Category Archives: Lianne Dominguez

Lianne Dominguez

Helping Teachers Flourish: The Heart of School Leadership

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This summer, I had the privilege of teaching and learning alongside almost a hundred teachers and school leaders through two back-to-back courses on instructional supervision and evaluation.

They represented different schools, systems, countries, and stages of leadership. Yet despite their diverse contexts, I was struck by how quickly our conversations converged.

The questions they asked were not just about observations, evaluation rubrics, or instructional frameworks themselves. Instead, they revealed something much deeper.

How do we create schools where teachers continue to grow, so that every student has the opportunity to flourish?

That question stayed with me long after the courses ended because it challenged me to think more deeply about what it really means for a school community to flourish.

We often talk about student flourishing, but perhaps we don’t spend enough time reflecting on what flourishing really means.

To flourish is more than to achieve success.

It is to continue growing.

To be challenged while feeling supported.

To develop confidence through purposeful practice.

To find meaning in what we do.

To belong to a community that believes we can always become better than we were yesterday.

If this is what we hope for our students, shouldn’t it also be what we hope for our teachers?

Teachers do not and should not stop learning the day they enter the profession. Like every professional, they deserve opportunities to reflect on their practice, receive meaningful feedback, refine their craft, and continue growing throughout their careers.

Perhaps this is where our work as school leaders matters most.

Our influence on student learning is rarely direct; it is multiplied through the teachers we support every day.

Throughout the courses, these conversations surfaced again and again through questions like:

  • How do we make classroom observations meaningful?
  • How do we ensure feedback leads to growth rather than compliance?
  • How do we balance operational demands with instructional leadership?

As I reflected afterwards, I realised they were all pointing towards the same question:

What conditions help teachers grow?

Four conditions kept emerging.

  • Clarity – Leaders create clarity by establishing a shared understanding of excellent teaching.
  • Trust – Leaders create trust by making coaching the purpose of supervision.
  • Evidence – Leaders strengthen professional judgment by grounding feedback in evidence.
  • Time – Leaders create the possibility for growth by intentionally protecting time.

Each of these matters on its own, but together they create the conditions in which teachers can continue to learn, refine their practice, and flourish.

Clarity

Teachers deserve a shared understanding of what excellent teaching looks like – not as a checklist to comply with, but as a framework grounded in research and the science of learning. Shared standards create a common language for professional growth and ensure that our feedback is anchored in evidence rather than individual preference.

Trust

Professional growth happens when supervision becomes a coaching conversation rather than a performance exercise. Teachers are far more likely to reflect honestly, take instructional risks, and refine their practice when they know the purpose of feedback is growth, not judgment.

Evidence

Professional judgment should be informed by patterns of practice and their impact on student learning and not isolated observations or personal preference. Evidence collected over time allows us to make thoughtful decisions about how best to support each teacher’s continued growth.

Time

Perhaps this is the condition we talk about least, yet it may be the one that determines whether all the others are possible.

Time to be present in classrooms.

Time to notice.

Time to listen before we speak.

Time to ask questions that provoke reflection rather than simply provide answers.

Time to coach.

Time to celebrate growth.

Time to learn alongside our teachers.

As another school year begins, I find myself returning to one simple truth: leadership is measured not only by the people we help grow, but by what we intentionally make time for.

After all, our calendars are often the clearest reflection of what we truly value.

Perhaps flourishing schools do not begin with programmes, initiatives, or strategic plans.

Perhaps they begin with leaders who intentionally create the conditions in which teachers continue to flourish.

So, as I prepare for the year ahead, I find myself returning to one simple question: What will I intentionally protect this year so that my teachers have the greatest opportunity to flourish?

Lianne Dominguez

We Talk About Peace – But What Does It Actually Look Like in Classrooms?

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Article Series: Education, Identity, and Peace in Kazakhstan

What does it actually mean for education to contribute to peace?

Not peace as an abstract idea or something we reference in mission statements—but as something lived in the everyday interactions between students, teachers, and communities.

We are living in a time where uncertainty feels constant. Across countries, there are tensions—political, cultural, and social—that shape how people see the world and each other. Schools sit directly within this reality.

So the question becomes more immediate: How do we help young people not only to succeed, but to live alongside difference—with understanding, with respect, and with care?

Over the past two years living and working in Kazakhstan, I’ve started to notice that this question is not always named directly—but it is present.

I work in an international school, and many of our students come from different educational and cultural experiences. Some have grown up in systems shaped by the legacy of the Soviet era – structured, academically rigorous, and grounded in discipline. Others are part of a more modern Kazakhstan – globally connected, multilingual, and outward-looking.

What stands out is not the difference between these experiences, but how students learn to navigate them.I remember sitting in a classroom discussion where students were exploring a global issue. What struck me was not just the range of opinions, but the way students approached each other’s ideas. There was disagreement, but it was measured. Students listened, paused, responded carefully. Some shifted between languages to clarify meaning. Others adjusted their thinking as they heard new perspectives.

It wasn’t a lesson about peace.

But it felt like one.

And over time, I’ve started to realise that moments like this are not incidental – they are shaped by something deeper.

What I’ve also started to notice is that this way of interacting does not sit in isolation from the wider culture. Kazakhstan is often described as a country made up of many nationalities, languages, and traditions. There is a strong emphasis on unity – that people of different backgrounds are part of one shared community. This is reflected not just in formal narratives, but in everyday interactions and in how identity is held.

There is a clear respect for cultural and religious diversity, alongside a sense of belonging that does not require people to set aside who they are.

I noticed this most during national and school celebrations, where traditions are not treated as belonging to one group alone, but are acknowledged more broadly – shared, recognised, and valued across communities. It creates a sense that identity is not something that needs to be reduced in order to belong, but something that can be held with confidence alongside others.

At the same time, like any society, there are also layers of complexity. But perhaps that is also part of the point.

Students are not growing up in a perfectly resolved environment. They are growing up in one where difference exists—and where they begin to make sense of that difference, gradually finding their place within it.

Kazakhstan’s history is present in its classrooms. The post-Soviet legacy continues to shape values around discipline, respect for teachers, and the importance of education. These are not abstract ideas – you can feel them in the way students approach their learning and in the relationships within schools.

At the same time, the country is actively shaping a modern identity. Students are learning in multiple languages – Kazakh, Russian, and English – and engaging with ideas that extend beyond their immediate context. They are growing up connected to both local traditions and a wider world. These are not viewed as isolated experiences, but worlds students learn to hold at once.

Working within this context, I’ve become more aware of the role of teachers in shaping not just learning, but relationships.

One of the things I have come to appreciate most is the warmth and care that Kazakh teachers bring to their work. There is a strong sense of responsibility toward students, rooted in values that feel deeply embedded – respect, community, and a genuine commitment to supporting young people.

Students are expected to work hard, to persevere, and to take learning seriously. But this is often held within relationships that feel steady and human. There is a sense that education is not only about achievement, but about how students learn to exist with others.

This is where the idea of peace becomes tangible.

It is not something separate from the classroom.

It begins in classrooms where students learn to listen before responding, where they learn to hold more than one perspective at a time, and where they learn to navigate differences without losing themselves.

In that sense, what I am seeing in schools here feels significant.

Students are not being taught about complexity as a concept. They are living it everyday.

I am still early in my experience here, and I approach this thought with curiosity more than certainty.

But what I am beginning to see more clearly is that there is something important happening in places like this – contexts where history, culture, and change intersect in everyday learning.

This is why I’m starting this 3-part series.

To explore more deeply what it means to educate in a space where multiple worlds meet, and what that might offer to a broader global conversation.

Because perhaps the work of building a more peaceful world does not begin with just policy or strategy alone.

Perhaps it begins in classrooms like these –  where students learn, every day, how to live with difference, how to listen, and how to hold multiple perspectives at once.

This is the first in a three-part series exploring education, identity, and peace in Kazakhstan. In the next article, I take a closer look at what it means for students to live and learn between different educational worlds.

Lianne Dominguez

Staying Human in the Age of Infinite Minds

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Satya Nadella, Chairman and CEO of Microsoft, used a phrase recently that stayed with me longer than I expected.

He spoke about a future where our work is not simply to manage systems or organisations, but to learn how to manage infinite minds. Minds extended by AI. Minds with access, speed, and reach far beyond what we had at the same age.

Hearing this, I took it as a quiet challenge to us as adults—especially those of us in schools.

Working in international education, I see this every day. Our students are already navigating multiple languages, identities, value systems, and expectations. They cross borders physically and cognitively, often before they’ve fully figured out who they are.

AI doesn’t introduce complexity into their lives—it amplifies what was already there.

And that amplification has made me pause, not to ask what more we should teach, but what more we need to be.

I keep coming back to the idea that infinite minds don’t actually need tighter management. They need steadiness. They need adults who are grounded enough not to rush to control, correct, or compete with the technology. Adults who can sit comfortably in uncertainty, who don’t confuse authority with having all the answers, and who trust that learning can be shared rather than supervised.

Trust feels foundational here—not just trust in students, but trust in ourselves to let go of being the central source of knowledge.

Curiosity feels just as important. Not the kind we design into lessons, but the kind we live out loud. The willingness to wonder with students rather than ahead of them. To ask better questions instead of faster ones. In a world where answers are instant, curiosity becomes an act of care. It slows things down. It reminds students that thinking is not about efficiency, but meaning.

I’ve also been reflecting on critical thinking—not as a skill students demonstrate, but as a stance we model. With AI, the challenge is no longer access to information, but discernment.

What do we trust? What do we question? When do we pause?

Students learn this less from rubrics and more from watching how we respond when we’re unsure, when we disagree respectfully, when we choose not to rush to conclusions.

There’s a subtle wellbeing dimension here too—because constant acceleration, even intellectual, can be exhausting.

And then there’s creativity. AI can generate endlessly, but it cannot decide what matters. That decision still sits with humans. In schools, creativity now feels less about performance and more about agency—about giving students space to shape ideas that reflect who they are, what they care about, and the communities they belong to.

What I’m noticing is that this moment isn’t asking educators to become more impressive or more technologically fluent. It’s asking us to become more human.

To shift quietly from managing learning to stewarding it. From directing students to walking alongside them. From certainty to discernment. That feels especially true in international schools, where students are already learning how to navigate complexity, difference, and change.

Right now, I don’t have a conclusion to this wondering —just a question I’m learning to live with.

If our students’ minds are becoming infinite, perhaps the work is not to contain them, but to strengthen the inner parts of ourselves that help us hold them well.

And maybe that work begins not with new tools or frameworks, but with how we show up—calm, curious, and willing to wonder alongside them.

Lianne Dominguez

Hope for 2026: A Quietly Radical Inspiration

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It has been almost two years since I left an organisation that shaped a significant chapter of my professional life. I am deeply rooted and grateful for the work I do now, but as 2026 begins, I find myself intentionally remembering something beautiful from an earlier season of my journey.

Not as a comparison point, and not as something to recreate—but as a quiet reflection on a chapter that helped form who I am today, and why I continue to believe so deeply in what schools and communities can become when belief, trust, and courage align.

Almost eight years ago, I became part of a founding team tasked with building a school from the ground up. For six of those years, that school was not just where I worked—it was where I lived, learned, and grew alongside my family, students, and colleagues. There was an existing model to follow, but it quickly became clear that our context—our place in the world, our students, our families—required something different. So we listened. And then we built.

We opened as a boarding school, and that detail matters. We didn’t just work there—we lived there. We lived in the boarding apartments adjacent to our students. We ate together, studied together, argued, laughed, recovered, and grew together. The community was so tightly woven that some students cried at the start of holiday breaks, grieving the temporary loss of a place that felt more like home than school.

There were many structures in that school that worked well, and many that did not. It was never perfect—and it wasn’t meant to be. What stayed with me were not the polished systems, but the ways of thinking and doing that emerged because of the moment we were in. The timing mattered. The nature of a start-up mattered. There was a shared understanding that everything was in draft form—that iteration was not a failure, but an expectation. Many arrived ready to adapt quickly, to problem-solve in real time, to try again without ego. That created a very different kind of energy—lighter, braver, more honest. If you’ve never been part of a school in its building phase, it’s hard to explain just how unique it is.

There is a rare permission in those early years to imagine freely, adjust boldly, and build together while everything is still becoming.

We reimagined the school day. On Wednesdays, the school day paused. Learning didn’t stop—but it softened and stretched. Students used that time to recalibrate: to seek support, re-sit assessments without stigma, drop into teachers’ rooms for unhurried conversations, study with friends, work on passion projects, or simply breathe.

It was a collective acknowledgment that growth doesn’t always happen on a fixed timetable—and that sometimes the most important learning begins when we slow down.

We introduced Genius Hour, where middle and high school students worked side by side on several five-week projects throughout the year, bound not by age or grades, but by curiosity and shared interests. These were not isolated “projects for display,” but incubators for real ideas. Over time, they grew into not-for-profit initiatives, media teams, redesigned learning spaces, a student-run bakery café, research projects, trips, and programs that became part of the school itself. What began as imagination gradually became infrastructure—student ideas woven into the fabric of the institution.

Alongside this, we designed many bespoke electives shaped around our students’ evolving pathways—constantly asking how we could help them move closer to their goals. Teachers drew on their passions, university experiences, and professional networks to create opportunities that did not exist before.

Everyone looked for ways to connect students with someone, somewhere, who could help them take the next step toward their dreams. This became part of the culture: possibility-seeking, relationship-driven, deeply intentional.

Teachers were alive in their work. Fully present. Lifelong learners again. Many began projects alongside students, modeling growth rather than perfection. They carried a sense of humor too—an ease with one another that made even the hardest days lighter. Life felt simple in the best way: meaningful work, honest laughter, shared purpose.

Every day, I felt an immense sense of gratitude to be surrounded by such a talented, generous group of educators. To serve as their Principal was a privilege—one that grounded me in humility, trust, and deep belief in what teachers can build when they are truly seen and supported.

Our student leaders didn’t just represent voices—they co-authored policies and processes with adults. They did so with care, empathy, and a deep sense of ownership. Everyone—students and staff alike—acted like builders every single day.

In time, very selective universities globally began to notice—not just our students’ academic profiles, but their stories, their agency, and the way they spoke about having helped build their own community. That recognition was never the goal, but it became a meaningful affirmation. We were proud of what we had built—and it mattered to know that others could see it too.

I was supported by a head of school who believed deeply in the cause. Some of our best thinking happened not in meeting rooms, but over barbecues and shrimp boils—living simply, dreaming boldly, hearts fully on our sleeves.

My own children were part of this founding story too. With other founding students, they helped shape the culture, grew up alongside their peers, and shared life in a community where school and home were not separate worlds. We even lived through COVID together—and somehow emerged stronger, more connected, more human.

As often happens over time, governance and vision evolved, and the school chose a different direction. The school was renamed and rebranded to align with the new project. Some of us who were part of the building phase knew it was time to step away too.

I still think about the kind of community we created. How rare it was. How, for a moment, we all glimpsed what school could be when we truly listen to students, trust teachers, and invite educators to help write the story rather than simply deliver it. That experience left me with enduring lessons about what it means to build a school—lessons rooted not just in structures or schedules, but in relationships, shared ownership, and belief.

This experience also helped me understand something about myself now. Why conversations about possibility with students still energize me. Why imagining new pathways with colleagues feels expansive rather than exhausting. Why I remain hopeful and deeply optimistic about education, even in complex times. I’ve seen what can happen when people are trusted, when imagination is taken seriously, and when community is built with intention.

It didn’t last forever. But it existed. And because it existed once, it continues to shape how I lead, how I listen, and how I dream.

As 2026 begins, I carry that chapter with me—not as nostalgia, but as a compass. I want to continue bringing the energy of that time into my current work: the willingness to keep iterating, to move forward thoughtfully, to make things better without losing sight of the people and the process along the way.

Whether I am in a start-up phase or building on an existing legacy, I hold onto the same belief—that when we lead with humanity, curiosity, and care, something extraordinary remains possible, again and again.

Lianne Dominguez

Safeguarding Voice: Who Gets Heard, and Who Gets Silenced?

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this third and last piece in my safeguarding series — what to bring into the light, what to hold space for, and what has become so normalized that it deserves attention. And the more I sat with it, the more I realized that this next part of the safeguarding conversation is not about students directly. It’s about the adults who protect the students — and what happens when their safety is quietly eroded.

One uncomfortable truth is that we cannot safeguard children if we don’t safeguard the adults responsible for them. And yet, across countless professional conversations, accreditation visits, coaching sessions, and quiet after-meeting walk-and-talks, I keep hearing versions of the same thing:

  • “I didn’t feel safe speaking in that meeting.”
  • “My idea only landed after someone else repeated it.”
  • “I don’t want to challenge him — it always becomes personal.”
  • “People like me aren’t listened to here.”
  • “I don’t want to be seen as the difficult one.”

These are not isolated stories. These are patterns that form culture. And culture, more than any policy or protocol, is where safeguarding either strengthens or breaks.

Voice as a Safeguarding Issue

Psychological safety is not a leadership trend — it is one of the conditions of successful safeguarding. Research from Amy Edmondson (Harvard Business School) shows that teams with low psychological safety underreport concerns, stay silent in the face of potential harm, and rarely challenge power dynamics — even when something feels wrong.

In schools, that silence is not abstract. It lands directly at the feet of our students. When adults don’t feel safe to speak truth, children have no one left to speak for them. And this is where voice becomes more than a wellbeing issue and becomes a safeguarding responsibility.

Power in spaces can create an imbalance.

Unconscious bias is not malicious — but it is powerful. In school leadership spaces, certain voices are at times unintentionally elevated:

  • the confident, fluent speaker
  • the senior leader
  • the person with historical credibility
  • the charismatic personality
  • the culturally dominant group or gender
  • the one who takes up space easily

And just as quietly, other voices shrink:

  • new teachers
  • International or local hires
  • minority staff
  • reflective, quieter thinkers
  • women whose tone is judged before their ideas
  • people with less political capital

No one announces this imbalance. It simply becomes the room. And when a room is imbalanced, safeguarding is imbalanced.  Safeguarding depends on the voices most willing to notice, question, and disrupt harm — not just the ones who speak the loudest.

What is the cost of unsafe leadership spaces?

People don’t leave schools because of workload. They leave because of what happens in rooms where decisions are made. The latest reports from ISC Research (2022) and Education Support UK (2023) note that:

  • lack of voice and psychological safety is one of the top 3 reasons teachers resign,
  • minority staff report double the levels of “dismissal of concerns,”
  • women in leadership experience more frequent interruption, contradiction, and tone-policing,
  • schools with low psychological safety have significantly higher rates of safeguarding near-misses — because concerns stay unspoken.

These aren’t abstract statistics. They explain something we’ve all seen before: when adults do not feel safe, they stop challenging. They stop reporting, noticing, or caring out loud. And a school where people stop caring out loud is a school where safeguarding is already compromised.

When “Harmless” Behaviours Become Harmful

Culture doesn’t break in dramatic moments. It breaks in subtle ones.

  • A sexist joke passed off as humour.
  • A colleague dismissed mid-sentence.
  • A leader’s idea always chosen first.
  • A microaggression reframed as “not a big deal.”
  • A person’s concern minimised as oversensitivity.
  • A boundary pushed “just this once.”

Individually, these moments feel small but collectively, they form a climate where harm can grow quietly. Safeguarding literature calls this the continuum of harm: micro-behaviours → normalisation → silence → risk. This is why safeguarding must extend beyond child protection training. It must sit in the DNA of how adults treat one another.

So what can you do when speaking up feels unsafe in your community?

1. Trust your discomfort. It’s professional evidence. Your instincts are shaped by experience, pattern recognition, and emotional labor. If something feels off, it’s worth noting. Write it down. Keep it factual. Collect clarity, not “evidence.” Silence thrives where intuition is dismissed.

2. Use policy as protection — not confrontation. Policies exist to protect both children and adults. You can ground your concerns in neutral, non-personal language such as:

  • “Our safeguarding code of conduct notes that…”
  • “KCSIE highlights our duty to…”
  • “The whistleblowing policy protects staff when…”

Policy removes emotion and hierarchy. It makes the conversation about safeguarding, and not personalities.

3. Don’t go alone — use the processes and key people available in your school. When a culture is resistant, use structure. A collective voice has protection that an isolated one doesn’t. Here are some key people that you can approach: DSL, Deputy DSL, Line manager, HR, Whistleblowing channel, or Safeguarding governor

4. Focus on impact, not intention. This defuses defensiveness and keeps the conversation about safety. Impact shifts the conversation from accusation to understanding to action. 

  • “I know the intention wasn’t harm, but the impact was…”
  • “This landed differently to the way it was meant.”

5. Leaders: repair culture in the smallest moments. Culture doesn’t shift in big speeches. It shifts in micro-courageous actions like: 

  • Interrupt the biased joke.
  • Invite the quiet colleague to speak.
  • Name the dynamic you observe: “I think we just talked over her.”
  • Publicly credit people’s ideas.
  • Protect the person who raised a concern.
  • Model humility, not dominance.
  • Ask, “Whose voice haven’t we heard yet?”

Safeguarding begins long before crisis. It begins in the spaces where adults gather, decide, and lead. And if we want safer schools, we must commit to safeguarding voice — every voice — with the same vigilance we promise our students.

Safety is not built by power but by consistency. In the end… safeguarding is not only about children. It is about protecting the adults who protect the children. It is about creating rooms where voice is safe, not only strategic. It is about building cultures where courage is shared, not punished. And above all — it is about choosing the kind of leadership that makes safety visible, dignity possible, and silence no longer the easiest option.

So as you look around your own school, ask yourself one final question: Whose voice is truly safe here — and whose isn’t?

Lianne Dominguez

The Hidden Risk in Every Interview Room and How to Stop It

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Safeguarding Series #2: This article is the second in my ongoing Safeguarding in Recruitment series—written for anyone navigating the critical decisions of hiring season. In Part 1, I explored how safeguarding must be the heart of the reference check—not the afterthought. In this follow-up, I dive deeper into the quiet risks we often miss during recruitment conversations—and how shifting our approach can build safer school cultures from the start.

Most interviews start with: “Tell us about your teaching philosophy.”

Maybe they should start with: “Tell us about a time you made a student feel safe.”

The truth is, you can have every certificate laminated, every reference polished, every acronym memorized — and still not be someone a school would trust around a child, a teenager, a colleague.

We don’t talk about this enough: competence doesn’t equal character.

And yet, many schools hire mainly for competence all the time.

The Illusion of “Safe” Hiring

We love systems that make us feel safe — background checks, reference calls, forms that promise transparency. But safety isn’t paperwork. It’s people work.

Safeguarding isn’t a document you sign once a year; it’s a daily decision to do the harder thing: to pause before you react, to challenge a colleague, to admit you were wrong.

And that’s what interviews should reveal.

Not just what a person knows, but what they will do when no one is watching.

According to NSPCC Learning (2024), 47% of safeguarding failures in UK schools over the past decade were linked not to missing procedures, but to staff attitudes, culture, or failures to act on instinct. In short — schools didn’t hire the right people for the culture of vigilance they needed.

Character Isn’t Found in a CV

CVs tell you what candidates want you to know — results, roles, titles. They don’t tell you how those results were achieved or what values guided them.

Character hides in the small things:

  • The way someone speaks about a “difficult” student.
  • Whether they use we or I when describing success.
  • How they talk about colleagues they’ve disagreed with.

Integrity leaks through language. So does ego. So does entitlement.

Listen for the small power cues — the ones that reveal whether a candidate sees children as partners in learning or problems to control; whether they speak with respect or about behaviour.

The Questions That Matter

It’s been years as a senior leader when I stopped asking: “What’s your classroom management style?”

Now I ask:

  • “How do you repair trust after a mistake?”
  • “Tell me about a time you had to call out a colleague’s behaviour — how did you handle it?”
  • “When have you witnessed bias or exclusion, and what did you do?”
  • “How do you respond when a parent challenges your authority or makes you uncomfortable?”
  • “How do you ensure every student — regardless of gender, background, or ability — feels equally seen and respected?”
  • “What kind of humour belongs in a classroom, and what doesn’t?”
  • “How do you model boundaries with students on social media or in public spaces?”

These aren’t trick questions. They reveal reflexes, empathy, and blind spots.

You’ll see it instantly: Some candidates pause and think deeply — humility lives in that pause. Others get defensive — ego lives there too.

You can train skill but you can’t fake compassion. You definitely can’t perform respect for long.

Screening for Toxic Patterns

As safeguarding leaders, we must go beyond detecting risk to children and start detecting risk to culture.

There are red flags that deserve naming:

  • Misogynistic or gender-coded language (“the girls are more dramatic,” “the boys just need firm discipline”).
  • Toxic masculinity disguised as “banter” or “relatability.”
  • Blame-shifting when discussing conflict with colleagues (“I’m just straightforward — some people can’t handle that”).
  • Subtle victim-blaming when describing past safeguarding incidents.
  • Lack of curiosity about diversity or inclusion.

These are not personality quirks. They are early indicators of boundary failure, bias, or coercive dynamics. And schools that overlook them often pay the price later — in grievance meetings, parental complaints, or damaged student trust.

When Politeness Becomes a Mask

Not all safeguarding risks look like aggression. Some come disguised as professionalism.

There’s a particular kind of candidate — calm, articulate, “respectful” — who uses courtesy as camouflage. They speak softly, but hold power tightly. They talk about standards when they really mean control. They demand “respect” when what they want is compliance. It’s self-righteousness masked as morality, and it’s harder to spot than overt misconduct.

You’ll hear it in the phrases:

  • “I’m very principled — I just expect others to meet that.”
  • “I tell it like it is — people sometimes find that intimidating.”
  • “Students need to learn respect first.”

What sounds like confidence can, in reality, be covert narcissism — the kind that erodes trust under the banner of “high expectations.”

In safeguarding, this is dangerous because it silences others. Staff hesitate to challenge. Students hesitate to speak. The culture bends around ego instead of care.

During interviews, listen for:

  • A moralising tone — “should,” “always,” “never.”
  • Defensiveness when discussing feedback or disagreement.
  • Politeness that feels performative — control disguised as calm.
  • Lack of curiosity or self-questioning (“I’ve never had issues with boundaries.”)

These traits rarely show up on safeguarding checklists, but they can quietly corrode a culture of safety. Respect that demands silence isn’t respect — it’s domination dressed up as virtue.

A Practical Toolbox for Interview Panels

If you’re leading or sitting on a safer recruitment panel, use this DSL-aligned checklist to anchor the conversation:

Focus AreaWhat to Listen ForRed Flags
Attitude to PowerSpeaks about safeguarding as shared responsibility; values accountability.Deflects responsibility; uses hierarchical language (“that’s SLT’s job”).
Gender & RespectUses inclusive language; avoids stereotypes; names bias when seen.Jokes, generalizations, or discomfort discussing gender or harassment.
Boundaries & RelationshipsDescribes warmth with professionalism; distinguishes care from familiarity.Over-emphasis on “being friends” with students; blurred boundaries.
Conflict ResponseMentions listening, reflection, repair.Blames others; views disagreement as threat.
Emotional RegulationOwns mistakes; names stress responses.Minimizes pressure or emotional triggers (“I never lose my cool”).
Cultural HumilityShows curiosity about local norms and diversity.Talks about “fitting students to my way.”

Culture Fit vs Culture Alignment

Too many schools hire people who “fit.” Fit keeps things comfortable. Alignment keeps things honest.

When we say, “They’ll fit right in,” what we often mean is, “They won’t make us uncomfortable or feel awkward.” But safeguarding thrives on discomfort — on colleagues who ask, “Are we sure this is okay?”

The best safeguarding cultures are built by people who can challenge without arrogance and care without agenda.

The adults we hire don’t just teach subjects. They teach norms. They model what power used responsibly looks like. They teach young people what respect looks and sounds like. They teach what it feels like to be listened to.

When we hire for compliance, we get professionals who follow the handbook. When we hire for character, we get people who live it — especially when it’s inconvenient.

The Real Question

When you sit across from a candidate, ask yourself: Would I trust this person to stand up to a colleague making an inappropriate joke? Would I trust them to protect a student whose voice shakes in silence?

If the answer isn’t an immediate yes — it’s a no. Safeguarding doesn’t start when something goes wrong. It starts right there, in that chair — with the courage to choose people who make safety visible and dignity non-negotiable.

Safeguarding isn’t about credentials; it’s about character. It lives in the questions we ask, the biases we challenge, and the courage we show when it’s uncomfortable. In the end, safer schools aren’t built by policy—they’re built by people who choose integrity over ease.

Lianne Dominguez

Hiring Is the First Act of Safeguarding

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Safeguarding Series #1: A Perspective on Safer Recruitment in International Schools from My Role as a DSL

When people ask me about safeguarding, they often expect to hear about policies, disclosures, or risk assessments.

As a Designated Safeguarding Lead (DSL), I’ve come to understand that safeguarding doesn’t begin with a form. It begins with a person. And often, that person is not a student. It’s an adult we’ve just hired.

Safer Hiring is serious business.

And yet, many of us know—quietly, sometimes reluctantly—that these measures alone are not enough. Not in international schools. Not in a world where teachers move countries every few years, where systems vary, and where reputation can hide risk.

Let’s name the quiet truths:

  • References can be vague or overly polished.
  • Background checks may only tell us who was caught—not who caused harm and moved on.
  • Some candidates smooth over CV gaps with charm or vague reasoning.
  • In our global school network, we often mistake the absence of a red flag for a sign of safety

We assume that familiarity equals integrity. That silence equals clearance. That good schools only hire good people.

There are moments I pause and quietly ask myself: what if?

I remember the references that made me pause—but came from schools too prestigious to question.

And the time we stopped at two references. It felt efficient. But now, with hindsight, I can’t help but ask: what didn’t we see?

I think about the one candidate I didn’t feel quite right about—but didn’t want to seem “overly suspicious.”

More than anything, I think about how often safer recruitment is quietly treated as HR’s job. In reality, it belongs to all of us—especially to those with the power to decide who walks into our schools.

As a DSL, I know that one poorly vetted hire can undo years of trust built with students and families. That’s why hiring isn’t just the first HR task. It’s the first safeguarding decision.

Practical Questions We Need to Ask (But Often Don’t)

  • Have we actually spoken to the person who worked most closely with the candidate?
  • Are we accepting clearances from countries that don’t share information across borders?
  • Have we asked about safeguarding concerns—not just performance reviews?
  • Have we reviewed the candidate’s relational conduct with both students and adults?
  • Are there any patterns of emotional manipulation, boundary-pushing, or staff conflict that raise concern?
  • Is our interview panel trained to detect grooming behaviors masked as charisma?

Most importantly: Are we willing to pause the process when something doesn’t feel right? Because when instinct is paired with professional judgment, it becomes valid evidence—not just a gut feeling.

A Call to Senior Leaders, HR Teams, and Governors

If you’re on a hiring panel, you are part of the safeguarding team—whether or not you carry the DSL title.

Ask the hard questions. Push for the third reference. Slow down when the pressure says move fast. Question the “but they’re from a good school” mindset.

And never forget: a charming interview does not equal a safe adult.

It’s easy to overlook red flags when time is tight. It’s tempting to shift responsibility elsewhere. But in safeguarding, what’s easy is rarely what’s safe.

We owe our students more than good teachers. We owe them safe ones.

And “safe” doesn’t just mean free of criminal history. A safe teacher is someone who will never shame a child for struggling. Someone who won’t belittle, mock, or emotionally manipulate a student—no matter how talented they are at teaching.

Harm doesn’t always show up in obvious ways. Sometimes, it’s subtle—a comment meant as a joke, a tone that cuts too deep. Sometimes, it hides behind charm, or behind standards that feel just a little too high. And sometimes, it goes unnoticed—tucked into the corners of decisions made too quickly.

Emotional safety matters just as much as physical safety—and that starts with hiring adults who are not just competent, but compassionate. Not just experienced, but ethical. Not just impressive on paper, but principled in practice.

So the next time we sit at a hiring table, let’s remember: The decision we make isn’t just about filling a timetable. It’s about protecting our community.

In the end, hiring is not just operational. It is ethical. It is relational.

And in international schools—where mobility is high and memory is short— hiring is foundational.

Lianne Dominguez

What’s Really Holding Your Team Back? The Confidence–Competence Gap No One Talks About

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There’s a look I’ve seen often — that pause after I introduce a new task.

Not resistance. Not laziness.

Just a subtle pause.

Sometimes it’s a look of “Are you sure I can do this?”

Other times it’s a confident “Yep!” — followed by an outcome that quietly says… maybe not.

It took me years (and a few humbling leadership stumbles) to realize that behind every reaction to a task is a quiet dance between confidence and competence. And here’s the kicker: that dance plays out not just in others, but in ourselves too.

We lead people.

We assign things.

We expect initiative.

And sometimes, we walk away from a task handover feeling like: Why didn’t that land the way I thought it would?

When you zoom out, it’s often not about the task. It’s about how people see themselves in relation to it.

Confidence and competence are two different muscles. Some have both. Some have one. Some have neither — yet.

Ken Blanchard’s Situational Leadership Theory offers a timeless truth: effective leaders don’t lead the same way all the time — they adjust based on who they’re leading and what the task demands. Depending on a person’s readiness and skill, we’re called to direct, coach, support, or delegate.

That model has been a compass in my own leadership journey — but over the years, I found myself craving something even more grounded in the lived reality of schools. I started collecting observations — scribbled on post-its during meetings, noted in margins of agendas, shared over hallway check-ins. Real stories. Real reactions.

Over time, a pattern began to emerge. From those small but telling moments, I developed what I now call my Confidence–Competence Lens — a tool that builds on Blanchard’s work, but reflects the heartbeat of real school life. It’s the tool I turn to when deciding not just what needs doing, but how to support the person doing it.

Because leadership isn’t just about assigning tasks — it’s about noticing how people meet them, and knowing what to do next. Here’s how I use the lens to guide both leadership decisions and support strategies:

Competence & Confidence Lens in ActionHigh ConfidenceLow Confidence
High CompetenceEmpower & Trust 
✓ Let them lead key initiatives or mentor others. 
✓ Give stretch goals that build mastery and ownership. 
✓ Involve them in co-creating strategy or vision. 

Watch for: Overcommitment or burnout due to over-reliance.

Say: “I’d love for you to lead this — I trust your judgment and skill.”

Coach Quietly 
✓ Affirm their strengths privately and publicly. 
✓ Give them low-risk opportunities to lead. 
✓ Provide examples of their impact they may not see. 

Watch for: Impostor syndrome, reluctance to speak in groups. 

What people say: “I’m not ready”

Say: “You already have what it takes — let’s find a space where you can try it out without pressure.”
Low CompetenceMonitor Closely 
✓ Pair with a mentor or buddy. 
✓ Break tasks into steps with checkpoints. 
✓ Provide scripts, models, or exemplars. 

Watch for: Missed details, inconsistent follow-through. 

What people say: “Got it!” (but no follow-through)

Say: “Let’s work through the first part together — I’ll check in after Step 2 and help you course-correct if needed.”		Mentor Patiently 
✓ Teach explicitly. Model tasks. Role-play scenarios. 
✓ Normalize learning curve — give space to fail safely. 
✓ Celebrate growth, not just outcomes. 

Watch for: Avoidance, anxiety, or misdirected effort. 

Say: “This will take time — but you don’t have to do it alone. Let’s focus on progress, not perfection.”

Reflection Starts With Us

In the day-to-day pace of leadership, we’re often focused on how our team is reacting — who’s leaning in, who’s hesitant, who’s dragging their heels. But it’s just as important to pause and recognise where our own reactions as leaders show up most strongly.

Is it in our resistance to trying a new system?
Is it that voice in our head saying, “This won’t work for our context,” or “I’m too busy for this”?
Or that burst of enthusiasm for a new idea — followed by quiet procrastination?

We’re not immune to the same gaps we recognize in others. And asking ourselves why we hesitate can be just as important as noticing it in our teams.

Whether we’re assigning a task or facing one ourselves, the same lens applies. This isn’t about judging — it’s about being curious, and matching the right response to the human need, in others and in ourselves.in ourselves.

Leadership isn’t about having all the answers.

It’s about noticing what gets in the way, and doing something about it.

We’ve all been the confident beginner, the quiet expert, the reluctant participant, the over-eager new hire. We’ve all needed someone to say: “I see what you can do. Let me help you get there.”

So the next time a task falls flat or a team member pulls back — Pause.

Ask: “Is it confidence? Competence? Or both?” Then lead with what they need. Because when we grow both confidence and competence — in others and ourselves — we don’t just build better teams. We build braver ones.

Lianne Dominguez

From Performance to Presence: Reframing the Trap of Performative Leadership

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There’s a TikTok trend going around called “the performative man”—a satirical take on guys who do the bare minimum but make it look like maximum effort. He’s flipping a pancake like it’s a CrossFit workout. He answers one email and immediately announces it’s time for a break. He slams cabinet doors with dramatic flair, sighs like he’s solving world peace, narrates every move loudly, and enters rooms with an air of exhausted importance—so everyone knows he must be doing something significant.

It’s hilarious. It’s ridiculous. And it’s… painfully familiar.

It made me realize that somewhere in every organization—there’s a version of that performative guy.

And maybe, at one point—when I was just starting out as a teacher, then a middle leader, and later as a senior leader—every time I stepped into something new, especially in those early months, that version was me. Maybe it’s all of us, at some point.

  • The teacher who performs certainty to hide fear.
  • The leader who overcompensates because they’re new, or unheard, or exhausted.
  • The woman told to “sit at the table” but now wonders if she’s mimicking a leadership model she never even liked.

When Performance Replaces Presence

Performative leadership is what happens when we start acting out the role instead of living the responsibility.

It often looks like:

  • Always having an answer (even when you don’t)
  • Replying to emails at midnight to prove commitment
  • Jumping into every conversation just to be seen
  • Leading meetings as monologues, not dialogues
  • Protecting your image more than your integrity

The hardest part? It rarely comes from arrogance.  It usually comes from fear. Or self-doubt. Or the overwhelming pressure to prove ourselves in roles we genuinely care about.

Let’s be real—leadership is vulnerable. We enter a new role and instantly feel the need to be: liked, respected, credible, and visible.

So, we perform. We become overly polished, overly busy, overly certain—because we’re trying to outrun the voice that whispers: “Am I enough for this?”

But the irony is: the more we perform, the further we drift from trust—the very thing we’re trying to build.

Performative leadership slowly chips away at authenticity. It trains people to follow your persona, not your principles. It breeds compliance, not commitment.

It creates distance—because no one can connect with the version of you that’s always right, always “on,” and never unsure.

Tips & Reframes: Moving from Performance to Presence

1. Notice your signals: When you find yourself saying things like: “We’ve always done it this way,” “Just trust me,” or even silence that masks discomfort—pause.

Ask yourself: Am I leading… or protecting something?

2. Watch your mirrors: Who do you shrink around? Who do you perform for? These instinctive reactions often reveal internalized fears or survival scripts from past environments.

3. Reclaim your authenticity: It’s okay to say: “I don’t know yet.” “Let’s think about that together.” “You tell me—what do you need?”

You’re not losing authority. You’re building trust.

4. Call in, not out: When you notice performative patterns in others, don’t shame. Invite.

Ask: “Is this what we actually value here?” Create space for real talk, realignment, and shared vulnerability.

Reframe: Presence Over Performance

Leadership isn’t about being the most impressive person in the room. It’s about being the safest one to stand next to.

And that often looks like:

  • Saying “I don’t know”—and meaning it
  • Letting others lead meetings you’re used to owning
  • Prioritizing reflection over reaction
  • Normalizing questions, doubts, and slow starts
  • Protecting your boundaries, not just your reputation
  • Speaking last, not first
  • Asking “What do you need?” instead of “How do I fix this?”

Practice: How to Start (Without Needing to Be Perfect)

1.Name the pattern: When you feel yourself shifting into “polish mode”—pause. Ask: Am I here to serve, or impress?

2.Choose one space to stay messy: A team meeting. A student chat. A parent call. Let go of the need to have it all together—just be present.

3.Build one relationship where you can be fully yourself: Find someone who sees the real you—and reminds you that’s enough.

4.Let your team breathe: Permission is powerful. Normalize uncertainty. Invite feedback. Celebrate rest.

5.Be patient with yourself : This isn’t a one-time fix. It’s a muscle. You build it slowly—through daily reps of showing up real.

If you recognize yourself here, know that you’re not broken. You’re not failing either. You’re probably just trying really hard— to care, belong,and lead well.

But what if this week you could try to let go a little?

Speak softer. Think longer. Show up real, unsure—but deeply grounded.

Because that version of you? That may be the leader your school needs most.

This post is your permission. 

To feel the tension.

To stay when it’s hard.

To lead with integrity.

To change your mind.

To drop the act.

To begin again.

You can love the school, the team, the mission…. And still long for a kind of leadership that feels more like home.

And maybe… just maybe… that’s the beginning of something better.

Lianne Dominguez

How can AI make teachers more human in the classroom?

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Everywhere I go lately, there’s a whisper in the background of education: Will AI replace teachers?

I hear it in staff rooms, at conferences, and even in conversations with parents. It’s a question that holds both fear and fascination. But each time, I find myself coming back to a different angle. Because maybe the real question isn’t about replacement at all. Maybe it’s about rebalancing.

What if AI could actually make teachers more human in the classroom?

Why did we choose to become educators?

Most of us didn’t step into teaching because we dreamed of filling out spreadsheets or marking papers at midnight. We entered education because we believe in people—because we know that learning is built on relationships.

It’s in the quiet moment when a student finally feels safe enough to speak. It’s in the spark in their eyes when something “clicks.” It’s in the laughter, the stories, and the trust we build day after day.

Those are the things that stay with students years after they’ve forgotten the details of a math formula or a history date. Those are the things no algorithm can replicate.

And yet, too often, teachers are buried under the noise of the job: the marking pile that never shrinks, the lesson prep that eats up weekends, the data entry that stretches long into the night. All of that steals away the time and energy we want to pour into the human side of teaching.

Where does AI fit ?

Some see AI as a threat, others as the future. The truth may be less about either/or and more about how we align its strengths with what matters most in education.

AI is powerful—it can draft lesson scaffolds, generate feedback at scale, analyze patterns in student data that we might otherwise miss, and even bridge language barriers in multicultural classrooms. In the right hands, it can open possibilities that were once unimaginable.

But here’s the key: AI is at its best not when it replaces teachers, but when it amplifies them. It can clear the clutter so that the teacher’s most important work—relationships, presence, empathy—comes through louder than ever.

What shifts do we need to make?

This is the real shift we need to embrace in education: moving from the fear of replacement to the power of rebalancing.

When we stop asking “Will AI replace us?” and start asking “How can AI give us back time to be fully human?” we change the whole conversation.

If schools integrate AI thoughtfully, we could reclaim something we’ve been losing for years in education: meaningful time. Not just time shaved off our workload, but time that lets us pause, notice, and connect. Time to lean into the conversations that help students feel seen. Time to mentor, to listen, to bring the holistic dimensions of growth—cultural, academic, physical, emotional, social—back to the center of what we do.

Four ways to start that shift

  1. Automate the routine: Use AI for what it does best: the repetitive and the time-consuming. Scheduling, drafting rubrics, generating baseline lesson resources. It’s not about perfection—it’s about removing the drain.
  2. Protect the relational: Make an intentional choice to invest the time saved into relationships. That might mean slowing down for a conversation, designing deeper discussions, or checking in with a student who’s been quiet.
  3. Reframe professional growth: When training staff on AI, pair every technical skill with a human one. For example: show how AI can generate a draft lesson, then ask, “How will you use the time saved to spark deeper inquiry or connect with students more personally?”; Add reflection prompts in evaluations like: “How did AI reduce your workload this term, and how did you reinvest that time into relationships or student growth?”; Leaders can model this shift by sharing how they themselves use AI for admin, then spend the reclaimed time in coaching or mentoring. These subtle moves remind teachers—and systems—that AI is not the goal. The human connection is.
  4. Lead with clarity: Schools should be explicit about where AI belongs and where it doesn’t. Clarity reassures staff, parents, and students that the goal isn’t replacement, but balance.

At its best, AI won’t make classrooms less human—it will make them more human. But that depends on how we choose to use it. The real challenge for us, as educators and leaders, is to decide: Will we let AI crowd our work with more efficiency, or will we use it as an opening to reclaim what matters most—our presence, our empathy, our relationships?

Because in the end, the most powerful learning still happens in the space between people. So I leave you with this: where in your teaching or leadership could AI return the gift of time—for you to be more present, more human?