There is always a particular energy about a school at the end of term. It is not exactly calm. It is not exactly chaos. It is somewhere between the two, with a faint scent of exhaustion, excitement and impending freedom in the air.

So when I was invited to speak to the girls of Downe House as part of their Founder’s Weekend, I knew two things. First, that it was a real privilege. Secondly, that keeping several hundred 11 to 18-year-olds engaged at the end of a long school year would not be a task for the faint-hearted.

No pressure, obviously.

Downe House is a school with a powerful founding story. Olive Willis believed in educating girls as individuals, in community, with kindness, respect, excitement, excellence and a sense of possibility. More than a century later, that founding belief still matters. Indeed, in a world that is noisy, hurried and not always kind, it may matter more than ever.

The school talks about preparing girls to be “world ready”. I like that phrase very much. It suggests confidence, curiosity, courage and a willingness to step beyond the familiar. But I wanted to add a thought of my own.

Being world ready does not mean being world finished.

It does not mean having your whole life mapped out. It does not mean knowing exactly which university, which course, which career, which city, or which version of success will be yours. It certainly does not mean being perfect.

In fact, waiting until we feel completely ready is often a very good way of never starting at all.

In preparing for the evening, I found myself returning to three stories I have written about separately on this blog over the years. Each has stayed with me for a different reason. Revisiting them, and thinking about what they might offer to the girls of Downe House, was both a joy and a privilege.

The first was about a young Duke of Edinburgh’s Award participant called Johnnie. Johnnie was good enough in the classroom, but fairly hopeless outside it. He had two left feet, could not kick a football, and had once tried to learn the guitar before discovering that talent and practice are inconveniently connected.

But he loved The Duke of Edinburgh’s Award.

One afternoon, on a practice expedition, Johnnie’s group was taking turns to lead with map and compass. When his turn came, he got completely and utterly lost. Not slightly uncertain. Not merely pausing to admire the contours. Lost.

He knew that dreadful feeling, familiar to many 14-year-olds, that humiliation was approaching at speed. Another participant noticed what had happened. There could have been laughter. The map could have been grabbed away. A mistake could have been turned into a public embarrassment.

Instead, when no one else was looking, the other participant gently turned the map the right way round, corrected the compass, and pointed him towards the next checkpoint. Johnnie led the group on, with his dignity intact.

I know the story well, because I was Johnnie.

And I am still pretty rubbish at map reading.

That small act has stayed with me for decades. It taught me that leadership is not always about being the person at the front. It is not always loud, impressive, certain or in charge. Sometimes leadership is noticing that someone is struggling and helping them in a way that preserves their confidence and dignity.

Sometimes it is no more, and no less, than quietly turning the map the right way round for someone who is lost.

The second story was about understanding difference.

It took me until my mid-thirties to be diagnosed with dyspraxia. Suddenly, some of the things I had thought of as personal failings began to make sense. The clumsiness. The difficulty with certain physical tasks. The sense that some things others seemed to do easily took me twice as much effort.

But the diagnosis did not make me less capable. It helped me understand myself better.

And it helped me see that difference is not something simply to be overcome. Sometimes it is where our particular gifts are hidden. My brain makes connections, spots patterns and sees possibilities in ways that are part of who I am, not despite the difference but because of it.

That matters for young people. It matters especially for young people who feel awkward, different, inconveniently wired, or not quite built like everyone else.

Understanding ourselves matters. Support matters. Strategies matter. But so does the belief that being different does not mean being less.

Sometimes the thing that makes us feel out of step becomes one of the things that helps us lead.

The third story was about Florence.

I first met Florence in March 2013 at the SOS Children’s Village at Kakiri, just north of Kampala in Uganda. I was there to present Bronze and Silver Awards to a group of remarkable young people taking part in The Duke of Edinburgh’s Award.

Florence was 14. When I asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up, she looked at me and said, quite seriously, that she wanted to be a child psychologist.

I am ashamed to say that, although I did not say it out loud, a little voice in my head wondered how realistic that dream could be.

That was my failure. Not hers.

It was patronising. It was unimaginative. It was a failure to see the full possibility standing in front of me.

Four years later, I returned to Uganda to present Gold Awards. A young woman came up to me in a purple prom dress, full of confidence and pride. It was Florence. She reminded me of what she had told me when she was 14. She told me about her Award journey: volunteering to help younger children learn to read, excelling in netball, hiking in the Mountains of the Moon, and even tracking gorillas as part of her expedition experience.

Then she told me that she was going on to study child psychology at Makerere University in Kampala.

Today, she is Dr Florence.

I have never forgotten her.

Florence taught me something I should already have known: never let your limited imagination become the limit of someone else’s future.

That is a lesson I wanted to offer the girls of Downe House. People may underestimate them too. They may make assumptions because they are young, because they are female, because they are quiet, because they are confident, because of their background, because of how they learn, or simply because others cannot yet see what they can already see.

Do not let someone else’s lack of imagination become your ceiling.

And be careful, too, not to do it to others.

The evening left me thinking about what we really mean when we prepare young people for the world. Yes, they need knowledge. Yes, they need skills. Yes, they need qualifications, opportunities and networks. But they also need confidence without arrogance, humility without self-doubt, ambition without self-absorption, and kindness without timidity.

They need to know that they do not need the whole map before taking the next step.

They need to know that confidence and humility belong together.

They need to know that a life built around being useful is far more interesting than a life built only around being impressive.

Useful people solve problems. Useful people build trust. Useful people make teams better. Useful people notice what needs doing and do it. They do not always need to be centre stage.

And, in the end, that is often where real joy is found. Not in chasing applause, but in knowing that something is better because you were there.

A young person more confident.

A community more connected.

An injustice challenged.

A team strengthened.

A problem solved.

A life changed.

And, inevitably in my current line of work, a cat safely rehomed.

Founder’s Weekend was a reminder that schools are not simply places of instruction. At their best, they are places of formation. They help young people work out not only what they know, but who they are becoming.

Olive Willis began something before she could possibly know the full outcome. That is what founders do. They act in hope. They create something into which others will pour life, energy, talent, mischief, questions, friendships and futures.

The girls I met at Downe House are part of that continuing story.

My hope for them is not that they leave school with every answer. I hope they leave with better questions. I hope they leave ambitious, but not self-absorbed. Kind, but not timid. Confident, but still curious. Ready to take up space without pushing others out of it.

And when they meet someone who is lost, embarrassed, uncertain or close to giving up, I hope they will have the grace to do what another participant once did for me: turn the map the right way round without making a fuss.

When they meet someone with an ambition that seems too large for the circumstances they are in, I hope they will remember Florence.

And when they feel different, awkward or not quite built like everyone else, I hope they will not assume that makes them less.

It may be the beginning of their particular contribution.

The world does not only need people who know where they are going.

It needs people who help others find their way too.

None of us has to be world finished.

We simply need to be world ready enough to take the next brave step.