Hello beautiful soul
I was working with a client 1:1 this week. Anyone who has worked with me will know I love a wild analogy, and this is no different.
I was talking to her about the Wizard of Oz.
(Stay with me.)
Because one of the cleverest tricks patriarchy ever pulled was grooming us to believe in hierarchy.
To believe that some people are inherently more special, more powerful, more worthy than the rest of us.
And as long as those “special ones” exist somewhere up there — the famous ones, the powerful ones, the creative ones, the ones with access — we quietly accept our place somewhere below.
Not consciously, usually.
But culturally, collectively, it seeps in early.
We learn to scan rooms.
To assess status.
To measure ourselves against invisible ladders.
Who has the power.
Who has the approval.
Who we should impress.
Who we should defer to.
We start to assume there are people behind the curtain who really know what they’re doing.
Who truly deserve to be there.
Who are somehow… different.
And if they are different, then maybe our job is just to try to get closer to them.
Or to become more like them.
For a long time in my career, I believed there were “special people”.
The people at the top of organisations.
The ones on stages.
The ones at the important tables.
I assumed they must be different from me.
Smarter.
More confident.
More certain about what they were doing.
I think a lot of us carry that belief quietly.
That somewhere out there are the people who really know what they’re doing.
And the rest of us are just trying to catch up.
Then I had my own Wizard of Oz moment.
You know the scene in the film. Everyone is terrified of the Wizard. He appears huge and powerful. But when Dorothy pulls back the curtain…
It’s just a man.
A slightly awkward man pulling levers, making noise, trying to make himself look bigger than he really is.
I had a version of that moment when I joined Soho House years ago.
For those who don’t know it, it’s a private members’ club originally built around creative industries — film, art, fashion, music, media.
Before I joined, I had built a whole mythology around it in my mind.
I imagined the members would be wildly more interesting than me.
More creative.
More fashionable.
More important.
And then I walked into the room.
And realised something surprising.
They were just people.
Lovely people. Talented people. Messy people. Ordinary people.
Just like me.
Not better. Not worse. Just human.
Around that same time, I began sitting at more leadership tables in my career.
And the same realisation landed again.
I had assumed that once you reached certain rooms — certain titles, certain boards, certain executive meetings — there would be a different species of human there.
People who truly knew what they were doing. People who had it figured out.
Instead, what I found was something much more honest.
Everyone was good at some things.
Everyone was not so good at other things.
Everyone was making the best decisions they could with the information, perspective, and courage they had available in that moment.
Some were brilliant. Some were deeply insecure. Some were visionary. Some were winging it.
Just like the rest of us.
It was what I now call the great leveller.
Because once you see behind the Wizard of Oz curtain, something shifts permanently.
You stop worshipping titles. You stop assuming other people are inherently more capable. You stop shrinking yourself in rooms where you absolutely belong.
Not because arrogance replaces humility.
But because the illusion dissolves.
You realise leadership isn’t about being “special”.
It’s about being willing.
Willing to take responsibility.
Willing to make decisions with imperfect information.
Willing to stand in front of others and try.
And right now, in many ways, the world itself feels like it’s pulling back the curtain.
Institutions wobble.
Leaders get exposed.
Systems are questioned.
And although it can feel chaotic, there is also something profoundly liberating about it.
Because it reminds us of a truth we were never meant to forget.
There are no special humans. There are only humans.
Some with more access.
Some with louder platforms.
Some with different experiences.
But none inherently better or worse.
You are a unique and precious creation. Your only job — truly — is to become more of what that is.
Not to climb someone else’s hierarchy. Not to shrink yourself because someone else seems shinier.
Just to keep becoming more fully yourself.
That’s it. That’s the brief.
So today I’ll leave you with a question.
Where in your life have you placed someone on a pedestal… only to realise they were just human?
And what did that realisation change for you?
Rooting for you always
Ruth x
Ps. I can't wait to share my TEDx with you all! This Saturday I stand on the red dot đź”´
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