This year I designed a programme for my patients, and a key objective of this is to teach them practical coping strategies that they can utilise as they navigate their own personal journeys when living with life limiting illnesses.

My patients are keen to learn how to better cope with living with uncertainty, the changes to their bodies, the loss of identity and the management of symptoms. They want to learn how to navigate these things in the name of ‘coping’.

Coping is defined as the set of thoughts, behaviours, and habits that people use to respond to stress, discomfort, change, uncertainty, or difficult emotions.

Coping strategies may be problem solving, or at times more emotion focused when a problem can’t be solved. It may require some cognitive adjustment - reframing thoughts, putting things in perspective, or taking a more mindful approach. It may be sharing a problems, or seeking insight or advice from others, or even just the escape others may be able to offer. Or we may find meaning or purpose in distraction or offering ourselves to something more meaningful.

All these things are said to better support us to cope.

But it has got me thinking that perhaps coping isn’t always helpful.

There are times when merely coping can backfire negatively.

What message to we put out when we show others that we are coping? Is it strong, unbelievable, or even at times inspirational? - We may think - Look what X has achieved through adversity - isn’t X amazing - I couldn’t cope if I was X.

Is coping often a sense of illusion? Are we being true to ourselves by simply coping?

Are we missing the point, avoiding the issue, creating a level of performance and endurance that we just cannot realistically maintain?

Are we opening ourselves up to deeper vulnerability by simply coping - the more we cope, the more others think we are ok, and assume that it is therefore safe and justifiable to pile on more to someone who is already on the verge of toppling. Do we deliver the message that this is ok - I’ve got this, I can handle this and likely even more if you push me - somehow I will cope. Are we being true to ourselves in the process?

Is coping actually just temporary relief?

Sometimes we will require that temporary relief, particularly if we can see the light at the end of the tunnel - when the baby will finally sleep through the night, the house sale goes through, there’s only 5 days left before your annual leave - the inevitable change that we can see coming makes space for temporary coping. Time to simply get us through the rocky or difficult patch until time and space offer us some level of relief.

So should there be a timeline on coping? How long does coping remain acceptable or helpful? Is coping supposed to be life long?

And I find myself questioning myself as a life long coper - often coping in silence - what message do I personally project by coping? Strength, resilience, a sense of calm? Or does it perhaps suggest I’m fine, when I’m actually not? That I can take on more than I genuinely feel able to? That my influence may inspire someone or shatter them with my unrealistic projection of what coping looks like.

Are copers more likely to be taken advantage of? At work, in parenthood, in relationships and beyond. Because surely copers can tolerate and execute more than most because they have never yet shown anyone otherwise.

Does coping stop us asking for help when we need it the most, or make our request for support any less valid?

Is coping actually just the stick we continuously use to beat ourselves with because actually we are not coping, but consistently pretending we are?

I guess it comes down to recognising that coping can become negative when the strategy reduces discomfort in the short term but creates bigger problems, less flexibility, or more distress over time.

To cope can actually feel lonely and isolating - to stay strong, to silently navigate a situation with courage, and project an image of yourself that doesn’t feel authentic to how you are feeling beyond your projected image of your ability to cope. The more you cope, the more you possibly open yourself up to even further scenarios that require a deeper ability to cope.

In teaching my patients gentle and practical ways to cope - I have questioned my own coping strategies and whether they are always helpful or not. In facing challenges at work, I have always coped - swan-like in my presentation at work, but at times drowning in overwhelm in the quiet moments when no one is watching. Does coping also offer justification or acceptance of challenging behaviour of others - do we show people we can tolerate more than we can?

I’m aware I’ve asked a lot of questions here and I’m not really providing any answers - I guess it’s just thinking out loud.

I wont stop teaching my patients to cope - because this is what they need from me at this moment - ways to cope, accept, tolerate the things that feel completely out of their control at this time in their lives.

I guess my conclusion is that coping is helpful and supportive - and gets us through difficult times. But coping has it’s limits and should be used appropriately and with consideration so we don’t lose part of our true selves somewhere inside our ability to cope. Coping can offer escape, and perhaps insight or perspective. Coping may give us options, buy us time, or get us through something. Coping may just make space for feelings when we are unable to fix them.

Coping isn’t always moving forward quickly; sometimes it’s staying steady long enough to move again. Coping can be our friend - offering the ability to notice stress signals, experiment with responses, and build routines that work for us.

But I have come to recognise that coping can sit somewhere within the fine line between friend and foe.

How do you cope with life’s challenges that impact you the most?

Image by Chenspec

Last week I reflected on the fact that it has been 10 years since I closed my business after a decade. That milestone also marks 10 years since I embarked on my nursing journey.

Including my training, I have now been 10 years in nursing. When I embarked in 2016 I didn’t have a clue about being a nurse, or even working in healthcare. I was embarking on a degree as a mature student and honestly truly didn’t know if I would make it past the first week. I also told myself very firmly that if I established even after that first week that this was not for me, I would put pressure on myself to continue, I allowed myself the grace to give up - and this was something I have ever allowed myself before.

Life for me, has always been about persevering, continuing regardless of consequences, or even at times suffering for a cause I was determined to succeed in. Giving up has never been an option. I just don’t give up.

I spoke last week about a key driver in my decision to close my business - my ultimate quest for freedom, after feeling the strain of essentially being tied to a building I could never escape for 10 years. I had to give myself an easier get out for the first time in my life - and believe me when I say, that was huge for me. I didn’t know anyone who was a nurse, or even working in healthcare in any capacity. I had no one to go to for advice, no one to truly be in a position to tell me this was potential madness on my part. So I had to trust myself. My instinct, my ability to know my own boundaries, and to be able to listen to the voice that tells me jump - get out - run - ultimately listen to the instinct that tells you there is something better out there that is more made for you than this.

I finally learnt to listen to that instinct when it told me that there had to be something more meaningful meant for me than icing sugar and tea leaves. So I had to trust myself to not spend 10 years pursuing nursing if it didn’t bring me joy.

Believe me when I say there are many people you meet as a qualified nurse and also when in training who question your choice to be a nurse. They tell you their own horror stories, they show you they have lost their spark for the profession, and they question your why, and usually don’t understand your answer.

I have always risen above that. The opinions, the lack of moral, the ‘bitchiness’ that inevitably comes with working within a predominantly female dominated profession. Nursing has always stolen my heart in stronger ways than those opinions and actions ever could. I have always kept my patients and my own goals at the forefront of the negativity and away from those who evidently no longer spark joy from the profession.

Last week in reflecting on the last 10 years, I found myself questioning if I still felt all of that as strongly? It genuinely pains me to admit that I feel those very opinions and actions seeping their way through, stronger than ever. I feel myself being pulled into the negativity. Suddenly the politics and the drama and the opinions have become the more dominant voices in my head. Suddenly I realise these voices and scenarios are not actually new, but somehow my tolerance and my ability to rise above it all has weakened. I have weakened. My determination has weakened.

So it got me thinking - is this a 10 year itch? It that my default setting - 10 years arrives and something dwindles, something is lost?

I’m by no means ready to leave nursing, but I feel after 10 years I can see why even the best and most dedicated nurses can become disillusioned. I find myself edging towards membership within that club, and I find most of my days are now dominated by my strong desire not to accept full time membership within that club. But the fight becomes increasingly harder, and I am struggling with how incredibly hard that feels to accept and to feel.

Because ultimately I have nothing but love for nursing. I can genuinely say I found my calling, being a nurse with genuine passion, drive, and dedication for this incredible profession has always been my main goal. I have felt nothing but honour and pride to be a nurse, and nursing has taught me my most valuable lessons in life.

Perhaps also my most valuable life skills - compassion, curiousity, emotional intelligence, observation skills, problem solving, leadership, accountability, honesty, candour, and perhaps most importantly - the value and fragility of life.

I consider myself lucky every day to be a nurse and to use my skills as a nurse to help and support others.

But if I am true to myself - the 10 year itch is definitely itching. And I can never give up on, or lose sight of, the promise I made to myself a decade ago to never allow myself to be trapped in something that doesn’t spark joy - to remember that change is ok, and walking away can open doors that offer more authenticity and fresh passion and perspective.

Am I going to leave nursing because the 10 year itch is itching?

In short - No.

But reflecting on 10 years has definitely made me question what I am feeling at this moment in time, and left me facing a battle with myself about what feels right for me and my future.

I find myself fighting daily against working in an utterly broken system, in a country that seems to have its priorities all wrong, and in a world where horror and hate seem to rear their ugly faces daily, across the entirety of our miraculous planet.

For me nursing will never be just a job - it’s so much more than that. When you work alongside people who don’t share that view, I honestly cannot tell you how hard that is. How it pushes me to an overwhelming desire to run on a daily basis, and how it makes me even consider turning my back on this profession, even for a brief moment most days.

I know I’m not alone in this - because the statistics speak for themselves. According to the Nursing and Midwifery Council (NMC) 70% of nurses and midwives have experienced bullying, harassment and abuse in the last year. And sadly only 12% would recommend the profession - what’s even sadder about that statistic is that this is reported despite 58% reporting overall job satisfaction. This suggests many professionals find true meaning in the work itself, but are concerned about the realities and challenges of the profession.

And I think that is where I am at. When you love your job, you strive to be the best nurse, and nursing becomes and intrinsic part of you - but you hate the politics, the system, the hierarchy, the outdated policies, the underfunding, and general way things are so often poorly managed - you naturally become disillusioned. You are forced there, often backed into a corner - a quiet corner where you are usually being silenced in some way - and believe me when I tell you - that hurts. Deeply.

A systematic review and Meta Analysis from the BMC Nursing (2025) determined that Nursing burnout is a significant global workforce issue. “Around one-third of nurses experience emotional exhaustion, nearly two-thirds report feelings of demoralisation, and workplace stressors such as understaffing, bullying, discrimination, and lack of managerial support contribute to growing disillusionment and negative attitudes toward the profession.”

Sadly I can say I have experienced the majority of those things, that have tainted all the roles I have had as a nurse in some way, whether directly or having witnessed others experiencing it.

And seeing those words across my page brings me a feeling of genuine sadness. I consider myself so lucky and privileged to be a nurse. I have always been incredibly proud to be a nurse, and despite only being 10 years in, nursing is an inherent part of me - it’s who I am, it’s who I want to be, and you could say it has made me the best version of me. Nursing gives you a sense of both gratitude and understanding that having spent the larger majority of my life as a ‘lay person’ - I know I wouldn’t have in the same way without it.

Will it get better? I don’t know. Will we find away to save and improve our complex and strained healthcare system? I can’t say. Will so many of it’s own staff, and the public who use it, stop abusing the system for their personal gain? Probably not.

Right now I see no solutions, I feel the impact of all of my feelings, my frustrations, and my moral distress hard and strong - they are itching me every day. 10 years of increasing itching and resisting the urge to scratch.

But I’m not ready to give up. I believe in my profession, and I believe in me.

But I also feel strongly that I can never allow myself to forget the promise I made to myself a decade ago to put myself and my freedom first. I can’t allow the betrayal of that.

So I’m somewhere on a tight rope right now - balancing what I desire and what I have worked so hard towards, and what I need to remember about the promises I made to myself and agreed to live by.

I will always be a nurse in some capacity - but as the disillusion creeps in, I find myself looking outside the box, I find myself looking for more. I find myself seeking the people who’s values and work ethic align with mine, and sadly all those things seem to become rarer each day.

For now I need patience, and something that resembles calamine lotion to settle the itch for now, until I find the place where I can be the nurse I long to be, in the space that feels right for me.

Here’s to the adventures of the next 10 years, and excitement and wonder of where they may take me and shape me.

As we welcomed 2026 at the beginning of this year, I had thought about the fact that it marked a decade away from 2016 - which held two life changing things for me; starting university as a mature student to study Adult Nursing - and closing the doors to my beloved bakery after ten years in business.

I was reminded of that again this weekend, when social media showed me a ‘reminder’ of the sailor themed leaving party we threw as we said goodbye to bake-a-boo and watched that ship sail on the 30th May 2016.

And now a decade on, I realise that means from this day forward bake-a-boo will now have been closed longer than it was open.

And something about that strangely hit me in the heart.

It all just seems so far away now, like a distant memory. Maybe at times it even feels like it was all just a dream, because as every day passes the memories become more vague, the visual imagery in my mind becomes less vivid. I hate to lose sight of something that was of such great significance in my life.

My pride and joy, my dream. My everything, for many years. The place that taught me some of my most valuable lessons. The place were I can honestly say I grew up.

At 24 I had a vision. I believed in it, and I did everything to work towards it. I sacrificed a lot to be there, and to make my dreams a reality. I learnt more than I ever expected, both living my own dreams, and at times even creating other peoples dreams. I also faced some nightmares - crippling anxiety, sleepless nights, scammers, burglaries, and months where I struggled pay the bills. But I never lost sight of my dreams.

I learnt that you can and will just find a way to make it work. You are capable for as long as you believe.

bake-a-boo taught me about perseverance, determination, and dedication. It taught me you can do anything if you truly believe in it, and if you work hard, you can make it work.

Ten years later - I wouldn’t be half the person I am today without the decade I spent there. Whilst my life looks very different these days - I use many transferrable skills every day, and the perseverance, determination and dedication are likely forever instilled. Now that I work for a ‘business’ that is not my own - I don’t believe I give any less, just because it’s not mine. I recognise that every cog in the machine matters, and requires value and attention. I will work the extra hours to see a vision come to life, a job for me will never just be a job, because I’ve been at the helm - it’s never just a pay check. I will always care - sometimes probably more than I should.

In ten years, I grew a business, I adapted to changing times. I published a cook book, won awards, baked for celebrities, managed people, and made friends for life.

I survived, and despite some bad times - in the end, I thrived.

Some people still know me as ‘Zoe bake-a-boo.’ Even though at times I feel a million miles away from whoever that girl once was.

Many people struggled to understand my decision at the time, and even more so the plan for my next move.

They say it takes 7-10 years to build a truly successful and solid start up - and I have to say I probably agree with that. I can honestly say when I said goodbye to my business I was in the best position I had been in, and that really had taken all of that time to get there. I felt like I had finally got a true grasp on it all and was in a strong position.

But with that, came the need for expansion, progression, and further development. After ten years alone in a business that consumed every ounce of my being, ten years spending most of my days in a basement kitchen, and ten years where the bricks and mortar that housed my dreams took priority over everything else in my life. Somehow as much as I wanted to carry on, I also deeply craved freedom and simplicity.

As social media was growing, I recognised that my success depended on an influence and presence on social media, that I never felt comfortable with. As the get-out clause in my ten year lease approached - the temptation of freedom perhaps became too appealing. It was stop now, expand and consider a new location having grown out of the current space, or sign up to another ten years in this space.

Suddenly ‘stop now’ became the more appealing option.

It’s something I have never lived to regret, and a decade later, I doubt I ever will.

I can honestly say even in my most stressful scenarios at work as a nurse - dealing with the true complexities of human nature and mortality - I never feel the overwhelming sensation of stress and pressure that I felt at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon in a busy bakery and tea room that had my name over the door.

Of course I miss the good times, the cherished moments of success, the joy on peoples faces as they walked through the door, the celebrations I was a part of - the most happiest of occasions for the strangers who crossed my path - proposals, engagements, hen parties, weddings, birthdays, new babies, gender reveals, graduations, and proud moments or milestones.

Saying goodbye to bake-a-boo was one of the hardest decisions of my life. Turning my back on a decade of hard work and dedication didn’t come easy. I have never even been able to return to the street where I created my dream and then watched it disappear. Many nights I find myself there in my dreams - but strangely it always seems to be in darkness, which I find so symbolic.

It’s such a deeply visceral part of me. It was my identity for my most developmental adult years. It was my dream. That will never leave me, and nor will my memories.

Following that day in May 2016, I went on to begin my nursing degree. I essentially started a new life. The people I have met, and who now form part of that new life, will never really know or understand the life I had before. They will never experience the vision or the dream. I feel the impact of that because it’s such a huge part of who I am. There are many people I am yet to meet, who are yet to hear the story.

The story of my little pink tea shop nestled in a North West London street, just off the road of the house I grew up in, and behind the primary school I attended from the age of five.

That day in May 2016 we released branded pink balloons into the sky at sunset, and I knew this would be one of the most significant moments of my life. I watched the balloons fade further into the sky, truly symbolic of what I was letting go of in that moment. But I also watched those balloons fly freely into freedom, which is what I craved for myself. Floating high, no direction, just wherever the wind takes you. In that moment I believed in my own ability to achieve freedom.

The story of our lives have many chapters - trials and tribulations. Ultimately those chapters flow in some way and are interlinked. I wouldn’t be where I am today without the chapters I have lived before now.

2016 was one of the biggest goodbyes I will ever say in my life. But it was also the biggest hello to a career that has seen me through the ten years that have followed.

I have no regrets. Only memories that I hold closely and fondly.

And now I throw tea parties for my patients, with ‘vintage’ bunting and China from those very days, that have withstood the last decade - because quite frankly it would just be rude not to!

Last week I talked about the human urge to cry and how we so often supress that. Crying is a mix of neuroscience, hormones, psychology, and body regulation. It’s therefore pretty important and natural human response for us, and it may happen whenever emotions exceed the brain’s normal regulation capacity. At times we can be overwhelmed by the emotions that lead to our tears, and there is just nothing we can do about it.

I talked about how difficult that can be for nurses (obviously not exclusively, but I can only speak for my own profession). I can say with some confidence that most nurses will have story about tears they have shed whilst on duty - and sometimes that will be secretly in a cupboard, so no one sees.

As a Nurse, you are in constant contact with pain, fear, death, recovery, families in crisis, and at times impossible time pressure. A nurse might go from helping someone breathe, to comforting a grieving relative, or even an angry relative, to reliving all of those experiences again when it comes to documenting it all — and that can sometimes all happen in the same hour. You could say therefore that the emotional switching required for the role is intense. Crying must be the only way to offer some release at some point.

As a palliative care nurse in a hospital team, collectively you cover the whole hospital, and you will go wherever there is a patient requiring palliative input. And this may come as a surprise to many, but not all patients requiring specialist palliative input in the hospital setting are dying.

There may be someone who is living with an incurable illness and is in hospital either due to a complication, or an acute issue that is deemed to be treatable.

There may be someone who has presented to the Emergency Department with abdominal pain, and are now facing incurable pancreatic cancer, and they need support to cope with this, understand their options, or need input into managing their pain.

There may be someone struggling to manage challenging symptoms, or experiencing unmanageable side effects of their medication or treatments.

An acute admission may make some want to address practical issues, or document wishes for the future, and we are there to talk those things through with them.

We may need to spend time with families helping them to understand, and them helping us to fill in some of the gaps, or provide the missing pieces of the puzzle.

We work alongside the multi-disciplinary team (MDT) and may have input in making medical decisions about ongoing treatment.

We support families to plan for discharge from hospital, and work out what that looks like for them, and how realistic and feasible that is, and what support they may need in the future and ensure that they are appropriately linked in with community teams.

We may also have to talk to them about death, and their preferred place of death, and if we can, we will facilitate that.

Then we do have patients who are end of life, in last weeks, days, or sometimes only hours.

We are the ‘experts’ in symptom management, and we think outside the box when it comes to medications. We manage subcutaneous continuous infusions when patients have difficulty swallowing, or absorbing oral medications. And also to keep patients comfortable and pain free when they are approaching end of life.

In my various roles as a palliative care nurse, I have been there as many people have died. As well as moments before, and moments after. I have comforted sobbing relatives, and broken hearted soul mates. I have washed and prepared bodies soon after death, I have sat alone with deceased patients who live alone, until the funeral directors arrived, and as a community nurse, I would often go out to patients homes to do verification of death.

I know to many that will sound just like all too much, and may even want to make people stop reading this. But the reason I feel this is important to share is for a sense of perspective - because I need to mention that if I allowed myself to be emotionally impacted, or carried home the emotional baggage of each of those encounters every day I went home, I could never survive. I could never keep going back to work.

So when writing about our frequent desire to hold back tears last week, it made me think about the times I have cried as a Nurse at work. Luckily it’s only a couple of times, but they are times I reflect on a lot. And I honestly can’t say why one of those encounters made me cry, when all the other times I have been able to ‘hold it together’. Why did the usual armour that my uniform provides, just seem to malfunction on this occasion?

It was a young lady - I’ll call her ‘Sally’. I had met Sally a few times previously, as she was living with incurable cancer and had several acute admissions with pleural effusion (fluid build up in the pleural space between the lungs and the chest wall). Frequent hospital admissions when living with cancer are generally considered not a good prognostic sign. Because I had been called to Sally now on a few occasions, I got to know her husband and her teenage daughter, who had really been struggling with her mothers diagnosis and prognosis.

Sally was likeable, had a sense of humour and always genuinely seemed pleased to see me. This admission she was admitted to the Medical Acute Dependency Unit because she was struggling with her breathing and needed closer monitoring. There had been some delay and complications in the procedure she would need to drain some of the fluid that had built up in her lungs, and she was struggling the anxiety and exhaustion of her breathlessness.

I went to see Sally on about the 5th day of her admission, I had been delayed with another patient, and the ward had called me to see if I could come sooner, and I could hear there was urgency in that call, so I got there as quickly as I could. When I eventually arrived that morning, Sally had just died.

Somewhere awash with the adrenaline that overwhelmed me as I had felt the urgency to get there, I was confronted with the harsh reality that she was gone. It was not my fault I couldn’t get there sooner, as I had another equally poorly patient, but you still can’t help but feel you wish you’d got there sooner, even though there was probably little I could have done at that point.

I couldn't have saved Sally, nor was that ever what I was there to do. But could I have made her more comfortable, could I have protected her, and could I have had a chance to say goodbye? As I saw her pale peaceful face on the pillow I somehow felt I had let Sally down. I hadn’t. But in that moment, I felt I had, overwhelmingly. I could feel the burn of the tears, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hold them in. I took a deep breath as the nurse in charge (I’ll call her Cheryl) came in. She told me the husband and daughter were with her when she died, and they have taken some time out in the relatives room.

Together, Cheryl and I performed last offices for Sally. As we lowered the head of the bed to lay Sally’s lifeless body flat, I watched one of my salty tears fall onto the bed sheets. But as I looked up at Cheryl - her eyes were also filled with tears. We looked at each other for a split second, but we said nothing. The only task in hand was offering the last bit of dignity and care we could provide for this lovely patient that we shared.

There we were - two completely silent nurses overcome with emotion, not able to hold back our tears, and somehow having some bizarre unconventional solidarity in that. We felt something equally and simultaneously. We felt the pain of this life before us lost.

And we cared.

We both dried our eyes and washed our hands. Still no words exchanged. We almost raised our heads, and our shoulders, as if to dust ourselves off, ready to face the real world just outside the side room door - where we would have to don our armour again to continue on for the rest of our shifts.

Cheryl flung her arms around me, and we stood there in a silent embrace that oozed compassion, understanding, and connection. It’s a moment I wont forget. And then Cheryl broke our mutual silence, as she spoke straight into my ear, as we embraced.

“Don’t tell Lisa about this!” she said firmly.

We separated and both laughed! Somehow I understood why she wouldn’t want Lisa to know about this, but equally I can’t really explain why - I just get it. Lisa was my colleague (and now a dear friend), who Cheryl knows well - but everyone knows Lisa! (and if you don’t I would highly recommended her)

You could say this is a valuable example of the culture in healthcare where you must ‘hold it all together’ and maintain a certain standard of professionalism. Her first thought in that moment was not wanting a colleague to know that she had shown weakness in crying - I guess that shows how imbedded that is in all of us. But what this statement really did was bring us gently back to reality, and turned our tears to laughter almost instantly. It reminded us that we are alive, and we are doing the best we can, and ensuring that Lisa respects us and feels pride towards us just clearly meant something to us both. It reminded us that we are human, and we feel sadness, but can also feel happiness again.

So you see, a Nurses tears contain a plethora of pent up emotion, life changing, and life ending memories. A Nurses tears play a very important part in reminding them that they are human, that they care, that they feel. I think as a palliative nurse it’s good to have those reminders every now and then, particularly when death and dying becomes such a ‘normal’ part of your every day. You never want to become numb to it, you never want to feel completely emotionally blocked.

So I embrace those tears, even when I think about them today. That morning, I let them flow, and I also discovered the true ‘human’ in a fellow nurse that day.

Oh and I told Lisa.

I came across a quote this week that said:

‘Your body not letting you cry is worse than crying’

I sat for a moment trying to really understand this concept.

Does this suggest that our own suppression potentially leaves us far worse off, than succumbing to a much needed release? - and in our suppression, does the body just continue to keep the score?

And why do we often feel we have to stop ourselves from crying? Why is crying laced in shame? Why is it something we are embarrassed by, feel we need to excuse ourselves for, and always want to hide?

Is there a stigma around crying, or is it our own induced fear of our vulnerability being so exposed to those around us – do we fear being seen as weak or inferior? And is this something that’s just innate because as humans we are born survivors and no amount of evolution will likely change that. So, is there an element of being seen as a more prominent predatory target if we shed a tear and show we are either weak, not in our right mind, or our emotions are just entirely out of control.

Even when we shed the more ‘acceptable tears’ – the justified and expected ones. The ones we could potentially be criticized for, if we didn’t shed them – the death of a loved one, a terminal diagnosis, or even those tears of joy at a birth, a reunion, a proud achievement. The shame still seems to lurk. We still find ourselves apologising for those tearful moments, even when they are almost expected. We still shy away, retreat, conceal our faces. We desperately apply make up to conceal red eyes and blotchy skin, allowing us to deny that tears have even fallen from our eyes. And we still apologise for our outpouring, sometimes profusely.

I guess those thoughts lead me to understand the quote. That we are programmed to not cry, supress this sensation, halt it’s release. But we constantly fail to see that this is more harmful to us, in multiple ways, than just allowing ourselves to cry, openly and freely.

Perhaps why this quote spoke to me, was that I found myself in a situation last week. I wouldn’t describe myself as ‘a crier’ – I hope you understand what I mean by that? I work very closely with someone who is absolutely ‘a crier’, and absolutely admits to this. Something sets her off most days, but she laughs it off and we both whole heartedly accept that is just who she is, and in many ways, isn’t it just lovely to feel things so deeply, and be so caring to others that the emotional burden of that causes such an instant and passionate response.

But I’m not easily ‘set off’, but perhaps when I do, it’s harder to stop.

Last week I just had one of those days where you just wake up feeling a bit ‘off’ - just in a bit of a grumpy funk. I felt myself getting teary when I passed a dead badger, who had been flattened in the road (to be fair this does happen a lot, maybe I’m more of a ‘crier’ that I realise). As I parked my car at work, I got text from a colleague to tell me that her dad had deteriorated over the weekend and he had sadly died the night before. As my eyes scrolled across the typed backlit words, I felt the floodgates just fly open. I felt my heart almost tighten, as the tears streamed down my face, and suddenly they progressed to sobs. For a moment I just felt like someone took the wind out of my sails. It wasn’t a familiar feeling, I just knew I felt triggered. My mind very quickly wanted to unpack that feeling, and I was taken almost instantly back to sending a text message to my work colleagues on midday on a Sunday to say I wouldn’t be at work the next day because my dad had died suddenly. I could just somehow see myself doing it, right there in that moment as I read this message, it just took me right back, and it quite frankly stunned me right there in that moment.

But then the shame element kicks in – my eyes dart around the car park to make sure no one can see me, or there no one sitting in their car that might be able to see me here, crying uncontrollably in the car. I then adjust the rear-view mirror to assess the damage – slap concealer across my under eyes, and start fanning my bloodshot eyes with my hands, in some odd attempt to somehow cool them down – because god forbid anyone would see that it was indeed possible for me to cry, that I’m not superhuman, and I’m triggered.

So, I go back to that quote. My body needed me to release something in that moment, my body allowed me to cry, and I had no control over that, there was no space for suppression, no time for excuses, and momentarily no way of stopping it once it started. When a colleague came to rescue me from the car park, I had to look away from them and ask them not to be nice to me – because why does that always set us off when we are right on the edge?

I think as nurses we do feel we cannot cry, we have to be the strong ones for those we care for, and we need to be recognised as ‘professional’. I think there is also a culture in parts of healthcare that quietly expects nurses to ‘hold it together’, but on the other side of that there’s concern for the possibility that ongoing suppression and ‘holding it together’ leads to either burnout or even some level of ‘numbness’ as we begin to see every day tragedy and trauma as just our normality.

I eventually got myself together in the car park and piled on enough concealer to get me through the door to the safety of my office to let the eyes de-puff, and I was genuinely fine for the rest of the day. We could call it a blip? Or perhaps just a human reaction to something that touches a nerve within us?

Because crying is tied to the nervous system. We mostly associate crying with sadness, but physiologically it often happens during any kind of transition in nervous-system state. This is because high levels of emotion activate the parts of our brain that are linked to survival and emotional processing. When we have significant emotional intensity, parasympathetic nerve signals travel to the lacrimal glands above the eyes, producing tears.

There are actually three kinds of tears:

Basal tears
The constant lubrication and protection for our eyes that stops them from drying out.

Reflex tears
Triggered by irritants in the environment – dust, chemicals, onions, pollen

Emotional tears
Related to both negative and positive feelings - grief, relief, stress, happiness, empathy, or even frustration.

Studies have found that ‘emotional tears’ actually contain different concentrations of stress-related substances and proteins in comparison to ‘reflex tears’. And that makes sense to me, because I can genuinely say I am not flooded with the same feelings or sensation with tears induced by onion chopping, compared to those bought on by sadness, shock and joy - so I can believe that what is in fact ‘released’ chemically in each scenario could be different, and serve a different purpose for our function and regulation - because lets face it, we all know that the human body is pretty bloody spectacularly magnificent like that.

Humans are the only known species that produce ‘emotional tears’. Animals, of course, experience emotions - but somewhere in our evolution, humans developed a connection between the emotional brain and the tear-producing glands……..Why has this just suddenly taken me back to that scene in Gavin & Stacey - where Pamela tells Gavin she swears the Badger she has just seen on a nature documentary was crying because it had just lost all of her litter. Gavin was right – Badgers cannot cry emotional tears.

And some how I’ve come full circle back to the dead badger that started me off on the day last week, when the emotional tears got the better of me in the car park as I arrived at work. I was able to walk in and go about my day as though nothing has happened, and I think that’s just what you do as a nurse, you mostly just don’t have the choice not to.

There’s only two times that emotional tears have got the better of me whilst on the job (I’m not counting last weeks carpark-gate, because I hadn’t started work yet!) two times I have cried in front of colleagues over something we have just faced.

I’ll tell you about those two times next week…..

Image Credit: Silvia Gaudenzi

JUST FOR FUN:

My tears dry on their own - Amy Winehouse - HERE

Pamela and the badger scene - Gavin & Stacey - HERE

I write this on the eve of my 44th Birthday.

I feel deeply pensive today, in thinking about a day that feels like it has just crept up on me - suggestive of a world that’s spinning faster than I seem to be able to keep up with.

Birthdays are funny old times of reflection. Whilst we are generally celebrated by others, do we always celebrate ourselves in the same way? Is there some level of self doubt, regret, and even some elements shame thread through the brightly coloured ribbons that hold together our very tangible gifts.

Are we bogged down with the inevitability of aging, the dreams we haven’t yet brought to fruition, the choices we continue to question, and the fear of the increasing steps we are taking towards mortality?

Or are we able to drench our special day with gratitude and appreciation for the life we have grown, created and nurtured. To look forward to what the future holds for us and just simply celebrate being alive?

I guess every year that passes brings with it its own set of circumstances, challenges and insights. Where we sit within the spectrum will likely influence how we navigate coping with, or reflecting on another year round the sun.

I can honestly say loneliness doesn’t knock at my door much. I think that’s because I have grown to be deeply content in my own company, and the independence and freedom that allows. It’s a place I’m comfortable to stay in for the foreseeable. It’s something that I know makes me stick out like a sore thumb within the scope of societal expectations, and this is something I’ve written a lot about.

But somehow birthdays do seem to highlight loneliness, when you are essentially navigating the world generally alone.

I’m self sufficient and independent, perhaps hyper-independent, which I know isn’t always helpful. I make all of the things happen in my life, and do not have the capacity, or any level of reliance, to be able to wait for someone else to make things happen for me. But I guess sometimes, you just want someone to plan something for you once in a while, a delicious surprise that stops you in your tracks and feel overwhelmed with love. Birthdays seem like the perfect opportunity for that.

As a child, that’s your parents job. They see you through years of joyous filled mornings, that have followed sleepless nights, fuelled by sheer excitement, with wrapping paper and ribbons strewn across the living room floor, leaving you wishing the days away so you can have that same experience again in another 364 days. Your parties are organised, your wish list is mostly granted, and the simplest things like balloons, special treats, and birthday cake make the occasion special and memorable. You are celebrated, appreciated and smothered in good wishes, kind words and many happy returns.

Birthdays are one of those moments in life where people tell you how they feel about you, and what you mean to them. They want to see you, and treasure you, and celebrate with you.

Somehow, as a Birthday approaches in your adult life, you have this 48 hours where your inner child envelopes you, and suddenly your entire life’s work is a failure, just because suddenly you don’t have your entire school class at your party, and some kind of proud parent gushing, as they all clap you blowing out the candles on your cake.

Suddenly there’s more candles than cake on your Birthday cake. Suddenly you feel like your own candle is one step closer to being blown out! Suddenly there are significantly less people around the cake, and even less proud parents. Suddenly there’s no party at all, because you didn’t organise one, and you are all you have to rely on.

And hopefully after 48 hours of self doubt, disappointment, shame, and continuous questioning of yourself, your choices and just generally who you are - you can realise that it’s just a day, and it is in fact a day we should be even more grateful and proud to be alive, here, breathing. No amount of cake, balloons, and adoring people can give you more than that feeling, and that existence.

But then there’s a part of me, perhaps the palliative care nurse in me, that thinks - why are we waiting for one day of the year to do something special - to outpour our love to those that we treasure. Why can’t we take a days annual leave on a random Tuesday, and go to fancy restaurant just because? Or open a bottle of saved champagne just because we want to celebrate being alive today, and every other day?

I know that’s where I want my mind to be, and it’s the safest and most productive place for my mind to be, so why do we let the 48 hours of self doubt take that away from us? Just because it’s the anniversary of the day we were born, many many years later! I found myself suddenly questioning my value, my journey, my achievements. Have I done enough, and how did I get so much so wrong? Then I moved on to the future - how much time do I have left, how can I right my wrongs, what if I lose it all?

They’re just huge questions, but also mostly unnecessary, and smothered in a thick layer of self doubt that doesn’t usually plague my days, so why is it showing up so strongly now, just because I added another number onto my age?

Most days I’m proud to wear my independent woman armour. I live alone, and I rely on no one. But when you are single and childless, and no longer a child yourself, how you celebrate your birthday becomes exclusively your responsibility. ‘What are you doing for your birthday?’ is the hot question everyone wants to know. But if you are my close friend, and you are asking me this - you should be questioning why I have not invited you to said so-called plan, seen as you are one of my close friends? Therefore - the likely answer is ‘nothing’ - and you would be right to assume this.

You see that’s what spouses and children do - they plan something for your Birthday. When you have no spouse, and no children - no one plans your Birthday - you do, or you do it alone.

And even for a hyper independent woman, who genuinely wouldn’t have it any other way, all I see in that sentence is the word ALONE. Which usually is my default setting, and the place I’m content to be - but somehow in ‘society’ it’s practically illegal to be ALONE on your Birthday.

It is rare that I ask for help, and admittedly I’m not the best at expressing my needs to others, my default is to suffer in silence and stew on it, rather than just tell someone what I think I might need. And that’s a fault in me, and to some level an inability to really know how to express that to another person. So when Anthropology, Fit flop, and Biscuiteers (Could I be any more 44?) send you Happy Birthday offers in an email, with a virtual database offering you more in terms of discounts in honour of your ‘special day’, than some of your closest friends, you do wonder is that on them - or is it on you for living your hyper-independent life?

But it got me thinking, I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone really make my Birthday special for me. I’ve never had an adult Birthday that’s been completely thought out by someone else, just for me. I also know that’s a big ask, but it’s something I have been thinking about and I can’t deny that as my Birthday has approached, I’ve felt that even stronger, and even mourned the prospect on some level.

Most Birthdays I feel let down. Mostly let down by myself, but also by others. I know that just requires some readjustment to my thinking, but at times that feeling has felt crippling.

These aren’t unfamiliar feelings, I know they will come next year too, as they have for many years before - so really the ultimate question is - what can I do now to make this coming year better so I don’t feel all these feelings again for my Birthday next year?

All of that aside - I am genuinely feeling positive about 44. It’s pretty much ‘angel numbers’ and 4+4=8 which is a very lucky number, plus it’s the year of the Fire Horse! (We can’t forget the Fire Horse!!) So I’m taking that. I also know that once the silly 48 hours of reflection have passed, I can begin to really enjoy 44.

Not question the choices of age 19, 27, 36 and 43, and admittedly probably even more of my ‘milestones’ - instead embrace the pathway paved in all those years that have led me here - to 44 and beyond.

And next year, as May approaches, please remind me to just book a holiday and get the hell out of here so I don’t have to deal with the 48 hours of Birthday doom!

Today marks the start of Dying Matters Week. This is an annual campaign led by Hospice UK, and supported by care organisations, charities, and community groups. The focus is to encourage open and honest conversations about death and dying in an attempt to break down some of the fear, stigma and taboo around this topic. Whilst so many find this topic so difficult - these conversations allow for better end-of-life planning and enable us all to cope better with bereavement, and anticipatory grief.

Death will happen to all of us at some point. None of us are immortal, we don’t know how or when it will happen, and no one is able to tell us what actually happens when we do die. Yet this is something we all find so uncomfortable to talk about, plan for, and even think about. I think wrapped up in it all, is the fear that talking about it will make it happen – that we are ‘tempting fate’ - that if we sit with it, feel it, welcome it, then maybe death will come knocking sooner? Rationally, we all know this is not the case, but I think sometimes we need the reminder that we are not tempting fate, nor do we have any control over our fate - but that we can have some control over what that may look like for us personally, when we face up to these conversations.

Ultimately there is no right or wrong time to think or talk about this controversial topic. Naturally those are are looking their mortality in the eye because they have been given a terminal diagnosis will have more of a sense of urgency than others? But in the harsh reality, we never really know when our time us up.

Planning is a key part of all of life’s milestones. There is a process, a way we would like things to go, and the organisation of the people who play a key role in any event. And like all aspects of life, things don’t always go to plan, but knowing we thought about it and prepared for it sets us up better to succeed. We plan for birth, for weddings, for moving house. We set goals for personal achievements and career aspirations because we want to succeed, be seen, and make a difference. These things are our legacy.

In death, your legacy is what you leave behind. So why shouldn’t we have a say in that, use our power to ensure that all the days of our lives count, right up until the last minute? That even when the curtain begins drawing on our life, we can still make a difference and leave our mark, and ultimately have our say, and sometimes our way. Planning for the inevitable, however close death may feel, can actually help us to regain some control, and add true permanence and meaning to our legacy.

As a palliative care CNS, these conversations and Advance Care Planning is a big part of my role. Gently guiding people to look to the future, and at times face its bleakness, to make sure that their voice and wishes matter and are heard. Believe me, I have had enough of these conversations to never take for granted how hard it feels for most people. As a nurse you learn to pick up on cues, expressions as to what a person can tolerate, or how open they may be to talking about this. Sometimes these conversations can last days, weeks or even months. Because everyone is different, every wish is different, every circumstance, dynamic and situation is different. Perhaps most importantly, every legacy is different.

Despite the differences, the looming end result is the same, regardless of circumstances, but we CAN have more of a say in how that may pan out.

Advance care planning (ACP) is the process of making decisions about your future health care, ensuring your wishes are known and respected if you become unable to communicate them. Which, believe me, can sometimes happen sooner or more unexpectedly than we may imagine. There are of course more practical issues to think about – as most of us will want to lower the burden on the people we leave behind and of course ensure that are finances and assets in life are appropriately managed.

Key practicalities for most will be:

1. Will and Testament

A will and testament is a legal document that specifies how a person’s assets and responsibilities should be handled after their death.

2. Lasting Power of Attorney (LPA)

Lasting power of attorney (LPA) is a legal document in the UK that allows you to appoint one or more trusted individuals (known as ‘attorneys’) to make decisions on your behalf if you are unable to do so yourself.

There are two types of LPA:

• Property and Financial Affairs LPA: This allows your attorney to make decisions about your money and property.

• Health and Welfare LPA: This allows your attorney to make decisions about your health and care, but it can only be used if you lose mental capacity.

An LPA is an ongoing arrangement with no expiry date until death, ensuring that your decisions are protected even when you cannot express them yourself.

3. Advance decision

An advance decision (sometimes known as an Advance Decision to Refuse Treatment, an ADRT, or a Living Will) is a decision you can make now to refuse a specific type of treatment at some time in the future.

It lets your family, carers and health professionals know your wishes about refusing treatment if you’re unable to make or communicate those decisions yourself.

4. Resuscitation

Probably one of the most controversial and harder topics to consider, and in my experience, highly misunderstood. DNACPR stands for ‘Do not attempt cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR)’.

It means that if a person has a cardiac arrest or dies suddenly, there will be guidance on what action should or shouldn’t be taken by a healthcare professional, including not performing CPR on the person.

CPR isn’t always the best treatment for an individual. That’s why CPR conversations need to happen. Most people also don’t realise that this is a medical decision, but will always be discussed with you.

1. ReSPECT

ReSPECT stands for Recommended Summary Plan for Emergency Care and Treatment. The ReSPECT process creates a personalised recommendation for your clinical care in emergency situations where you are not able to make decisions or express your wishes.

However, when we get consumed by the fear and avoidance, that is so prevalent surrounding this topic, we often forget what is at the core of it all.

That is you – the person – the way you like to live your life, the things that are important to you, the values that you uphold, your spiritual needs and how you can feel more in control, and at ease with the unimaginable.

We will all likely have someone in our lives where there is a prevalent complicated dynamic, or someone we tolerate, but don’t always align with. Imagine that person being the one who makes decisions for you, or uses their conflicting voice to be your voice? Facing your fear and planning for the end of your life means that betrayal is less likely to happen. And the little things matter – it’s not all forms and paperwork, it’s about ensuring that the core of you is woven into every aspect of your life and being, right up until the moment you are no longer, and indeed beyond, with the legacy and memories you leave behind.

Everyone can benefit from advance care planning, regardless of age or health status, because understanding the elusive inevitable, actually has the ability to give us back the control and the power. Fear is a very human emotion, we are innate survivors and programmed to fear predators and death. But the fear of the unknown is perhaps the strongest of all fears. I teach my patients therefore, that talking about death and dying allows for curiosity, honesty and understanding. Taking the unknown out of our fears and breaking down the power within our fear. Because we are allowed to ask questions, look for answers and want to understand – even the hardest of things.

We never know when our voice or our capacity may be lost and when the plans we have been brave enough to make will really stand up and represent us, so there is never a right time to plan for our future and our death. We may think it’s too soon, or there is no need. We may be scared to upset others by bringing it up, we may be firmly holding hands with denial. But these things are only feeding our fears and shadowing our voice and values.

Planning for the future is not about giving up hope – it’s about making sure our voices count and are heard by those who we most need to hear it. Whether that be the treatment you do or don’t want, the songs you want at your funeral, the mother in law you don’t want to have any say in your care, or even the home comforts you would want around you that may bring you a flicker of light in your darkest days. These may be the smallest details – that you can’t see without your glasses, that you have a favourite lip balm, or even that flowers make you sneeze and you don’t want them around.

These things all matter, because YOU matter.

And like this week suggests – dying matters – because it will happen to us all.

Addressing our fears around dying doesn’t take us closer to death, it actually helps us to live - a life that is fulfilling, precious and truly ours.

Recommended (and excellent!) reading around this topic:

Listen - Kathryn Mannix

Being Mortal - Atul Gawande

Dear Life - Rachel Clarke

A video I recently shared with my patients around this topic:

LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH

Further Reading on practical topics:

DNACPR - CPR Recommendations, DNACPR and ReSPECT | Resuscitation Council UK

ReSPECT - ReSPECT for patients and carers | Resuscitation Council UK

LPA - Make, register or end a lasting power of attorney: Overview - GOV.UK

ACP (NHS) - Main Heading

Making a Will - Making a will: Overview - GOV.UK

Who would have thought that one of our most hardy weeds would be what inspired not only my week, but also something within me, on a much deeper level.

I’ve been on a journey in my job this year – developing something that I’m proud of at work, and something that I know has the potential to be very special for my patients who are living with life limiting illnesses.

Whilst a lot of work has gone into it – you could say the real work has begun on the delivery, and all that we have learnt from this week by week.

Considering what works well, what we need to scrap, adjust, improve. How has this been received, how we can improve it, and how we can maximise the number of people and the ways in which we can support them?

It’s an 8-week programme for patients living with life limiting illnesses, and I have drawn from my experiences as a palliative CNS in a hospice setting, the community and an acute hospital to create a programme that aims to inspire and empower patients to live their best life right now regardless of their journey or situation. Presenting simple and achievable ways to develop confidence and resilience and better cope with their situation by understanding themselves and thinking outside the box to help them find strength, motivation and positivity even in their darkest times.

Next week we deliver week 8 – the final week – to our first cohort of patients. I will genuinely be sad to say goodbye to this very special group who have trusted in me, and engaged, and who have hopefully gained something from all we have explored together.

As I said, I have changed and adjusted and rearranged things every week, because despite all the planning and research that goes into things like this, you don’t know how some things will work until you are actually doing it – and I’ve found myself working on sessions right up until the last minute because there has been things to change and adapt based on what I have heard, seen and learnt from the previous week.

So I have been thinking a lot this week (and fretting) about next weeks final session – ‘the finale’, probably the most important week, the one that really needs to drive the message home, the one where they really get to face, and own, the empowerment they have hopefully achieved.

How do I best convey to them to keep going, to trust the process, to remember all we have learnt, discussed and instilled. How do I encourage them to continue to utilise the strategies, draw upon new coping mechanisms and navigate the next steps in their journey with courage, confidence and compassion for themselves?

How do I find a way to continue to really instil the message I have been drilling into them for the last 8-weeks – that there can be light found in the darkness, and we can carry that light forward. That they are stronger than they may realise for what they have already faced and overcome. That there is hope, and we can reframe the negative aspects of our lives that take away our light.

I wanted simple symbolism, that everyone could access, understand, and embrace. A lasting legacy that they can call upon when they need strength to carry the light forward.

It was a sunny weekend – last week my lawn was mown and I spent some time on Saturday sitting in the garden with my cat. Not satisfied with the blanket we sat on, I wondered if it was too soon to get some of the garden furniture out of the shed at the end of the garden. I retrieved a couple of chairs, and the table so I could maybe do some of my work and planning outside, and laid them out on the grass for a hose down to exterminate all the cobwebs that had accumulated over the winter months.

What I realised when I went down the end of the garden – I have a long and narrow garden and don’t get right down to the end of it very often! The answer to my worries about my grand finale was right there at the neglected end of my garden.

As I hosed down the furniture, I noticed dozens upon dozens of dandelions in the grass – they stood out even more as the grass was short, and was only freshly mown last weekend. I was therefore taken aback by how many dandelions there were only a week later.

Little speckled sunshine faces poking up from the sea of lush grass. In one week they have stood up – in tandem and not only faced the sun, but almost replicated the sun.

As I frequently painstakingly pull weeds from the cracks in between the paving stones of the patio – I generally think, bloody hell, how do these weeds always find a way to make it through? Usually as I set out to destroy said weed, by means of whatever appropriate level of obliteration is available to me, and curse both its mere existence and its sheer determination at the same time.

However, something about the dandelions made me genuinely stand there in a moment of genuine awe. How could I be mad at a collection of sunshiny faces staring up at me, with open hearts, amongst a backdrop of lush green grass. Instead of being irritated by them (that may be because I hadn’t mowed the lawn myself!!!) I stood there in awe. I admired them. I appreciated them. I felt adoration for them.

And then it dawned on me. Bingo! That’s it. My grand finale will be inspired by none other than the Dandelion itself.

How you say? Well then I curiously wanted to know more about the Dandelion, and a descent into a Dandelion rabbit hole then ensued.

And now I may never look at a Dandelion the same way again. And I hope both you reading this here now, and my patients who will join me next week for the last session of their programme, will also never look at a Dandelion the same way again.

It occurred to me in that moment – the Dandelion is the ultimate symbol of resilience. Ultimately a weed – but at the prettier end of the weed spectrum. Anything that’s a vibrant shade of sunlight yellow is hard to hate! Although its left to shine amongst a backdrop of shiny sunlight yellow counterparts who also appear at this time of year – Daffodils, Buttercups and Forsythia - the humble dandelion pales in comparison. But I bet the Dandelion would have an abundance of resilience, durability, determination and survival over any of it’s ‘prettier’ counterparts.

It then led me further down the Dandelion lined rabbit hole into learning more about the trusty Dandelion. I also couldn’t help but be drenched in nostalgia thinking about many childhood days in the communal garden were I group up – sat amongst the dandelions, making daisy chains. And of course relying on the dandelions to make all my wishes come true when they turned from sunshine coloured flowers to elusive sheer ‘globes’ to be wished upon.

That’s what made me realise that the Dandelion is actually the sun, the moon and all of the stars rolled into one. How bloomin romantic and whimsical is that? For a mere weed to represent all of that??!

Upon further research, I realise that it’s evidently well known that the Dandelion is absolutely a symbol of freedom, resilience and optimism. We may call them ‘weeds’, but actually they are wildflowers preciously dressed in resilience. The fact that they reappear in abundance the week after the lawn has been mown in my garden surely shows that? Because they survive and thrive in diverse environments – in poor soil and less than desirable climates. They push through seemingly solid ground, hiding in darkness until they’re ready. Breaking through cracks in concrete that so many have walked on.

Everything I want my patients to know about survival, endurance and determination, whatever the circumstances.

Their ability to grow anywhere and return each year make them symbols of perseverance, hope and abundance. They are also an early and important source of nectar for pollinators like bees and butterflies, when other flowers are scarce.

Dandelions are shrouded in nostalgia – often known, not only as ‘the sun’ of the grass, but also as natures clock, as they are light sensitive - they close at night and when rain is pending, and open to face the sun. In childhood - we made wishes when blowing on the dandelion globe. The dandelion trusts in the wind to take the seeds where they need to be. The seeds spread to create new life - the seeds can travel up to 5 miles. But you could say that when you wish on them you are also putting your intentions out into the universe, and I just think that’s cool

So, because the algorithm always knows! I was served a video that same evening with a little Irish girl talking about dandelions. She referred to them as ‘Jinny Joes’ – this is and Irish reference to the seed head (globe) stage of the dandelion (or Jinny Joe) where she stated you should never pass a Jinny Joe without making a wish.

I’m sorry, but how cool is the name Jinny Joe?!!

Being part of the sunflower family, I think there is a lot of pressure on the Dandelion to ‘perform’, but somehow the Dandelion doesn’t seem to care that’s it’s just a weed, it shows up and shines anywhere it likes, regardless of what we think, or what we may try and do to prevent it. The dandelion is the ultimate survivor, a fine example of confidence and determination in adversity.

The Dandelion is also edible and is said to have several nutrients and health benefits, with it’s leaves, roots and flowers having medicinal value.

Then there is it’s magical transition into it’s globe state – the ‘becoming’ of the ‘Jinny Joe’, offering the promise of hopes, dreams, and wishes being granted. This transition demonstrates the ability to transform and adapt and how what was seen as a weed, had the ability to reframe itself as a mystical and elusive element not quite like any other in nature. With the promise of procreating and continuing it’s existence for an eternity of cycles, where the dandelion transitions from the sun to the moon, resulting in the scattering of stars.

What a hopeful, meaningful and fine symbol of resilience to share with my patients. Something they are able to see most days at this time of year as a daily reminder of the importance of those things, and the value they hold.

And what a perfect example of never judging a book by it’s cover, thinking outside of the box, and changing perspective on our most negative thoughts and scenarios.

Because you can either see a field full of weeds, or a field full of wishes.

Ooooof I just bloody love that!

In all honesty, I’m struggling with my writing at the moment. Mainly because my brain just feels like it’s got too many tabs open at the moment. At work, I have been designing a new 8-week course for my patients, and tomorrow I will deliver week 5 to my first group.

Creating this course has meant a lot more written work than usual for me in my day to day job as a nurse. It has meant doing research, making decisions, coordinating external guests and simply learning along the way - drawing on both life and career experience in creating the content for my course. In creating this course, I’ve spent a lot of time writing, and even more time on Canva!

That has been my focus since the beginning of the year. That being said, my own writing and projects have had to fall to the wayside somewhat. I’ve taken work home most nights and opened my laptop most weekends.

The thing about creating content like this, is you end up learning so much from the actual delivery - you can make all the content in the world, but until you really see how it lands and understand how it is received and processed, you never really know if it works.

Having completed four weeks now, I’ve adapted, switched, and added to so much of my original plan. I’ve listened to my patients, sat with them and tried to best understand their needs and how I can best meet those needs. So the work has felt never ending.

But I cannot complain, because I’ve really enjoyed this journey, and I feel like I’ve created something special that will really benefit my patients, who are all living with life limiting illnesses.

The truth be told - it’s been hard for me to come on here tonight and write this - I’ve only just put the final touches to my content for tomorrow and my brain feels too scrambled to write anything else more personal to share with you! However, I’m nearly 1 year into posting every Monday - a pact I made with my sister last May, and what that has taught me, is that showing up is really important. Building habits and keeping promises to yourself that help you reach your goals.

So here I am - saying nothing really - but nevertheless, showing up!

I felt the same last week, and that I had nothing to say - but then I was quickly surprised by how much I did end up having to say about just sitting on the grass in my garden for a while. Sometimes you just have to write something, anything, just to keep the spark alive.

Part of what I’m covering in my session tomorrow, which is based around ‘feeling good’ - is absolutely sharing that concept of what I talked about in my post last week ‘Listening to the birds and not the news’ - encouraging them to get outside, use multiple different kinds of ‘sound’ as therapy, and practice mindfulness in nature. The world feels heavy for me, but for them they are carrying the burden of their illness, in addition to all that ‘worldly’ heaviness that we all cannot avoid.

I feel so lucky that I’m actually learning so much along side my patients, which is a lovely thing, and in turn gives me broader perspective. I wanted to talk to them about that concept of ‘Listening to the birds, and not the news’ and encourage them to experience the temporary relief I felt from the world, whilst sat in my garden last weekend, with only the sounds of nature. I tried to search for the image I saw that inspired that post - which was the quote simply written in biro, as I wanted to include it in one of my presentation slides to explore this concept with my patients.

In my search, instead I came across something even better. I found a poem entitled “Listen to the birds, not the news” written by Alistair Muirhead who describes himself as ‘collector of stories and seeker of meaning’ and a ‘Poet by passion’ here on Substack.

So today, I wanted to share his poem with you, as tomorrow I will also share this poem with my patients (Thank you Alistair!) because I think there’s a message in these words that has great capacity to offer us all some comfort and something to remember when the world feels overwhelming or like me, you simply have too many tabs open in your brain right now.

Thanks for being here - I’ll try and do better next week!

Listen to the Birds, Not the News

by Alastair Muirhead

“The world is too loud, a ceaseless hum of faraway disasters, floodwaters that will never reach your door, fires you cannot smother, grief you cannot hold in your hands.

You are one small body, meant to move between familiar trees, to notice the shadows shifting under leaves, to hear the clear song of a wren threading through morning air.

It was never your task to carry the weight of the whole spinning globe. Let the earth turn without you for a while.

Look up. The birds are not watching the skies fall. They are not waiting for answers. They sing.”

Sunshine on a Bank Holiday in the UK? It’s almost unheard of - particularly on the Easter Weekend. When a large majority of Brits descend on the garden centre, determined to spruce up the garden for Spring - it’s almost inevitable that rain should fall and scupper our plans. Perhaps it was even more unexpected this weekend as we were warned about ‘Storm Dave’ - who definitely threw his weight around a bit on Saturday night.

So when I woke up to glorious sunshine today, alongside a more than tolerable temperature - it was a pleasant surprise. Whilst I didn’t trundle off down to the garden centre - mainly to avoid the inevitable crowds. I knew I needed to be outside today, and it’s days like this that I’m so grateful to have a garden, and live in the countryside.

I’ve been a bit swamped at work lately, and have felt the capacity of my brain under some pressure, as I have been developing something new at work. I’ve been finding it harder to switch off and be in the moment, as my brain feels like its constantly racing - which is actually a lovely thing to have ideas and want to turn them in to reality - so I’m not complaining.

As part of this work, I’ve also been trying to direct my patients to be more mindful, and take time for themselves when they feel their lives have been turned upside down. So I made a conscious effort today - to really soak up the sunshine - to be grateful for my outside space, and to be present in the moment of soaking up the gift today of blue skies and bright sunshine.

I read a quote the other day that said ‘Listen to the birds, not the news’ and my gosh I think we all need to do a bit more of that at the moment. In line with this thinking I discovered the Merlin App - which uses Sound ID to listen to the birds around you and shows real-time suggestions for which birds are singing. I’m not sure when I became this middle aged - but this kind of thing has somehow become my jam! and it’s really interesting.

So today, I took a break from my work and I took myself outside - no music, no scrolling, no distraction, just me, ‘Merlin’ and the sunshine.

I lay on the fresh grass, dotted with delicate daisies - the fresh scent of each blade felt like the true scent of spring. I feel the coolness of the earth below me. Giving me a sense of grounding as my body relaxes deeper into the ground of the garden below me. Fine streams of Clouds stretch across the blue sky like antique lace. Trails from the planes above, leave streaks of lasting memories across the sky - occasionally their engines overpower the bird song.

And oh my the birds were out in full force today and singing with joy.

Merlin identified several birds in my garden - many of the usual suspects - Robin, Blackbird, Wood Pigeon - but today I was also joined by Blue tits, Wrens, Chaffinches, Greenfinches, Goldfinches, Blackcaps, Dunnocks and Collared Doves - plus two birds I’d never even heard of - Linnet and a Black-bellied Plover.

I can’t see most of them - but I do catch the Robin pecking at some seeds, and I watch the Red Kite circling above, looking for pray, planning their next strike, intermittently letting out its screechy call.

I close my eyes, and feel the warmth of the sun on my face, drenched in warmth and comfort. The brightness of the sun rays pierce through my eye lids and I have to squint to open them.

Water is trickling in the pond next door, the gentle sound of it flowing and lapping water gives me a sense of calm. The pond is filled with brightly coloured orange and yellow fish in various different shapes and sizes. A weathered antique statue of a lady watches over them.

I notice the daffodils are dying back and making way for newly sprouting bluebells and forget-me-nots. A bed full of weeds suddenly becomes full of treasure, and the apple tree that overlooks it has new fresh sprouts that will be the prettiest blossom in a few weeks time.

Pastel yellow butterflies dance above me, and I see the pair of wood pigeons kiss each other upon the fence. The gentle buzz of the bees and the flies is constantly in the air, and I imagine them heading off to do their days work.

I’m grateful for this moment, this sunshine, and the buzz of life that surrounds me. I’m here, in this moment. I may be physically alone in this moment, but having described all that’s around me, I’m far from alone.

My cat Tiggy eventually tears herself out of bed and joins me on her favourite blanket on the grass. She rolls around, feeling the warmth of the sun on her fur coat, her pupils just tiny slits in the bright light. Luckily she’s too lazy now to chase birds, so we can enjoy their song together.

I really hope this means Spring is here to stay.

“Listen to the birds, not the news”

Every year on the 24th February, I am reminded on social media that it’s ‘Twin Peaks Day’. As per episode 1 of this American surrealist mystery drama, this was the day Laura Palmers body was found, and when we meet FBI Agent Dale Cooper (played by Kyle Maclachlan) for the first time, as he drives into Twin Peaks.

“Diane, it’s 11:30am on February 24th and I’m entering the town of Twin Peaks”

He proceeds to tell ‘Diane’ about the incredible smell of the Douglas Fir trees, and the Cherry Pie he just had for lunch, at the Lamplighter Inn on highway 2.

It’s when this scene pops up on social media, that I’m reminded of the nostalgia, and then often I’m prompted to start watching it again from the beginning (I’m now 7 episodes in, again!)

I guess you could say it’s my comfort show, along with Greys Anatomy. Just one of those things you can put on in the background - it’s easy, predictable, and doesn’t require my undivided attention, mainly because I’ve watched it 57 times before! – but somehow it still makes me happy.

I was still in Primary School when Twin Peaks first aired in the UK. God knows why I was even watching this, but we recorded every episode on the VHS as it aired on BB2 at 9pm on a Tuesday. Yes, I even remember that!

I thought Laura Palmer was beautiful and dreamed of being the homecoming queen or whatever the UK equivalent could have been! I clearly didn’t have the capacity to really understand that the character of Laura was far from the American high school girls I usually idolized from TV shows.

My girl crushes on the characters of Audrey Horne and Shelley Johnson still live on today. Two ferociously strong characters who made terrible decisions, but ultimately overcame a life of misery and pain, to go on to truly shine.

Some things I strangely still think about in relation to Twin Peaks:

• I longed for the girls who worked in my bakery to wear the uniforms they wore at the RR Diner.

• I never saw what Laura (or Donna for that matter) saw in James Hurley.

• I felt empathy towards Norma and Ed and their secret relationship. I was rooting for them.

• I wish Audrey ended up with John Justice Wheeler.

• I will never not find Cherry Pie and ‘damn fine’ coffee appealing.

• Audrey and ‘the cherry’ scene will forever be legendary.

David Lynch - what a legendary genius - sadly no longer with us. What a deeply complex brain to create the twisted worlds he did, a vortex of fascination and symbolism, finely blended with humour, amongst deep darkness and mystery.

I didn’t enjoy Fire Walk with me (absolutely didn’t work without the ‘real’ Donna either) and therefore I chose not to watch the new season that dropped in 2017 - so I won’t comment on either of those, sometimes when something is done, it’s done - even if it’s so brilliant that you just want more. Sometimes more is just not needed.

What Lynch created with Twin Peaks was truly unlike anything else. It was ground-breaking at the time, and still has a cult following today. Twin Peaks was considered a landmark turning point in television drama, and is often listed among the greatest television series of all time, but, as a Film Director - Lynch was initially apprehensive and uninterested in creating a TV drama series. He was initially approached with the brief of creating television that represented real life in small town America, inspired by his recent film Blue Velvet – where we gained insight into a criminal underworld, that existed within a seemingly idyllic town.

Alongside Mark Frost, Lynch created the narrative for the small town of Twin Peaks. Both had been inspired by 1957 film Peyton Place – which was also set in a fictional mill town. Underneath the façade, the town was actually exposed as rife with scandal, murder, suicide, incest, and moral hypocrisy.

The use of frequent symbolism and motifs, with repeated reinforcement throughout the narrative strengthens the identity and style of a unique television drama. Apparently this symbolism, and the direction it could take us, wasn’t always planned. Sometimes Lynch was just instantly inspired by something he saw in a single moment, and at times just because he liked the look – the flashing light at the morgue when Agent Coopers goes to see Laura’s body for the first time, in reality was a actually just a malfunctioning light on set. But Lynch liked something about the look of this, and the atmosphere it created, and he kept it in the scene. The symbolism of flashing lights is woven throughout the series, interconnecting the weird and the wonderful, and drawing us deeper into the story.

Interestingly Frank Silva who was cast as Bob – started out on the filming of the Pilot for Twin Peaks, as a ‘set dresser’, he was also a jobbing actor, but Lynch wasn’t initially aware of this, and he was not cast in the show. It is said that his reflection appeared in the mirror when recording a scene in Laura Palmer’s bedroom, which resulted in the scene needing to be re-shot. However, Lynch saw something in this imagery and opted to keep it in the scene and further develop it – and thus the concept of Bob was born, as Silva moved from set dresser to recurring character.

There’s something so inspiring about someone who has such clearly defined vision. Who has the ability to see something, and immediately knows it’s something they want to share creatively. I find Lynch so inspirational in that sense, despite the fact that you are constantly questioning where his ideas or concepts have come from, there is pure fascination for a creative mind as weird and wonderful as that of Lynch.

Twin Peaks has genuinely shaped aspects of my life, the people I connect with over it, and the even some of the things that inspire me. I’m deeply fascinated by small town America, and the rich stories of their inhabitants, for me, Twin Peaks fed into this desire and curiosity.

The musical score, written by composer Angelo Badalamenti, alongside Lynch, was mostly inspired by ‘Cool Jazz’, and a reflection of the moods and emotions Lynch wanted to evoke – the music was iconic, eerie, and instantly recognisable. It is alleged that it took them just 20 minutes to produce the signature theme tune for the series.

Audrey Horne was right – when she said that the music she played was ‘just too dreamy’.

The track that Bobby Briggs puts on the jukebox was the perfect accompaniment to his exit from the Diner where he says ‘I’ll see you in my dreams’.

And the dulcet tones of Julie Cruise singing about ‘the Nightingale’ when performing at the Roadhouse in a 1950s-style scarlet satin dress with accompanying lipstick in an identical shade. Many of the tracks had a hypnotic jazz style undertone which had the ability to just naturally drive you to click your fingers in accompaniment.

The show was full of strong female protagonists. Each on a journey, with their own demons, and seemingly very different, despite the commonality of their small town lives. For example, there was high flying glamourous business woman Josie Packard, who inherited a fortune from her late husband, who allegedly died in a tragic boating accident. She was a million miles away from fiery red-head Nadine, who lives on a gas station, wears and eye patch following her husband accidently shooting her in the eye, and is deeply obsessed with inventing the first silent drape runners.

There’s battered wives, high school sweethearts, secret sex workers, psychics, and even a lady who carries a log everywhere. It’s an eclectic mix of characters who cross paths, intertwine, and develop unexpected relationships. Twin Peaks is practically the holy grail of deeply brilliant and complex characters, each with fascinating (and at times bonkers) individual quirks .

All the commonly well-known stereotypical small-town favourites form the narrative – The Sheriff, The Mayor, The businessman and The Doctor, but Lynch couldn’t leave it there - because that would be boring. So, he throws in a Giant, a schizophrenic one-armed shoe salesman, a psychiatrist with a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, and a woman who disguises herself into a Japanese businessman for weeks, to scam her rival out of his land.

What’s incredible about Lynches character creation is his ability to make secondary and recurring characters just as memorable as the lead characters. Their quirks, secrets, and bizarre backstories create intriguing layers, creating a desire to uncover the dark layers that lie beneath the surface of these characters

These characters formed the narrative of a ‘style’ or ‘Genre’ that just can’t be defined, and was revolutionary. The eclectic blend of Murder mystery and soap opera melodrama, combined with surreal horror and deadpan comedy, meant constantly navigating absurd humour followed by genuine terror. You can be amused by characters one minute and then immediately feel deeply unsettled or horrified the next.

“She’s filled with secrets”

And secrets were at the heart of this fictional small town. This contributes to the mystery, but also allowed for Lynch to run multiple complex plotlines alongside each other, shrouded in mystery. This is reflective of Lynches style which is more ‘dreamlike’, favouring deep symbolism over clarity, clear explanations, or linear storytelling. In fact, you could say Twin Peaks actually raised more questions, than it provided answers.

That also makes Twin Peaks somewhat interpretive, and I guess that also makes it art. I may perceive a plotline or revelation in a completely different way to someone else watching the same scene, but I can’t help but think that Lynch probably wanted it that way. That’s where he thrives, somewhere within an alternate reality.

Just writing this makes me want to go and watch Twin Peaks even more.

So, I’m gonna go and watch episode 8….

Is Twin Peaks equally iconic for you? And who are your favourite characters?

Some TWIN PEAKS STUFF for your entertainment:

ISN’T IT TOO DREAMY? - Here

TWIN PEAKS INTRO - Here

AGENT COOPER - Here

BOBBY & THE JUKEBOX - Here

THE ROADHOUSE - Here

NADINE - Here

Part 1 HERE

I write this, as I lay beneath the living, breathing, hot water bottle that is Tiggy.

She always heads straight to my lap the moment I sit down, and today is no different. I lay trapped underneath her as she is lightly snoring and ever so slightly twitching as she dreams. Moving her is not an option - her mission will always be to hold me hostage for as long as possible.

In her ideal world - I’d never leave the house, and we would simply bed rot together for eternity.

In all fairness, I can’t really argue with her - I can’t deny that the prospect of bed rotting with this creature that I adore, sounds relatively appealing. Although I am allowed short-term release to replenish the ‘meaty pebbles’ that nourish her, and scoop her excretions out of the ‘magic sand box’

It’s a simple existence, and one I can only long for. She’s a low maintenance cat, as long as she has food and an endless supply of water (she’s a thirsty girl). Her days are mostly spent in dreamland as she trials multiple different locations around my king-size bed, but none of them are ever quite as good as a warm lap.

Three years ago she came to live with me, and I guess you could say my home is essentially the retirement village for her, having lived the days of her youth prowling the streets of north London. Now in her senior years, having swapped the urban life for the countryside, Tiggy had a 1:1 package of care from day one - delivered by yours truly.

But truth be told, Tiggy has taught me some of my most valuable lessons about patience, gratitude, compromise, and quite simply and unashamedly, about true love.

Some might say she is spoilt, but when you love a creature whose life is so fragile because you know after 15 years that her days are numbered, why shouldn’t I spoil her? Why shouldn’t I make every moment of her precious little life as special as I can for her.

Because, you see, I owe her that. I could never repay her for what she has given me in three short years. She will never know how she changed me, protected me and truly, just utterly stole my heart.

I know I sound like the crazy cat lady that I undoubtedly am. I know I fit perfectly into every stereotypical box ever created for a single, childless woman in her forties. So surely the only real surprise here is that I have only one cat!

I can honestly say I’m happily single, I’m fiercely independent and have likely now simply forgotten how to accommodate another person’s needs within the four walls of my home. I’m not burdened with loneliness or longing for anything I don’t have. I don’t have a cat to fill a void in my life, but she sure as hell fills my heart with love, pride and respect.

I have a cat because I’ve always had a cat. I was born into a home with a cat, and I knew early in life I’d probably never be without a cat. There would be more of a void without a cat in my home than there ever would be without a man - and that ladies and gentlemen, is likely the most ‘crazy cat lady’ statement I could ever make! I promise I’m not a man hater - I’m just not searching, and I’m definitely not waiting.

I respectfully share my home with this animal. She is my priority and where I go, she goes.

Her fur annoyingly resides on every one of my personal belongings, and she always rubs herself across my black tights just when I’m leaving the house for work. The tiny rocks that get kicked out of the litter tray cause me to endlessly be sweeping, and her immediate urge to immediately lay on any book or paperwork I sit down to read has become predictable.

And these things drive me mad. But I only let them enter my mind for a split second, because I genuinely treasure every moment with her, as I know one day I will miss all these things when she is no longer here.

And I live in fear of that day. Every day I feel it, and sometimes I am choked by the fear.

So she can do whatever she wants, because life is short, and moments are precious, and we never know when those moments may disintegrate into nothingness forever.

In that sense, Tiggy is my reminder to use the special china, light the expensive candle, spend the voucher. She reminds me not to wait - but instead to enjoy and cherish, to savour all of the precious moments and drink them all up until you are gloriously drunk.

So, I spend my days with her on my lap or keeping my feet warm as she lays in a croissant like position at the foot of my bed. I adapt for her, lay uncomfortably for her and respond to her demands, because I value our precious moment, but more so because I love having her by my side.

She has become my best friend.

The translation for ‘pet’ in French is ‘Animal de compagnie’ and this is the perfect description of my Tiggy and those just like her. She is the animal that provides me with true companionship.

We are unable to communicate with each other, but we need no words to know what each other needs in any given moment, and require no words to experience love. I guess some souls can just understand each other, even in silence. Her trusting in me, and feeling safe and protected with me is something I value and something I take great responsibility for.

She is my heart healer. She taught me how to love and experience love, when I thought my heart had closed forever, whilst I recovered from life’s destruction that had resulted in heartbreak.

When Tiggy came to live with me, she softened the blow of watching my sister go to live half way accross the world. The blow of knowing life in relation to my sibling would never look the same again, that we would have to navigate a ‘long distance relationship’ and the familiarity of our relationship would inevitably change.

But somehow Tiggy now connects us on a deeper level - it’s a love, a bond, and an understanding of this precious animal that we both deeply comprehend - she is always a part of our conversations. Whilst Tiggy is a significant chapter in both of our lives, that we are lucky enough to share in common - collectively, my sister and I are the entirety of the book for Tiggy.

So, she really is the cat that saved me. She has helped me accept my losses, offered me companionship, and comfort in my darkest times. Our equal need for routine and habit allows us to exist together harmoniously, and our love requires no words, and no bounds.

Whilst many other single women with a disposable income likely wish for designer handbags, nice cars and holidays in 5 star hotels - my only honest wish would be for my precious cat to live forever.

Tiggy came to live with me in March 2023, as my sister was heading on an adventure to Vietnam that held the prospect of some level of permanence (she’s still there!)

But Tiggy came into our lives long before that. A delightful little white breasted tabby cat, with snow white paws and a white tip at the end of her tail, that looked as though it had been lightly dipped into a paint pot.

She was a birthday present to my nephew when he was adorably diddy, with a head full of sun-kissed blond curls, and about 6 years old. He had longed for a kitten and his dream came true when one of the mums at school was giving away her kittens.

My nephew will be 22 this year!

A year into her life, Tiggy delivered a litter of kittens. My sister wanted her boys to experience this before getting her neutered, and they came home from school to find four little kittens had just born in the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers that my sister and I had in our bedrooms as children.

It was inconvenient planning on Tiggys part – as the family were off to France on their planned holiday, so Auntie Zoe (that’s me) stepped in to feed her and the kittens, sharing the load with the neighbour. However, the help was short lived as new mummy Tiggy lost her mind a little bit and became very protective and in turn aggressive over her babies. She turned on the neighbour several times, launching at her from the top of the stairs, making it increasingly difficult for her to continue visiting.

For some reason Tiggy didn’t behave the same way with me. She seemed to trust me, and didn’t show any aggression to me - which meant I had to solely take on the visits for the rest of their holiday. At the time we put it down to the fact that she had known me since she was a kitten and perhaps just trusted me, and felt safer with me as a result.

Knowing the relationship that I have with Tiggy now, as I reflect on that level of trust she had with me very early on, somehow that makes me love her even more. It shows we had some kind of bond even back then, which I don’t think about really, because she was never ‘my’ cat.

Once they were old enough, the kittens went off to live in new homes. One of my sister’s best friends still has two of Tiggy’s offspring.

However, one stayed behind. My nephew was overjoyed to get to relive the kitten experience again, and named the remaining kitten ‘Summer’.

Despite how protective Tiggy had been over her kittens, she became very nonchalant when it came to Summer. In fact, the way she behaved you wouldn’t have thought she liked her very much at all, oh who am I kidding, she could barely tolerate her at all. She would growl and lash out at Summer – when all she had done was simply walk past. She didn’t really want to be near her at all.

As a result, Summer was crippled with anxiety her entire life. She lived in a constant state of high alert and did her best to try and stay out of Tiggy’s way. As a troubled child may wet the bed, Summer did just this - but all over the house and this then resulted in her quite literally pissing off all the humans too, meaning Summer’s fans were few and far between, which only further fuelled her anxiety.

Whilst Summer was always affectionate to me, she was never relaxed.

When my sister first started flirting with the idea of moving to Vietnam, she had often hoped I would take the cats. Truthfully, I wasn’t keen. Summer was the anxious cat who urinated in unexpected places, and Tiggy was grumpy, standoffish and lashed out. Summer sought comfort on laps – and I welcomed her onto my lap, selfishly in the name of ‘cat therapy’ for myself – which some days I truly need. Tiggy would watch her climb onto my lap with utter contempt, but she never tried to take the spot and instead she would rather sit in the next room alone and look at you as though you were nothing but an inconvenience whenever you dared to enter the room.

I’ve had cats most of my life, and I had spent the longest time cat free because, having been burnt before, I was terrified of the commitment, and the inevitable loss. The last cat I had was shared with a flat mate. Our friendship didn’t end well, resulting in me having nowhere to live, being only 6 months into my nursing degree. I had to leave the cat behind. Months later she gave him away and I found that hard to bear.

Then two years into my training, the boyfriend I was living with left our home - leaving me to cover the rent and all the bills as a student nurse with no income, other than the few bank HCA shifts that I could pick up around my 12-hour shifts on placement, alongside doing all my assignments. I couldn’t have afforded a pet at that time, but the situation I found myself in so suddenly just made me realise I couldn’t commit to an animal until I had got my life together and was working and genuinely felt both financially and independently stable.

Because I knew that I would never be able to give a cat away.

But in all honestly I longed deeply for a cat.

My landlord had never been keen on me getting a cat – but after me being in the house for 6 years, and being a cat lover himself, he suddenly changed his tune and actually then encouraged me to get a cat.

All around the same time that Tiggy and Summer were suddenly in need of a new fixed abode!

Sadly, Summer didn’t make it to a new home.

It was the weekend before Christmas and I had bought my sister some little presents for Christmas, as I didn’t know what future Christmases would look like for her, as we were packing up her house and putting everything into storage so that she could go to Vietnam, and consider starting a life there.

As we shared that moment of joy in candlelight. Summer suddenly died, right there with us.

That’s a whole other story within itself, and honestly it still breaks my heart now just to think about it. I’ve never ever seen my sister as sad and broken as she was in that moment and it makes me well up just to imagine it. (Sorry Xanthe if you’re reading this too and remembering how awful that moment was)

Whilst the loss of Summer on the weekend before Christmas was devastating and deeply impactful. Perhaps something that was more impactful was the transformation of Tiggy following the death of her daughter. Something changed in her on a deeper level - somehow, she was free - somehow, she was now getting the attention she clearly craved. There were no signs she pined for Summer at all, I’m not sure she even missed her one bit.

Suddenly she wanted to sit on my lap, she wanted to be in the same room, she was more relaxed, and she showed more affection.

She was a completely different cat. She still did things on her own terms, and she still had her grumpy moments, but somehow, she just softened.

Three months later, we bundled a reluctant and growling Tiggy into her carrier to embark on the hour-long car journey to Buckinghamshire, where she would stay, with me, for the next 3 months, but possibly longer. She cried in the carrier, cowering in the corner as though we were inflicting great punishment on her. My sister stayed with us the first night in the hope that it would help her settle better, and we bought her blankets so she would feel more at home.

And that’s the story of how Tiggy came to live with me at Cosy Cottage.

I could say the rest is history, but I wont….

Instead, I’ll tell you about that next week…….

There was a lot on social media in January of people looking back at 2016. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, as reflecting back on 2016 ten years later, it really was a big year for me.

2016 was a year filled with closure, change and transition. You could say, I somehow lost myself and found myself all in that same year.

A decade later in 2026 – this year my beloved bakery will have been closed longer than it was open, and for some reason that makes you reflect on the loss even more.

2016 was the year bake-a-boo closed.

A little piece of my heart closed with it, and life started to look very different. Much of that year was spent wondering - who would I be without being ‘Zoe bake-a-boo’? I wonder if I knew all I have experienced in the decade that has followed, whether I would still feel as apprehensive as I did.

May 2016, we closed the doors with a nautical themed party as we acknowledged that this ship was now going to sail. I handed back the keys in June and went on a writing retreat which has a profound impact on me, and allowed me to connect with something deeper within myself and feel braver about my next steps.

In September 2016 I started my nursing degree. Many thought I was mad for doing this, but many others said they can’t believe I hadn’t considered it sooner.

Having spent the last decade of my life tied to a building, navigating my way through life as a ‘business woman’ – I had applied to 4 universities via UCAS. A very different process to when I last applied for university at age 17/18, with help and support from my head of year, as well as going down the same route as my peers who were mostly all making similar applications.

At 34 this application was very different, my peers now were married and raising children, finding ways to make their own careers more manageable around family life, or aiming for higher profile positions as they have become older and wiser in their professions. I was very alone, and also knew I would likely be one of the oldest in my class (it turned out I wasn’t though!).

I didn’t feel the same pressure as I had as a teenager – where you feel your life depends on where you end up, and how well you do at university, when actually at 17 how can you really know what or who you want to be? I realised the immense pressure of these decisions when adult life is really just beginning. I also recognised how different my experience would have been if I had chosen a nursing degree at 18.

“How will you go from being the boss, to being right at the bottom of the ladder? Because that’s what you will be as a student nurse”

This was one of my university interview questions.

I think I was honest in my response, that being ‘the boss’ wasn’t the be all and end all for me. In fact I had left my business behind feeling sick of being the one holding it all together, and being the ‘mother’ that I never got to be in my personal life, which basically just meant I had to solve all the problems and allow the buck to stop with me. As a single woman, also not in any kind of business ‘partnership’ - I didn’t even have the person to rant to, or offload when I got home. Whilst I knew in my heart I’d be a dedicated nurse, I was actually looking forward to someone else being in charge.

Strangely the office politics, the break room gossip and the comradery that nursing provides, is something I deeply craved. Having spent the last decade tied to a building that I had total control over, where I worked more hours than anyone else, and spent the large majority of my days in a basement kitchen with only a tiny window. Yes I had staff, but I missed colleagues, and Christmas parties and meetings and annual leave! These are privileges I was never entitled to.

My current boss will vouch for the fact that I’m the worst person for taking annual leave. To me, it still doesn’t feel quite like ‘the norm’ for me, it’s a privilege, and 10 years on I’m still not quite there yet with the concept that my employer is willing to pay me to go on holiday or just take a day to myself.

This was just unheard of in my previous life.

So when my interviewer asked me that question in 2016, if I could have shown him then what my future would look like, I genuinely think he will be proud.

I went into nursing with no arrogance, I knew I was oblivious and absolutely out of my depth! But I had the passion and drive I had had to indoctrinate in order to successfully run my business. I didn’t chose the easy option. I was entering an entirely different experience, and I had no idea if I had the strength courage or wisdom to really see it through.

I think what 2016 offered me was the chance to take a risk, but also for the first time in my life, I didn’t put any pressure on myself. I knew I was potentially out of my depth. I knew that in week one someone might vomit on my shoe and in true princess style, I may come to the immediate conclusion that I was not made to be a nurse and this profession was most definitely not for me.

In contrast what 2016 offered me actually, was empowerment and choice and a freedom that I had never really known before. If I get through this nursing degree and nursing is something I want to pursue, I know I can work in multiple places all over the world, and the chances are, I will likely always have a job, even if it’s not the perfect job, I will be able to seek employment.

10 years ago, I made the hardest decision of my life, I faced my future with bravery and didn’t quite know if I could trust myself or if I would succeed. But I went for it regardless.

So what 2016 actually gave me was the confidence to start over, to pursue something that’s scary and unknown. To follow a dream, even if it’s just a niggle. To not fear things ending, to recognise that every ending is also a beginning. To dive into the unconventional, to follow your calling, and to be fearless until the universe gives you a reason to become fearful.

You can take the plunge, take the risk, explore the unknown.

You can trust the process, go with the flow, and find a version of you that you didn’t know existed.

You can do hard things, succeed amongst the unknown, and it never really has to feel like it’s ‘too late’ - you really can turn that on it’s head.

Whilst I finished my degree in 2019, and now in 2026 I can look back proudly on my somewhat short, but nevertheless intense nursing career – 2016 was the pivotal point. The brave leap, the deep end, the year where I could have been faced with the huge realisation that I’d made a huge mistake.

In contrast - the last 4 months of 2016 showed me that I had made the right decision, that I could do this, that I wasn’t as crazy as some has said I was for making this 2016 choice.

2016 marked some level of re-birth for me.

A chance, an opportunity, a freedom, a more meaningful life.

Ultimately the biggest gift of 2016 was the belief that I really can do anything, if I really want to and I really believe in myself. To find transferrable skills that can take you from being a baker and business woman, to being a nurse. To open your horizons. To swap cookies for commodes, and icing for intensive care. How do you even navigate that?

But 10 years on - I sit here, writing this as a nurse from the September 16 cohort at Buckinghamshire New University who achieved a first class honours, and went on to have a successful nursing career in the decade that has followed. As a clinical nurse specialist now, my background continues to serve me in a highly contrasting setting.

And I will never be the disengaged nurse at the nursing station, dreaming of their bakery dreams and all they think they can achieve as the ‘business woman’ they dream of being. Because I have been her, I have seen her and lived her. She was brave, she believed, and she achieved. But ‘nursing me’ is braver, more determined, strives to be better and kinder and make more of a difference. ‘Nursing me’ sees the fragility of life and doesn’t sweat the small stuff, and the stressful and even life and death moments that I encounter now, strangely don’t make me feel the stress and anxiety that 4pm on a Saturday afternoon in my busy tea room ever gave me.

I went from being the boss, to the bottom of the ladder, just like my interviewer told me. And then I climbed the ladder, but I did so with caution, patience, and grace and determination and I thank 2016 me for allowing me to take that risk, make the promises I did to myself, and for persevering.

I have grown, and faced hardships and challenges. I will always have self doubt as a nurse, but I will always give it my all.

And I will eventually get to a point where I get better at taking my annual leave.

I think Valentine’s Day has extensive positive possibility, regardless of your relationship status. Realise it or not, it has the potential to give us all something to celebrate after trudging through the depths of winter. Regardless of the love involved, or the love lost, you can absolutely take advantage of it to celebrate the end of January, and the incoming prospect of Spring inching it’s way closer.

Valentines was always my favourite occasion when I had a bakery. I loved decorating the shop with heart bunting, gorgeous flowers everywhere, and adding delicious treats to the display. Red velvet cake with crystalised rose petals, heart shaped brownies dusted in glitter and jam tarts oozing with strawberry jam. But most of all I loved the people who came in to buy and hearing their stories. Carefully selecting cakes and sweets for their sweet, the newly loved up, and the long standing relationship veterans. It helped that we had a beautiful florist two doors down (shout out to my old muckers at Achillea) so it worked well as a one stop shop.

I have fond memories of the Valentine’s that I worked.

(Below is me and my gorgeous friend Vanessa when we did a Valentine’s photo shoot with my sister for bake-a-boo)

I had dinner with a single friend on Friday, and it definitely wasn’t anything even remotely resembling a pity party, in fact we were celebrating her recent success at work. But as we watched other couples around us, I genuinely couldn’t remember a Valentines where I haven’t been disappointed when I have had someone in my life.

As I spend another year without a Valentine, I can honestly say I’m not disappointed by that at all. I spent the day soaking up the rare blast of sunshine we were gifted, and that was the best gift I could have received in all honesty. I took a trip to the beauty therapist for some pampering (Thank you Katie) and bought myself my favourite chocolate, cherry and pecan brownie from my local farm shop.

No flowers, no chocolates, no gushing messages, and the postman didn’t even stop by.

But I was not disappointed.

Last year I told THIS story of how my dad used to send me a Valentine’s card every year, and prominently, I went to register his death on Valentine’s Day 2025. The last few years of his life and the absence of his cards were another confirmation that I was losing my dad before my eyes. He just simply forgot one year and never remembered again.

I signed his life away on Valentine’s Day, and now he will exist in a registry forever.

His Valentine card was the one true consistency of Valentine’s, and he never let me down, until he was no longer able. Regardless of the current relationship status, the heartbreak, the ‘wronguns’ – I could always rely on a card from dad landing on the doormat on Valentine’s day.

I will never be able to rely on that again, and I guess that does give me a momentary reflection of sadness.

But I will not let this disappoint me.

With Valentine’s behind us, it just means we are a step closer to Spring – to lighter days and hopefully less rain! This time of year marks a shift in nature, and the survival of those who have made it through icy nights and darker days. By the end of February we will have two extra hours of daylight, birds and frogs will emerge from hibernation ready to gate-crash our ponds for breeding season. Snow drops and crocuses are absolutely having their moment right now, and let’s not forget it’s also pancake day this week!

I also read this week that February 2026 is numerically special and described as ‘the perfect month’ because there are four of each day of the week and this is an alignment that only happens every 823 years. Making it a month of balance, closure and powerful manifestation energy.

February 17^th is not just pancake day – it is also the Lunar New Year, and the start of the year of the horse. I’m sorry if I’ve gone on about this a lot – but I am finding the concept so fascinating and equally inspiring. It’s giving me hope – and the way the world feels right now, I think we all need to experience and embrace hope.

My sister is in Vietnam, and Tet Nguyen Dan (Tet) is the most important and widely celebrated public festival of the year in Vietnam. Tet in Vietnam is magical, and I’ve been enjoying watching my sister (from a large distance) soak it all up and share the lead up with me - the vibrant and colourful streets, lined with flowers and floral displays. With the incoming year being the year of the horse – this last week, she has gifted me every day with a photo of something horse related, spotted on her travels as she has gone about her daily life in Vietnam.

But this years horse - is not just any horse – this year, the solar eclipse ushers in the Fire Horse – the horse being the zodiac sign and the fire being the element. The ‘Fire Horse year’ only comes around once every 60 years. The last Fire Horse year therefore was 1966 – and interestingly, this was a year of revolution and cultural shift.

I’m pretty sure I wont be alive to see another Fire Horse year – so I’m making the most of this one. The Fire Horse knows what she wants and goes after it. She doesn’t second guess herself, apologise for her contribution and her desires and she doesn’t shrink to make others feel comfortable or important.

The Fire Horse is bold, independent, determined, unstoppable and magnetic. Paving the way for bold moves and forward momentum. How can you not find that concept inspiring to lift us out of the darkness of winter and the closing chapter of a difficult outgoing year.

So really today is the last day of our year of shedding, a chapter is closing and it’s now time for transformation – whatever that looks like for you.

The energy is returning – spring is coming – are you ready to ride?

Please find part 1 HERE

It was only once we settled into our cabin on the ship that Mum and I realised that we had both forgotten our travel adapter plugs. As it was Christmas Eve there was no chance of sourcing one for the next 48 hours at least, and the ship didn’t seem to have one in amongst a large box full of travel plugs from all over the world.

Cue a small meltdown - in realising access will now be denied not only to the hair straighteners (yes, sorry, I’m that girl, but it’s more for the curl than the straight) but also to my laptop (It’s old and now requires a plug socket at all times in order to function!).

Onboard the ship we were outnumbered by Americans and Canadians, and we had no (ship) ‘mates’ at this point, so the likelihood of even ‘borrowing’ a UK adapter plug was slim to none.

As we walked out into the lounge to get a cup of tea, we passed a younger lady sat with an elderly man. They both looked up and smiled at us, saying ‘hello, how are you doing today?’.

Mum immediately picked up on the accent.

‘Did I hear a British accent there?’ she asked the man.

‘Yes Pet’, he replies, ‘I’m from Newcastle, and where are you two lovely ladies from?’

Mum replies. ‘Well, we’re from London…’

He interrupts “Oh very posh” he says.

‘Well, now I live in Kent’ she tells him.

‘Oh that’s even more posh then’ he says with a cheeky wink.

Mum sees an opportunity.

‘You don’t happen to have a UK travel plug with you, do you?’ She asks.

He doesn’t hear what she said. ‘Huh?’ he asks, looking confused.

I nudge her, as if to say ‘shh’. Even if he does have a plug, we don’t even know him, how are we going to navigate ‘borrowing’ his plug?

She starts trying to further explain. He still doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

The American lady contributes and reaffirms that the shops will be closed for the next couple of days, but she will definitely look out for anything when she is out and about.

We continue the polite conversation.

‘Are you travelling together?’ I ask.

‘Oh no’ She says, ‘We just met! Didn’t we Michael?’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Amy, I’m from Florida, in the US.’ She smiles, squinting her eyes. ‘And I just met Michael, and he’s travelling alone.’ She directs her smile at him, slightly tilting her head, in a somewhat sympathetic way.

‘Aye man, I lost me wife 3 month ago’ he slightly bows his head.

‘We’ve been on so many cruises together, big ships, small ships, you name it, we’ve been there.’

My mind hasn’t caught up yet, I’m still absorbing the ‘I lost my wife 3 months ago’ part.

‘Have you ever been to Thailand?’ He asks.

He pulls me from my momentary reflective state with his enthusiasm.

‘We’ve been 18 times’ he says, ‘We love it there’

He proceeds to tell us all about all of his favourite places in Thailand and all the wonderful friends he and his wife made on their travels there.

‘This cruise is something we always said we wanted to do, so I had to do it, even though it’s meant I’m having to do it without her.’

And there it was - the stab in the heart, the piercing of the glass vial of overflowing empathy I have to try my best to protect.

There was a vulnerability in Michael that shone like a beacon to me, but there he was before me now, trying his best to perform - to keep talking and not let the thoughts or the tears push through. Just keep talking.

And that’s when I first met Michael….

Michael is 87, and he touched a soft spot in me instantly.

I just can’t bare this very scenario. To grow old with someone, spanning decades. Going through life’s twists and turns, maintaining a deep sense of devotion and loyalty. To wake up every day to the same face, the same routine. Your most entrusted person.

And then suddenly you are alone.

Someone will always go first.

Someone will always be left behind.

Someone will be alone.

Someone will be lost.

Someone will have to exist now as someone else.

I soon realised by the end of that very evening that Michael was doing pretty ok with ‘existing as someone else’. I could hear him approaching, because he was always chatting, and he seems to have very quickly made a lot of friends on board.

By the end of the week, I’d say pretty much everybody knew Michael.

“You ok Michael?” someone would ask as he walked past.

“Canny” he would reply.

When we were having dinner that evening, I heard an American family talking about how they had never heard that expression before - “Canny?” she says to her group, “What does that even mean?”, only for the only other Brits on board (a couple from Essex) to pipe up and tell them that ‘it means he’s good”.

On Christmas night, we are having some drinks in the lounge with the solo travellers, and I noticed Michael is sat on the sofa behind me, with a few other couples and they are all chatting away.

From the corner of my eye, I see he gets up to go to the bar, he pats me on the shoulder and says hello.

“Hi Michael, Merry Christmas, are you ok? I ask.

“Ah Canny Lass” he replies. He turns and orders himself a gin and tonic at the bar.

Some time later, I turn to see all the couples have left and Michael is now sat on his own, clutching the last of his high ball glass of gin and tonic and staring out of the window into the darkness of our moving ship.

I excuse myself from the table and go and sit next to Michael.

“Hiya Pet, have you had a lovely Christmas?’ He asks, turning to me with slightly glazed eyes.

“Yes thank you Michael, have you had a good day?” I ask.

“Aye, everyone’s been so kind to me, they’ve all looked after me today, it’s been a lovely day. They’ve all gone to bed now”

“What made you come over here?” He asked.

“I saw you sitting on your own, and I didn’t want you sitting on your own on Christmas night” I said.

He pats the cushion between us.

“Aww that’s very sweet of you pet.”

“I know it must feel strange this first Christmas without your wife.”

“Yes, but she would have wanted me to do something we wished we had done together, rather than be at home moping, so I’m doing it for her.” He tells me.

“I think she’d be very proud of you Michael”

He looked at me proudly, and then proceeded to tell me stories about his wife and their extensive travels and adventures together.

Amongst the storytelling, I found myself suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe it was induced by the wine at dinner… or the prosecco…. or the ‘sip and sail’ cocktail… or possibly even the schnapps shot we were giving on deck as we set sail? But I felt overwhelmed with emotion.

To imagine 60 years of someone, every day, by your side, doing this thing called life.

And then you have to do life alone.

To navigate the loss, the loneliness, the likelihood that you will remain alone.

60 years of loving, compromising, sharing.

And now the rest of your life finding your new normal.

Without them.

Do you embrace the things they love and experience them on their behalf, or do you shy away from the reminders and the memories, simply because they are too painful?

Michael chose to experience it on their behalf.

He chose to be brave and go it alone.

For her, for him, for them - and for their legacy.

He chose life, and living, and freedom.

He chose to be alone and without his family on Christmas Day.

Instead, he chose to experience life, see the world, and find adventure somewhere new.

“Oh sorry dear, have I made you emotional?” Michael intuitively asks me as I look back at him with my watering blue eyes.

“No don’t be silly” I say, wiping the single tear away with the sleeve of my Christmas jumper. “I just feel for you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

He smiles.

“Merry Christmas Michael.” I say.

He gently taps me on the knee. “Thank you for coming to sit with me” He says looking at me gratefully. “You’re a lovely girl, and I see you looking after your mum too.” He winks. “Merry Christmas to you too pet, I’m going to get myself to bed now.”

“Night Michael” I say, as I watch him shuffle off to the lift to his cabin.

I saw Michael most days on the trip, he always stopped to say hello or tell me something interesting about his day. Our chats were mostly brief because Michael literally made friends with everyone on the ship, and he was always with someone.

I just felt genuinely proud of this stranger from Newcastle living his best 87-year-old life, navigating grief and loss, being away from all his family, but maintaining all his independence, and making friends with people from all over the world.

The day we disembarked the ship, I was stood next to Michael at reception waiting. It was just he and I. I asked him what was on the cards for him when he got home. He told me he was having a ‘little procedure’ next week and he was a bit worried about it all. I’m not sure what I said back to him in response, but something made him tilt his head and say, “Are you a nurse?”

“Yes” I replied. “How did you know that?”

“Don’t know” He said, “I just knew you were a nurse, just something about you.”

Meeting Michael definitely touched me, it’s not something I can really explain. I just found him endearing, I found is story fascinating, I found his bravery and confidence immensely admirable.

He showed me we can do anything we want, and we can go it alone, and we can find joy – alone. We can make friends, and laugh, and experience goodness in the world again, even after our greatest losses.

We can be whole, even without an ‘other half’.

We can do hard things.

We can have our own dreams and dedicate ourselves to chasing them.

As long as you can get there – just get there.

Michael, wherever you are and whatever you’re up to, I hope you’re ‘Canny’

With love, from your ship mate.

Your friend.

The nurse.

I had promised to tell you about Michael this week.

But I’m pushing Michael back another week. Because I needed to write something else this weekend that was just occupying my mind too much for me to write about something else.

So I hope you’ll come back next week, so I can tell you about Michael.

I live alone, but every Sunday I make a roast, I even have a summer roast variation.

I make enough veg just for me, then me and the cat eat the chicken during the week, and then I make bone broth with whatever is left.

So, you see, making a Sunday roast, just for one is actually perfectly reasonable.

Yesterday morning, I prepped the veg for my roast and simultaneously made some vegetable soup for the next couple of lunches. As I watched the curled peel of potato skin drop into my bubbling pot for vegetable stock, I felt a sense of Deja vu.

As I say, I do this routine pretty much every Sunday, of course it feels familiar? But then it hit me that on this exact Sunday last year I had performed this routine with great precision and well ahead of schedule. For no other reason than I had woken early and had a productive morning.

I’d also changed the bedding, hoovered and put a wash on.

As I took my phone off charge, I looked down to see a message from Mum.

“He’s gone. I was just with him, but now he’s gone.”

I don’t think I really read the rest. I knew it meant something, but I also didn’t know what it meant.

But I knew it meant something.

I FaceTimed her, and she was sobbing.

It did mean something.

On Sunday 2^nd February 2025, my dad died suddenly. One minute there and the next minute gone - in the chair in the care home where he had been living for just over two months. My mum had been with him moments before he became unresponsive. As she put the key in the door to return home she got the call.

“He’s gone.”

There’s so much more I could say about this day, but I’ll save that for my Dementia Diaries, which one day I will get round to editing and sharing.

But the one thing I will say today, when I feel it the most strongly, as I come face to face with this day again, after another trip round the sun.

This day changed me. Forever.

In the most profound, intricate and visceral of ways.

It it the strangest sensation, where there is both burden in the pressure of the weight you have carried and the load you have shed.

The last time I saw my dad alive was on Boxing Day 2024, so six weeks before he died, but he had Facetimed me following this visit. I work full time and he is 2.5hrs drive away from where I live and I didn’t know when I would next be able to visit, so I tried to spend some time alone with him that day. I actually got him on a good day and he was patient and pleasant (mostly!) and he showed some level of affection toward me. This was in great contrast to the day before when my mum and I had gone to see him on Christmas Day and he was incredibly horrible and difficult to us both, and then put his head down on the table and fell asleep.

We knew this would come, but we also never saw this coming.

I saw him for the last time on Sunday 2^nd February 2025, after the life had left his body, and two men stood outside with a trolley and a burgundy cloak waiting to take him away.

He felt warm, and none of it felt real.

I found myself strangely gesturing a pat on his lifeless shoulder – as if to say, what a bloody shame you just couldn’t see the joy in life and made yourself happier. What if everything just wasn’t so difficult all the time, because you saw it all differently? How much happier you could have been Dad.

He dreaded the prospect of being weak and feeble, he never could face his decline. He never believed ‘these things’ would happen to him. He offered no flexibility or adaptability and lay stubbornly within ‘his ways’, until he was ready to attempt to discreetly distance himself from ‘said belief’, never to be mentioned again as this was now erased from all existence in his mind.

Somewhere within that shoulder pat, I felt a deep sadness for him that he never experienced that feeling of true freedom from anger and frustration and regret, and now he never will. He perhaps didn’t deserve my sadness, but I felt it, nevertheless.

I think this is the feeling that still continues to tug on my heart strings every time I think of my dad. The sadness that he never had the openness to allow himself to experience real joy and happiness, and sadly that meant he inflicted that on most others around him too.

It feels like a year that has gone very quickly and it all still feels so fresh. For something that I can state as having ‘changed me, forever’ – I can’t say I’ve really changed too much in the last year. I think a lot of the last year has been about loss, shedding and stillness. I truly felt the stagnancy of the last year, time stood still to enable me and my family to roll with the punches.

Whilst losing my dad will likely be one of my most significant losses that I will experience in my lifetime. I cannot deny I have also gained from this loss.

I gained personal and professional perspective.

I gained strengthened relations with other members of my family.

I gained a deeper understanding of my own family dynamics and the ability to speak freely.

I gained the freedom to be unapologetically myself for perhaps the first time in my life, without judgement or consequence.

From a professional perspective in relation to my role as a palliative care nurse, this experience has given me a deeper understanding, and a more empathetic perspective.

Because my role generally ends when someone has died, I never had the opportunity to experience and understand the level of ‘death admin’ each individual requires, how funerals are planned, how grief is navigated within the complex families I have supported up to the point of the death of their loved one. I didn’t even really know how to go about getting the death certificate, and how many people will require an original copy! My dad’s death was also referred to the coroner due to the sudden nature and this added further complications to the already complex and highly emotive time after the loss of a loved one.

The death of my dad will make me a better clinician, it will allow me a richer insight, and I hope this will feel apparent to my patients and their families, so I can better support them.

Initially, my dad never really understood my choice to become a nurse. But I can genuinely say I know he was proud of what I achieved in my nursing career in the end. He made this known to me, which wasn’t like him. I know he was proud of me for getting a second degree in my 30’s and getting through those 3 years when I faced some great problems in my personal life alongside juggling studying, placements and working as as bank HCA to pay my rent!

I do know he was proud of that. Even when he couldn’t really remember.

I started off saying that I haven’t really changed much in the last year, and that the time that has passed feels quite stagnant, but the more I actually think about it, perspective, understanding, acceptance and professional development are actually huge positive changes.

I read somewhere that yesterday 1^st February – known as Imbolc – is the start of Celtic Spring.

Imbolc is the midpoint between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Representing renewal, purification and hope, as Winter begins to loosen it’s grip.

A grip was loosened deep within my soul that day last year. Sadly, my dad dying on or around Imbolc did symbolically mean that without the harshness of his ‘wintery’ nature, roots could be established and new growth could flourish and bloom.

And that’s where I am at – one year on. Strengthening my roots, standing tall, allowing myself to bloom and to thrive without the harshness of winter or those who make us feel oppressed.

Free from judgement, richer in perspective, stronger in my bones and my character.

I am only ever more determined to see and feel the things he never would have appreciated.

A year on.

I still think about him every day.

I still feel angry with him most days.

My family feels stronger and more connected without him here.

I often battle with the guilt of favouring the freedom.

I survived a lot last year.

Sunday 2^nd February 2025 changed me, forever.

I was lucky enough to go away for Christmas this year. A special treat for my mum and I, after a very difficult 2025.

Whilst I was immersed in a beautiful river cruise, surrounded by culture and extraordinary architecture in the beautiful places we visited in Europe, I must admit that I also found great inspiration in some of my fellow travellers.

It’s only natural that when you’re in a setting like this, and a confined space for a week, that you will meet others and share your experiences with strangers. Some you will forget, some you will never see again. Some you will remember for years to come and some you may even stay in touch with - some may even become friends.

You cross paths daily over the week onboard and faces become familiar, that polite greeting becomes more enthusiastic as you pass in the corridor yet again. You learn which cabin belongs to who, and you start to notice people gravitate towards the same table each night at dinner, and chose the same breakfast each morning.

You quickly learn who the dominant characters are on board. You eavesdrop on conversations, just to learn more interesting facts about your shipmates. You try to work out how people are related, and you notice dynamics within families. Oh and there is absolutely a ‘rumour mill’ onboard, and I find it amazing that this can be established in such a short space of time. You actually do hear gossip about people, have strange stories repeated, with no intention, you end up sharing information with others about people you have spoken to. There was also a sickness bug onboard and there was lots of whispering about who had been sick.

Travel anxiety is a big thing for me. I don’t necessarily know where that comes from, but it’s definitely worsened as I’ve got older, rather than improving, as you may expect. I could give you a long list of ways this impacts me, but that’s not what this post was intended for. I’d rather tell you how this trip gave me a slightly different perspective.

I wrote a couple of posts about the pros and cons of living alone, and how I have grown into my own solitude. But what about travelling alone? Can this give you the same pros, particularly when travelling is a big source of anxiety for you?

Onboard the ship, we shared Christmas with people from all walks of life - couples, families and friends from all over the world. We shared dinner at the chefs table on the first night with a couple from Canada. They wanted to find common ground with us by sharing their knowledge of British pop culture, and wanted to know if we had been to the Zebra Crossing on Abbey Road. However, we never spoke to them again!

The immediate association with British pop culture when you announce you are British, and a born and bred Londoner, seemed to be a common theme. The following night we met a couple from Florida, who excitedly showed off the merchandise they purchased at Abba Voyage when they visited London two years ago.

But then we met a group of women who, as aforementioned, sat on the same table at dinner each night – the largest table in the restaurant, because their group was so large. An all female group, immersed in chatter and laughter. The best of friends, one would assume. But a closer look would show you some great discrepancy in ages and a variety of ‘accents’ amongst this group, who actually had never even met prior to boarding this ship.

This group were the solo travellers.

I know plenty people who would adamantly say that they could never travel alone, and the prospect feels daunting to many, even for those making the brave leap to travel alone. But why shouldn’t we see the things we desire, visit places we have dreamed of, and broaden our horizons, just because we fear doing it alone? I question what a travel companion gives you other than fulfilling our desire to want to share these experiences with someone we hold close, and goodness me, that’s more than a valid reason, but it doesn’t mean you can’t experience it with the same joy alone.

As a single childless woman over 40, I know that if I want to travel or broaden my horizons, it’s likely I will have to do it alone. Friends trips are a thing of the past for my married mothering friends, and you become the third wheel or the hired help on any other kind of group trip.

I travelled solo to Turkey about 15 years ago, I went to a Spa, and I was so burnt out at that point I knew I needed to travel alone so I really would just only relax. After a few hours at Heathrow, a 4 hour flight and a 2 hour transfer with a driver who didn’t speak a word of English, I finally reached my destination. I’d only just arrived and I was already sick to death of my own company, and the holiday hadn’t even started yet.

I got chatting to a woman at the pool, mid conversation she turns to her husband on the sun lounger and says “She’s travelling on her own” – as if it was breaking news and she needed to broadcast it immediately. I knew she was partly saying it quite harmlessly in some level of admiration for my ‘bravery’ but equally it was evidently an alien concept to them both. I came to tolerate my own company and survived generally unscathed, the only thing I did find hard was meal times. Sitting down near on three times a day to eat alone was a struggle for me, it was the only time the sensation of loneliness crept in.

That was what was so lovely about the solo travellers on the ship, the comradery they so very quickly developed, and the fact that they sat together at meal times on an ever expanding table, as they welcomed more people in to join their gang.

Mum and I were lucky enough to become honorary members!

There was a sisterhood amongst the group, despite the fact that there were many differences amongst the various characters, they seemed to manage to have this somewhat innate understanding of each individual.

If you are travelling solo at Christmas, there’s most likely a personal story attached to that, because you could argue that the festive season is supposed to be about togetherness and family and appreciating the ones we love. So when someone makes the choice to travel solo over Christmas, there is likely a personal reason behind it. That may be of sadness, but it may also be of positive empowerment. I never questioned any of the solo travellers as to what was behind their decision to spend Christmas alone and of substantial distance away from family and friends during the festive period.

Instead, I just admired them. For their determination to follow their dreams, be who they want to be, and take ownership of the direction of their own lives, regardless of who they have around them. If you can fly halfway across the world solo – you can fly through life in your own familiar surroundings solo. I truly believe that.

As I said, travel anxiety is this really unwelcome ‘thing’ that plagues my life, but the level of ‘exposure therapy’ that solo travel offers is likely exactly what someone of my anxious disposition needs to help to overcome it.

Kathryn, Stephanie & Megan – you inspire me. You opened my eyes, you showed me what is possible, you showed me the bravery and comfort to be found in thriving in your independence. Your sweet curiosity was both endearing and encouraging.

Solo isn’t sad.

Solo isn’t lonely – these ladies have taught me that.

My recent experience has shown me that solo is sassy, sincere, and meaningful. Solo shows both independence and integrity. It requires drive and a desire - the solo traveller knows what they want and they achieve and succeed alone with this strong sense of drive. Take me there, let me check this off my bucket list, because I can, and I will.

Solo is brave, and it allows us to be true to ourselves.

I find myself in the subgroup of ‘team solo’ who have minimal options other than to travel solo. But this is not the only reason why you may find yourself in the solo traveller camp.

What about a hard working mum just having time out on her own? Or taking time out of family life to learn something new, or just have a re-set? What about Sally who’s been dying to see the pyramids forever, but her hubby Jason refuses to go there, so she just braves it alone, and she is happy as Larry doing it alone, because it means so much to her and she didn’t allow someone to stand in her way to deny her that.

Or maybe you find that you just prefer the solo travel life?

There are many reasons for it, and there are many reasons to fear it. But the women I met, who were doing it alone, were real characters, each with individual determination and desires to see the world.

Each with the confidence, independence and bravery that you will either admire or you will fear, or be unable to comprehend.

The moment we danced on the ships tiny dancefloor and screeched along at the top of our lungs to Whitney Houston, I knew I loved these gals! That’s what unlimited wine at dinner and a side of Christmas spirit do to unite you.

I know the solo girls experiences was very different the my solo experience in Turkey, I know how different, because I lived their experience with them. They showed me solo travel doesn’t need to be feared, and what it offers you enriches your life in ways that far outweigh the fears.

Next week I need to tell you about Michael….

MUSIC & WORDS make my soul happy.

Using songs as writing prompts - ‘Saturday Songs’ creates fictional characters, set in a scene that has been inspired by the lyrics of a song.

Enjoy!

TODAYS SONG:

EVERYBODY’S FREE (TO FEEL GOOD) - Quindon Tarver

“Together we will make it through”

I know I’ll never forget her words, it was the first time I’d ever met her.

“Everybody’s free to feel good, and everybody deserves to feel good.”

As she stands there before me, I have only awe for her. I am strangely conflictingly at peace with, but equally consumed with, utter sadness that this person will never ever be a part of my ‘real life’.

“You just need to hold on tightly to that every single day Darcy, you never forget that, do you hear me Darcy, do you?”

“Everybody’s free to feel good, and everybody deserves to feel good.” Her eyes widen as if to further affirm her words.

Every time I hear the words in my mind, those words literally heighten all of my senses. The warmth of her embrace, a relaxed unconscious connection that allows me to just flop into her arms, as though she comes with a safety net attached. I can relive and feel that deeply, even in it’s physical absence. That is the safety of our bond, a deep sense of trust enveloped me in that embrace. I can still smell the scent of her floral perfume resting deep within the threads of her striped cardigan as she wrapped her arms around me.

Mandy was a lover of Breton, well any kind of stripe, in any kind of garment really, oh and definitely an Argyle too. In the three months there, I rarely saw her wear the same outfit twice. I can’t imagine the wardrobe space she must require to house all of her cardigans.

Mandy has seen me at my worst, she’s seen me lost, and now she gets to see me found, that’s what will spur me on, I want her to see me found.

Mandy saw me for who I really was, she showed me how to allow myself the freedom to feel good, to believe it will be ok, and to believe that I will be ok.

Mandy saved me.

But today I said goodbye to Mandy.

Today I’m going back out into the world, after three months in my own world. A space for healing, for recovery, for acceptance. A world that prepares you for the ‘scarier’ world – the real world, where people don’t understand, or don’t even know.

I didn’t even know, until it had gnawed right through my flesh and then my entire being, infiltrating every cell, and penetrating every thought. Until it was just who I had become. It was my existence, and my neural networks had adapted to fit this rhetoric with great fortitude and permanency.

My sister Jenny runs out of the car holding her hooded navy mac over her head to shelter from the rain. “You get in the car darl, I’ll grab all your bits, go on, jump in Darcy, come on!”

I do as she says, and adjust the passenger seat. I look down at the brown envelope, now dotted in raindrops. I pull out my discharge letter.

Diagnosis: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD) Major Depressive Episode (MDE)

It feels like a lot to see it in all those words. In harsh black and white. That’s me now, that’s my label. That’s who I became, and that’s who I will now spend the rest of my life dedicating myself to ‘unbecoming’. It will always be there, but like a virus it can lay dormant, and I will have to look after myself to protect myself from any future ‘new outbreak’.

Jenny flings her sopping wet mac into the back seat and scrambles into the drivers seat to escape the rain. She looks down at the letter I’m clutching, and she places her hand on my knee, and I admire her stacked wedding and engagement rings shining beautifully on her ageing freckled hand.

“Together we will make it through Darcy” she says. “I know how hard this has been for you, I know how scary this must feel after all this time living in a protective bubble. But I understand now, I know you’ve been hurting, and I’ve been waiting to be there for you.”

I place my hand on top of hers and squeeze her hand tightly. She gently raises my chin with her other hand.

“You’ve got the tools you need now to take you and guide you there. And I’ll be right her just helping you out whenever I can.” She kisses my forehead and my eyes fill with tears. I feel safe in this moment. I feel like I could find freedom, I could be free.

Because like Mandy says…

“Everybody’s free, to feel good, everybody deserves to feel good”

SIDE NOTE: I now really want to watch Romeo & Juliet again!

HEAR The inspiration…

EVERYBODY’S FREE FROM ROMEO & JULIET - ON YOUTUBE

Today is ‘Blue Monday’ – essentially a marketing ploy, suggesting that on this exact day in January, we may feel the most depressed. Multiple factors influence this concept with shorter, darker days, post-Christmas financial woes, and the lack of distraction and hope previously provided by the festive season. In my last post I talked about new years resolutions and allegedly, this week may be the week we start to dwindle on those promises we made to ourselves, implementing the possibility of a sense of failure. I did tell you not to bother with those resolutions!

Apparently, the concept of Blue Monday was actually coined by a psychologist, but has no scientific evidence that affirms it. Ultimately, it was commissioned by a travel company to flog winter holidays, suggesting that a trip may cure our blues.

The concept has become frowned upon by mental health charities who feel it may trivialise or oversimplify depression for many who are clinically suffering. They may have a point here - why is the 19^th January any different to any other day for someone who is grieving, suffering or struggling with their mental health for a plethora of reasons.

I saw a friend this weekend who told me ‘I’m going slowly into this new year’ which is exactly what I talked about in this post about the pressures of January - Is ‘Blue Monday’ just another pressure? Like me, he said he’s not one for making resolutions, but this year wanted to focus on finding joy in the little things. He told me that he has decided to do one random and simple each month which brings him personal joy.

He is keen to show me his first joyous find of the year. He excitedly pulled out a small decorative gold lock plate, beautifully polished, with ornate detail. He proudly tells me, ‘it’s called an escutcheon’. It’s tiny and shiny, but uniquely special. He quite rightly tells me, ‘every single day we put our key in the door to open or lock our front door, why shouldn’t we make that experience special’.

I just love that concept, finding joy in the ordinary and the simple, and creating beauty, just for you, regardless of who else appreciates it. I instantly smiled when he showed me his simple piece of golden treasure, I instantly knew it would genuinely bring him joy each day. He then excitedly tells me he has found a company that can turn your key into a real old fashioned, embellished castle style key. He says this is going to be next months tiny thing that brings him joy, and I can’t argue with the fact that this sounds like a brilliant idea.

What I love about this, aside from the passion he showed in telling me about it, is the fact that whilst I’m sure this is not a cheap addition to a home, and for those embroiled in the financial distress that have contributed to the creation of ‘blue Monday’ this may seem like an unnecessary spend, but it’s simple, thoughtful and unique. And yes, he’s right, he will see and use both these things every day, but I know anyone else that crosses the threshold to his home will also appreciate this.

A few years ago, I stayed at a Landmark property with some friends. The property was actually a castle and one of the bedrooms was within the turret. To enter this room, you had to use a large beautifully worn old key (see above), and honestly there was something mystical and magical about it. I know how much genuine joy this little key and the turret that it opened gave us - actual squeals of delight. Perhaps that’s why the concept of the joy he was trying to create for his own home, resonated with me even more.

Going slightly off piste, but I have to mention this in relation to the above. It got me thinking about one of my most vivid childhood memories and perhaps why the lock and key concept bringing joy has resonated with me so deeply. Funnily enough this is also my earliest memories of being absolutely sucked into a marketing ploy! The Magic Steps campaign from Clarks shoes was described as ‘iconic’ for the generation, and captured children’s imaginations that this key unlocked fun and adventure. The Clarks ‘princess key’ shoes, launched in 1988, were patent leather bar shoes with a key motif. I would have quite literally given a kidney for these shoes at that age. If I even think about that advert now it pulls on my heart strings. However, I have just watched it for the purpose of this post and I’m not sure why it was so deeply impactful back then. I guess this was prime ‘fashion influencing’ of the time!

Sadly, I was never allowed these shoes, despite begging and pleading (sorry to still be mentioning this nearly 40 years later mum, but hey, it runs deep)

Perhaps they would have been the ‘key’ to my happiness? …I’ll never know.

Anyway, getting back on track - I encourage you to add a small detail to your home just because. Something you may not need, but offers you either a new perspective, or a moment of joy or content. Something that will make you feel happy or accomplished in some way. This could be an upcycle, something you’ve just been meaning to paint or fix, or something you want to make or craft that you just haven’t got round to yet.

If nothing else - perhaps just hang the painting, frame the photograph and light the candle.

Buy yourself some flowers, wear perfume just because, or treat yourself for something that’s been sat on your wish list for a long time, even if it’s the smallest thing.

If all else fails you could book yourself a trip to the castle?

Or get yourself your own special escutcheon!

In conclusion, I’m turning blue Monday on it’s head and I have curated a few blue things that have the potential to bring me joy. So I encourage you to find ‘something blue’ to make you smile today.

CLOCKWISE from top left:

Plate: Statement Plate | ‘Eat Up, There’s Plenty More To Go Around’

Blue Swallow: Ocean Navy – Lucky Swallows

Cushion: Georgia Cotton Embroidered Cushion | Anthropologie UK

Swan Bedding: Yvonne Ellen Sister Swans Duvet Set

Wallpaper: Swallows by Sanderson - Blue - Wallpaper : Wallpaper Direct

Beaded collar: THE ARABELLA - Bead Collar Necklace

Valentino Shoes: Rockstud patent leather pumps in blue - Valentino Garavani | Mytheresa

Laptop Case: Blue Corduroy Embroidered Laptop Case | Oliver Bonas

Listen to: BLUE MONDAY By New Order on YOU TUBE

Watch: MAGIC STEPS Clarks advert on YOU TUBE

Dream/plan: The LANDMARK PROPERTY castle

Key to happiness: COUTURE KEYS from Keys to my castle