Could you tell me a time you felt alive?

It was May 26th, and I was about to meet him for the first time. He wasn’t my boyfriend, yet. But somehow over the last 2 months - as the world was turning in on itself due to lockdown 1.0, I had been falling ‘virtually in love’. We met on a dating app just as Covid was becoming a thing. At that point, you were either getting a bit scared and pulling up the draw bridges and not going out, or you were like Jack, chilled enough about it to meet up for drinks. I kept putting him off - I just wasn’t sure if it was safe. Maybe if we waited two weeks it would all clear up and then we could have that drink… But then it all changed. Theatres were shut, pubs were shut, and then Lockdown was announced. I remember that word sounding much more suited to something out of a dystopian novel, except instead of bombs and flying planes, it was an invisible virus. I couldn’t get my head around it. So. Rather than doing the flirtatious dance of texting about cats and dogs (it’s a thing on dating apps - don’t know why) Jack and I did what a whole generation of singletons were turning to for the first time: we had a virtual date. The dress code was wear what you’ve missed most - for me it was a red lip, for him it was a floral shirt. We drank, talked about music, about mattresses…and date 2 was arranged. On that one we had dinner, and stayed up until sunrise. And so began two months of falling for this guy I’d never met. We built forts together. We watched films in real time together, we baked together, dressed up for dinner together, sent letters, even went away on a virtual Mediterranean weekend together. It felt like a tug of war between giving into the excitement, the glee, the unprecedented feeling of walking on a constant cloud; and the fact that it might not all be real. Would I be just letting myself in for a mighty big fall?

A few months on, the government allowed socially distanced walks - and so we decided to meet. We said that if went well we’d get a Magnum from the petrol station afterwards.

I’d pre-planned my outfit, the picnic essentials, the driving route…and yet. What if I didn’t fancy him? What if he didn’t fancy me? Would the whole last 2 months - this man I had opened up to, shared so many moments of joy in such a formative, landmark time - be just swept under the carpet? All for nothing? I’m not gonna lie, I was absolutely bricking it. Just before I left I got a text from my housemate. She said, ‘above all, enjoy this feeling, because it means you are ALIVE’. Blimey, my whole being was on overdrive. I drove to the park all a quiver. He arrived fashionably late and pulled up next to me in his black Volvo. I hopped out, so excited to see the real him, and realised he had business to do in his car. So I sort of hopped back in, realising I shouldn’t seem too eager…and did things I’d never done before…checked out my glove box, polished the speed dial…you know, the sort of business I imagine people do in a car - all the while, checking over my shoulder to see if he had got out yet. Slowly, we emerged from our cars and we met standing at each of our respective bonnets with a healthy 2 and a half metre distance between us. I tend to do a hug when I meet someone for the first time, but in covid times, it was a friendly wave whist holding onto the bonnet of my car as if some sort of life jacket. In hindsight, it was probably more of manic wave from me. Quite honestly: it was like meeting a celebrity. I had seen his face on screen for an eternity, yet HERE HE WAS. The real deal. He was taller than I imagined. And I couldn’t get over the way he walked. Don’t get me wrong, he walked like a normal human, but…it just wasn’t what I expected. It was…bouncy. And his whole being…he was kind. Anyway, we walked, talked, ate olives, opened up, laughed all day…then, without consultation we walked over the road and got Magnums. Original milk chocolate flavour. And we sat in a field eating our Magnums watching this beautiful sunset. I felt so ridiculously, ludicrously, sublimely and utterly…alive. And I still do.

Could you tell m a time you felt at peace?

About two years ago I was at Strathy beach on the North Coast of Scotland. My friend and I were camping along the north coast for a few days and strathy was our last stop before heading home. I remember we put on our wetsuits and ran down in to the sea to swim and explore the caves that are to the side of the beach. I remember it was sunny and such a magical bit of coastline. I sat on this rock at one point to enjoy this little natural stream of water that was coming through rocks above, almost like a shower. I was just enjoying nature and sun was hitting me on the rocks. I had my eyes closed and I suddenly felt this huge weight lift off my shoulders. I felt wrapped in a calmness and stillness and I felt really at peace with myself and my life. It was really welcomed as I’d had such a chaotic few months before the travel up north and I kind of struggled to find my self amongst everything happening. This moment felt like I really came home to myself, it was a moment that has stayed with me and it still brings me such a sense of calm to even think of it.

Could you tell me a time you felt grateful?

It has been twenty six years since my mother passed away. It was one of the hardest things I had to go through. I was eight years old and could not believe what happened. I cried myself to sleep every night and even contemplated suicide. Looking back I cannot believe that a little girl felt that desperate, but I was suffering deeply and it was extremely hard to tell anybody about how I felt. I did not tell anybody at school and I just pretended like everything was fine.

One day my teacher took me out of the class and asked me if I wanted to tell her something. Obviously my father had told my teacher that my mother passed away, but my lips were sealed. The moment she asked if I could talk about my mother, I burst out in tears, I was crying so hard and I just couldn't let the emotion in, it had to come out some way, and there it was at that moment. I was mad at my teacher for a second for making me feel this way, which of course, had nothing to do with her. But she just touched the pain, which then poured all over her and myself. It needed to be released.

In the following days I bonded enormously with my teacher, she did my hair in the morning, we talked to each other everyday after school and she spent time with me painting and talking and just being. These kind acts have been like notes in my soul, they will never go away and they will always stay there. These little gestures of kindness gave me strength and support which later I understood helped me cope and later heal the pain I felt so deeply.

Small acts of tenderness I have never forgotten and every year when going through my list of people to be grateful for, that have made an impact in my life, she is one of those beautiful souls that cared. How sweet can a person be, without any reason at all. It is such a kindness that inspires, and gives you a deep sense of gratitude for the beauty of a human being itself. This feeling of Gratitude inspires hope in humanity and life itself.

Could you tell me a time you felt free?

It’s a tricky concept, feeling free. There seems to be so much in life that pins us down. 2020 did it’s best to freeze our movement in the most extreme ways. I think a lot of people struggle with feeling overwhelmingly stuck, myself included. Cabin fever has become a pillar of my character of the past few years. The minute I feel anxious or get that feeling of being stuck I just drive away to a new place; spend the day outdoors and do something out-of-the-ordinary, and so 2020 became my living nightmare. I decided I needed a change. 

After spending months on end locked inside, the 4th of July became my own personal liberation day. I packed up my things into my old VW van, stuffing wetsuits in corners and strapping surfboards precariously to the roof and set off to find a new backdrop. Freedom for me means living among the elements; anything that serves as the antithesis of routine indoor living. Driving at sunset down the A303 to Cornwall felt like shedding the shackles and starting afresh. The next morning, I was awoken by the gentle tapping of sea mist on my windscreen and sharp rays of sunlight twinkling through the window, living in my little home on wheels gave me all my freedom back. 

My days consisted of alarms from the dawn chorus, followed by a brisk dip in the sea. I’d attempt to make porridge on my camp stove and then head off to work. Down time was filled with surfing, and evenings closed with beach bonfires and huddling among borrowed layers to fend off the cold sea air. This living is euphoric. 

Being by the sea has always acted like a medicine for me. I’ve been transfixed by water and all the activities that involve being in, on, or under it. It is where I feel truly free. I have wanted to figure out why my mental health always improves when I’m in and amongst nature: I did some digging and learnt that being focussed on an activity in natural surroundings increases the neuroplasticity of the brain and triggers the release of serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins; creating what some have started to call a “blue mind”. 

I think that freedom evokes different things for different people. For me it revolves around being stripped back to the basics: being outdoors, that feeling of saltwater crystallizing on my skin, finding seaweed in my hair, not wearing shoes, having sandy toes, watching burning sunsets and listening to the sounds of waves tumble onto the shore. I was lucky enough to have all these experiences in my little mobile home. I cannot recommend it enough: to trade in the routine for a wilderness that forever rewards us. It made me learn to love the little things in life and let go of the bigger stresses that beat us down. In a year of trials and tribulations, being a salty little nomad put a smile on my face. 

Photo By Stephen Looser - @looser_not_loser

Can you tell me a time you said no?

The power of no. A saying most of us have heard, but what does it actually mean?

For my Dad, saying no is to let people down. He has too many friends to keep on top of but if one asks, he’ll go for that tennis game in a flash, even if he has too much to do already. For my sister, who is a Nurse, saying no is not doing her duty of looking after those who need it, even though she may have already worked 56 hours that week on a covid ward. For me, saying no was one of the most difficult things I’ve done, because it went against everything a young professional is told to do.

I was offered a job in London in 2019, a job which fit into the dream category. It was exactly what my degree had trained me for, the first step into my career. But something wasn’t right. That feeling that sometimes knots into your stomach, gave me the power to say no. It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t right for me, right then.

But why was it so hard to grip onto that power of no? Why did I feel an immense amount of pressure, from the job, from my uni tutors in the back of my mind… from my LinkedIn profile?! Why are these external forces enough to make you question what you know you are doing for yourself? I felt like I was on my own, having to prove to everyone I knew that I knew what I was doing. When later came the questioning myself.

I’ve always been a huge worrier. When I was 7 I cried for days because I thought the teacher was indirectly telling me off for something that wasn’t even aimed at me. At 23, I will now play situations over and over in my mind, months and even years later to question I made the right decision. If there’s something I could have done ‘differently’.

But my point is this. However much you worry, however much you may feel you’ve let people down or just can’t do that one more shift, you made that decision for a reason, for you. And that should be enough for others to understand, too. Caring for yourself first, saying no, is immeasurably important.

I’d love you to remind yourself a time you said no, with pride. Because that power is within you.

Could you tell me a time you felt uncertain?

I once got so uncertain about my life I pretty much stopped doing anything. I had just left a comfortable military job, good pay and all the rest. The decision to leave was not so hard, I was not content, I was not unhappy, but I did feel I at least wanted to try other things. I moved home and honestly, I never really felt comfortable being back there. An amazing opportunity to work as a scientist/engineer was offered to me, it sounded good - it was good. But I also had this underlying nag. It’s hard to describe exactly but something along the lines of a gut feeling, a quiet voice in the back of my mind, a kind of nudge pointing me in another direction. 

That other direction turned out to be the lifelong fascination with waves I had. I picked up my camera and started shooting waves almost daily. I loved it. It felt good. But I still had a decision to make. I did not know if shooting waves and surf could be a real career for me. That is when decision paralysis set in. I knew what I wanted to do, but I knew what everyone else thought I should do. Maybe it was the narrative so many young males have grown up with, get educated, get a job, get a house and so on, take safe options and don’t stray too far from the norms. I dislike a lot of that “old thinking” now, hell I think I even disliked it then but at the time that narrative was all I knew. 

I went so far down the rabbit hole, combing over my options I ended up becoming so uncertain that I was afraid any decision I made would be wrong. I stopped being productive, putting my whole life on binge mode – drinking, eating, sleeping, movies, PlayStation. It wasn’t until I rocked up unannounced at a friend’s house in tears that I was reminded in life we have no idea what leads to what. I was so afraid of missing out on things I didn’t even want that I was missing out on what I already had and couldn’t see what I could have if I leant into my true self. 

I began a process of looking inward, trying to understand the self. I was stuck in a narrow-thinking mind, given to me over years of socially acceptable terms and conditions and I had to break before I could see otherwise and begin moving my life in a purpose-driven direction. Being so uncertain and so stuck was a truly terrible feeling. It took looking inward, being honest with myself, speaking openly with those closest and learning to be aware of what I was allowing into my mind to break the mold. It took time too, it’s ongoing, but I am much more content now and I know it’s okay to speak about hard things. Plus I get to take photos of the ocean all time, which is pretty great too.

Could you tell me a time you felt scared?

Twenty years of family trips to Cornwall means I'm no stranger to the sea. When I moved to Falmouth to start uni, I wanted to go in the sea every day, I wanted to feel the current ebb and flow around me, the smoothness of the rocks under my feet. The sea heals me, my body and mind reaping the combined benefits of immersing in cold and salty water.

But on my second trip down to the beach in September, as I stood in the shallows with the icy water raking pebbles and sand over my bare feet, a wave at least two or three foot taller than me roared in and swallowed me whole. Without warning, I was tumbled over and over, completely engulfed by the wave. After what was probably only about 5 seconds (it seemed endless) the wave had the decency to spit me unceremoniously back onto the rough stone and sand of the beach.

Stumbling away from the water's edge I laughed it off. I was with a group of new people and I didn't want to show what I was really feeling.

In those 5 seconds being tossed about like a chew toy by the sea, I was more scared than I had been in a very long time. It took a split second to take me from happy and smiling to feeling sheer terror that I was genuinely going to die.

Since that second week of term, I haven't been in the sea, even on calm days. It's something I'll be doing more in 2021, but for three months I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Men have an issue with fear. "Walk it off" is a term that is casually thrown about all too often. We often feel we need to display an ever-strong exterior. However much overwhelming fear I felt in that moment, I walked casually up the beach, got dry and dressed and got on with my evening. That's a mindset that all guys need to get rid of. Displaying out emotions is a part of being human. Never be afraid to show that you're afraid.

Could you tell me a time you felt euphoric?

The feeling of sand cradling under your toes as the tide sweeps back in, drawing you closer to the sea and the first memories you had of it.

As a million years of history exfoliates my feet - my gaze turns to the horizon. The mystery of that vast expanse of water before me compels me to protect it, to nature it, to explore it.

It’s time for my daily dose. Inhaling a lung full of Atlantic air, I submerge my being into this salty tonic and return to where it all began.

Could you tell me a time you felt like you were not enough?

Just over two years ago I ran from John O’ Groats to Land’s End completely unsupported. It was a thousand-mile journey that took me through the Scottish Highlands, along the familiar trails of the Pennine Way and beside the Atlantic Ocean on the arduous South West Coast Path. Around two years before I set off from John O’Groats was when I first began to run. I had struggled with a difficult breakup and one day, after recommending Murakami’s book ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running’ to a customer (I worked in a bookshop at the time), a voice within suggested I go for a run. I shrugged the thought away, but it stayed with me and eventually I did just that. I went for a run. After that first run, I kept on running, I ran my way back to confidence and happiness and a month before starting from John O’ Groats, I ran my first marathon. Looking back at this now, it seems ludicrous to have gone from one to a thousand in such a short space of time. To say that my run from the most northerly point of the country, to the most southerly point would be challenging would be an understatement. However, the most challenging part, has been the aftermath of that journey. 

When I eventually reached the sign at the most southerly point of the country, the sign that marked the end of my lengthy run, I was elated. Within minutes though I was confronted with the question, ‘so what is next?’, a question which I admit, I had asked myself before I had even set foot in Cornwall. Have you ever heard of that phrase, live in the now? It gets tossed around as if it is something easy to do. We are all guilty of not staying true to that phrase, we have all let the present slip by whilst being blinkered looking into the future. Throughout my entire run I was guilty of it. I always thought about the days ahead, what would be awaiting me after I had finished the task at hand. However, my thoughts were always idealistic and never quite realistic. With an idealistic mind I never truly thought about where this run would take me, realistically. So, when I finished and reality hit me hard in the face, it seemed to hit me a lot harder because my idealistic images were so far-fetched. I imagined running a lap around the world and in reality, I have actually struggled to run ever since which in turn has lead me to believe that I was not enough and that was difficult to overcome. 

The days that followed my run were full of joy and happiness that couldn’t be dulled by anything or anyone. As the weeks passed and I felt like I had enjoyed a well-deserved break from running, I got my trainers back on and forced myself out. I ran a mile and then felt my body slowing down to a walk. The same thing would happen the next day and the next day, and so forth. I soon learned that my body couldn’t handle the movement of running anymore, but still, I seemed to demand it to carry on. When my body refused and slowed down to that walking pace, I criticised myself. What is wrong with you? I would tell myself. You have just ran across the bloody country, why can’t you run a little more? The negative self-talk became abusive, it became all consuming, it buried itself deep inside me and created a black hole within me. A black hole where it decided to reside. It told me, every single day that my run wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t enough. That negativity got me nowhere. I ended up working back in a bookshop and then back in admin, again – this was not where I wanted to be. Negativity ruled my life. I became an angry person. A self-destructive person. Meanwhile, I was experiencing a decline in other relationships which left me feeling even worse about myself. It wasn’t a good time. It was an empty time. Nothing was ever enough. Nothing I did was enough. I wasn’t enough. 

My boyfriend (now fiancé) and one of my closest friends both encouraged me to see a therapist. After my first few sessions she suggested to get a blood test to check for any deficiencies. This was surprising to me as I would have never considered that how I felt was linked with what was going on in my body. My blood test came back to reveal that I had very low levels of iron which is what could have been causing the fatigue and also the anxiety, irritability as well as the depression that I felt myself slowly sinking into. After months of therapy, unwinding thought processes and digging up details of my past, I gained confidence in talking about my run and began to understand how it had affected me afterwards. I opened up about the unforeseen effect it had had on my mental health. When people approached me and said, ‘I want to do that, I am going to do what you did’ I would say, ‘great, brilliant, go for it, but also consider how it will affect you afterwards. Consider the aftermath. Prepare yourself for a fall. Be kind to yourself. To try is enough’. Only recently have I come to terms with the fact that what I did was actually MORE than enough. To have finished that first day would have been plenty. So the fact that I arrived at Land’s End safely and uninjured is actually a miracle. 

It took a long time and consistent work to fade out of that black hole within myself. I still feel it there sometimes. I remind myself everyday now to be kind to myself. When I start to speak negatively to myself, I stop, I remind myself that I am going to be with me for the rest of my life, so the least I can do is to be kind. I remind myself every day that I am enough. Everything I do is enough. To get out of bed is enough. I am enough for my fiancé, I am enough for my friends, my family, I am enough for myself. Now, I am actually telling myself that I am beyond enough. And you are too. You are enough.

Could you tell me a time you felt grief?

Five years ago, my Dad died.  

Whilst it was heart breaking, I truly believed because I had confronted his death, holding his hand whilst he took his last breath, that the hardest part was over.

One of the last things he told us was ‘it would kill me twice if you used my death as an excuse not to live your lives, use it as an inspiration,’ so I was utterly determined it would not define me.  I was going to honour his legacy and go and live my life.

Within a year I went travelling for 6 months, had major knee surgery, broke up with my boyfriend who was my rock throughout Dad’s cancer, started a competitive new job, whilst convincing everyone (and myself) that life must go on and I was fine.

Turns out that was far from the truth.

Little did I know that all this positivity, drive and bravado were just coping mechanisms to mask the deep pain and hurt buried within me.

It wasn’t until a year later that my body forced me to stop. Pretty much overnight my existence became a crippling cocktail of panic attacks, self-doubt and an overwhelming feeling I was an inherently evil and bad person. Simple tasks like folding clothes were akin to climbing Mount Everest and the peaceful refuge of sleep descended into a prison of terror as I was forced to journey into the dark caves of my subconscious.

For what felt like an eternity I would lie in bed paralysed, sometimes shaking, in a sea of relentless and unforgiving emotions.  When my friends and family would tell me ‘be kind to yourself you’ve been through so much’, all I could think was how pathetic I was crumbling at the first sign of real adversity.

I went to see a bereavement counsellor, but it only made me feel more insane as I tried to make sense of drowning in a raging ocean, through the lens of a terrified mind. I went to see a psychiatrist who diagnosed me as clinically depressed and insisted I take pills 

It wasn’t until I found acupuncture that tiny cracks emerged in the darkness. It took time but eventually there was light again. No longer did I feel this was a great battle I must overcome. I slowly began to connect with who I was; that I’m by no means perfect but I am not the evil person my mind had constructed in its desperate attempt to maintain control.

I started to appreciate the simple things like cooking, going for a walk, sending silly memes and watching highbrow sitcoms like Friends again. I remember spending hours in the park playing with my dogs, soaking up the fact I could be outside without the noise of the planes reverberating shock waves through my whole body.  

As treatment progressed, I felt a sense of clarity, power and peace I never even knew was possible. I realised on the other side of all this pain was so much beauty and possibility. That most of my suffering stemmed from attaching and identifying to the experience. That it was energy which needed to be felt and moved through me.   

Looking back now I can see this was not just grief for my Dad, this was a lifetime of repressed emotions being unleashed. My body staged a crisis intervention so I could finally process and feel. It forced me to confront all the darker energies or traits within me, which somewhere down the line I’d internalised as negative. To accept that I am not just the positive and strong Georgie I had attached my identity to, but also incredibly vulnerable and fearful with the capacity to feel intense and contradictory emotions.

Four years on and I by no means am enlightened. Whereas before my grief was filed away in the ‘too painful to open’ cabinet, where I would dismiss my feelings and deflect the sympathetic eyes of friends with ‘it could be worse’, I now accept it is a part of me and am learning to embrace it. 

I realise now you never get over grief, you just get used to its ebbs and flows as you navigate the continuous currents of life. As time goes by and the initial flurry of support gradually starts to drop off, you are forced to grasp the reality, permanence and ineffability of it all. The anniversaries, birthdays and huge milestones, whilst full of joy and happiness, carry a pervading sense of loss and sadness to them. His presence everywhere yet nowhere. It still astounds me how I can be running around happy as larry and a sudden smell, memory, or Dire Straits song can penetrate the depths of my soul and leave me choked with sadness. .

Even though all my defences still come out in full force when I feel the blade of grief about to strike, where I want to run for the hills and squash it away, I now have the tools to reassure myself that there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s natural –  that ‘this too shall pass.’ I allow myself to surrender to its weight and unapologetically wail like a wild creature for however long, safe in the knowledge that on the other side is clarity and in a strange way, a greater sense of connection to him.

It’s easy to put someone you love who’s died on a pedestal. My Dad had his flaws, but mostly he was bloody brilliant. I would do anything to see his beaming grin and listen to his rubbish jokes, namely about his monstrous regiment of women he had to live with (my mum, sisters and I). I wish I could hear his opinion on the world from Brexit to lockdown, what he would have thought of acupuncture, to ask him how the feck do you run a business?

He had the most wonderful ability to cut through all the bullshit and see the bigger picture, empowering and leaving his presence on everyone who entered his orbit. He even confronted his death with utmost courage, accepting it as the natural course of his life, whilst still imparting his pearls of wisdom on us. He told us to always keep communicating because he knew we’d all process it in our own unique ways.

And he was right. Grief is completely unique and can take many forms for each person, however, what I do know is that you cannot outrun it or simply intellectualise it away. It is something you have to feel.

There is a wonderful quote in the book The Smell of Rain on Dust: Grief and Praise:

“Grief is praise because it is the natural way love honours what it misses…. If we do not praise whom we miss, we are ourselves in some way dead. So, grief and praise make us alive.”

It’s safe to say my interpretation of him telling us ‘ it would kill me twice if we used my death as an excuse not to live your lives, use it as an inspiration’ has evolved dramatically since five years ago. I realise now not living your life is actually to deny your reality and to ignore how you really feel. That to live life, is to accept and know that all those scary, painful and turbulent emotions have so much meaning in them when they are metabolised and transformed.

That there is always the promise of so much love and beauty through the journey of heartbreak and grief. That loss just like love is universal, boundless and, ultimately, teaches us what it is to be human and alive.

Could you tell me a time you felt the need to share?

A problem shared is a problem halved or so the saying goes.

Sharing my perspective on mental well-being and how I manage my own mental health seems self indulgent to me. Like a lighthouse signalling from a rocky shore.

However I have found throughout my life that sometimes the most radical thing you can do is share. The sense of empowerment from stating something as objective fact fizzes with tension, but can create a signal in a world of noise.

In my early twenties, I had habitual panic attacks. Anything from two to ten a day. The waking hours were in the thrall of a tangible 'death is present' feeling that knocks you out of any regular reality and saw me live in a strange hyper-adrenal anxiety dream. I was ashamed that I couldn't control it and worried that it would forever control me.

This came after a long period of depression that had started in my mid teens and progressed from being generally 'blue' to a near complete breakdown at 20, where I couldn't articulate why I was so unhappy but was deeply, emphatically so.

It took a good while to navigate out of the breakdown, and what I was left with was a residual set of constant reminders that something wasn't ok. A breadcrumb trail back to the depression that was a bit less empty but much, much more difficult to navigate.

Having suffered for many years in silence, something occurred to me... It wasn't some profound realisation or epiphany, I remember it being more an internal dialogue that went something like "Where is being embarrassed about this stuff getting you? How can things get any worse? Surely other people feel like this. You should start telling people".

So I did.

The first time you say to a friend at a house party "Sorry, I need a minute. I am just having a massive panic attack" you'd think the world as you know it might change, reality folding in on itself, the shame you feel inside multiplied many times mirrored back at you by your peers, but what actually happens is that they say "Is there anything I can do?".

That first experience was positive enough for me to try it again and to my surprise, people broadly responded with sympathy, some responded with empathy and some felt comforted by the honesty enough to share their own experiences.

Fast forward over fifteen years and if you engage me in conversation, I will give even the most light touch acquaintance details of my mental health and personal experiences that I'm sure other people would feel embarrassed to share. The reason being is that I feel that everyone, but especially men need to show real vulnerability... Out in the open, in public, in diverse and useful ways, because if we don't we are a slave to a version of masculinity that was forged in the foundry of the 'man up', 'boys don't cry'-type buttoned down anger, which has served and will continue to serve no one.

I realised in that moment all those years ago that bottling up my feelings was majorly counterproductive and that to break patterns I needed to establish new ones.

So I did.

I have done and continue to do a diverse range of rituals, practices and activities that I know manage my proclivity towards feeling down.

If I can convey one message to anyone from my little lighthouse on this rocky shore it would be "be gentle with yourself", as your internal dialogue is your harshest critic and a very poor judge of your actual character.

At which point, I would like to commend tell me a time and heap praise on this platform as it is proof that my internal hypothesis from 2003 was valid.

A problem shared and all that.

Could you tell me a time you found your voice?

I feel it sharp and rising in my oesophagus. The physical sensation of my voice catching in my throat as I fight to hold back tears:

“Go on, I’m listening” he says exasperated, just about managing not to roll his eyes. And yet, even though I have so much to say the words do not come. They sit in the pit of my throat like bile and to swallow them down or attempt to say them out loud is painful in equal measure.

Some years later at my old workplace we’re sitting around on bean bags in a relaxed meeting discussing our goals for the future. We’re asked if anyone wants to share. My manager hasn’t even looked at me but says:

“Lucy I can tell you’re itching to say something”, I am. I’m fizzing, what we’re discussing has ignited something in me but how does she know? Is it that obvious? I feel the colour rising in my cheeks, hot and flushing my face instantly. I feel the words swimming around in my head before I’ve even opened my mouth. All eyes turn to me. I smile and shake my head. Relief floods over me when she doesn’t press me but as someone else starts speaking, I feel a pang of frustration with myself.

This feeling is so overwhelmingly familiar, probably my earliest memory of it being a six or seven year old child and wanting to ask my mum something:

“A problem shared is a problem halved” she would say, encouraging us to share our worries. So I formed the words in my head, moulded them into tangible, easy to remember chunks. I turned them over on my tongue, mouthing them and giving them life. As I approached my mother, she was busy: stirring a bubbling pot at the stove with her back to me. Or hanging our clothes on the washing line, the sheets floating easily in the warm breeze. Or she was sitting with my brother teaching him to read, her eyes downcast sounding out letters with her lips. Watching this, my own words vanish. I open and close my mouth like a baby bird, the words are stubborn and refuse to follow. They sit at the base of my neck just beneath my clavicles. Slowly they slide further down and dissolve like a Berocca in water. I swallow them down in one big gulp.

Even though this feeling was familiar it wasn’t until a couple of years ago when someone I trusted was able to put it into words for me:

“What I’m hearing is that it’s your voice: you can’t find it”. This stunned me. It was so blatantly obvious and yet, unsurprisingly, I had never found the words to say it.

To this day I still find it difficult to use my voice and yet in my job I have to command a room (or at the moment, a Zoom room) and I’m confident enough in my skills to say that I do that well. In fact, it’s never been more important than now with my classes being online, that I use my voice. In real life I can use my hands but without being able to tactile cue, I am reliant purely on my voice: I instruct and my participants do as I’ve asked. I correct and they adjust themselves. I guide and they follow. Using my voice in this sense is manageable, I’ve honed it.

I am still honing it for everyday use. Communicating my needs and wants is a very different ballgame. It’s personal. I find it difficult. I don’t like taking up too much space or too much of someone’s time. If anyone asks how I am, I’m ready to ask how they are before I’ve finished saying “good, thanks”. If I do find myself deviating away from a generic response, perhaps to a closer friend or family member, I’ll catch myself half way through and wonder if I’m talking too much or boring them. My boyfriend tells me:

“Just talk over people if you’ve got something to say. Let yourself be heard!”, but that notion is barbaric to me. He’s a talker and luckily so, or we could have spent the last four years in silence.

I’m a listener and I like hearing other people’s stories. It’s why even though I loved the idea behind this space and enjoyed reading through the blog posts, it took me a little while to submit my own. But here it is, so thanks for listening.

Could you tell me a time you felt gratitude?

It is fair (and fairly obvious!) to say that 2020 has been quite a challenging year for most. There have been some major environmental disasters, including wild fires in Australia and the West Coast of the USA, we lost many leading lights, such as Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Kobe Bryant, Chadwick Boseman, and Eddie Van Halen, there was a disastrous explosion in Beirut, and there was the killing of George Floyd, which ignited the Black Lives Matter movement. All of this, and much more happened this year and this is before we even consider the Covid-19 pandemic. 

On a personal note, my January started off optimistically. The previous month my team had won the Scottish Women’s Rugby Premiership title for the first time in the club’s history, scoring maximum points on an unbeaten run, I was feeling like I was on the mend after managing eight months with Post-Viral Fatigue Syndrome and I felt rested for the first time after a Christmas break and was ready to return to work. What lay around the corner would take me to new lows and challenge me physically, mentally and emotionally. 

I had struggled with anxiety for the first time the previous year, due, I believe, to not being able to do what I normally would – juggling lots of tasks, training, teaching, coaching e.g. – because of the Chronic Fatigue, and on my return to work I could feel the anxiety lifting a little, which was very welcome. We had two days of in-service training at school prior to the pupils returning, and while I felt exhausted at the end of each day I felt I managed them rather well… until the night before the first day of term when I came down with a very heavy cold. It kept me up all night and drained me of all energy (again) meaning I was unable to return to work. I spoke with the doctor and was signed off for two weeks – she had suggested three but this brought back my anxiety so she cut it. We talked about my illness and the major challenges that I had experienced over the past few years, and she was the first doctor I had seen that acknowledged my depression and mental health issues. She asked if I would be willing to try medication and I told her that I would try anything. 

To cut a potentially long story short, I didn’t return to school that first term and was signed off every few weeks – I could have saved myself more anxiety by just letting her sign me off for a long time rather than letting my pride and guilt get in the way. I was aware at the time this would have been best but I was conscious that it might look like I was lazy or faking, and I wanted to show everyone that I really wanted to be back, even though I knew in my heart it wasn’t right for me. 

My personal lockdown started on Wednesday the 8th of January. I had fully relapsed and my energy was incredibly low as was my spirit. I knew I was out of alignment and although there was little advice the doctors could give other than to rest, I couldn’t accept this and decided that I was going to overcome this ailment no matter how uncomfortable it would be for me in the short term. 

I had a gut feeling my diet was part of the issue so I took a food intolerance test and discovered that I had lots of changes to make. I have always eaten quite healthily but now had to put extra thought into what I put in my body because major players in my diet such as eggs, dairy, wheat, chicken, maize, and many more were no longer in the game. I went cold turkey (I could still eat turkey!) and cut everything out and in a short space of time, going full wheat-free vegan, and felt a positive difference in my ability to think and concentrate as much of the ‘fuzziness’ had lifted from my head. I gradually introduced a few foods to test them over the course of the year and this has been a good tactic for me, although I still have to avoid most of the previous list. 

I had engaged with counselling in 2018 and continued with this as well as employing other techniques such as the Wim Hof Breathing method, cold water immersion (I take a cold bath every day), meditation, cognitive behavioural therapy, taking CBD oil, and generally trying to chill out a bit more (no pun regarding the baths intended) as well as being nicer to myself. 

We often build up a picture of what we think things should look like and how things shouldbe, I certainly do/did, and this, with the appropriate amount of fairness and realism, is something I would often encourage in terms of manifesting and realising a vision (like with my team winning the league – there was a lot of work and effort that went into realising that picture and it was achieved). As with most things, there is a dark side to this and that is when we become fixated on that picture and blinkered. In our heads we will be happy once we see that picture, we will have won when we see that picture, we can rest when we see that picture. This is an extreme mind-set and it is an exhausting rollercoaster ride that really doesn’t serve us well. 

Of all the techniques I used to rid myself of the chronic fatigue, and anxiety – both I believe were merely messengers informing me I was out of alignment and nudging me onto the right track – the one I always comes back to is gratitude. 

Instead of focusing on how things should be, I focus on how things are and all the beauty that lies there. My attitude has always been a positive one and I would rather focus on solutions than problems, bridges rather than walls, and when I think deeply (meditate) about how things are for me in this country, in this city, in my home, at this time, within my family, I find it very difficult to feel negatively about anything.  

Anything can be spun, and ultimately it comes down to the individuals choice of thought, which requires consciousness and ownership, how something is perceived. If we take the statistic that one in ten youths carry a knife in London (I’m not sure if this is still correct so please don’t quote me on this) this could be looked at in two ways: 

1. That’s terrible, there should be no youths carrying knives in London

2. That means that nine out of ten are not!

The first response, while correct, is not necessarily a realistic picture and if we focus on that aspect of it alone that’s where all the energy and attention goes. As a schoolteacher, and especially in my former role as a Housemaster, I always endeavoured to promote to my pupils what they were getting right and promoted this regularly. By putting the focus and energy on the positives they became more encouraged, acknowledged and empowered to do well because this was what was drawing the attention. “Consistently good is outstanding” is one of my favourite sayings and I did my best to drill this into my young people, of whom often too much is unrealistically expected from the older generations. 

I have noticed myself relaxing more over the course of this year. This is due to my mind-set shift from what should be to what is. From focusing on how I want to feel each day rather than aiming for the perfect picture; knowing what power I have to realising this and then taking joy from making it happen consistently. I have accepted the situations I have found myself in and not allowed them to impact my own happiness. This is down to practising gratitude honestly and consistently. I am also grateful for the shift I made of not worrying about what other people thought. This is something that can hold us all back and I decided that I would never put the keys to my own happiness in someone else’s hand. I am grateful that I have made this decision, I am grateful I pursue my passions each day, I am grateful for all the time I have had with my family and friends, I am grateful for so much, and ironically the more grateful I feel the more I receive; it really is an upward spiral!  

This should come as no surprise though because GRATITUDE is the ultimate state of receivership. If you are grateful for what you have and for what you will have your body doesn’t know the difference between past, present and future, so use this to your advantage and start creating the life you want! 

Could you tell me a time you felt worthy?

Worthy. A word I grapple with. After 20 years of fighting for my worthiness through all the wrong means, with all the wrong people, I’m left, 30 years old, with a deep sense of worthlessness.

Emotional abuse is a weird thing. It goes far deeper than one would imagine. But it goes back deeper than my failed marriage.

I didn’t have many friends growing up. I was shy. Homeschooled for many years then tossed into high school (fed to the wolves more like). I hated it. I didn’t know how to talk to people, or how to build friendships, especially within already solid friend groups. I was the outsider, easily impressionable, a loner (ya’ll I ate lunch in the bathroom stall or in the empty classroom before class would start, IF the teacher left the door unlocked).

Fast forward a couple years. I met a cute boy. He gave me the attention I so craved. It was as if somehow my worthiness was tied to the approval of others. So I married him.

The years that fallowed were filled with emotional turmoil. Ups and downs, gaslighting, fighting, lies on lies. All this, somehow, came back to me not being “good enough”, and “doing enough”. There I was, again isolated in my worthlessness as a human, shrinking under the weight of someone else’s choices, unable to be vulnerable and share my story due to the shame of it all.

After the divorced, these feeling were only amplified. I shoved them way down, found the good, tried to pick up my broken life and move on. Not choices I make for myself, I wasn’t worthy of a full life, but for my kids.

I did it all! I got the perfect job, bought the house, gave my kids the American Dream I thought I was suppose to give them. Even met a guy. A wonderful man who knew my worthiness who didn’t feel the need to constantly remind me; it was a fact to him, he just knew. I seemed to be the only one who couldn’t see it.

I finished a 13 hour shift. Walked in the door, kissed my children, and went outside to mow the lawn. Keeping up with the life I had built for the approval of others. It all came crashing down as I made one pass after another, pushing the lawn mower back and forth in front of my house, wanting nothing more than to be inside, snuggling my kids and watching a movie with them.

I sold it all. Suddenly realizing that my life wasn’t my own. I quit the stable job I was so dedicated to, and worked so hard to fit in. I moved in with my mom. Gave up everything except my kids. But this time, I did it for me.

A small part of me is realizing my worth, after so many years of not feeling like I was enough. For the first time in my life, I have a chance to focus on re-learning who I am, what I believe, what I love. And through the process of discovering my oddities, I’m finding a glimpse of the worthiness in myself that I have for so long craved from others. Alone, I will walk, for a time to rediscover and ingrain in my soul, that I am worthy of the life I have always dreamed.

“If we want to fully experience love and belonging, we must believe that we are worthy of love and belonging” -Brene Brown

Could you tell me a time you felt lost?

We can see and do more than any generation before us could ever possibly imagine. It should be to our benefit, but with so many paths we can go down and so many choices we can make, which one do we choose?

At the start of my twenties I chose a direction early on with the best of intentions and a very positive outlook. I was stubborn about it and I stuck to that path making adjustments as I got blown off course. Eventually I started to lose focus, life got in the way and there were setbacks. I felt lost.

“It’s okay not to be okay” is one of the best mental health slogans that has come along in recent years. I truly believe it’s okay to feel lost, to feel sad, to be anxious or depressed. It's good to talk and let people know you're not okay. I think it means that you care about your life and the direction you want it to go. In no way is it a weakness to feel lost, if anything it is a strength because you're recognising a problem and doing what you can to find a way back. Overcoming adversity is difficult but the lessons are so valuable.

I’m in my early thirties now and after several years of reflection I’m making new choices and readjusting my life once more. I think it'll be for the better and that thought really drives me forwards.

Could you tell me a time you felt regret?

I walked into the lobby of the library to pick up a book I’d put on hold. There was a kid sitting nearby, maybe high school aged. He had those glasses that transition from light to dark and the faint shadow of a mustache. His skin was scattered with pimples and he wore sweatpants that were just a hair too short. He had a stack of fantasy novels and kept his eyes down as I walked past. 

I felt a twinge of superiority that can arise without realizing it. It was summer, I was tan and fit and had just finished a long run through the parks and town trails. The rest of my day was filled up—I was being interviewed for an outdoor magazine, then had dinner plans with a group of friends before leaving for a weekend camping trip. I noticed the kid alone on the bench, but I didn’t try to smile or make eye contact. 

He was still on the bench when I walked out, stopping to let an elderly, stooped man through the door. As he took a step into the lobby, his legs buckled and he sprawled with a sickening thud, facedown onto the tiles. 

As I stood frozen, the boy launched up from the bench, knocking his books to the ground and running to where the man lay three feet in front of me. The kid crouched next to the man and started helping him up, putting his hand under his elbow and steadying him as he got shakily to his feet. He walked the man to the bench and then ran around the lobby, collecting the books and newspaper pages that were scattered around my feet. I still hadn’t moved. 

He then helped the man into the library, guiding him by the arm and leaving him with the woman at the reception desk before going back to sit quietly on his bench. 

I pushed my way out of the lobby, fighting back tears. This kid, the one who I’d felt instinctive superiority over, had immediately sprinted across the lobby to help someone who had fallen right at my feet. I had stood immobile, staring at the old man sprawled on the floor. 

Regret, no matter the circumstance, is one of the most difficult emotions to reconcile. It means you wish you’d done something differently. This five minutes in the library happened seven years ago, and I still regret not being the kind of person who helped an old man when he hit the floor, and for feeling superior to the person who did.

Could you tell me a time you felt fear?

Fear is a very necessary emotion. It´s natural, primitive and it keeps us safe when there is something potentially threatening and damaging around. However, this is where it gets really tricky, as we grow up and acquire self-limiting beliefs we begin to deem as threatening very different situations than having to run for your life because you are being chased by a lion. 

At some point when growing up, I started believing that I had to meet people’s expectations for them to love me: my parents, friends, partner, the list goes on. I was so scared (still am sometimes) to let people down. I let their voice become my voice to a point where even now, sometimes it’s quite difficult to differentiate between my voice and theirs; between what they think I should do with my life and what I actually want. 

The thing is that this fear is not the kind of fear that makes you run and actually saves your life. This fear makes you freeze, it paralyses you and gets your further and further apart from who you truly are. It makes you play small and dim your light to make others comfortable. It wasn´t easy to come to terms with this emotion, especially when it still appears and haunts me every now and then. It made me chase the wrong career and for a long time I felt stuck and really unhappy. Being unhappy wasn’t enough because the fear kept me frozen in the same situation. Luckily, I reached a point where I got fed up of my own bullshit and stories and decided to change the game. I took the leap; I left my midwifery job to train as a yoga teacher and pursue the passion of helping people in a different way. 

It was really scary, I felt (still do sometimes) that I was letting so many people down and that they didn’t agree with my decision, but, we must learn at some point that, we don’t come to this world to make everyone happy, we come to this world to make ourselves happy. To live in our own terms, to embrace all of our emotions. To embrace that this complex but beautiful human experience.

May this little story be a reminder that on the other side of fear there is trust. There will be days where you feel scared to show up as yourself but please, trust that this life happens for you and not to you. May this story remind you that sometimes you just have to spread the wings and trust that the wind will carry you.

Could you tell me a time you felt focused?

When the waves are serious and pumping I find it easier to be focused or in the “flow state” where your mind is cleared and everything happens naturally - the muscle memory kicks in and surfing becomes automatic. This is when I surf the best. I wish I could be in this ‘zone’ for every surf but I definitely find it easier to get there in quality surf where I am excited about the prospect of getting barreled. As soon as you have any thoughts or doubts whilst riding a wave this leads to hesitation and the focus is lost.

@markboydsurf

Could you tell me a time you felt heartbroken?

I never really understood all the emotions behind heartbreak until it happened to me this year. In April I was broken up with and it’s only now that I’ve come to accept what happened that I want to share in hope that my words may help someone else going through something similar. It will get better but be patient with yourself. The emotions will come and go. They’ll fade and come back in full force but you’ll be stronger each time. You’ll make it and you really will be better for it. 

Grieving a relationship during a Pandemic, while in the first Lockdown, was to put it lightly, awful. I couldn’t escape it. I had to take it all head on - every. single. emotion. it brought up. I had never experienced a relationship before, let alone one ending. It was all so new and unfamiliar. I couldn’t comprehend it. How is it possible that I can physically feel like I’m dying when the person you love tells you they don’t want to be in a relationship with you anymore?  It hurts too much. 

I have so much empathy for that heartbroken version of myself. To have felt that much for someone. To let someone experience a side of me that I had never shared before. How fucking amazing.

But I also see all the pain, the anxiety, the depression, the dissociation, the self harm and the grief I went through. How I had to hit the bottom to realise I needed help. That asking for help was okay. It had all brought past traumas to the surface for me to really look at. To understand why I behave the way I do and the best ways to help myself. I can see that I was feeling so much more than just heartbreak and I’m so thankful for the support I had around me. Being broken up with was the trigger that forced me to truly look at myself and for that I am eternally grateful. It’s broken me open and made space for something better. 

I’ve had to let so much go, relationships that were no longer serving me, beliefs that I had and a version of myself that no longer exists. That girl who thought she’d meet the one love of her life is gone - I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore. 

Instead, I have created new beliefs and relationships and got to know a version of myself I didn’t think was possible. I’m someone that will never make myself small for someone again. I’m a person that finally knows her worth. I’m someone that is learning to break negative patterns, to forgive, be kind and accept myself for all that I am and it’s exciting. I’m excited for this person I’m becoming. 

I’m going to fall in love and have my heart broken again and again and again because that’s the way I want to live my life, with all my heart. 

Could you tell me a time you felt at peace?

There’s something magnetic about the ocean, drawing me in day in and day out. When I step in, it seems to wash away all the emotions I was feeling prior. As I paddle out, turn around and get some waves, it’s as if nothing else matters as I start to feel the flow of the waves. Looking on the horizon, anticipating the next ride, I feel inner peace radiate. Out in nature, without a phone, away from the office, just absorbed in the ebb and flow of the ocean I feel true inner peace. I strive to take this peaceful approach as I get out of the ocean and take on my day.