adrianodiprato

[adrianodiprato]

+ “We meet ourselves time and again in a thousand disguises on the path of life.” — Carl Gustav Jung

THE THOUSAND DISGUISES

A Jungian meditation on the wonder of encounter

There are moments when a single line stops you. Not because it is novel, but because it names something you’ve always known — something ancient, intimate, and buried just beneath the surface of your becoming.

Jung’s words found me like that.

And they haven’t let go.

For over three decades now, I have committed myself to a life shaped not by status or certainty, but by encounter — with self, with place, and with the other. I’ve volunteered in the communities of Guatemala and El Salvador, walked sacred streets in Jerusalem, shared stories in the dusty lanes of Johannesburg, laboured alongside students in Cambodia, studied theology in Rome, and found community on the pilgrim roads to Santiago de Compostela. These moments weren’t holidays or professional obligations. They were thresholds — spaces of conscious surrender where I allowed myself to be unmade and remade.

To live this way — open, seeking, awake — is to accept that you will meet yourself again and again, sometimes in uncomfortable, unexpected, or unspeakably beautiful ways. And sometimes, you won’t even know it was you until much later — when the disguise drops, and you realise that every encounter was a mirror, inviting you inward.

Jung understood what many still resist: we are not singular. We are layered. And the soul’s path is not toward perfection, but toward integration. That is the work of awakening — not to polish a self, but to reconcile the many selves within.

And it is hard work.

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain,” he wrote.

Indeed.

In Jerusalem, during Holy Week, I walked the Via Dolorosa not as a tourist, but as a pilgrim searching for meaning beyond doctrine. I stood in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre with the dust of ancient stones on my skin, reading the words of resurrection to a gathered crowd — candle in hand, heart unguarded — and felt something quietly break open in me. Not because I was worthy. But because I was willing — to be seen, to be fragile, to be changed.

That candle still burns in me.

In Johannesburg, I met Esther, a refugee turned educator who embodied presence with a quiet ferocity. Her witness taught me that encounter doesn’t need a microphone — only an open heart. Watching her serve refugee children with grace and resolve, I came to see that the Gospel is not always preached. Sometimes, it is simply lived — in the dignity of attention, in the courage to stay.

In Guatemala, it was the defiant laughter of abandoned children and the radical tenderness of Marist sisters that redefined my understanding of service. I didn’t go there to save anyone. I went to be undone — to see the face of Christ not in stained glass, but in shanty towns and broken playgrounds. And I did.

In Cambodia, while laying water pipelines under the searing sun, I discovered that grace can flow through sweat. That hope can rise through dust. That sometimes the holiest work is anonymous, repetitive, and born of love that expects nothing in return.

And on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, I fell. Literally. Bloodied knee, aching body, humbled spirit. And just as I began to despair, strangers reached for me — Claudio from Italy, Aaron from the U.S. — and we walked together. That fall was not a failure. It was an invitation. The Way, I learned, is never walked alone.

“Until you make the unconscious conscious,” Jung warned, “it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

This, too, is the call of education — to stop mistaking performance for transformation. We do not teach for compliance. We teach so that our students may encounter. Themselves. Each other. The world that aches to be known. And that cannot happen through content alone. It happens through disruption, through beauty, through the awe of being seen and the risk of being wrong.

It happens through encounter.

A word I have returned to, again and again, because it refuses to stay academic. It is not just what I do — it is who I am becoming. And every true encounter — whether with God, grief, or the stranger — shatters the ego’s illusions and asks:

Are you still willing to become?

In Rome, I studied theology near the Vatican, searching for the roots of faith that once felt solid but had since grown wild. It was there I realised that real faith isn’t about certainty — it’s about courage. Courage to sit in the questions. Courage to welcome the other. Courage to be transfigured by love, even when it hurts.

And then, always, the Jungian truth returns:

We meet ourselves time and again.

In the face of a child.

In the silence of a chapel.

In the chaos of our own inner contradictions.

In the brokenness we are afraid to name — and the love that names us anyway.

This is the sacred work.

This is the becoming beneath the becoming.

Esto Perpetua

So walk gently now, pilgrim of presence.

Not to chase meaning, but to become it.

Let the disguises fall away, one by one, until you remember the original light stitched into your bones.

You are not lost — you are layered.

And every encounter is a homecoming in disguise.

The wound, the wonder, the whisper — all of it is yours.

Let it teach you. Let it unmake you. Let it awaken you.

Because in the end, the journey was never to find yourself.

It was to remember that you’ve been here all along —

waiting in a thousand places,

wearing a thousand faces,

still whispering:

“Become.”

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “Travel is not reward for working, it’s education for living.” — Anthony Bourdain

THE CARTOGRAPHY OF BECOMING

The world is caught in a crisis of disconnection—

from self,

from one another,

from the planet,

from purpose.

We are moving faster, yet arriving nowhere meaningful. In a hyper-distracted, productivity-obsessed culture, becoming is being outsourced to algorithms, timelines, and templates.

We track steps, but not values.

We post locations, but forget transformation.

We master movement, yet fear stillness.

And in this climate of chronic restlessness, travel—when it’s honest—offers not escape, but interruption. It cracks us open. It reminds us what it means to be awake.

But this is not a love letter to travel.

It is a summons: to reclaim the art of becoming in a world that has become obsessed with doing.

Travel as Revelation, Not Reward

When Anthony Bourdain reframed travel as “education for living,” he wasn't glamorizing wanderlust—he was naming a deep hunger within us all: to reconnect, reimagine, and remember who we are beyond the metrics of success.

Travel, at its best, doesn't just show us new places.

It helps us see our place—and our potential—with new eyes.

But here’s the deeper truth:

The value of travel is not in the movement itself. It’s in what it mirrors back to us about how rarely we live with that same depth of presence in our everyday lives.

What if we approached our Monday morning commute the way we approach the streets of Istanbul?

What if we received our neighbour’s story with the same reverence as a distant culture’s myth?

What if we walked through our own home with the wonder we reserve for a foreign cathedral?

This is the cartography that matters most.

The Pilgrimage of Presence

The great myth is that transformation lives far away.

The truth is, it begins with attention and intention.

When we travel well, we’re not chasing novelty—we’re recovering reverence. And we are invited into three sacred relationships: with self, place, and the other.

These encounters are not detours from real life.

They are real life—if only we are willing to pause, listen, and be altered.

Becoming is not a byproduct of travel.

Becoming is the point of living.

But becoming requires space. Silence. Discomfort. Curiosity.

It is not efficient, but it is essential.

Liminality as Sacred Design

Every honest journey brings us to a threshold—

A liminal zone where we are no longer who we were, and not yet who we will become.

These moments—of in-betweenness, of unknowing—are often uncomfortable. We resist them. We seek clarity too soon. But they are the soil of soul work.

Cathedral thinking begins here: in the willingness to dwell in unfinished places, to resist rushing to certainty, to trust in the slow unfolding of meaning.

We must learn to see liminal spaces not as voids to escape—but as vessels of becoming.

Everyday Pilgrims

If travel reminds us of what is sacred, then the real invitation is to live our daily lives as if they are holy ground.

The world does not need more tourists.

It needs more pilgrims.

More humans who live as if becoming is the goal—not achievement.

More souls who let wonder shape their days.

What travel teaches us, we must learn to practise without packing a bag:

To meet the other without judgment.

To arrive in place with humility.

To listen to self with compassion.

To design lives rich in why, not just in what’s next.

The streets we walk daily are waiting to teach us, if only we’d slow down enough to listen.

Designing the Map

So here is the cartography I offer—not for your next itinerary, but for your inner architecture:

Let curiosity be your compass.

Let presence be your path.

Let reverence be your rhythm.

Let love be your true north.

You do not need to fly to faraway lands to become someone new.

You need only to show up—open, awake, and willing.

Because becoming isn’t a detour.

It’s the map.

It’s the cathedral.

It’s the work.

The Final Return

So the question is not:

Where will you travel next?

The question is:

What will you now refuse to leave behind?

The cartography of becoming is not a path we follow.

It’s a life we design.

One moment, one encounter, one surrender at a time.

Because in the end, the greatest journey is not outward, but inward.

And the world doesn’t need more people chasing arrival—it needs more who dare to become pilgrims of their own becoming.

For Mark—who has the courage to realise his becoming.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “We must risk delight. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.”— Jack Gilbert

UNFINISHED GRACE

We are living in the age of the shortcut.

But I do not want to be efficient with my soul.

Everywhere I turn, I hear the rush.

To prompt faster.

To process quicker.

To polish, package, and publish without ever sitting in the sacred mess of becoming.

AI is not the enemy.

In fact, I was an early adopter—still am.

It helps me surface ideas, explore patterns, and wrestle with language in ways I couldn’t alone.

But the more I engage with it, the more I’m reminded of what it cannot do.

It cannot feel the weight of a room fall silent after a student shares their truth.

It cannot wrestle with ambiguity or hold the tension of two competing thoughts without demanding resolution.

It cannot watch someone’s face light up as they realise they’re not alone in their struggle.

These moments—these fragile, fierce, unfinished encounters—are the pulse of what it means to be human.

The Cost of Convenience

We are outsourcing thinking.

We are delegating reflection.

We are automating creativity.

And with each handover, something tender risks being lost—not just in what is produced, but in who we become as we produce it.

Writing for me has never been about just putting words to paper.

It’s been about encountering the friction between intention and insight.

About lingering in the uncomfortable pause between not knowing and nearly knowing.

About constructing meaning—not from templates or prompts—but from memory, emotion, and lived experience.

When we turn too quickly to AI for the shortcut, we risk turning away from the slow, soul-shaping nature of creative thought.

We start to value output over origin.

Polish over presence.

And in doing so, we lose something profoundly human.

What AI Can’t Teach Us

According to the OECD’s 2025 AI Capability Indicators, AI lags behind human capacity in social perception, advanced reasoning, and ethical judgment. And no wonder.

It does not know the sting of betrayal.

It does not know the thrill of reconciliation.

It does not know what it means to sit beside someone in silence and know, without words, that healing is happening.

AI can mimic tone.

It can generate a sermon.

But it cannot encounter a soul.

It cannot hold the weight of presence.

The Pilgrimage of Encounter

In The Final Curve, I wrote about the space between certainty and surrender.

In Reckoning, I wrestled with the allure of noise and the grace of stillness.

In The Pilgrimage of Encounter, I reminded myself that the most transformational moments in life don’t happen in our calendars or code—they happen when we show up fully, without armour, to one another.

What I am calling for now is not a rejection of AI, but a radical reorientation:

Let AI be the assistant, not the architect.

Let it echo our voices, not replace our witnessing.

Let it buy us time, not cost us connection.

The Grace of the Unfinished

I want to live a life that feels.

One that bruises with meaning.

One that laughs loudly and sobs in the same breath.

One that is more mosaic than manuscript.

Because it is in the friction, the effort, the raw uneditedness of living that we find our depth.

AI can help me craft a sentence. But it cannot carry the heartbreak that gave birth to it.

It can suggest a better structure. But it cannot trace the lived tension that shapes the rhythm of my voice.

And so, I return again to this central truth:

If AI is the echo, then we must be the original sound.

Let it learn from us. Let it be shaped by us. But let it never become us.

The human soul does not need refining. It needs remembering.

And remembering begins with encounter.

Not with code. But with courage.

Not with automation. But with awe.

Not with efficiency. But with the grace of the unfinished.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “There is no thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.” — Audre Lorde

THE INVITATION

Last night, within the walls of LCI Melbourne, voices once relegated to the margins took centre stage. The launch of Archer Magazine’s Issue #21 — The ART Issue — was more than an event. It was a pulse. A collective heartbeat of community, creativity, and unapologetic truth-telling.

As I stood among stories rendered in movement, sound, and image, I was reminded that inclusion is not a gesture. It is a discipline. A sustained and courageous act of inviting the other in—not to assimilate, but to transform.

We speak often about amplifying advocacy and voice in education. But inclusion is not merely about who is present. It’s about whose presence is powerful. Whose story shapes the space. Whose truth is honoured without dilution.

At its core, inclusion is an act of radical hospitality. It dares us to move beyond representation and into reciprocity—to co-create environments where all identities, expressions, and lived experiences do not just “fit,” but flourish.

Inclusion is not passive. It is not programmatic. It is prophetic.

It calls forth a new world in which difference is not just tolerated but treasured.

It demands that we confront the internalised architecture of exclusion.

It holds up a mirror to our systems and asks: Who is still unseen? Who is still unheard?

As educators and leaders, we are summoned to build more than pathways—we are asked to redesign the terrain. To dismantle the structural and symbolic boundaries that continue to silence. To stand with those on the margins and say: Your story changes this place. Your presence matters here. Your becoming is a gift to us all.

The human experience is not monolithic. It is textured and tangled and beautiful in its contradictions. And when we make room for stories that are queer, trans, disabled, diasporic, displaced, neurodiverse, and from people of colour—stories from the edges that rupture normative narratives—we make room for the wholeness of what it means to be human.

Let us not confuse inclusion with charity. Inclusion is justice.

It is a commitment to redesigning the frame, not just adjusting the picture.

It is a movement from access to agency.

From tokenism to transformation.

At LCI Melbourne, we believe creativity and commerce must not be separate from care. Our students do not come to fit into systems—they come to remake them.

The challenge ahead is not small, but it is sacred:

To cultivate learning spaces that refuse erasure.

To lead with integrity that does not flinch at discomfort.

To live the truth that belonging is not earned—it is a birthright.

So may we continue to elevate the stories that resist silence.

May we unlearn the bias etched into our institutional memory.

And may we—every day—choose to build a world where margins no longer exist, because every person is held at the centre of the story.

This is the real art of inclusion.

This is the work.

This is the invitation.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ "Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got a hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations." ~ George Bernard Shaw

THREADS, NOT LABELS

We’ve become masterful at segmenting people by birth year—slicing the world into Boomers, Xers, Millennials, Gen Z, and now, Alpha. Infographics abound, peppered with pithy descriptors and iconic artefacts—vinyl to Spotify, Rubik’s cube to fidget spinner, Model T to Tesla. Useful? At times. Fascinating? Certainly. But if we’re not careful, these generational blueprints risk becoming cages.

We reduce people to preferences. We manage generations as if they’re problems. We speak of gaps, divides, deficits.

But what if we saw it differently? What if generational difference isn’t a fault line to manage, but a fabric to weave?

The Sacred Conversation We’re Not Having

In leadership, education, design, and community life, we are quick to ask how to engage each generation. Rarely do we pause to ask why each generation matters—why their presence, story, and worldview might be essential to our shared future.

The image of the elder and the child, walking hand in hand, has long served as a symbol of continuity. But in modern life, that metaphor is breaking down. We don’t walk side by side anymore—we scroll in separate feeds, attend different conferences, even imagine the future in silos.

And yet, every generation carries gifts the others have forgotten:

Builders and Boomers carry deep memories—of struggle, rebuilding, patience, and promise.

Gen X holds tension with quiet resilience. They’ve bridged analogue and digital, endured disruption without applause.

Millennials bring hope and hustle, a fierce desire for meaning, and a hunger for impact.

Gen Z speaks truth to power. They are unafraid to disrupt, to care, to redefine.

Gen Alpha? They are born boundaryless—shaped by voice activation, fluid identity, and a world that demands both speed and depth.

If we only view these generations through what they lack—Boomers are out of touch, Gen Z is entitled, Millennials are self-obsessed—we miss the point entirely.

What If the Future Isn’t a Generation?

What if the future is a conversation?

Not a one-way transfer of knowledge from old to young. Not a patronising nod to youthful energy. But a sacred space of intergenerational dialogue—where the past informs the present, the present inspires the future, and the future dares to ask more from us all.

We need this now more than ever.

In education, we talk about lifelong learning—but rarely do we model life-wide learning, where a twelve-year-old can teach a sixty-year-old how to code, and that same sixty-year-old can teach the twelve-year-old how to listen.

In leadership, we talk about emerging voices—but how often do we place them in genuine proximity to legacy builders, not as tokens but as equals in purpose?

In community, we design youth forums and senior programs. Rarely do we design for the space between.

The Table We Must Set

The future isn’t generational. It’s relational. It belongs to the ones bold enough to create tables of tension and trust. It will not be shaped by managing difference, but by honouring it. The call is not to erase generational markers, but to transcend them through meaning-making.

Let’s stop asking: “How do we manage generational expectations?"

Let’s start asking: “What world might we shape if we listened to each other deeply, curiously, and courageously—across generations?”

Final Thought

When we lead with empathy, educate with humility, and imagine with plurality, the boundaries of generations blur. And what we’re left with is not just a workforce, or a classroom, or a community—but a movement.

One that knows: The wisdom of the past is incomplete without the courage of the present. The idealism of youth is meaningless without the grounding of experience. And the future doesn’t belong to one generation.

It belongs to the ones willing to build it—together.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “The first gulp from the glass of natural sciences will turn you into an atheist, but at the bottom of the glass God is waiting for you.” Werner Heisenberg 

MYSTERY & MAGIC

A reflection on the 2025 Marian Lecture by Professor Stan Grant

We gathered under soft lights and expectant silence to receive the words of a man whose voice has long called us to remember what we so easily forget — our shared humanity, our sacred fragility, and the eternal dance of meaning.

Stan Grant did not deliver a lecture. He offered us a liturgy.

From the very first moment, he asked us not to understand, but to remember. Not to conclude, but to wonder. And in doing so, he returned us to the mystery and the magic — not as escapism, but as truth too vast for reason alone.

"Love – less gift and more desire."

That line lingered in the air like incense. Stan reminded us that love is not a transaction, but a longing — not something we give or receive, but something we become. Love, as he framed it, is the deepest ache of the soul for something more, something eternal. Freedom is not found in choice alone, but in the willingness to be chosen by love, over and over again.

And in that love, hope emerges — not a platitude, but a posture. Hope, he said, is not loud. “Hope lives behind the headlines.” Hope, like faith, is not provable. It is not reducible to logic or science. It is the quiet miracle of the small things: the way the sun kisses the water at dawn, a whispered prayer for a child, the unguarded laughter of a stranger.

"Pray for the miracle of small things."

Stan offered a prophetic diagnosis of our time — a time of rupture. We have become untethered from our awe. In an age without magic, we dissect rather than discern.

“We have replaced magic for reason.”

This is not a condemnation of reason — Stan is too gracious and too thoughtful for that — but rather a yearning that we not lose our wonder in our search for answers. We are suffering, he said, from fluid modernity, from an age that creates of time, but no longer in time.

“We move through time — past, present, and future — each an illusion. At a still moment, there is the dance. This is where God is.”

In a world now governed by the sovereignty of the body, where dignity is often reduced to identity and victimhood, Stan calls us back to the freedom that is the very essence of Christianity. Not freedom as autonomy, but as belonging. Freedom not as detachment, but as union — as Mary’s “yes” to mystery, as Christ’s embrace of the cross.

“The very Universe is feminine,” he said — a poetic gesture that felt like a return to the womb of divinity. The cosmos as a mother, not a machine. A sacred embrace, not an algorithm.

And in the midst of it all, Stan did not leave us without light.

“We cannot abandon all hope.”

He pointed us toward the living face of Christ — a faith not in ideology, but in incarnation. In a Church being reborn in the humility of Pope Leo XIV, whose invocation of peace echoes the risen Christ: “Peace be with you.” Stan believes, as do I, that salvation is not singular.

“Salvation is social. It is wherever we meet.”

This is the radical Gospel. That God is in all, and is all. That salvation is not something we wait for, but something we witness when we dare to show up — fully, vulnerably, together.

"God’s mystery is the first sip of science." "At the bottom of the glass, God is waiting." — Werner Heisenberg

There is deep humility in this. A call not to retreat from the world but to re-enter it with the eyes of wonder. With the ears of prayer. With the heart of one who still believes in magic.

Stan has taken us on a journey — from the loneliness of modernity to the embrace of grace. From the politics of identity to the poetry of incarnation. From fear to freedom, from cynicism to hope, from despair to desire.

“What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

And in the end, the bridge leads us home — not to certainty, but to community. Not to dogma, but to mystery. Not to escape, but to encounter.

So I ask myself — and perhaps you might too:

What would it mean to walk in hope again? To believe in sacred time, in sacred connection, in the miracle of small things? To allow God — who is all and in all — to be enough?

In Stan’s own words:

“Salvation is social. It is wherever we meet.”

And in that meeting, perhaps, we become magic once more.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

The Pilgrimage of Encounter

It has been eight years since I studied a Theology Unit in Rome. I lived in Trastevere, where life spills out of trattorias and the cobblestones seem to hum with sacred memory. It was a time of learning, yes — but more than that, it was a time of listening. Listening to the stories in the stones, to the stirrings in my soul, and to the quiet invitations God whispers in moments we least expect.

Since hearing of Pope Francis’ passing on April 21, I’ve found myself reaching back to that time with fresh eyes. Remembering the morning I stood among thousands in Piazza San Pietro, directly in front of St Peter’s Basilica, the square swelling with pilgrims and prayer. Remembering the conversations, the readings, the places that shook something loose in me. That three-week immersion didn’t give me neat answers — it gave me encounters. And in those encounters, something in me changed.

This reflection is not an elegy. It’s a love letter. A tribute to the unfolding nature of faith — dynamic, evolving, alive. It’s about what I met in Rome and who I became in its wake.

Self

I didn’t go to Rome searching for God. I went because something in me was already quietly responding to His presence.

Each day of study, conversation, and contemplation didn’t bring me to certainty — it brought me to awareness. I began to understand that faith wasn’t something I held. It was something that was holding me, even when I wasn’t sure how tightly I could hold back.

Rome invited me to pause. To peel away the layers of expectation and performance. To sit with myself, as I was — no mask, no title, no armour. Just Adriano. And in that stillness, I found that the truest spirituality isn’t about rising above the world, but sinking more deeply into it — into our questions, our longings, our becoming.

In that city of saints and seekers, I caught glimpses of my own spirit looking back at me — from candlelit chapels, from scripture, from strangers’ eyes. I was reminded that the divine is not a destination. It is the journey inward — the sacred unfolding of the self.

Place

Some places do not simply exist — they speak. Rome does this. It doesn’t ask you to observe. It asks you to feel.

It was not just the grandeur of the Vatican or the Sistine Chapel’s impossible ceiling that moved me. It was the ordinary moments that became sacramental. The shadow of St Peter’s Basilica at dusk. The silence inside San Clemente, where layers of history and holiness collapsed into stillness. The smile of a street vendor who offered directions with his whole heart.

And then Assisi — a town that feels like it floats on breath alone. I remember Br William walking us through the life of Francis not as a biography, but as a living question: What would it look like to truly live in communion with everything?With sun and soil, with stranger and soul?

In Assisi, I felt the veil between heaven and earth thin. There, simplicity felt like abundance. And nature wasn’t background — it was teacher, prophet, companion. It made me weep. Not from sadness, but from remembering what we so often forget: that the world is aching to be seen, not used. That creation is not a resource — it is a relationship.

The Other

And then — the morning in Piazza San Pietro. Thousands gathered, hearts lifted toward heaven, waiting. And then he appeared: Pope Francis, moving through the square in a simple white cassock, waving, blessing, smiling. A shepherd among his people.

I didn’t exchange words with him. I didn’t need to. The encounter wasn’t in speech — it was in presence. In that open-air sanctuary, under the vast Roman sky, it felt as though the Spirit itself was breathing over the gathered. There was no ceiling to contain it. No walls to separate us. Only open sky and open hearts.

Francis radiated something rare: the humility of one who believes that mercy is more powerful than judgment. The gentleness of one who had seen humanity’s brokenness and chosen, still, to bless it.

That day stayed with me. As did the wisdom of Fr Bechina, who reminded us that Catholic education isn’t about conformity. It’s about communion. About reaching out, not retreating inward. About daring to welcome difference as a sacred gift.

Archbishop Paglia spoke of love not as sentiment, but as vocation. And I felt that truth rise within me: we are not called to admire love from afar; we are called to live it close-up, in the messy, beautiful reality of our human stories.

That is the miracle of encounter: it changes you — sometimes gently, sometimes all at once. Rome showed me that to live with faith is to be forever changed by every meeting with another soul.

Pope Francis once reminded us:

"God's love calls us to move beyond fear. We ask God for the courage to put on faith, hope and love as we go out into the world and become the word in body as well as spirit."

To encounter is to awaken. To self. To place. To the other.

This, I now believe, is the sacrament of life. And this is the future of faith — not in returning to old forms, but in recovering the ancient truth that we are most alive when we relate. When we see God in the face of a refugee. When we hear the Gospel in the cry of the earth. When we hold space for those who doubt, and find divinity not in their certainty, but in their searching.

I am no longer a teacher in a Catholic school, but my faith is more relevant now than it has ever been. Because it is not about the institution. It is about the incarnation. It is about what is being born in me, and through me, for the sake of a world that is weary, yearning, and beautiful.

I’ll end with a truth from the African philosophy of Ubuntu, one that framed my final thoughts all those years ago, and holds me still today: “I am what I am because of who we all are.”

This, to me, is the encounter that transforms. This is the becoming that blesses. This is the faith worth staying in.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ A tribute to Pope Francis (1936–2025)

GRACE MADE VISIBLE

"Grace is not part of consciousness; it is the amount of light in our souls, not knowledge nor reason." — Pope Francis

Today, a profound stillness settles over the world. Not just a pause in Vatican bells or black-suited rituals—but a sacred hush in the hearts of millions who feel the weight of a life now gone, yet forever imprinted on the human spirit.

Pope Francis has died.

And with his passing, a chapter closes—not just in the story of the Catholic Church, but in the larger narrative of what it means to lead with light in a world grown dim.

He was not merely the Bishop of Rome. He was not merely the 266th successor to Peter. Pope Francis was a soul who lived dangerously close to the Gospel. Not the sanitised, ceremonial Gospel of gold and grandeur—but the wild, demanding Gospel of street corners, wounds, and grace.

From the very beginning, he disrupted the expected script. He refused to be caged by convention. He chose simplicity over spectacle, service over supremacy, truth over titles. He took the name Francis—not to dazzle with novelty, but to remind us that the Church must be rebuilt from the margins inward. And that to follow Christ is to descend—to wash feet, to break bread with strangers, to become small in order to love greatly.

He once famously described the Church not as a fortress or a museum, but as “a field hospital after battle.” A place to tend to wounds, not to judge spiritual cholesterol levels. In his eyes, the Church must be triage for the brokenhearted. A sanctuary where healing takes precedence over hierarchy.

Inspired by that vision, I see the Church he dreamed of as:

A field hospital for the wounded.

A choir of the dissonant and the dreaming.

A community where the last are truly first, and the table is long enough for every soul.

This was the Francis effect—not just theological, but transformational.

He taught us that grace is not an abstract idea. It is not found in doctrine or decree, but in the light we carry in our souls when we dare to show up—to truly see the forgotten, to accompany the broken, to confront the systems that perpetuate pain.

His pontificate was not perfect. He was often criticised for moving too slowly, or speaking too softly, or compromising too broadly. But still, he pressed on. Because his leadership was not about satisfying factions—it was about walking with the faithful. He dreamed aloud of a “Church that is poor and for the poor,” and then lived that dream in word and witness.

He wept over the wounds of abuse. He confronted the idolatry of wealth. He challenged power structures within and beyond the Vatican walls. And though the machinery of the Church often pushed back, he never lost his footing—because he stood not on political strategy, but on sacred ground.

Francis was a reformer, yes. A theologian, certainly. But more than that, he was a pastor. A pilgrim. A wounded healer who reminded us that holiness is not about being flawless—it’s about being faithful.

And now, the shepherd has laid down his staff. The man in white—who bent low to kiss the outcast, who spoke plainly of joy and justice—has returned home.

But the light he carried—that fierce, fragile, stubborn light—is not extinguished.

It lives on in every person who dares to love without agenda. It lives in every act of mercy offered when no one is watching. It lives in the still, small moments when we choose compassion over certainty, accompaniment over authority, tenderness over triumph.

Because, as he once said, grace is not knowledge nor reason. It is the amount of light in our souls.

And Pope Francis? He was all light.

So let us honour him not with marble monuments or sterile memorials—but by becoming what he believed the Church could be:

radically inclusive, beautifully broken, courageously loving.

May we be bold enough to carry his torch.

Gentle enough to hold it with care.

And wise enough to know that we are now the lightbearers of the grace he made visible.

Esto perpetua.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” — Ephesians 5:14

My Easter Message: Awakening

Easter is the sacred call to awaken. Not just from slumber, but from despair, complacency, fear, and all that dims the light within us. It is the season of divine disruption—where the stone is rolled away not only from a tomb, but from the hidden places in our hearts.

The resurrection of Jesus Christ is not only an event in history, but an invitation in the present. It urges us to rise into our fullness—to live not as people bound by circumstance, but as people set free by love.

This Easter, let us awaken to the sacred in the ordinary:

To the risen Christ in the kindness of a stranger.

To the promise of renewal in each morning’s light.

To the power of grace in the face of grief.

In a world that too often numbs us with noise and rush, the resurrection whispers a deeper truth: that life is not meant to be merely endured, but lived abundantly.

We are not called to simply admire the empty tomb, but to walk forward from it—eyes open, hearts burning, spirits stirred.

May this Easter awaken in us a tenderness for humanity, a fierce hope for the future, and a courageous resolve to be bearers of light.

Because the Resurrection is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of ours.

Buona Pasqua! Happy Easter! καλό Πάσχα!

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.” — 1 Peter 2:24

BY HIS WOUNDS

Today is a day of paradox. A day called “Good,” yet one that marks the darkest chapter in the Christian story. On Good Friday, we remember the brutal crucifixion of Jesus Christ—not as an ending, but as the beginning of something eternal.

In the stillness of this sacred day, we are invited into the Liturgy of the Passion—a solemn ritual of scripture, silence, and song. No bells, no fanfare. Just truth laid bare. We walk with Christ through the suffering, bearing witness to love in its most costly form. A love that chose sacrifice over safety. A love that took the weight of humanity’s sin and transformed it into the promise of redemption.

Good Friday is the mirror held up to our brokenness—and to our belovedness. It reveals our stark reality, but refuses to leave us there. It points forward. For Friday is not the end of the story.

The crucifixion, as sorrowful as it is, carries the seed of resurrection. What man meant for evil, God meant for good. This is the holy mystery we’re asked to hold: that through death comes life, through wounds comes healing, through the cross comes the Kingdom.

“The risen Christ is celebrated in every opened flower,

in every beam of nourishing sunlight,

in every humble patch of green beneath our feet.”

So today, we sit in the silence. We honour the sorrow. And we ready our hearts for Sunday. For the Kingdom—an eternal promise of hope, healing, and holy optimism—lives deep within.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “This is a little reminder that the light you bring to the world is needed so much more in times of darkness.

Please keep sharing your generous heart without fear.

There are so many people out there who rely on the magic you create and the kindness you spread.

You could be the reason someone smiles today, the reason someone pauses and takes a deep breath.

You never know who needs to be touched by a heart like yours, so please keep spreading your light.” — Charlotte Freeman, This Was Meant to Find You

LUMINOUS

There are moments when a line on a page feels less like reading and more like remembering. As if the words aren’t introducing something new, but reawakening something ancient inside you.

That’s what happened when I read Charlotte Freeman’s gentle reminder:

“Please keep sharing your generous heart without fear… You could be the reason someone smiles today, the reason someone pauses and takes a deep breath.”

In a world often dulled by cynicism and sped up by algorithms, these words cut through like morning sun through fog. And they whisper a truth we too often forget: light is not just something we see — it’s something we are.

But there is a cost.

Viktor Frankl, who knew darkness more intimately than most, once wrote: “What is to give light must endure burning.” That line has never left me. Because it reveals what lies behind every luminous soul — not ease, but endurance. Not perfection, but persistence. To bring light is not to escape the fire, but to be shaped by it, and still choose to glow.

Sometimes the people who shine the brightest are the ones who’ve walked through shadows and stayed open anyway. They love gently, even with scarred hands. They show up, even when they’re weary. They speak truth, even when their voice trembles.

They are not unbroken. They are unafraid of being broken.

Leonard Cohen put it this way, in a lyric that hums like gospel for the soul:

“There is a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.”

Perhaps that’s the point. We’re not meant to be polished. We’re meant to be real. Raw. Radiant, not despite the cracks — but because of them. It’s in the trembling hand, the imperfect voice, the tender pause, where we find the kind of beauty that doesn’t ask for applause — just witness.

So this is your reminder — not just to shine, but to keep shining. Keep sharing your generous heart without fear. Not for recognition, but because somewhere out there, someone is holding on by a thread, waiting for a sign that hope still lives in human form.

That sign might be you.

Because you, in your brave becoming, your quiet compassion, your refusal to let the world harden you — you are light. And your light is needed more than ever.

Let it burn. Let it spill. Let it be cracked and true and wildly alive.

Let it be what finds someone in the dark and whispers, “You’re not alone.”

And may you always remember: you were never meant to be perfect — only luminous.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ "Your purpose is not the thing you do. It is the thing that happens in others when you do what you do." — Dr. Caroline Leaf

PURPOSE

We often ask ourselves: What is my purpose? The answers we find are usually tied to a title, a role, a vocation — the doing. Teacher. Leader. Creative. Coach. Advocate. Parent. Partner. But this quote, quiet and seismic all at once, dares us to look deeper. It nudges us to consider that our true purpose may not be what we think it is.

Because our purpose is not what we do.

It’s what is unleashed in others when we do what we do with truth, love, and fierce intent.

That’s what haunts me — in the best possible way. That purpose, if lived with courage, might leave a residue of light on someone else's soul. Might spark something sacred in them. Might awaken them to their own possibility.

This is no small thing.

This is no box-ticking exercise.

This is the miracle of presence turned into power.

I’ve long wrestled with my “why.” And like many of us, I’ve watched others do what they do from a variety of motivations — some driven by obligation, some by ego, others by fear or ambition. I’ve done it myself. But in the quiet moments of my becoming, I’ve come to understand this:

My why has never really been about me.

Yes, I pursue self-actualisation — to become the man, the creative, the educator, the human I’m capable of being. But it’s never just for self. It’s for something greater. Something more eternal. Because once you awaken to the truth that your actions ripple beyond the surface of your own life, you can’t go back to shallow living.

Einstein once said:

"Never regard study as a duty but as an enviable opportunity to learn to know the liberating influence of beauty in the realm of the spirit for your own personal joy and to the profit of the community to which your later works belong."

There’s a divine echo in that. A reminder that our joy becomes someone else’s compass. Our light, their lighthouse.

When I stand before a room of young people, I know it’s not about the lesson I deliver. It’s about the invitation I extend. An invitation to remember that they too are home to a life. That they too are worthy of dreaming, daring, and being wholly themselves. If something I say or do causes them to believe in their own inherent worth, then that is my purpose. Not the teaching — but what the teaching awakens in them.

Purpose is not profession.

Purpose is not perfection.

Purpose is not praise.

Purpose is presence, given generously.

It is the residue you leave behind in hearts. It is what happens in the lives of others when you refuse to shrink from who you are.

When we approach life this way — as a sacred offering, not a performance — then even the smallest act becomes transcendent. A conversation becomes a turning point. A smile becomes a lifeline. A lesson becomes a liberation.

This is why I write. This is why I serve.

This is why I give my life breath — not to simply exist, but to echo.

So I leave you with this:

The world doesn’t need more doing.

It needs more becoming.

More people who honour the fire in their chest.

More people unafraid to let their truth shape the future of another.

More people willing to recognise that what happens in others because of your courage — that is the real miracle.

That is the ripple.

That is the triumph.

That is your purpose.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed.” – Maya Angelou

THE ART OF HAPPINESS

The World Happiness Report 2025 arrives at a pivotal moment, underscoring the deep connections between caring, sharing, and the wellbeing of individuals and communities. This year’s report, produced by the Wellbeing Research Centre at the University of Oxford in partnership with Gallup and the UN Sustainable Development Solutions Network, focuses on the profound effects of benevolence and social connection on happiness. It reminds us that happiness is not just an individual pursuit but a collective endeavour, deeply rooted in our relationships, our sense of community, and the way we engage with one another.

Key Findings: A Shift in Perspective

The 2025 report paints a nuanced picture of global happiness. Despite a decline in benevolent acts since the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, such acts remain 10% higher than pre-pandemic levels. Moreover, acts of kindness – donating, volunteering, and helping strangers – have proven to be strong predictors of individual wellbeing. Interestingly, people are often too pessimistic about the benevolence of others, underestimating the likelihood of their wallets being returned by strangers, despite data indicating much higher return rates, especially in Nordic countries.

The findings reveal a critical truth:

wellbeing thrives in environments where individuals experience trust, connection, and shared purpose.

People who frequently share meals, maintain strong family ties, and participate in acts of kindness report significantly higher levels of happiness​. Conversely, the rising trend of young people experiencing loneliness and social isolation underscores the urgent need to foster environments where connection and belonging are nurtured.

The Role of Creative Learning Communities

Enter creative learning communities – dynamic ecosystems where individuals engage in collaborative exploration, innovation, and shared purpose. Institutions like LCI Melbourne exemplify these environments, where students, educators, and industry professionals come together to cultivate not just technical skills but also a profound sense of belonging and agency.

LCI Melbourne’s ethos, rooted in “Different by Design,” fosters an environment where creativity is not just encouraged but celebrated. This is a space where connection and creativity intersect – where students don’t merely learn technical competencies but are invited to collaborate, express themselves authentically, and build meaningful relationships that transcend the classroom.

In a world where connection is increasingly fragile, creative learning communities like LCI Melbourne play a critical role in bridging this gap. By nurturing empathy, collaboration, and a sense of shared purpose, these communities act as catalysts for enhancing not only individual happiness but also collective wellbeing.

Why Creativity Matters for Happiness

The World Happiness Report highlights that prosocial behaviour – acts of giving, helping, and connecting – elevates happiness not just for recipients but also for those who give. Creativity, by its very nature, is an act of giving. Whether through designing, storytelling, or problem-solving, creative acts foster a spirit of generosity, empathy, and connection.

When learners are immersed in a community that values creative expression, they are more likely to engage in prosocial behaviours, form deeper connections, and experience the psychological benefits of belonging. LCI Melbourne’s emphasis on peer collaboration, industry engagement, and mentoring ensures that students are not just acquiring knowledge but also developing a “benevolence mindset” – one that positions them to contribute meaningfully to their communities.

Creative Communities as Vessels of Transformation

The 2025 report draws a powerful conclusion: happiness flourishes when individuals feel they are part of something bigger than themselves. Creative communities cultivate this sense of belonging through:

- Shared Purpose: Engaging in collaborative projects that align with personal passions and broader societal goals.

- Empathy and Trust: Encouraging deep listening, understanding different perspectives, and building trust within diverse teams.

- Reciprocity and Contribution: Offering opportunities for mentorship, knowledge-sharing, and co-creation that enrich both the giver and the receiver.

LCI Melbourne’s model exemplifies these principles by creating pathways where students can co-create, collaborate, and contribute to a vibrant learning ecosystem that mirrors the benevolence highlighted in the World Happiness Report.

Shaping Futures Through Creative Learning

As we stand at the crossroads of an increasingly fragmented world, creative learning communities have the power to be vessels of transformation. They offer more than technical education – they cultivate hearts and minds that are attuned to the needs of others.

In the words of Maya Angelou, “When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed.” This echoes the 2025 report’s profound finding that benevolence enriches not only those who receive but also those who give. LCI Melbourne is not just shaping future designers, artists, and innovators – it is nurturing a generation of changemakers whose work will extend beyond aesthetics to cultivate empathy, foster connection, and ultimately, elevate collective happiness.

As we move forward, we must ask ourselves: How might we design learning environments that cultivate not just competence, but compassion? How can we nurture creative communities that not only inform but transform?

The answer lies in embracing creative learning spaces where collaboration, connection, and care are as essential as knowledge. In doing so, we are not just designing the future of education – we are crafting a world where happiness is not a privilege but a shared reality.

Reference

Helliwell, J. F., Layard, R., Sachs, J. D., De Neve, J.-E., Aknin, L. B., & Wang, S. (Eds.). (2025). World Happiness Report 2025. University of Oxford: Wellbeing Research Centre. Available at: https://worldhappiness.report [Accessed 30 March 2025].

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “Christ, my hope, has risen!" ~ Pope Francis

PILGRIMS OF HOPE

Today, March 25, is a day that holds both personal and profound resonance. It is my birthday—a moment to pause, reflect, and give thanks for the gift of life. But more than that, it is the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord—a feast that invites us to marvel at the mystery of God becoming flesh through the courageous yes of a young woman clothed with the Holy Spirit. It is a moment that forever altered human history. And so, in the heart of Lent, we are given a feast of light and promise, a reminder that we are indeed pilgrims of hope.

In the Gospel of Luke (1:26–38), we encounter Mary, visited by the angel Gabriel and overshadowed by the Holy Spirit. The angel declares,

“Hail, full of grace! The Lord is with you… Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God… The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you… nothing will be impossible for God.”

And Mary responds with the words that echo through eternity:

“Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.”

It is the action of the Holy Spirit that transforms this encounter. It is the Spirit who clothes Mary, making her fit for her mission. She is the woman clothed with the Spirit, and because of her openness, everything becomes possible.

Pope Francis, in his 2025 Lenten message, reminds us that Lent is a journey—a pilgrimage.

“The Jubilee motto, Pilgrims of Hope, evokes the lengthy journey of the people of Israel to the Promised Land… It is hard to think of the biblical exodus without also thinking of those of our brothers and sisters who in our own day are fleeing situations of misery and violence in search of a better life.”

We are called to walk not alone, but together. To journey together in hope, the Holy Father writes, means

“walking side-by-side, without shoving or stepping on others, without envy or hypocrisy, without letting anyone be left behind or excluded.”

It is a summons to synodality, to conversion, to communion. It is the Spirit who makes this journey possible—who calls us out of our comfort zones and self-absorption, and leads us toward others and toward God.

Lent reminds us that the road to Easter passes through the desert, through surrender, through sacrifice—but it is a road marked by hope. Hope that does not disappoint. Hope that anchors the soul.

And what is hope, if not the courage to believe that something more is possible, even in the face of fear, uncertainty, or limitation? Mary’s yes was a declaration of hope—not a naive optimism, but a deep trust in the promise of God.

"Christ, my hope, has risen!" Pope Francis proclaims. “Death has been transformed into triumph, and the faith and great hope of Christians rests in this: the resurrection of Christ!”

So let us journey together in hope, clothed with the Spirit, bearing witness that nothing is impossible for God.

For in Mary’s yes, we see the seed of Easter planted—the Word made flesh, destined not for comfort but for the Cross, not for safety but for the salvation of all creation. The road to Calvary begins here, in Nazareth, with a young woman’s courage and the Spirit’s power.

Hope is not passive. It dares, it disrupts, it delivers. It calls us to walk as if the tomb is already empty, to live as resurrected people in a world still longing for dawn.

Christ, our hope, is risen—and we are pilgrims of that rising.

May God bless you abundantly on your Lenten journey.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” —Eleanor Roosevelt

Know You Are Enough

You are not here by chance.

In the quiet spaces, beneath the noise of expectation and self-doubt, beneath the pressure to prove or perform, there is a truth waiting for you to reclaim: you are enough. Not because of your achievements or accolades, but simply because of who you are—and the quiet power you carry within.

We mature by damage, not by age.

Experience marks us, yes—but it also deepens us. Life will bend you, sometimes break you, yet it’s in those moments of fracture that your truest self begins to take form. You are not merely a product of what has happened to you. You are the result of how you’ve chosen to rise.

Look at the way you struggle and tell me you are not strong.

Struggle is not a sign of weakness. It’s the evidence of your strength. Every time you have kept going when no one saw, every time you stood up when it was easier to stay down—you have proven your strength in the most profound way.

And though progress often feels slow, remember this—small daily improvements are invisible… until they’re undeniable.

Change is subtle. It doesn’t arrive with fanfare. But with time, the smallest efforts build, and what once seemed insignificant becomes impossible to ignore. Trust that your quiet persistence is shaping something remarkable.

There will be days when you don’t feel like showing up. Those are the days you must show up the most.

Not for anyone else, but for yourself. For the life you’re building, for the future that’s calling. Resilience is born not in ease, but in the act of showing up when every part of you wants to retreat.

And know this: there is a seat waiting for you at tables you haven’t even seen.

Opportunities you’ve not yet imagined are forming. Doors are opening. When the moment arrives, you won’t need to force your way in—you’ll simply take your place. Because you belong.

Guard your energy. Your whole life can be altered just by associating with someone. So yes, be selective.

Not everyone is meant to walk your path. Your time, your space, your presence—these are precious. Invest them wisely. Be valuable, not available.

Sometimes growth requires new company, new locations, and new mindsets.

It takes courage to outgrow what once felt like home. But comfort can become a cage, and real growth often demands that we leave the familiar behind. Step into the unknown. It’s where possibility lives.

And if you feel like you’ve fallen behind, take heart—you can start late, start over, lose it all, fail again and again, yet still succeed.

There’s no fixed timeline for becoming. Life isn’t linear. Every setback, every detour, has brought you closer to the truth of who you are.

No matter how much it hurts now, someday you’ll look back and realise your struggle changed your life for the better.

Pain, though unwelcome, is often the catalyst for growth. It awakens something within—a clarity, a strength, a purpose—that comfort never could. The struggle is shaping you for what’s next.

Some people hate you because you had less and still did more.

Let that remind you: your power doesn’t come from what you lack, but from what you create, from how you persevere, from the spirit that cannot be diminished.

Deep down, you know exactly where you stand with someone. Hope blurs the lines a bit, but you know.

Trust your instincts. Your peace matters. If something doesn’t feel right, it likely isn’t. Honour that knowing. Protect your heart.

And remember, you can learn so much by being quiet and watching.

Not every battle requires your engagement. Not every voice deserves your attention. There is wisdom in observation, in choosing discernment over reaction.

And when doubt creeps in—and it will—remember this: you’re doubting yourself, while others are terrified of your potential.

That should tell you everything. You are not too late. You are not too much. You are enough. Right here. Right now.

Let this be your awakening. A call to return to yourself.

You don’t need to hustle for your worth or chase validation. You already have everything within you. You already are everything you need.

So let go of fear and regret.
Step into your light.
Stand in your truth.

And know this—you are possible.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” ~ Helen Keller

THE GIFT OF DIVERSITY

We are living in an age where division has become a currency, where difference is too often seen as something to be feared or flattened. The world, it seems, is in the grip of a crisis of indifference — to one another’s pain, to our shared humanity, to the gifts found in the unfamiliar.

And yet, when I reflect on the life I’ve lived — the people I love, the values I hold dear — I know this: we are together because of our difference, not despite it. And the courage of those who have walked before us, across oceans and borders and language, shows us the way back to each other.

I am the son of two migrants. Their stories shaped mine, but their impact stretches beyond the walls of our home. Their journey — like millions of others — is a testament to the gift of cultural diversity. It is a story not just of relocation, but of resilience, of vulnerability, and of hope.

My mother was born into the rubble of post-war Vienna, a city torn and bruised by the aftermath of conflict. Her childhood was marked by scarcity, by uncertainty, by the echoes of violence that lingered long after the guns had fallen silent. Yet from that chaos, she forged a life defined not by fear, but by fierce determination. She left behind her home — the familiarity of language, the scent of cobblestones after rain — to begin anew in a land that was foreign in every way.

My father was just 14 when he left the mountainous heart of Abruzzo, Italy. Alone. A boy barely out of childhood, driven by a yearning for possibility. He followed his heart to Australia, carrying the weight of sacrifice and the hope of a better future. He worked tirelessly — not for glory, but for family, for love, for the dignity of creating something lasting.

Neither sought recognition. They did not wear their vulnerability as a badge. But it was there — in every uncertain step, in every small act of faith, in every moment they chose hope over despair.

This is the migrant story — a quiet heroism that holds a mirror to our own hearts and asks: What are we willing to risk for love, for belonging, for a better world?

In their lives, I saw how difference could be a bridge, not a barrier. Two people from distant worlds — Austria and Italy — with different languages, traditions, and wounds, found unity in shared purpose. They created a life together that honoured both past and possibility. And in doing so, they taught me that diversity is not just something to be tolerated — it is something to be cherished, protected, and celebrated.

As we mark Cultural Diversity Week, I am reminded that the richness of our multicultural community is not an accident — it is a gift born of courage. It is the courage to leave, the courage to begin again, the courage to imagine a future together, shaped by the contributions of many, not the dominance of a few.

In times like these, when fear and apathy often drown out compassion, the migrant story calls us back to what matters — the sacredness of human connection, the power of difference, and the hope that lives in all of us when we dare to truly see one another.

Diversity is not a threat to unity — it is the reason unity is possible.

And may we always remember: our strength lies not in the quiet comfort of sameness, but in the extraordinary bravery of those who came with nothing but hope in their hearts and the will to build something new.

Because of two people who dared to believe in life beyond war and poverty, who crossed continents and let love guide them through the unknown — I am here.

I am here because of their difference.

Their story is not rare — it is one of millions. But for me, it is everything. And it is why I will never stop believing that diversity is not just a word. It is a life. It is a legacy. It is love.

Let us honour it, with every step forward.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.

[adrianodiprato]

+ "Run to the rescue with love, and peace will follow." ~ River Phoenix

Rescue

There comes a moment—maybe once, maybe many times—when the ground beneath us gives way. The certainties we held dissolve, and the world becomes unrecognisable. A sudden loss, a whispered goodbye, a path we can no longer follow. We stumble in the dark, searching for something—anything—to remind us that we are not alone.

And then, the call comes.

"Run to the rescue with love, and peace will follow."

Not a whisper, not a suggestion, but a charge. An urgency to move, to act, to love—especially when it’s inconvenient, especially when it costs something. To reach out, even when our own hands are shaking. To believe, even when hope seems like a myth.

But here’s what we often misunderstand: the rescue isn’t always loud. It’s not always a sprint toward someone drowning, arms outstretched, heart pounding. Sometimes, the rescue is simply being there. It burns as a lighthouse of relief for anyone who has lost their way.

“It burns as a lighthouse of relief for anyone who has lost their way.”

Sometimes, the rescue is standing still. Being the light. Refusing to dim, even when the wind howls and the waves rise. Sometimes, the greatest act of love is not pulling someone from the wreckage, but shining just bright enough for them to find their own way out.

Because peace is not forced. It is found.

And if you are the one searching, if the night feels endless, let me say this: The rescue is already happening. Maybe it’s a hand reaching for yours, or maybe it’s a steady glow in the distance, waiting for you to see it.

Run when you must.

Burn when you can.

But whatever you do, do not let the darkness convince you that the light has gone.

And somewhere—whether across an ocean or just beyond the veil of your own doubt—someone is holding the light high, a beacon of love, daring you to rise, to run, to rescue, to burn ever so brightly.

Adriano Di Prato is an influential Australian educator, best-selling author, former co-host of the leading educational podcast Game Changers, and the Campus Director at LCI Melbourne, a progressive art, design + entrepreneurship private institute of higher education.