all that you bring, there will be times when big organizations don’t look past prestige. They’ll filter by brand, not by value. Scan for big names, not big impact.

And yes—it’s frustrating. But don’t let that shrink you. Instead, keep matching your confidence with action, your value with visibility.

1. Make Your Work Findable: Don’t wait to be discovered—be visible by design. Publish your reflections. Share your frameworks. Speak on panels. Join networks. Your title doesn’t define your influence—your voice does.

2. Learn Their Language: Large schools often use different frameworks to define success. Learn how they measure it. Then show how you’ve done it—your way. You may not have used their acronyms, but you’ve solved the same problems. Often with fewer people, tighter timelines, and more complexity.

3. Stay Ready, Not Bitter: Not being chosen yet doesn’t mean you weren’t meant for it. Keep growing. Keep showing up. Your work isn’t invisible just because someone missed it the first time. The right doors open when you walk with purpose, not permission.

4. Confidence + Evidence = Credibility: Confidence gets attention. Evidence builds trust. Track your wins. Document your impact. Collect the stories, data, and outcomes that show—not just tell—what you’ve done. When you speak with clarity and proof, people listen differently.

Final Thoughts

Whether you’re coming from a school of 200 or 2,000—don’t let the size of your past define the scale of your future. You’ve led. You’ve stretched with strategic resilience. You’ve built in ways many never will.

So when you step into the big stage, don’t feel small or over-explain. Instead, say: “I’ve led across roles. I’ve built systems that worked. I’ve made impact without the noise.” And most of all—believe it.

Because some of the most visionary work in education doesn’t always come from the biggest schools. It comes from the bravest ones.

Lianne Dominguez

From the (Virtual) Room: Instructional Supervision Trends We Can’t Ignore

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While most educators were taking a well-earned summer pause, a cohort of school leaders and instructional coaches from across the globe chose something different: to sit in a virtual room, for seven days, to confront the messy, emotional, and often misunderstood world of instructional supervision and evaluation.

I had the privilege of co-facilitating the Instructional Supervision and Evaluation course at the Principals’ Training Center this July, and something about this particular cohort stayed with me. It wasn’t just their commitment—it was the quiet clarity they brought. They didn’t come just to learn a framework. They came with thoughtful problems of practice, patterns they’d been noticing, and a genuine belief that the systems they were leading—or working within—could do better. And more importantly, they came ready to take action.

Common Themes that Emerged : What We’re Really Trying to Fix

One of the things I’ve always appreciated about PTC courses is the emphasis on application tasks—practical, school-based projects or change initiatives that participants design during the week to bring back and implement in their own contexts.

As I reviewed the change initiatives—the diversity of contexts was striking. But what was even more powerful were the common themes that kept showing up, regardless of country, role, or school size —clear signals that leaders across the world are wrestling with similar challenges and reaching toward a more human, meaningful version of instructional supervision.

With over 57 school leaders representing 54 schools across 48 countries, these patterns are more than just coincidence—they suggest emerging global trends in how we think about instructional supervision. In research terms, this may not be a formal sample, but it certainly reflects a meaningful, practitioner-led pulse across international schools.

Here’s what we’re seeing:

  • Humanizing the Process: Leaders are moving away from high-stakes, formal observations toward mini observations and peer feedback—making growth more regular, more relational, and less performative.
  • Trust as a Starting Point: Many named trust as the first thing they need to build—before any framework, rubric, or policy can take root.
  • Alignment to mission and values: More leaders are realizing that when supervision doesn’t reflect school values, student learning outcomes, or professional standards, it feels hollow. Coherence matters.
  • Empowering Teacher Voice: Supervision isn’t one-way. Educators are co-constructing rubrics, initiating peer learning walks, and asking for differentiated pathways to support their growth.
  • Using Data as a Mirror: Student learning data is being reframed—not as accountability pressure, but as a reflective tool to guide professional learning conversations.
  • Anchoring to Professional Standards of Practice: Schools are leaning into international standards of practice for teachers—not to control, but to create clarity, shared language, and purpose.

One participant asked: What if we made supervision feel like support instead of surveillance? That question lingered.

Mindsets That Need Rewriting

As an observer and guide throughout the week, I saw a shared readiness and a collective willingness to move beyond what’s always been done and lean into more intentional, human-centered leadership. The mindset shifts were clear—and they echoed across roles, schools, and regions. Here are a few that surfaced again and again:

  • From evaluator to learning partner: Supervisors are trying to sit beside teachers, not above them.
  • From collecting evidence to creating clarity: There’s growing recognition that teachers need to know what to aim for—not just what not to do.
  • From isolated walkthroughs to relational feedback loops: Supervision, when done right, strengthens the professional culture, not just instructional practice.
  • From telling to asking: More leaders are leaning into coaching, pausing, and listening. And that’s where real trust begins.
  • From pedagogy to learning impact: Supervisors are shifting their lens—not just asking what the teacher is doing, but how and what students are learning as a result. The focus is moving from activity to evidence of learning.
  • From single data points to multiple sources of evidence: Supervisors are moving beyond relying on just one observation or test score to determine teaching effectiveness. Instead, they’re drawing from a range of data—student work, learning conversations, peer feedback, and outcomes over time—to build a fuller, more accurate picture of impact.
  • From top-down control to shared responsibility: Schools are beginning to embed supervision into a distributed leadership model, where growth is not held by one person, but shared across teams. When teachers help shape the system, they’re more invested in the outcomes—and supervision becomes a collective commitment, not just a managerial task.

Patterns I’ll Be Taking With Me

In between toolkits, frameworks, and standards, what struck me most were the unspoken efforts behind each task: the courage to name what’s broken, the willingness to build something new, and the quiet acknowledgment that instructional supervision is emotional labor—both for the teacher and the leader.

Too often, supervision is mistaken for a tool to fix teachers. But what if its real purpose is to free them? Free them from ambiguity. Free them from fear. Free them from feedback that feels more like judgment than growth.

In that sense, every person in our cohort wasn’t just designing a new system. They were trying to write a new story for their school—one where professional growth is seen as a shared act of care.

The Responsibility of Facilitating This Work

Facilitating this course comes with responsibility. It means holding space for hard questions. It means not pushing a one-size-fits-all model, but helping leaders find what works in their context, for their teachers, in service of their students. And it means reminding all of us—myself included—that supervision is not just a checklist we tick off but it’s a culture we build.

Even in the heat of July, there are leaders out there choosing to rethink what growth can look like. Choosing learning. Choosing clarity. Choosing trust.

And honestly? That gives me hope.

What About You?

What will instructional supervision mean in your school next year?

What are you walking past—and what are you walking toward?

Lianne Dominguez

Not Quite Home: The Summer Pause We Don’t Talk About (But Should)

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Astana Presidential Park , Painting by Dall-E

There’s a moment every June in international schools that feels like a collective exhale.

Suitcases roll down apartment hallways. Farewell potlucks blur into airport selfies. Someone’s always off to Phuket or Bali or Southern Italy. Someone else is crying over a storage unit key.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos—there’s you.

Maybe you’re heading “home.” Maybe not. Maybe your summer plan is a patchwork of logistics, reunions, and visa renewals. Maybe you’re staying put, guarding the peace, the cats, and the air conditioning.

Wherever you are, this season hits differently when you’re an international educator. The world slows down—but not always in the ways you expect. Because the truth is, living and working overseas isn’t all adventure and Aperols.

It’s a constant negotiation between the lives we’ve built—and the ones we’ve left behind. It’s navigating time zones and guilt, holding space for group chats filled with love but stretched by distance. It’s being fully present for students while wondering if your parents need help renewing a prescription. It’s cheering your students’ milestones while missing your cousin’s wedding back home.

And yet—here we are. Still choosing this life. Not because we’re running from something, but because we’re building toward something.

Guilt vs Growth

There’s a quiet kind of guilt many of us carry. We miss birthdays, funerals, Sunday lunches. We aren’t always there for the big or small moments back home.

And when summer rolls around, it can hit especially hard. While others go “home,” some of us float—between countries, between roles, between selves—carrying pieces of each, fully belonging to neither.

But here’s the reframe: what if this isn’t a loss? What if this is growth? Because this life you’ve created—the one with mismatched cutlery acquired from solo travels, multiple sim cards, and students who call you their favorite teacher—isn’t a detour. It’s your life. Brave. Complicated. Beautiful.

You’re not missing your life – You’re living it.

The Summer Pause: What It Offers

Summer isn’t just a break. It’s a recalibration.

In international schools, June often feels like a sprint to the finish—farewells, final reports, tears in classrooms. But what comes after? A rare kind of silence. A space between chapters. A moment to turn inward before turning the page.

Here’s how I’m learning to embrace this pause—not just as rest, but as an invitation to reflect:

1. Take stock of the year that shaped you.

What moments stretched you? What relationships grounded you? What surprised you? Don’t just celebrate the big wins—honor the quiet resilience too: the email you didn’t send, the conversation you handled differently, the student who finally smiled back.

Prompt: What part of me grew this year that didn’t exist last August?

2. Audit your own curriculum—not just your teaching one.

What are you learning in your life right now? What habits are serving you? Which ones need rewriting? Summer is a good time to re-edit your internal syllabus. Maybe rest is the lesson. Maybe it’s boundary-setting. Maybe it’s joy.

Prompt: If I were the student of my own life, what would I need next?

3. Revisit your definition of home.

Living overseas shifts the definition of home. Sometimes it’s a place, sometimes a person, sometimes a feeling. What feels like home now? And how do you nurture it—wherever you are?

Prompt: Where do I feel most myself—and how do I create more of that, wherever I am?

4. Find the light that still excites you.

Before jumping into planning for next year, pause and ask: What do I want to bring more of into my work? What lights me up? What am I tired of pretending I enjoy? The pause lets you hear the honest answers.

Prompt: What part of my work still sparks joy—and what drains it?

5. Check your compass—not just your calendar.

Where are you going—and why? Titles, countries, contracts—they shift. But your purpose is steady. Use this pause to reconnect with the reason you began this journey. The deeper why.

Prompt: Does the life I’m building align with the person I’m becoming?

From Uprooting to Re-rooting

The word “uprooted” gets tossed around a lot in our line of work. But most of us aren’t floating—we’re replanting. Again and again. New soil, new roots, new blooms. And that? That’s not disconnection. That’s resilience. That’s the quiet, ongoing work of becoming.

So wherever you are this summer—on a plane, in a hammock, on your couch, on your fifth mango smoothie or in line at immigration—take the pause. Let it hold you.

Reflect on what you’ve built. Celebrate what you’ve become. Appreciate where you came from and keep building toward where you’re going.

Because you’re not lost between two worlds. You are the bridge.

And that’s something to be seriously proud of.

Lianne Dominguez

Unfreezing the Moment: A Tribute to Growth, Gratitude, and the Gift of Stillness

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There’s a moment—just a few seconds long—when the air is filled with weightless caps and wide smiles.

Cameras are raised. Parents are leaning forward. Graduates stand still, arms mid-toss, their faces lit with joy.

Time holds its breath.

And in that stillness, I find myself wishing I could stay. Just a little longer.

That moment—captured in a single photo from the recent senior graduation— felt like the world pressed pause. A freeze-frame of everything we work for: growth, celebration, belonging, pride. Students at the edge of becoming, surrounded by everyone who helped them get there.

A student asked me, “Are you sad they’re leaving?”

I looked at this photo and thought: not sad—just deeply aware.

Aware of how beautiful it is to witness people at the very moment they’re ready to go.

Aware of how fleeting these moments are.

Aware that what makes them powerful is that we don’t get to keep them.

The Stillness Before the Goodbye

We talk a lot about outcomes in education—grades, pathways, achievements. But there’s something sacred in the in-between: the beat before the goodbye.

That’s what this photo holds.

It’s not the moment after the hat hits the ground.

It’s not the moment the hugs begin.

It’s the beat before the release—when time slows down just enough to let our hearts catch up.

In that frozen frame, you see what can’t be measured:

  • Years of quiet effort
  • Invisible resilience
  • Community held in motion

But eventually, the caps fall.

The air clears. The cheering starts. Life resumes.

This is where we unfreeze. And it’s just as important.

Because the work of education isn’t in the pause—it’s in the movement. It’s in what comes next.

And for us, as educators and leaders, unfreezing means:

  • Letting go with pride, not fear
  • Trusting that what we’ve built will continue beyond our watch
  • Walking back into the hallways to do it all again—with new names, new stories, new beginnings

Unfreezing also means we don’t cling to our roles in their lives—we celebrate the fact that they’ve outgrown them.

Leadership in the Pause and the Push Forward

There are no speeches for educators in this moment.

There’s just the quiet knowledge that something meaningful happened here—and you got to be a part of it.

So no, I’m not sad.

I’m full.

Because I got to witness that exact second when the past and the future hung together in the same sky.

To the graduates:

Thank you for letting us walk with you.

Thank you for that moment.

Now go—unfreeze—and keep rising.

And to the parents, the ones behind the phones, behind the cheers:

You stood at the edge of the steps with your cameras raised and your hearts wide open.

You’ve been there since day one—quietly, consistently, fully.

And in that freeze-frame moment, it wasn’t just your child we were celebrating.

It was you.

The rides to school. The late-night pep talks. The reminders, the emails, the steady belief that one day, this moment would come.

You were there when it started. You are here now as it ends. And your presence—the joy, the pride, the love in your eyes—made this moment what it was.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth of this work—

We freeze these moments to remember.

And then we unfreeze them so life can go on.

We celebrate in stillness.

We release in motion.

And if we’re lucky, we carry something from this moment forward—into the next chapter, the next classroom, the next conversation.

Lianne Dominguez

Pruning, Not Cutting: Leading with Care in a New School Culture

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I’ve been thinking a lot about my late grandmother-in-law. She was a master bonsai artist. Her garden was a sanctuary of delicate trees—each one shaped over years with steady hands and quiet devotion. I remember watching her prune with care: never rushing, never cutting too deep.

She once told me, “You have to understand the tree before you shape it. You don’t force it. You grow with it.”

As I stepped into a new leadership role this past August, the memory resurfaced with meaning. Because starting fresh—especially in international schools where leadership transitions are frequent—comes with unspoken tension.

People wonder: What is she going to change? Will she try to fix everything? Does she even know what we’ve built here?

And to be honest, I’ve asked myself the same questions.

The Bark Isn’t the Problem

When you’re new, it’s tempting to jump in with vision, solutions, and “improvements.” After all, new leaders are often hired for change.

But schools aren’t blank canvases—they’re living ecosystems with roots, rituals, and rhythms. Every hallway has history. Every staff room has stories.

Cut too quickly, and people bleed. That’s why one of the first things I remind myself when entering a new space is: The bark is protective. It’s not the problem. It holds culture, identity, and trust.

And trust, in schools, is earned over time—through presence, listening, and honoring what already works.

Healthy Pruning Looks Like This

So how do I lead without uprooting? I prune. Carefully. Consistently. With context.

Instead of reacting immediately, I pause and reflect. I ask: What still bears fruit? What’s grown tangled with time? What needs light, air, or room to breathe again?

I talk to people. I listen to what students whisper between classes and what staff say after meetings. I read between the lines of “this is how we’ve always done it” and look for the values underneath.

And I remind myself that not everything needs to be mine to be meaningful. Stewardship can be more powerful than reinvention.

When Leadership Feels Like a Storm

Of course, leadership isn’t always calm. Let’s be honest. Even gentle pruning can be misunderstood.

Sometimes just being new feels like disruption. In particular, when you sound, look, or lead differently from what a community is used to. Sometimes, your presence shifts old dynamics, even when you don’t intend to.

There have been moments when I’ve felt like a storm when I was trying to be the stillness. I’ve had to remind myself: Your work is not to prove. It’s to understand. It’s to serve.

So I slow down. I communicate clearly. I explain the why before the what. And I invite others to shape the how with me.

Traditions vs. Traction

Reflecting back on the year, one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned this year is this: not all traditions need to be preserved—but many deserve to be honored.

When we enter new roles, especially in international schools, we often encounter a web of legacy. There’s beauty in that.

I’ve learned to ask: What traditions carry heart? What systems bring stability? What rituals foster belonging?

And then:

What’s just noise? What’s performative? What’s been done out of habit, not impact?

Tradition shouldn’t be mistaken for traction. But neither should we dismiss what roots people in meaning.

My Tools for Thoughtful Growth

Here are a few practices I carry with me:

  • Learning walks with questions, not judgments Walking the school as a learner—what’s happening here that I wouldn’t see from my office?
  • One Small Shift challenges Inviting teams to choose one thing they want to try, tweak, or toss—without the pressure of perfection.
  • Transparent “why” behind decisions If we shift something, the community deserves to understand the purpose behind it.
  • Celebrate the good already happening Before changing anything, amplify what’s already working—even if it’s small or quiet.
  • Use the school’s mission like a compass If something isn’t aligned with it, even tradition can be reconsidered. (If the mission isn’t clear – start with that!)

The Leadership I Aspire To

I don’t want to be the kind of leader who rushes in with fixes. I want to be the one who notices where clarity, purpose, and trust can shine through.

The one who sees both history and potential.

The one who understands that thoughtful change—done with care, with listening, with respect—isn’t about control. It’s about commitment.

Real growth in schools doesn’t come from force. It comes from intention, relationships, and knowing when to hold steady—and when to gently shift.

Wherever you are in your leadership journey—new to the role or years in—I hope this reminds you that your gentleness can be powerful. That honoring the past and building the future aren’t opposites. And that sometimes, the most impactful leadership starts with asking, not acting—because how we lead shapes how others live, learn, and belong.

Lianne Dominguez

9 Schools, 1 Journey: Belonging in the In-Between

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I studied in nine different schools growing up.

Nine uniforms. Nine first day butterflies. Nine different ways to wonder: Who am I in this place? Nine goodbyes I didn’t always know how to say.

But this isn’t just a story about adaptability or grit—it’s a story about identity and finding belonging in unfamiliar places.

About what it means to start again. About the space between “Where are you from?” and “Where do you feel like you belong?”

I didn’t always feel like I belonged.

Instead, I learned how to fit in. I’d scan a new classroom and adjust—my tone, my posture, my expectations. I smiled, even when I wasn’t sure where I stood.

I became fluent in beginnings. But I also carried a quiet fear of the middle—the uncertain space where belonging is built, not assumed.

Learning the Language of Change

At one point, I felt embarrassed to say I had studied in nine schools.

It sounded scattered. Incomplete. Like I didn’t belong anywhere long enough to call it mine.

I worried people would see it as instability—or worse, failure to stay rooted. So I downplayed it. Smoothed over the edges. Said it lightly, with a laugh.

Now I see it differently.

Those transitions weren’t gaps in my story. They were growth points that shaped my identity, resilience, and leadership.

Each move taught me how to read the room, how to listen, and how to survive uncertainty. Later, those same skills helped me lead others through it.

The Middle We Don’t Talk About

We talk a lot about beginnings. We romanticize endings. But most of life—especially school life—is lived in the middle.

The in-between is that quiet stretch of time when the novelty fades but you’re not yet rooted. You know faces but not yet stories. You know how to walk the halls, but still wonder if you’re allowed to say, “I’m not okay yet.”

And that’s where I spent so much of my life—being new in places.

In that in-between space where I was constantly becoming, constantly adjusting, constantly waiting for confirmation that I was allowed to just be.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self

To the girl with the heavy backpack and the practiced smile, here’s what I’d say:

You don’t need to rush to prove yourself.

It’s okay to feel scared. You’re allowed to ask for help. You can take up space—even when you’re new, even when you’re unsure.

And one day, all of this—every ending and every uncertain start—will form the foundation for how you lead.

Not with ego. But with empathy.

The Quiet Art of Letting Go

When you grow up in transition, you become good at letting go. But that doesn’t mean you get numb to it.

I learned to pack fast. To make friends fast. To leave fast.

I also learned that people aren’t meant to be rushed through. And neither is belonging.

Now, I hold onto people more gently. I make more room for traditions and reflection. I stay in touch longer than I used to. And I hold space for others to not have it all together right away.

The Most Transient Communities of All

After university, it felt natural to work in international schools—places where movement is constant, identity is fluid, and the question “Where are you from?” often trails off into silence.

These communities are beautiful, but not always easy.

Students arrive mid-year. Staff start over every few years. Families leave before they’ve fully settled.

This time, though, I see it differently.

I notice the student who clings to their home language in the hallway.

The teacher who stays late—not because of work, but because they haven’t found friends outside of school.

The staff member who shows up strong, but carries a quiet loneliness they can’t name.

And I remember what it felt like to live in that in-between space.

Why I Lead—and Why I Write

I lead because I know what it’s like to feel unseen. I write because I want to create school communities that see better.

Communities where onboarding is about more than logistics—it’s about landing.

Where departures are honored with grace, not just paperwork.

Where “you belong here” isn’t a slogan, but a structure. A culture. A daily commitment.

Today’s schools shouldn’t just be learning communities. They must be belonging communities—where every voice feels seen, valued, and safe.

Places where people—students, teachers, leaders—can ask questions, show up messy, and become more than what they were when they arrived.

To Anyone Standing at a New Door

Maybe you just moved, your boxes are still unpacked, or you’re still wondering if you belong.

Here’s what I’ve learned after nine schools, dozens of classrooms, and countless new beginnings:

You don’t have to get it right on day one.

You don’t have to figure it out alone.

And most importantly, you’re allowed to begin again—

As many times as it takes.

This is the kind of community I want to help build.

And I’m honored to begin again, here—with you.