It's My Turn Now

Bundled up in an over-sized, over-fluffed dressing gown, Shan smirks slightly as she says to me, “I’ll tell you a story.” And, wrapping both arms about my legs, I settle in: I’ve learned that a story from Shanna White is a story worth listening to.

“When I was little, I was always told that I was pretty.” Beneath the gleam of the wan porch light, her smirk stretches into a grimace. “I didn’t want to be pretty, I wanted to be a tomboy. I mean yeah, I was too clumsy to be a tomboy, but that’s beside the point.” Involuntarily, I snort out a laugh, because she’s nothing if not honest.

“You just need to be pretty, so that you can grow up and marry a doctor.” Shan shakes her head. “I literally remember being told that. And that was kind of a defining moment in my life, because my immediate, precocious response was, ‘Well, I don’t need to marry a doctor. I’ll just be one’.” Again, I laugh, and Shan, who can undoubtedly see the image of her miniature, pouting self that is currently dancing around my head, chuckles as well.

“I remember my grandmother then pulling me aside and saying, ‘You can be both’.” Here, the chuckling fades, and for the first time since the beginning of our conversation, Shan’s tone becomes something other than wry. “She said to me, ‘You can be girly, and you can be a tomboy, and you can be a doctor, and you can be funny, and you can be brilliant, all at the same time’.”

Shan has spoken before about Lorna, many times. I know that she keeps a photograph of the smiling woman in her office, and I know that the peony tattooed upon Shan’s forearm is a homage to her memory. “She was the first person to ever make me feel… empowered,” Shan tells me. “She inspired me, encouraged me… she still does.” Shan smiles, a little wistfully, and it’s clear - from my perspective, at least - that Lorna's encouragement was not in vain. Shan may not carry the title of ‘Doctor’, but personally, I don’t believe that ‘psychologist’ is too far of a step downwards.

I’ve sat opposite many psychologists over the course of my life. But truth be told, I never expected to call one a friend. Eight months ago, I responded to a Facebook post that Shan has made. She was searching for a video editor, and when I knocked on her front door for the first time, I’d no idea what to expect. Certainly, it was not the fluff-smothered, tattoo-covered, bubbly woman who is currently sharing a cup of mediocre instant coffee with me. I could never have imagined that a simple contract job would burst into a genuine friendship, and I could never have imagined the impact this friendship would have on my life.

“There’s only one of me, but videos can reach much further than I can on my own,” Shan wrote in our initial message exchange. “I’m wanting to build a library of videos so that I can move some courses online.” I didn’t know it at the time, but those ‘courses’ would turn out to be the building blocks of Cognitive Behavioural Education: an online training platform dedicated to ending the cycle of childhood trauma through education, professional development and empowerment. Scrolling through my phone, Shan and I giggle at the formality of those first messages. Yet underneath the laughter, there’s the slightest hint of disbelief, of amazement. Eight months ago, I’d not have believed the legs that CBE would grow. And for Shan, it’s been far longer than a mere eight months.

“I was working in Child Protection as a psychologist, and I just… couldn’t get to enough people.” Frustrated, Shan huffs. “I couldn’t make enough people understand what happens to a kid’s brain when they go through trauma. Kids are amazing creatures, but this stuff impacts the rest of their lives.” There's irony, here: I know for a fact that, when Shan first entered the field of psychology, she did so declaring, loudly and proudly, that she would never work with kids. However, I’m a loyal subscriber to the notion that everything happens for a reason, and I know for a fact that Shan - from both professional and personal experience - understands that the ideal of an innocent, untroubled childhood is often in painful contrast to reality.

“I’ve learned that I have very specific skills, and one of those is advocacy.” There’s no arrogance in her words - only honesty, and a sense of self-awareness. “It would be selfish of me not to share that, I just didn’t know...how. But then one night, I went out to dinner with a friend.” That friend was Fiona Foley: seasoned teacher, Shan’s business partner, and the other half of the CBE brain. I feel it should be noted that I could write an entire piece dedicated to Fiona herself, but unfortunately for me - and to Fiona’s relief, I’m sure - there are only so many hours in the day.

“We’ve been friends for about fifteen years,” Shan continues. “I was venting to her over dinner about how I wish I could talk to every kid who’s experienced trauma. And Fiona pretty much said, ‘Well, of course you can. I’ll help you, we can do this together’.”

Amongst ourselves, we like to think of CBE as a ‘passion project’ of sorts. I realised very early on that this venture has nothing to do with money or income. Of course, bills have to be paid, but both Shan and Fiona have ‘real’ jobs, so it was never about launching a business. That being said, ‘passion project’ doesn’t even begin to cover the professional and personal investment that these two, incredible women have put into this platform.

“I used to look at kids in care and think, ‘You don’t need another random stranger in your face’,” Shan recalls. “I still think that. What kids need is for the people who are with them all the time to have the right knowledge and the right skills. Teachers are the ones who know. They know things and they see things and they try to do things, but they’re often so disabled by the situation itself. They’ve already got the compassion, they’ve already got the empathy… they just need some more resources and support. Kids spend a third of their lives with their teachers. So who better to empower?”

Not unlike the women who conceived it, CBE is unique in so many ways. “We really wanted to make it accessible,” Shan explains. “So we spent over a year developing it. Writing the modules, planning the digital workshops, translating the ‘brain theory’ into a form that every single teacher can understand and engage with…” Taking a pause, Shan winks at me. “And building a team of amazing, strong women who could help us bring it to life. CBE is about so much more than just me. And you know what? People have jumped on it.”

She isn't wrong. We launched CBE on the 20th of March, and since then, our team has received only positivity, support and a call for more. “I’m astounded by the response." Shan sounds incredulous. "Something that was born of my frustration has turned into something so, so much cooler than I could ever have imagined. And it’s actually helping people. It’s helping kids and teachers and workplaces do better, and be better, and it is wicked to watch.”

I'm not astounded. Ecstatic, yes. Over the moon, yes. But not astounded. Shan is a frighteningly moral person, and I’ve witnessed the struggles that she faces when this morality leaks into her professional life. I often worry about the emotional toll this takes on her - a phenomenal amount of her drive to ‘do more’ comes from her need to be ‘everything’ for everyone, and to be that ‘everything’ all of the time. And yet, this drive is simultaneously the reason that I’m not astounded by CBE’s reception. When Shan commits herself to something, she dives in, head-first, and refuses to re-surface until the job is done. So while I may not have anticipated the scope of our success, I have never once doubted that CBE would succeed, due solely to the fact that Shan is at its helm.

For Shan, all roads leads back to her grandmother. “She taught me my understanding of ‘why not?’ And she taught me what it means to be a woman.” Absently, she rubs at the petals marking her skin. “For me, the word ‘woman’ means possibility and opportunity. I can... do and be pretty much anything. I love the idea that a woman can actually be the best. The only thing that kind of stops us is often our own disbelief.”

When I met Shan, disbelief was arguably my defining feature. I was nearing the end of a disappointing university degree, and with a hiking bag of personal baggage strapped across my shoulders, the mountain of uncertainty that I could see ahead seemed less than appealing. Shan offered me my first proper job, which in of itself felt like a lifeline. But more than that, she offered me perspective. Early on in our friendship, I remember her saying to me, “Some days, when you don’t know what to do, or when the world is falling down, you just… take a step. Just a single step. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

I don’t know if Shan will ever truly understand the impact that those words have had upon my mindset. As we’ve evolved from colleagues to friends, this impact has only been deepened by my realisation that for Shan herself, the simple act of putting on pants is often a monumental achievement. “I don’t have massive, lofty goals,” she tells me. “A win for me is making a kid feel safe, or getting a patient to come to their next session. And I’m really lucky that I get those little wins all the time, because the 'little' wins in my professional life are the big wins in other people’s personal lives. And I get to be in the audience.”

Shan slurps at her remaining coffee, and I watch, smiling, as she burrows further into her dressing gown. It's getting late, and we're both holding back our yawns. And yet, there's one final thing that I want to know.

When I ask Shan what she has to say about the idea of being 'an inspiration', I'm half expecting laughter. Instead, she lowers her mug, and a slight, thoughtful furrow appears between her brows. "This probably sounds really un-humble," she murmurs, "but... it's my turn. It’s my turn to raise and empower others, because amazing and incredible and inspirational women have done - and continue - to do the same thing for me." She gazes down at her coffee. "I’m not special at all. I'm just... recognising that there are women who have lifted and raised me, and have made me who I am. And it would be monstrously selfish and arrogant to keep it all to myself. If I have the power to make a positive change for someone... then why not? And if I have that power, then that’s not just a product of me. It’s a product of the women who came before me, as well."

Leaning forward, Shan places her lukewarm mug upon the coffee table. With a sigh, she flops back in her chair. "We all get our turn, Gracie. It's just... a personal decision as to whether or not we take it."

It's a monumental answer, and it's one that deserves a response. Before I can open my mouth, however, a ball of pure energy crash-lands into the middle of our conversation. It's Quin, Shan's six-year-old firecracker of a daughter. She throws herself into her Mum's laps and yanks the dressing gown from Shan's shoulders, before turning to me and shouting, "Gracie, you look like a star tonight!"

Shan dissolves into laughter, and as Quin begins to giggle, I allow myself to simply soak in the moment. Shan may not think of herself as 'special' - she's just another single mother, working like all the rest, doing what she can to make it through the day without forgetting her pants. But as I watch my friend, attempting valiantly to argue the merits of not wearing pyjama pants while showering, I'm reminded of something Fiona once said to me. It was a week before Christmas, and we were sat as Shan and I are now, sharing a glass of wine before our CBE Christmas dinner. "I've worked with a lot of different people in my time," Fiona told me. "But Shan... she's something special. She's going to change a lot of lives, and she probably won't even realise."

Fiona, I believe, was spot-on. It's likely that Shan will never fully realise the impact she has had - and continues to have - on each of us at CBE, or on each kid she encourages to go back to school, or on anyone who spends longer than five minutes in her company. But with each instant coffee we let grow cold, and with each hour we spend talking when we really should be working, Shan reminds me that taking 'a single step' - with or without pants - is more than worth the risk. Whether she realises it or not, Shanna White is special to me. And in the words of the woman herself: it would be monstrously selfish and arrogant to keep that to myself.