SAILING HANNAH

As this year comes to a close, I’ve been thinking less about what was delivered – and more about what it cost.

On paper, this should have been a year of celebration.
The Inclusion Championships became real.
The Inclusive Development Programme reached unprecedented scale.
And the submission to the International Paralympic Committee finally went in.

Those milestones matter. They represent multiple years of work, belief, persistence, and resilience. I am proud of them.

But the truth of this year lives in the quieter spaces – in the work that doesn’t make headlines or sit neatly in reports, and in the personal toll that accumulates when responsibility is carried for too long without pause, protection, or recognition.

I’ve written throughout the year about ambition, exhaustion, and holding the line when systems are fragile and expectations are high. None of that writing was accidental. It was how I made sense of a year that kept asking for more – even when there was very little left to give.

So much of this year was spent supporting others, often invisibly.

Supporting Jazz, not just as a sailor, but as a human navigating an extraordinary journey – reminded me why this work exists in the first place, and why I joined World Sailing in the first place. That kind of support doesn’t fit neatly into job descriptions or KPIs. It happens quietly: messages sent late at night, reassurance offered when doubt creeps in, being present when things feel uncertain or overwhelming, even at 0400 when things are going horribly wrong. It’s deeply meaningful work – and almost entirely unseen.

The same is true of Project Opportunity and WOKC. They don’t shout loudly, but they are foundational. They are about access, confidence, and creating space for people who have historically been excluded to see a future for themselves in this sport. That kind of change is slow. It requires patience. And it often goes unnoticed until years later, when the impact is suddenly obvious.

Alongside this sat the relentless cadence of delivery and governance. IPC meetings that demanded precision, patience, and persistence. Championships across different countries and cultures that required constant presence and problem-solving. Hours spent aligning, explaining, advocating – often repeatedly, for why Para Inclusive Sailing must be taken seriously, resourced properly, and given room to grow.

It was constant. And it was heavy.

What made this year particularly hard wasn’t just the workload – it was how much of it felt unseen.

There were moments when ambition was treated as something to be managed down rather than supported. Moments when resilience was mistaken for limitless capacity. Moments when I found myself absorbing endless criticism, risk, and pressure in spaces where leadership should have come with protection.

That is isolating.

I won’t pretend this year didn’t leave me feeling lonely at times – lonely in decision-making, lonely in responsibility, lonely in carrying work that mattered deeply to me while questioning whether anyone else fully saw what it took. There were moments, particularly as I turned 40, where I found myself asking difficult questions: why do I work this hard to constantly be criticised, why does so much of this effort remain invisible, and how long can you keep pouring yourself into something without space to pause and be acknowledged, or protection and support when you need it most.

Those questions didn’t come from doubt about the mission. They came from fatigue and from caring as deeply as I do.

This year also took me further away from parts of myself I miss. I missed Fieri and my old Team environment. I missed the simplicity of being on the water for myself, of sailing without carrying a system, a strategy, or a sport on my shoulders. I missed the version of me that existed before leadership became constant, and before rest felt like something that had to be justified.

That loss isn’t dramatic. But it’s real.
And it matters.

Because staying connected to who we are outside the role is part of staying whole within it.

So as the year closes, I’m choosing to pause – deliberately.

Not because I’m done.
Not because the ambition has softened.
But because reflection and recovery are not indulgences. They are necessary.

We are not back in the Paralympic Games. Not yet. The work ahead remains significant, and it will require more collaboration, more honesty, and more support – not just for programmes and events, but for the people delivering them, from the entire community that claims to support Para Inclusive sailing.

I remain deeply committed – to the athletes, to the pathways, to the quiet work that rarely gets recognised but changes lives all the same.

And as this year closes, I’m choosing to carry forward not the weight of what was hard, but the clarity of why it mattered – because the work ahead demands energy, belief, and leadership that is still standing, still committed, and ready for what comes next.

Happy New Year Everyone, I hope 2026 is the year we all deserve.

Here’s to starting again – clearer, stronger and with purpose.