Doing My Bit Chapter 5 - PBL - Finding Community

DOING MY BIT

Chapter 5 – PBL – Finding Community

Pittwater Business Limited, known more commonly, and more comfortably, as PBL, sat quietly within the rhythm of the Northern Beaches business community, never quite declaring itself as essential, yet consistently positioning itself as exactly that. It was, at its core, a self-help organisation, though that description never fully captured what it attempted to create. The intent was simple enough on the surface: bring business owners into the same room, remove the barriers that often sit between formal networking and genuine conversation, and allow something more organic to emerge. Not structured referrals, not forced introductions, but the kind of dialogue that happens when people lower their guard just enough to speak honestly about what they do, what they need, and where they might be heading.

The format reinforced that intention. Monthly breakfasts held in venues that carried their own sense of familiarity, iconic restaurants and local clubs that belonged as much to the community as the people sitting within them. There was no stagecraft beyond a speaker and a microphone, no sense of hierarchy beyond who happened to be speaking that morning. It was informal by design, yet purposeful in its execution, a place where the transaction of business was never the stated goal, but often the quiet outcome of conversations that felt unforced.

For those already within the rhythm of small business on the Beaches, it resonated immediately. It reflected the way work was often done in that part of the world, relationship-driven, grounded in trust, built over time rather than engineered in a moment. Yet for others, particularly those new to the area or still finding their footing, it could feel just out of reach. Not exclusive in intent, but shaped by familiarity in a way that made entry less obvious than it appeared, as though there was an unspoken understanding required before the value of the room could be fully realised..

On any given morning, the room always smells faintly of burnt toast and ambition.

It settles in before the first handshake is offered, a quiet blend of overcooked bacon, stale coffee, and the nervous energy of small business owners who have come not just to listen, but to be seen. Cutlery touches porcelain with a kind of politeness, as though no one wants to interrupt the possibility that something useful might be said. Chairs scrape softly across the floor, conversations begin in low tones, and somewhere near the front a microphone hums in that familiar way, clearing its throat for importance.

I stand just off to the side, not yet at the lectern, feeling the weight of the room before stepping into it. This was never meant to be mine, at least not in the way it has become, yet there is a quiet inevitability in how these things unfold. It begins simply enough, with a suggestion offered in passing, framed as opportunity rather than obligation.

“You should come along,” Jon had said, the tone casual, almost throwaway. “Good for the practice. Good for you.”

What sits beneath that sentence is not said out loud, but it carries more weight than the words themselves. Visibility is currency, and this is a place where it can be earned. The weekly conversations that follow do not allow the suggestion to remain optional for long. They are not aggressive, nor are they overtly demanding, but they are relentless in their consistency, each question circling back to the same quiet challenge.

What are you doing to be better, and what are you choosing not to do?

There is a particular kind of pressure that comes from someone who believes in you just enough to make refusal feel like a form of failure. It does not shout or coerce; it simply waits, allowing the absence of action to speak for itself. So I attend. The first few breakfasts carry a sense of ease, sitting at a table, shaking hands, listening, speaking when spoken to. There is comfort in anonymity, even in a room designed for visibility. It is possible to be present without being accountable, engaged without being responsible, and for a time that balance holds.

Then comes the invitation to sit in on a committee meeting, delivered without expectation yet carrying one all the same. There is no obvious reason to decline, no clear justification that would hold up under scrutiny, and so the answer comes easily, almost automatically.

The committee room is smaller and more honest in its intentions. Conversations shift from possibility to logistics, from what could be to what must be done. There are spreadsheets, attendance numbers, speaker schedules, sponsorship discussions, all of it structured in a language that feels familiar and controlled. Numbers behave in predictable ways, offering clarity where people often do not, and for a while that familiarity creates a sense of comfort.

At first, my presence carries little weight. There is space to observe, to contribute lightly, to exist within the edges of responsibility without stepping fully into it. That space, however, does not hold for long. The same weekly conversations continue, and with them the subtle shift in expectation.

“How’s PBL going?” becomes less a question and more an entry point.

“It’s good,” I say, because it is.

“What are you doing with it?”

The shift is immediate, even if it is not acknowledged directly. Participation is no longer enough, and neutrality begins to look like avoidance. When Jon leaves for Byron Bay, following a path that makes sense to him in ways that do not need explanation, the transition feels less like a choice and more like a continuation of what has already begun.

“You should take it on,” he says, and there is no formal process, no drawn-out discussion, just a quiet assumption that becomes reality the moment it is not challenged.

The word “alright” carries far more weight than it appears to in the moment it is spoken. It is delivered lightly, almost casually, yet it settles into place with a permanence that only reveals itself over time. The presidency is not a role that can be picked up and put down, it is something that absorbs, drawing in time, attention, and responsibility in ways that are not clearly defined at the outset.

The room begins to feel different from that point forward. The smell of breakfast is sharper, the hum of the microphone more pronounced, and the faces in the room turn with a sense of expectation rather than simple recognition. There is an invisible line that has been crossed, one that shifts the experience from participation to ownership, and it is not a line that can easily be uncrossed.

The website becomes a project born out of logic. It promises accessibility, engagement, and the ability to extend conversations beyond the physical boundaries of the room. It feels efficient, measurable, aligned with the way numbers are understood and applied. The committee leans into it with enthusiasm, building something that appears to enhance what already exists.

The speakers who follow reinforce that sense of value, but not simply through what they say. They arrive carrying something with them, a reputation, a story, a sense of having already navigated terrain that others in the room are still trying to understand. Johanna Griggs holds the room with an ease that feels natural, not because she is performing, but because she is comfortable enough not to. There is a cadence to her delivery that suggests experience beyond the microphone, an understanding that connection is not built through polished lines, but through moments that feel unguarded. People lean in, not out of obligation, but because they recognise something in the way she speaks that reflects their own journey, albeit played out on a different stage.

Then there are those like Dale Beaumont, who bring with them not just a story, but a framework. His presence introduces a different energy into the room, one that shifts the conversation from reflection to possibility. The ideas land with weight, not because they are complex, but because they are accessible. They offer structure to ambition, a way of thinking that extends beyond the morning itself and into the decisions that follow. It is in these moments that the breakfast becomes more than a gathering; it becomes a point of inflection, subtle but significant, where direction begins to form out of what had previously been intention.

Over time, the speakers themselves become drawcards, their names carrying enough gravity to influence attendance before a word is spoken. There is a rhythm to it, an understanding that the right speaker does more than fill a slot; they validate the room. They signal to those attending that their time is being respected, that the effort to be present will be met with something of substance. This is not lost on the community. Goodwill begins to build, not just towards the individuals speaking, but towards the organisation that brings them there. It becomes a quiet currency, one that is not recorded in the accounts but is felt in the willingness of people to return, to bring others, to invest their time in something that has proven its worth.

That goodwill extends beyond the room in ways that are not immediately visible. Relationships begin to form at the edges of those mornings, conversations that start over breakfast and continue into offices, into partnerships, into opportunities that would not have existed without that initial point of contact. The speakers act as catalysts, not the end point of the experience but the beginning of something else, something that unfolds in its own time and in its own way.

There is also a reciprocity at play, one that is not formally acknowledged but is deeply understood. To bring someone of that calibre into the room is to offer them something as well, a community that is engaged, attentive, and willing to listen. It is an exchange that builds over time, creating a network of goodwill that extends in both directions. The organisation gains credibility through association, while the speakers gain access to a room that reflects the very audience they often seek to reach.

For a time, it works, and in that working there is an answer, partial, perhaps, but real enough to hold onto when the question of “why” begins to circle. The profile shifts, the room fills with names that carry weight beyond the breakfast table, and conversations extend into spaces that feel more substantial. Local parliamentary members attend, not out of obligation, but because PBL has positioned itself as something that matters within their constituencies, a gathering point where business and community intersect in ways that are difficult to replicate elsewhere. It is easy, in those moments, to measure the benefit in terms of visibility, credibility, and the quiet expansion of influence, yet those measures, while valid, are not the ones that linger.

The answer to “why” reveals itself in a different register, one that has little to do with the room itself and everything to do with what can be carried out of it.

There is a moment, almost incidental in its setting, at a school polling booth dressed up with the obligatory fete atmosphere, sausage sizzles, folding tables, the hum of local obligation playing out in familiar rhythms. My daughter stands on the edge of it, not quite within the flow of adult conversation, but close enough to be drawn into it. Bronwyn Bishop, present as part of the political machinery that underpins these moments, notices her in a way that cuts through the noise of the day. What follows is not staged, nor is it part of any formal interaction. It is simply a choice, made in the moment, to invest time where there is no immediate return.

Fifteen minutes are given freely to a child asking about school captaincy.

In a world where time is so often measured, allocated, and protected, that act carries a weight that is not immediately visible. It is not about politics, nor is it about profile. It is about access, about the quiet opening of a door that might otherwise have remained closed. The conversation itself is likely forgotten in its specifics, yet the effect lingers, embedding something that cannot be easily quantified, a sense that engagement is possible, that questions can be asked, that guidance can be offered without condition.

It is in that moment that the answer to “why” shifts from the abstract to the personal. The breakfasts, the speakers, the networking, the early mornings and the commitments that stretch beyond their apparent boundaries all converge into something that can be handed, however briefly, to the next generation. Not as a lesson delivered, but as an experience witnessed. The benefit is no longer measured in business transacted or profiles raised, but in opportunities created that would not have existed otherwise.

That is the currency that does not appear in the accounts, yet it is the one that justifies the investment when the cost begins to surface.

For a while, it all aligns. The speakers, the audience, the conversations, and the outcomes form a loop that reinforces itself. The mornings carry a sense of purpose that feels both immediate and enduring, and the value becomes something that can be pointed to without needing to be explained. It is in these periods that the organisation feels most alive, not because of any single element, but because of the way those elements come together in a way that feels both deliberate and organic at the same time.

Yet the cost begins to surface, not in a single dramatic moment, but in the quiet realisation that one decision, made with the best of intentions and supported by all the logic that experience can muster, can alter the trajectory of something far larger than the decision itself.

The choice of speaker is mine. It is reasoned, defensible, and on paper almost beyond reproach. The name carries weight, the credentials are unquestioned, and the expectation is that the room will respond accordingly. There is comfort in that process, in believing that due diligence is enough, that a well-considered decision will naturally produce a well-received outcome. It is the kind of thinking that has served well in other arenas, where numbers align and logic holds.

But people do not always follow logic, and rooms carry a sensitivity that cannot be modelled.

The morning begins as all others do, with the same cadence of arrival, the same low hum of conversation, the same anticipation that something worthwhile will unfold. Yet there is a shift, almost imperceptible at first, a disconnect between the words being spoken and the person delivering them. The speech feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else, written in a voice that does not quite fit the moment. There is no ownership in it, no sense that the ideas have been lived rather than rehearsed.

The room responds in kind.

It does not revolt or disengage in any overt way, but it begins to drift. Eyes wander. Conversations reappear at the edges, quiet at first, then gradually more confident as the expectation of engagement dissolves. What should have been a moment that binds the room together becomes something to be endured, a shared recognition that this is not what was promised, even if that promise was never explicitly stated.

Sitting within it, there is a growing awareness that this is not just a misstep, but a fracture. The effort of the committee, the goodwill built over time, the quiet trust that has been established with those who choose to attend, all of it feels suddenly exposed, as though it rests on a foundation more fragile than it had appeared. The decision, so small in its making, now carries a disproportionate weight, not because of what it is, but because of what it represents.

The speech continues without recovery, moving from beginning to end without ever truly connecting. When it finishes, the applause comes, polite and measured, fulfilling its social obligation without carrying any real conviction. It is in that sound, restrained and hollow, that the scale of the moment becomes clear.

It is not just a poor presentation. It is the realisation that one decision can unsettle something that many have worked hard to build, leaving behind a sense of having let more than just a room down. It carries with it a quiet, heavy recognition that stewardship is not only about what is created, but about how easily it can be compromised, and how quickly the weight of that responsibility can turn inward, magnifying itself into something that feels far greater than the moment that caused it.

The next meeting reveals the consequence. Numbers fall, not dramatically at first, but enough to signal that something has shifted. Loyalty, it becomes clear, requires reinforcement and consistency, and cannot be assumed to hold through missteps. Adjustments are made, speakers are changed, communication is increased, and the very tools designed to enhance connection are leveraged in an attempt to draw people back.

Yet the dynamic has changed.

The website that once promised accessibility now offers an alternative to presence, allowing conversations to occur without the apparent need to attend. What was designed to enhance the room has, in part, replaced it. The meetings become smaller, the energy different, and the hum of the microphone carries further in a space that no longer absorbs it as it once did.

There is a particular weight in watching something diminish under one’s stewardship. It does not announce itself with failure, nor does it collapse in a single moment. Instead, it recedes gradually, each meeting slightly smaller than the last, until what remains is a reflection of what once was rather than a continuation of it.

Effort is not lacking. The committee continues to engage, to strategise, to attempt to reposition what is slipping away. But effort alone does not guarantee outcome, and the distinction between persistence and resistance begins to blur.

Caritas becomes the measure that sits beneath all of it. Not as an abstract concept, but as a practical gauge of how much can be given before the act of giving begins to take more than it returns. It is felt in the early mornings, in the preparation that extends beyond the breakfast itself, and in the conversations that spill over into the rest of the day.

Somewhere within that, the presence of my children surfaces, not in any single moment of absence, but in the accumulation of them. It is not about a missed event or a specific conversation; it is about the quieter erosion of time that is not immediately noticed but leaves a trace nonetheless. The question is not whether the service is worthwhile, but whether the balance it demands aligns with what matters beyond it.

Service carries its own rhythm, and when it aligns, it feels natural, almost effortless. When it does not, it begins to draw more than it gives, and the shift is subtle enough that it can go unnoticed until it is well established.

The presidency was never about control, it was about stewardship. Yet stewardship is not measured by how long something is held together, but by the understanding of when it is no longer yours to carry. That realisation does not arrive with clarity, nor does it present itself as a definitive moment. It emerges slowly, in the quiet spaces between meetings, in the lingering silence after the room has emptied and the chairs have been stacked away.

Standing there in that silence, the question forms not as a conclusion, but as an invitation to consider what comes next. The good remains evident in the connections formed and the opportunities created. The bad offers its lessons in assumption and the fragility of engagement. The ugly sits in the quiet recognition that not everything can be sustained, regardless of effort or intention.

If service begins to take more than it gives, at what point does holding on become a failure of stewardship rather than a demonstration of commitment, and what does it mean to choose to let something go when the act of letting go feels like the very opposite of what was asked in the first place?