Plates, Pathways, and the Perils of Hubris

From Circus to Stadium: A Reflective Relay on Vision, Hubris, and Being Prepared

06 November 2025

Fliss Falconer

There was a time when my life as a teacher felt like a circus act: spinning plates, juggling deadlines, and firefighting whatever crisis appeared in front of me. The horizon rarely stretched beyond the next lesson, the next set of books to mark, the next parent evening. Vision was a luxury; survival was the skill.

Now, here I am, four weeks ahead of an essay deadline, walking the dog with a smug grin and the rarest of feelings: calm. I’ve drafted, redrafted, and even had the audacity to imagine the essay “in the bag.” This is new territory for me. Instead of stumbling through the fog of last‑minute panic, I’ve cleared the obstacle course, lit the stadium, and can see the lanes stretching out ahead.

It feels almost decadent to have time to think. To pause. To read what I’ve actually written, rather than what I think I’ve written. To let Word read it aloud to me and hear the rhythm of my own sentences. To know that if... ok, when I spot an error, I have the space to fix it. This is not the frantic, plate‑spinning energy of my teaching years. This is something different: vision.

I can’t help but laugh at myself. Because this glow of self‑satisfaction is exactly the kind of hubris I used to warn my students about: that dangerous overconfidence before the inevitable fall. I can almost hear my own voice echoing back at me from the classroom: “Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff!”

So yes, I know the fall will come. I’ll open the essay one morning and find a clumsy phrase, a muddled argument, or a reference that needs tightening. I almost missed submitting my first one completely! I didn’t check the fine print. I know, I know.

Here’s the difference: I have time. Time to notice, time to correct, time to polish. The fall won’t be catastrophic; it will be a stumble, and I’ll have the space to steady myself.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson. I cannot be perfect, and nor would I want to be. Perfection is brittle. Progress, clarity, and adaptability are far more resilient companions. Just as I’ve worked to clear the legal intervention route for schools, turning a murky obstacle course into a stadium relay, I’m learning to clear my own path, to see the bigger picture, and to trust that imperfection is part of the process.

So here I am, plates still spinning, but with a clearer view of the whole circus. If hubris does come knocking, I’ll welcome it - with tea and cake - knowing I’ve left myself time to tidy up the mess. After all, the joy is not in being flawless, but in being prepared.