The Personal Story Nikki Bonus, Our CEO, Has Carried Into Every Classroom

I am not one to share my personal stories.

And on the rare occasion that I do, they are usually sanitised. Neatly packaged. Made a little more palatable.

Why?

A little bit of embarrassment.
A little bit of carried shame.
And perhaps because, for a long time, I believed that the things that happened in my life were private lessons to be learnt and I did not want other people knowing where I came from.

They were things to survive.
Things to move through.
Things that shaped me into the wonderfully complex, brilliant woman I am today.

But lately, I have felt compelled to share this story.

Because there have been far too many moments where I have wanted to gently interject, reframe, and support our beautiful educators, school leaders, families and students around one simple question:

What is underneath the behaviour?

Not to excuse behaviour.
Not to remove boundaries.
Not to pretend that behaviour does not impact others.

Because it does.

Some behaviour is loud.
Some behaviour is messy.
Some behaviour is not neat, not pleasant to watch, and not easy to sit beside.

And when we are tired, stretched, human — sometimes it gets us.
Sometimes it hurts us.
Sometimes, for a moment, we take it personally.

But what I have learnt, both through lived experience and through decades of working in education, child development and wellbeing, is this:

Sometimes the bigger the behaviour, the greater the need for connection, safety and support.

A young person’s behaviour is often not the whole story.
Sometimes, it is the only language they have left.

My brother and I grew up in what looked like a “normal” home.

Although, as I often say to my own children, normal is actually just a dial on the washing machine.

From the outside, we lived in a nice little postcode. The kind of postcode that quietly leads people to assume that everything behind the front door must also be fine.

But our home life was anything but safe.

We both grew up in an unsafe home. And out of that, we each developed very different survival strategies.

I was the oldest, so I donned the cloak of saviour. At one point, I wanted to be a nun, which was interesting given that we came from an atheist home.

My brother, on the other hand, wanted to be a gangster.

Two children.
Same household.
Two very different ways of trying to survive.

And then we carried those survival strategies into school.

In primary school, I had an undiagnosed learning disability. I sat staring out the window, disengaged from much of the learning, mostly finding myself through sport.

Recently, someone asked me what memory of school I look back on with fondness.

I found that question ironic, because I have now worked in education for more than 24 years, yet my own experience of school was deeply difficult.

But I did have one teacher.

Her name was Ms Kellet.

She was older, rather matronly, not overly emotional — but she was caring.

One day, without judgement, without making me feel wrong, she asked me what I was staring at out the window.

I told her there was a nest. I was wondering whether the mummy bird had babies in it.

She looked at me and gently smiled.

Then she went to her desk, picked up a writing book, and placed it in front of me.

“Nikki,” she said, “could you do me a favour?”

She asked me to record what time the mother bird came to the nest. How long she stayed. What she brought back. Whether anyone else came near the nest.

And just like that, I had a very important job.

Not a punishment.
Not a label.
Not a lecture.

A job.

A role.

A reason to engage.

This went on for a long time. Eventually, the baby birds were born. Eventually, they flew the nest.

Towards the end of term, Ms Kellet asked whether I would share the story, and what I had discovered, at a whole-school assembly.

I was terrified.

But I was also proud.

Because Ms Kellet made me feel like I was a scientist with very important work to share.

To the educators reading this, I imagine you can already see what she did.

She noticed.
She connected.
She adjusted.
She worked from where I was, not where I was “supposed” to be.
She saw curiosity where others may have seen distraction.

And still, to this day, I smile when I say her name.

My brother moved through school differently.

He was frozen. Quiet. Not socially engaged. Not getting into much trouble.

He simply fell through the gaps.

Then we moved into high school.

No one knew what was happening in our home. No one lifted the lid. No one asked the deeper questions.

By then, my behaviour escalated. So did my brother’s.

Suspension after suspension.
Expulsion after expulsion.
Behaviour after behaviour.

And still, no one asked what was happening at home.

By that point, Phillip and I did not really know that what we were living through was wrong. We only had the survival skills we had developed to get through each day.

I would love to say that this story has a neat and happy ending.

But sometimes life is not about the ending.

Sometimes it is about the lessons our adult selves are brave enough to learn.

As I sit here writing this, I feel nervous. It feels too honest. Too exposed.

But my intention is simple.

To remind us that we can never judge a book by its cover.

I was never offered the privilege of completing school. By that point, I was out of home.

And when my brother passed away, my life completely stopped.

Two children.
Same household.
Two different endings.

That loss, and the questions I have carried ever since, became part of my life’s work.

I committed my life to studying child development, to working alongside extraordinary educators and thinkers, including Dr Dan Siegel, and to ensuring that fewer children fall through the gaps.

Because my wish has always been the same:

That someone had noticed earlier.
Responded earlier.
Acted earlier.

And that is at the heart of everything we do at Life Skills GO.

Today, we know more.

We know that young people need to feel safe, supported and connected in order to learn well.

We know that belonging matters.

We know that emotional literacy and self-regulation are not “extras” to squeeze in if there is time. They are part of the foundation that supports learning, wellbeing, relationships, resilience and thriving.

We know that behaviour does not happen in a vacuum.

And we know that the adults around a young person can make a profound difference — not by fixing everything, but by noticing, connecting, and responding with both compassion and boundaries.

We are living in a very different world from the one many of us grew up in.

A more complex world.
A faster world.
A world where our young people are navigating pressures that most adults did not experience in childhood.

And yet, as adults, we have a shared responsibility.

To look beneath the surface.
To build connection and belonging.
To support every young person to feel seen, safe and capable.
To find contemporary solutions for a contemporary world.

So I would love to invite you to join us, alongside some of Australia’s leading voices in behaviour, AI, the brain, learning, connection and belonging, as we explore how we can better support every young person to thrive.

Because sometimes the child staring out the window is not disengaged.

Sometimes she is waiting for someone to notice the nest.

And sometimes that one moment of noticing can stay with her for the rest of her life.

And ultimately alter the course of that young persons life for ever, And that is the gift of being a teacher and why I would not work in any other industry.