It alerts us to danger and helps us prepare to respond. But when this system becomes over-sensitive, it can start sounding even when there’s no real threat, and what was once a protective response can lead to overwhelming emotions, exhaustion, and disruption to daily routine.

In a society where gender roles are rapidly shifting, what once defined “manhood” is less clear, and the legacy guides relied upon for millennia no longer apply.

Sometimes, words aren’t enough, or they can’t be verbally expressed in a way that truly reflects how we feel. But in those moments of overwhelm when grief or anxiety makes it hard to speak, or when you’re searching for meaning in a period of distress, creative expression offers another way forward.

In Narrative Therapy, you are the author of your own story, and therapy is a safe place to explore the chapters that matter most.

If you're struggling to believe that anything good is coming, know that you're not alone. Your hurt is absolutely real, and it can make the world feel narrow, but it doesn’t mean that life is done offering you beauty, meaning, or connection.

But identity doesn't require you to have to choose between worlds. You’re allowed to belong in multiple places, and you’re allowed to miss home and still love where you are. And you are most certainly allowed to carry an accent, a culture, a grief, and not apologise for any of it.

Ageism isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s subtle, with a look, a comment, or an assumption…How ever it shows up, ageism can leave us feeling invisible, devalued, or left behind.

Growth in later life often brings a richness that that we thought was for youth alone. But there’s something deeply powerful about making choices with the wisdom of experience behind you. There’s a strength in deciding to begin again, not because you have to, but because you want to.

Whether it’s a sweeping cinematic score, a nostalgic tune from our childhood, or even a singalong in the car, music provides valuable moments of connection to ourselves and to each other.

It’s fair to say that most of us are familiar with stress in the form of a breakup, a diagnosis, or a job loss, for example. These moments of disruption are easily recognisable as emotionally taxing. But what about the kind of stress that’s harder to name, when nothing overtly dreadful is happening?

There is a school of thought that suggests we learn not to grieve, at least for too long. In society that’s reflected in the time we’re given to grieve, three days compassionate leave, for example, and then it’s back to work, back to normal. The world moves on, forcing us to move with it, ready or not. And then, one day, a song, a scent, a voice, a picture, will jolt us back into the reality of our loss.

What if, instead of fighting these parts of ourselves, we became more curious about them? This is not to romanticise suffering. Nobody wants to live with chronic anxiety or depression. But re-framing symptoms as creative, adaptive responses changes the tone of the conversation. It introduces self-compassion. It softens the inner critic and offers hope.

Childhood trauma, be it from neglect, loss, abuse, or instability, leaves invisible but enduring marks. The child’s developing brain is shaped by their environments and relationships and when the world feels unsafe or unpredictable, survival mechanisms and coping strategies kick in. Hypervigilance, withdrawal, perfectionism, and people-pleasing are just some of the ways children adapt in order to feel a sense of control or protection.

In that moment with the stone, I wasn’t just grounded, the interconnectedness of nature was palpable. My grief, my healing, my joy, and my heritage were all allowed space in the vast, wordless understanding of the natural world. I was reminded that healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t always come in silence or stillness.

What struck me most was how normal life could appear. During the lulls between shelling and gunfire, children would return to school and laugh and play in the village streets. Despite the chaos of their reality, there was a resilience in them that insisted on the normalcy of play, learning, and connection.

It’s hard to look at our world right now and not feel a sense of concern. Our social feeds are filled with misery. Wars are raging, innocent lives are lost, voices rising with anger, while others are silenced in fear. The rise of extremist ideologies, the demonising of difference, and the uncertainty of our shared future don’t just exist out there.

I see the therapeutic journey mirrored in the rhythm of nature, with its seasons of rest, bloom, decay, and renewal. We move through our own inner seasons where at times we feel cold and stripped bare, and there are the times we bloom and smile again.