The Executive Intervention · Private
It isn’t indexed. It isn’t linked from anywhere. It has never been advertised, it sits in no menu, and there is no search you could run, in any language, on any engine, on your best day, that would ever return it. This address only travels by hand.
Which means someone gave it to you deliberately. Someone who has been watching you longer than you realised, who has known for a while, and who worked out that saying it to your face was never going to land.
You are the one everybody else leans on. Somebody just quietly decided that somebody ought to be looking after you, too.
Keep going
What they couldn’t say to you
You’ve said some version of that out loud maybe once, to one person, and then took it back. The business is fine. The numbers are fine. You are not fine, and nothing on the P&L explains it.
One day a month, I sit beside you and watch the whole thing. Then we take it apart.
$15,000 per day · four CEOs at a time
What I actually do
Not a workshop. Not a strategy session. I shadow you, first meeting to last email, and I write down what’s really happening. Most CEOs have never seen their own day from the outside. Here’s roughly what I find.
decisions that reached you
that were actually yours to make
hours of uninterrupted thinking, in a seventeen-hour day
You’re not burnt out because you can’t cope. You’re burnt out because you’re doing forty-one jobs that aren’t yours, plus a second one nobody has ever named, in an environment nobody designed for you.
THIS IS
THIS IS NOT
– One day a month, on site, beside you
– Observation first, I don’t advise until I’ve watched
– A structural rebuild of where your time and decisions go
– Written up, on paper, so it survives the day
– Honest to the point of uncomfortable, once
– Executive coaching. I won’t ask how that makes you feel
– A strategy offsite with butcher’s paper
– Therapy, if that’s what you need, I’ll say so and refer you
– Advice you’ve already read. You’ve read all of it
– Something to prepare for. Preparing would ruin it
What you’re left holding
Every month ends the same way: something you can put in front of your board, your EA, and your leadership team. Not a feeling. A document.
Your day, written down exactly as it happened. Most of it you won’t recognise. That’s the point.
What comes off your plate this month, who owns it now, and what happens the first time they try to hand it back.
The structural change, a rule, a boundary, a role, a rewiring, that stops the same thing regrowing by Thursday.
What I’m watching for when I come back. You get it in advance. I’d rather you game it than fail it.
Who this is for
You run a real business. Twenty million, fifty, more. You’ve done it for years and you’re good at it, and somewhere in the last three you stopped being able to explain why every day costs you so much more than it seems to cost everyone else in the room.
You’ve tried the productivity systems. They worked for eleven days. You’ve tried delegating and it came back. You’ve been told to set boundaries by people who have never once been the only woman in the room, and who have never had to be right the first time.
Here’s the part nobody has said to you. Nobody has ever diagnosed you with anything, women like you almost never are. You were bright, so you were gifted. You coped, so you were fine. You compensated so early and so well that the compensating quietly became the personality, and now you’re fifty-one and the scaffolding has got louder than the building.
None of the standard advice ever worked because none of it was built for the way your particular brain runs. Not broken. Built differently, then dropped into an environment designed by and for people who aren’t wired like you, and asked to white-knuckle it for thirty years without ever mentioning it.
Terms — no games
One day, once a month, on site
$15,000 per day
Minimum engagement
Six months
Clients at any one time
Four. Never five.
Between days
Reachable, within reason
Travel outside the Perth metro
At cost, agreed first
Everything you tell me
Stays in the room
Four isn’t scarcity marketing — it’s the number I can hold properly, and when they’re full they’re full. Six months isn’t a lock-in tactic; it’s the shortest span in which anything structural actually holds. One day is a diagnosis. Six is a rebuild. And for scale: $180,000 a year is roughly what you’d pay a COO — who takes six months to become useful, needs managing, and still leaves you as the bottleneck. I’m not cheaper than the alternative. I’m faster, and I leave when you don’t need me.
Apply
There are four seats and I take the ones I think I can actually shift.
If that isn’t you, I’ll tell you plainly and point you somewhere
better.
For the ones who got out
If you’ve scrolled this far and you’ve already done the six, you know why this section is down here where the new ones won’t read it properly.
Here’s the part I never mention on day one. This address has never been advertised. Not once. Every person who has ever sat in one of these four seats got here because someone who’d already sat in one decided they were worth the trouble. That’s the entire marketing plan. It always has been.
Which means you’ve got one to give.
You already know who. You’ve probably known since about month three — you watched them across a boardroom table doing the exact thing you used to do, and thought: that’s what I looked like.
Don’t tell them about me. Don’t explain what it was like. Above all, don’t sell it — you’ll make it sound like coaching, and they’ll stop listening the same way you would have. Send them the address, privately, with one line:
Then leave it alone. Don’t follow up, don’t ask if they read it. The only reason you opened it is that ignoring it would have cost you nothing. Give them that same out.
And you don’t need to tell me. The first thing I ask anyone who applies is who gave them the address. I’ll know it was you. I’ll say thank you properly.
One person at a time. Never a post, never a group, never a forward.