The Little Bird
Notes on curiosity, becoming, and the stories we live by in life and in business.
There is a little bird who follows me around. Not literally, of course. At least I don’t think so. Although after all these years, I’m not entirely convinced.
She appears in drawings. In stories. In logos. In the corners of notebooks. In the spaces between thoughts. Perched quietly on branches while I am busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Which, if I’m honest, has been most of my life.
She isn’t particularly impressive. She isn’t an eagle. She isn’t a phoenix. She isn’t some magnificent mythical creature soaring across the heavens carrying ancient wisdom in her claws. She is small. A little scruffy. Slightly crooked. One wing sits higher than the other. Her head tilts at odd angles. She looks permanently curious and mildly confused. As though she has just walked into the wrong room but is too polite to leave.
I like her. I trust her. Mostly because she reminds me of myself.
When I was younger, I believed stories arrived fully formed. I thought heroes knew where they were going. I thought successful people had plans. I thought certainty was a prerequisite for greatness. I thought confidence came first. Experience came second. Achievement came third.
The older I get, the more absurd that seems. The people I admire most rarely knew what they were doing when they began. They simply followed a thread. A question. A fascination. A hunch. They wandered. They stumbled. They made mistakes. They changed direction.
And somewhere along the way, a life emerged.
The Greeks understood this. So did the Celts. So did the storytellers who sat around fires long before anyone invented business plans or strategic frameworks. The hero never begins with certainty. The hero begins with a call. Usually an inconvenient one. A whisper. A restlessness. A sense that there is something more to discover.
And then, despite every reasonable argument against it, they go.
Perhaps that is why I have always loved myths. Not because they tell us what happened. But because they tell us what happens. Again and again. Across centuries. Across cultures. Across generations. Different costumes. Different landscapes.
The same human questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What matters? What story am I living? And perhaps most importantly— Whose story am I living?
I have spent much of my life collecting stories. Some arrived through music. Some through business. Some through motherhood. Some through heartbreak. Some through extraordinary people who appeared at exactly the right moment. Some through complete disasters that only made sense years later.
The details were different. The pattern was always the same. Beneath every story sat another story. Beneath every problem sat a belief. Beneath every belief sat a myth.
We inherit myths without realising it. The myth that we must be perfect before we begin. The myth that someone else knows more. The myth that success belongs to other people. The myth that we should already have it figured out. The myth that uncertainty is failure. The myth that wandering is wasted time. The myth that being unfinished is somehow shameful.
The little bird knows better. She has never once looked finished. She has never once looked certain. She has never once looked like she belongs in an inspirational quote. Yet she continues. Branch to branch. Question to question. Story to story. Not because she knows the answer. Because she is willing to keep looking.
Perhaps wisdom is not certainty after all. Perhaps wisdom is curiosity. The willingness to lean your head sideways and ask another question. To look beyond the obvious. To wonder what sits beneath the surface. To remain fascinated. To remain teachable. To remain open.
When people ask me why I keep returning to stories, I struggle to answer. Because stories are not entertainment to me. Stories are maps. Stories are mirrors. Stories are how human beings make meaning from chaos. They are how we understand ourselves. How we understand one another. How we remember who we are.
And perhaps that is why the little bird stays by my side. Because she understands something I am still learning. Life is not a destination. It is an unfolding story. We are not here to become perfect. We are here to become ourselves. A little wiser. A little braver. A little more honest. A little more curious.
And every now and then, if we’re lucky— A little pitchy.
Nichola Burton has spent more than three decades following stories. Beginning in the Australian music industry and expanding into branding, design, business strategy and digital systems, she has built a career helping artists, entrepreneurs, wellness practitioners and purpose-driven organisations uncover what makes them unique. Her work is driven by a fascination with the story beneath the story—the values, experiences and beliefs that shape how people connect, communicate and grow.
Through her brand, A Little Pitchy and her Substack, Let A Woman Do It, Nichola combines storytelling, strategy and systems thinking to help people transform ideas into reality. She believes great brands are uncovered rather than invented, that systems should create freedom rather than complexity, and that every meaningful journey begins with curiosity. Whether designing a brand, building a business framework or exploring the myths that shape our lives, she is always searching for the threads that connect purpose, story and impact. Copyright 2026
