I was having an identity crisis. I'd been robbed of my childhood dream of being a professional cricketer, and then one afternoon, during a session with my rehab team, I was told that there was a very high possibility that I also might never walk again. After the session, as I sat in my wheelchair next to the elevator, my emotions close to the surface, I suddenly felt like there wasn't enough air in the corridor. I desperately needed to get downstairs to my room, where I could breathe again without others seeing my tears. I could never have anticipated that being unable to reach the button to call the elevator would be the thing that pushed me beyond my breaking point. My injuries had limited my movement, and from my wheelchair the button was just out of reach - a matter of centimetres.

Despite all the challenges I'd faced in recent weeks - having multiple surgeries, quitting my job and packing up my life for the indefinite future - this was the first time I felt truly broken. It was an emotional fracture that I hadn't experienced before in my twenty-five years on Earth. I felt completely crushed. And also a little silly and embarrassed. I had always prided myself on my self-reliance, and valued having a sense of control of my life. Not only had I now lost all independence, I had started to fear that this would be what it was like for the rest of my life. I dropped my head into my hands, hoping no one would see me. Tears streamed from my eyes. The ping of the elevator forced me to raise my head, just in time to notice that a man had pressed the down arrow for me, then walked off down the hall.

The man hadn't said anything, and I couldn't muster the energy between my tears to call out a thank-you for his simple gesture. But it was a profound moment for me: for perhaps the first time in my life, I felt connected to something bigger than myself. We hadn't exchanged words - we hadn't even made eye contact - but that man and I had connected through kindness. He was able to give it, and I was able to receive it. I wheeled myself into the lift and made my way to my room. By the time I got there, the tears that had escaped me only moments before were fading into distant memory. With gritted teeth, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and I told myself that I would walk again. If not for myself, then for all the people who had helped me, just as that stranger had.

There was more to his act, I realised, than just pressing a button when he'd seen I wasn't able to. His small gesture told me that I was not alone. Somehow it felt like he believed in me, and that I needed to believe in myself again too. Just as he had chosen to help me, I had to choose to help myself. Perhaps my decision, four years later, to leave my home and embark on my kindness journey was because I was longing to feel this way again. Perhaps I needed a kick-start to remind myself that I could overcome anything, and connecting with others had always inspired me to do so. Or maybe it was an act of kindness to myself.

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Maybe I was putting on my own oxygen mask before I could help those around me, just like the airline safety drill says. Even now, I'm still not really sure what made me choose to test out the kindness of strangers in such a risky way. But I am so grateful that I did.

I don't claim to be an expert in anything, and especially not kindness. This might surprise some people, given I started a global movement called the Kindness Factory and I'm writing a book about it. Sure, I spend most days talking about the benefits and opportunities kindness can bring, and I do my utmost to root all my behaviour in kindness. But it's a lifelong work in progress, and I'm learning all the time. I think of myself as an accidental motivational speaker. I'd never set out to feature on the speaking circuit, where these days I present to everyone from high-flying corporates and celebrities to schoolchildren and those living rough on the street. When I first accepted an invitation to share my life lessons on stage, I worried that headlining 'kindness' as my subject matter would turn people off. I thought they might roll their eyes, as if they'd heard it all before. I know that kindness can seem sickly sweet - like surface-level 'niceness'.

Dictionaries use words like 'friendly', 'generous' and 'considerate' to describe it. But what do those words really mean on a practical level? For me, kindness is a set of actions to live by, a manifesto that expresses qualities that we can hold ourselves accountable to. But what if we could think of kindness as a call to action? Or even as a way to live? The way I see it, kindness underpins every part of our lives: everything we do and everything we should strive to be. As humans evolved, we have learned that kindness is important - maybe the most important thing of all - for any functioning society.

But why do I think that kindness trumps everything? And why does doing something for others - performing an act of kindness - feel so inherently good ? When I started the Kindness Factory and adopted a mindset of kindness, my life quickly began to make more sense to me. I am someone who has been through their fair share of adversity and learned some valuable lessons along the way. But the more I tried to change my behaviour to be of service to myself and others, the more I realised that practising kindness made me feel good. I began to appreciate the small things in life more, my mood improved and my perspective shifted. I was more resilient, happier and healthier than I had ever been before. I'm not someone who has ever really struggled with the concepts of compassion, empathy and decency, but when I made kindness an active choice in my everyday life, and when I recognised the power that has, it became something that I could look forward to and be grateful for.

One of the reasons for this, I believe, is that 'kindness' is an umbrella term, incorporating a plethora of other important human qualities. This is why there are so many ways to be kind. To ourselves, to others and to the communities and society we live in. Buying a stranger a coffee is an act of kindness, but so is making a joke that puts a new friend at ease. Unpacking the dishwasher for your household is kindness, but so is smiling at a stranger on the street, or quietly telling someone they've got a popcorn kernel shell stuck in their teeth. Sitting beside someone gravely ill, giving your time or money to a charity or simply listening to someone talk about their problems are all forms of kindness.

In mid-2018, having for two years done more talks in school assembly halls and corporate workplaces than I could count, I realised I needed to do more to help people understand the value of kindness. I was seeing the impact my talks were having on kids and adults, but I was just one person. I couldn't talk to everyone. After being introduced to Rob Regan, the head of Kaplan Australia, who was inspired by my life story and the vision I had to influence our education system, I began working with a team of academics and researchers to develop a curriculum of kindness.

Change starts with our kids, so I wanted to do everything I could to make the next generation the kindest and most resilient people possible. My goal was to produce a set of age-appropriate resources that teachers could use to inspire students to act with kindness and practise better wellbeing strategies. In March 2020, in the midst of the first COVID-19 lockdown, I sat in my apartment in Sydney's Northern Beaches and read hundreds of emails from parents who were struggling to entertain their children amid the enforced isolation. Word had got out that we were in the design phase of our curriculum offering, and my details were publicly available online.

Kind School Network

Teachers were sending schoolwork home and teaching lessons online via Zoom, but most children had finished their schoolwork by midmorning. By now our team of academics and researchers were deep in the process of developing our curriculum, but we were still a long way off launching the finished product. As the long lockdown went on, more and more parents and teachers reached out. 'Is it ready yet?' their emails would ask, with thinly veiled desperation. I knew we had to get our skates on. The Kindness Curriculum was launched in 60 schools two months later. Today, just over two years later, that same curriculum has been accessed by over 3000 Australian schools and introduced in the United States and the United Kingdom.

The curriculum is based on the 12 attributes that we believe make kindness what it is: self-acceptance, perspective, humility, gratitude, mindfulness, collaboration, positivity, empathy, trust, humour, honesty and compassion. Our original plan was to get the curriculum resources in front of as many children as possible to inspire a generational change of kindness, but as the pandemic escalated, our priority became to boost kids' wellbeing and encourage resilience at a time when they needed it most.

The 12 attributes of kindness we cover in the Kindness Curriculum are common themes in my own life. They reflect my own personal values, but they are also qualities I noticed in others during my years of adversity and challenge. When I sat down to write my story, I realised that the Kindness Curriculum was much more than just a program to be taught in schools. These twelve concepts underpin everything I know to be good and important in our world. They're my blueprint for happiness. They work together and separately, but they're all part of the DNA of kindness. And they're also the key to making the world a better place.

My hope is that, the next time you are faced with a choice - whether to act with kindness or turn your back on it - you choose kindness. Not just because it's the right thing to do, but because I know you will never regret that decision. Kindness and everything that we allow it to be is good for those on whom you bestow it, but it's also undeniably very good for you too. It can change your life, and the lives of people you haven't even met yet. That's what I know as the power of kindness.