Tag Archives: autism

The Two Things I Stopped Worrying About

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What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

There are two answers to this.

The obvious one is death.

Most people worry about it, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. It’s the one certainty we all spend our lives trying not to think about.

The difference for me is that I’ve been clinically dead.

That experience didn’t make me fearless or convince me I’m invincible. I still value my life. I still wear a seatbelt. I still look both ways before crossing the road. But it did change my relationship with death.

(Read Hello old Friend)

I no longer see it as something lurking around every corner, waiting to steal today’s happiness.

It’ll come when it comes.

Until then, I’d rather spend my energy living than worrying about the inevitable.

The second answer took much longer to conquer.

Other people’s opinions.

Again, I think most of us care far more than we’re willing to admit. We worry about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish, being judged or misunderstood. We edit ourselves before we’ve even opened our mouths.

I certainly did.

Then, about ten years ago, I started writing honestly on this blog.

Not the polished version of life.

The real one.

The struggles with mental health. Autism. PTSD. Family life. The victories, the failures, and all the wonderfully messy bits in between.

When you spend a decade opening your heart to complete strangers on the internet, something unexpected happens.

You realise the world doesn’t end.

Some people won’t like you.

Some will misunderstand you.

A few will judge you without ever really knowing you.

And that’s perfectly alright.

Because just as you’re free to have an opinion about them, they’re free to have one about you.

Turning fifty probably helped as well.

There’s something wonderfully liberating about reaching an age where you finally understand that you were never going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and you don’t actually need to be.

The people who matter already know who you are.

The people who don’t… probably never will.

Life is far too short to spend it performing for an audience you’ll never satisfy.

So these days I worry less about death.

I worry less about what strangers think.

Instead, I try to focus on something far more worthwhile.

Living a life that feels honest.

If I manage that, the rest tends to take care of itself.

Stay safe,

Bc

The Hobbit I Never Expected to Become

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Who is the fictional character you relate to the most?

There are quite a few fictional characters I’ve admired over the years.

Batman for his determination.

Samwise Gamgee for his loyalty.

Dave Lister from Red Dwarf because, despite the chaos around him, he somehow muddles through with humour intact.

But if I’m being asked which fictional character I actually relate to the most…

It has to be Bilbo Baggins.

Not because I dream of fighting dragons or stumbling across magical rings. In fact, given the choice, I’d much rather leave the dragon to someone considerably younger and fitter.

It’s because Bilbo never quite feels like he belongs in the adventure he’s been thrown into.

He’d rather be home.

Tea brewing.

Book in hand.

Knowing exactly where everything is.

That resonates with me more than I’d care to admit.

As an autistic man, I’ve often felt as though the world handed everyone else an instruction manual and that somehow mine got lost in the post. Social situations can be exhausting. Change isn’t always exciting. Crowds, noise and unpredictability can drain me long before anyone else notices there’s anything to be drained by. I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand rules that other people seem to absorb without even thinking about them.

And yet…

Like Bilbo, life has repeatedly nudged me out of my comfortable little hobbit hole.

Moving across the country.

Changing careers.

Standing in front of audiences.

Publishing poetry.

Talking openly about autism and mental health.

None of those things were part of some grand master plan. They simply became the next step along the path. Looking back, many of the moments that felt most uncomfortable at the time became the ones that shaped me the most.

What I also admire about Bilbo is that he isn’t driven by power.

He’s driven by curiosity.

Kindness.

Common sense.

He solves as many problems with compassion and wit as he does with courage.

Those are qualities I value far more than brute strength.

I also suspect we’d get on rather well over a meal.

Anyone capable of appreciating breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper clearly has their priorities in order. In a world that insists on rushing everything, there’s something wonderfully comforting about someone who understands that conversations should never be hurried.

Perhaps that’s why Bilbo continues to endure as a character.

He reminds us that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things without ever losing sight of who they are.

You don’t have to be fearless.

You don’t have to be the strongest person in the room.

Sometimes it’s enough simply to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when every instinct is telling you to turn around and head home.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that courage rarely looks like Hollywood tells us it should.

More often, it looks like showing up.

Being kind.

Admitting when you’re wrong.

Learning something new.

Writing another poem.

Helping another person.

Or simply choosing to keep going when life would give you every excuse not to.

Bilbo would probably say he was never really a hero.

I suspect that’s exactly why so many of us see one in him.

Stay safe,

BC

The Best Advice I Can Ever Give You

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If you had to give one life-changing tip, what would it be?

If I had to give just one life-changing tip, it would be this:

Look after your mental health just as much as your physical health.

We spend hours thinking about our bodies. We count our steps, join gyms, watch what we eat, and book check-ups when something doesn’t feel right. Yet when it comes to our minds, many of us simply hope we’ll be okay.

Hope isn’t a strategy.

The truth is, your mind is involved in every decision you make, every relationship you build, every challenge you face, and every dream you pursue. If your mental wellbeing is neglected, everything else eventually feels harder. Stress becomes overwhelming. Small problems become mountains. Joy becomes difficult to recognise.

For far too long, we’ve been taught to “keep going,” “man up,” or “just get on with it.” Those phrases have probably caused more harm than they’ll ever receive credit for. Strength isn’t found in suffering silently. Real strength is recognising when you’re struggling and having the courage to speak up.

Looking after your mental health doesn’t always mean counselling or medication, although both can be life-changing for many people. Sometimes it means getting enough sleep. Sometimes it means putting your phone down and taking a walk. Sometimes it’s saying “no” without feeling guilty. Sometimes it’s talking honestly with a friend over a cup of tea.

And sometimes it’s simply admitting, “I’m not okay today.”

There’s no shame in that.

We service our cars before they break down. We charge our phones before the battery reaches zero. Yet so many of us wait until we’re completely exhausted before giving ourselves permission to rest.

Imagine if we treated our minds with the same care we treat our bodies.

The world would be a kinder place.

So, if there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do today, it’s this: check in with yourself. Not the automatic “I’m fine” we all give, but a genuine moment of honesty. Ask yourself how you’re really doing.

Because your mental health isn’t a luxury.

It’s the foundation everything else is built upon.

Stay safe.

BC

We’ve Become Smarter… But Less Capable

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What’s a skill you consider basic, that most people don’t actually know how to do?

Read a map.

Use a compass.

Administer basic first aid.

Look after yourself if things don’t go to plan.

In other words, the sort of skills many of us picked up through Scouts, the Cadets, the military, or simply from parents and grandparents who believed you should know how to do practical things.

It’s funny really.

We’ve got access to more information than any generation in history. We carry supercomputers in our pockets. We can ask AI almost any question imaginable and get an answer in seconds.

Yet many people would be completely lost—literally—if their phone battery died.

I remember when learning to read an Ordnance Survey map wasn’t unusual. You learned what the symbols meant, how contour lines worked and, if you were lucky, someone would hand you a compass and expect you to work out where you were.

There was no blue dot showing your location.

You had to think.

The same applies to first aid.

I’m always surprised by how few people know what to do when someone collapses, how to deal with a serious cut or even how to make someone comfortable until help arrives.

These aren’t specialist skills reserved for doctors or mountain rescue teams.

They’re simply useful.

Hopefully you’ll never need them.

But if you do, you’ll be very glad you learned them.

The same can be said for lighting a fire, putting up a shelter, purifying water or tying a decent knot. They’re not about preparing for the apocalypse; they’re about understanding the world around you and having the confidence to deal with it.

Looking back, I realise Scouts and later the Army taught me far more than outdoor skills.

They taught self-reliance.

Responsibility.

Teamwork.

The ability to stop, assess a situation and solve a problem without immediately reaching for someone else to fix it.

Perhaps that’s what concerns me most.

We’ve become brilliant at finding answers, but we’re losing the ability to work things out for ourselves.

Convenience is wonderful.

Technology is incredible.

Neither should replace capability.

There’s something reassuring about knowing that if the sat-nav stops working, you’ll still get home.

If someone gets hurt, you can help.

If circumstances change, you can adapt.

Those aren’t old-fashioned skills.

They’re timeless ones.

Maybe it’s time we started teaching them again.

Not because the world is becoming more dangerous.

But because capable people make stronger families, stronger communities and, ultimately, a stronger society.

And if, along the way, a few more young people discover the joy of getting gloriously lost with nothing more than a map, a compass and a bit of common sense…

…I don’t think that would be a bad thing at all

Stay safe 

Bc

Ten Years of Words, Thoughts and a Journey I Never Expected

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Well, it turns out it’s my website’s birthday.

Ten years ago, I sat down and started building something from scratch. At the time, it was simply a place to put my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words — a way of making sense of the world around me after being diagnosed as Autistic. (Looking back it makes sense)

I don’t think, even in my wildest dreams, I could have imagined where that small beginning would lead me.

Ten years later, this little corner of the internet has become so much more than a website. It has become a place for connection, understanding and shared experiences. It has allowed me to tell my story, to open conversations, and to hopefully help others feel a little less alone on their own journeys.

When I first started writing, I had no idea who would read my words or where they would take me. I certainly never imagined that so many people would come along for the ride, follow my journey and offer their support along the way.

For that, I am truly grateful.

To everyone who has read a blog post, shared a story, sent a message, offered encouragement or simply taken the time to understand — thank you. Your support has meant more than you probably realise. Every interaction has been a reminder that sharing our experiences can create connections that we never expected.

Of course, there is one person who deserves a very special thank you: Mrs Bob.

Behind the scenes, she has been my constant support throughout this entire journey. She has written, proofread, made phone calls, helped shape my thoughts and, most importantly, been my neurotypical whisperer when I’ve needed someone to help translate my way of seeing the world.

She has worked tirelessly alongside me, often without recognition, and I honestly couldn’t have reached this point without her.

Looking back over these ten years, I realise this website has been a record of growth, discovery and acceptance. It has captured moments of frustration, joy, learning and everything in between.

The journey hasn’t always been straightforward, but it has always been mine.

So, on this tenth birthday, I’m not just celebrating a website. I’m celebrating the conversations started, the friendships made, the lessons learned and the incredible community that has grown around it.

Thank you for being part of my journey.

Here’s to the next chapter.

Bob

Stay safe

Bc

Ps here’s that first post I put out…

https://bob-christian.com/2016/07/31/hello/

Everything Happens… But Not Always for a Reason

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Do you think everything happens for a reason?

“Everything happens for a reason.”

It’s one of those phrases that usually arrives just after something awful has happened.

Someone loses a loved one.

A relationship ends.

A diagnosis turns life upside down.

And almost without thinking, someone says it.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

I know it’s usually meant kindly.

It’s an attempt to comfort.

To make sense of chaos.

To reassure us that the universe hasn’t completely lost the plot.

But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it.

Not because I think life is meaningless.

Far from it.

I think the problem lies in what we mean by reason.

If by “reason” we mean that every tragedy was deliberately planned by some higher power—that every child who becomes ill, every war, every act of cruelty was intentionally designed as part of some grand blueprint—then I struggle with that idea.

Not because I lack faith in mystery.

But because it asks us to believe that unimaginable suffering was somehow necessary.

I’m not convinced.

There’s another way of looking at it, though.

Perhaps “reason” doesn’t mean purpose.

Perhaps it simply means cause.

Everything that happens has causes and conditions.

A tree doesn’t fall because the universe chose that exact tree.

It falls because roots weaken, soil shifts, fungi grow unseen beneath the surface, and eventually gravity finishes the conversation.

Human lives are much the same.

Who we become isn’t usually shaped by one dramatic moment.

It’s thousands of tiny moments.

The family we’re born into.

The kindnesses we receive.

The wounds we carry.

The books we read.

The strangers we meet.

The mistakes we survive.

Each one nudges us ever so slightly until, years later, we look in the mirror and wonder how on earth we became this particular version of ourselves.

That’s not destiny.

That’s cause and effect.

In many ways it’s far more fascinating.

It also reminds us that our own actions become part of someone else’s chain of causes.

A smile offered to a stranger.

A harsh word spoken in anger, to the driver that cut you up.

A poem that reaches someone on exactly the day they needed it.

None of these things happen in isolation.

They ripple.

Sometimes far further than we’ll ever know.

Perhaps that’s why I try to choose kindness whenever I can.

Not because I think it’ll magically make the universe reward me.

But because every action adds another thread to the web we’re all helping to weave.

Life isn’t always fair.

Bad things happen to good people.

Good things happen to difficult people.

And sometimes there isn’t an answer that satisfies us.

But there are always causes.

Always choices.

Always consequences.

Maybe that’s enough.

So no…

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason.

But I do believe everything happens because of reasons.

And understanding the difference might just change the way we understand ourselves.

Stay safe,

Bc

One Was Always Enough.

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What’s your biggest dream?

When I first started this website and began yelling into the void that is the internet, I had one dream.

Not a book deal.

Not a viral post.

Not thousands of followers hanging on every badly punctuated sentence.

Just one person.

If something I wrote found its way into the right hands, at the right time, and nudged someone towards hope instead of despair, kindness instead of bitterness, or courage instead of fear, then I reckoned the whole experiment would have been worth it.

That was the dream.

The internet has a funny way of making us believe that numbers are everything. Views. Likes. Shares. Subscribers. As though the value of a thought is measuredby the size of the crowd listening.

I’ve never been convinced.

History is full of quiet conversations that changed lives, while the loudest voices were forgotten before the ink had dried.

Over the years, I’ve had a few messages from strangers. from people who stumbled across a poem, or one of my rambling posts at exactly the moment they needed it.

“Thank you.”

Those messages mean more than you’ll ever know.

Because every single one reminds me that words still matter.

Not because they’re mine, but because honest words have a peculiar habit of finding the people they’re meant to find.

If anything I’ve written has helped you laugh when life felt heavy, think when the world demanded outrage, or believe that tomorrow might just be a little brighter than today, then you’ve given me something far greater than any statistic ever could.

You’ve allowed this grumpy old poet to live beyond his original dream.

So thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for sharing the journey.

And thank you for reminding me that even when it feels like we’re all shouting into the void, sometimes the void quietly whispers back.

Stay safe

Bc

A Seat at Bilbo’s Table

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If you could have dinner with any fictional character, who would it be?

I’d choose Bilbo Baggins.

Not because he’s the greatest hero in Middle-earth, but because I suspect dinner with Bilbo wouldn’t really be dinner at all. It would begin with breakfast, roll effortlessly into elevenses, pause for luncheon, continue with afternoon tea, become dinner somewhere around sunset, and conclude with supper long after everyone sensible had gone to bed.

And somehow, none of it would feel rushed.

There is something wonderfully appealing about people who understand that meals are about more than food. They’re about conversation, laughter, stories, and the gift of time shared with others. In a world that seems determined to make everything faster, Bilbo reminds us that some things are worth lingering over.

Of course, the stories would be extraordinary.

Not because Bilbo set out to become a hero.Quite the opposite. He was happiest in his comfortable hobbit hole with a full pantry and an empty diary. Yet when adventure came knocking—rather persistently, if I remember correctly—he chose to answer.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked Bilbo. He wasn’t fearless. He wasn’t looking for glory. He simply discovered that courage isn’t the absence of comfort; it’s the willingness to leave comfort behind when something greater calls.

I imagine the stories would become less about dragons, dwarves, and treasure, and more about the people he met, the mistakes he made, the friendships he formed, and how unexpected journeys have a habit of changing us in ways we never anticipated.

Gandalf would undoubtedly make fascinating company, but I suspect I’d spend the whole evening trying to keep up with him. Bilbo, on the other hand, would probably refill my plate, pour another cup of tea, and quietly remind me that the most memorable evenings aren’t always the most dramatic.

Sometimes they’re simply spent around a table with good food, honest conversation, and someone who has learned that the greatest adventures often begin with an unexpected invitation.

I’d happily accept that invitation.

After all, there’s always time for one more cup of tea.

Stay safe

Bc

When Mail Call Meant Everything.

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Which outdated technology do you miss the most, and why?

The answer may surprise you, because it isn’t an old gadget or a forgotten piece of kit.

It’s letters.

Not because I’m against email. Far from it. Email is brilliant at what it does. It’s instant, searchable and gets the job done. When Adam from HR or Tom from Accounts needs last quarter’s numbers by 3pm, you don’t reach for a fountain pen and a sheet of A4.

But somewhere along the way, convenience quietly replaced something much more personal.

I joined the Army in the 1990s, before smartphones, social media and the internet became part of everyday life. Back then, one of the biggest highlights of the week was mail call.

It wasn’t just about hearing your name.

It was knowing that someone had sat down, found the time, and written to you. Every envelope was different. Different handwriting. Different paper. Sometimes there were photographs folded inside. Sometimes childish drawings. Sometimes a pressed flower, a train ticket or some other little keepsake that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to you.

And then there were the things technology still can’t replicate.

You can’t spray an email with her favourite perfume.

You can’t instantly recognise who’s written before you’ve even opened it because of the handwriting on the envelope.

And you certainly don’t get the entertainment of trying to decipher handwriting so spectacularly bad it needs its own translator.

A letter had character. It had imperfections. It had fingerprints, creases and coffee stains. It had travelled hundreds or even thousands of miles before it landed in your hands.

An email arrives exactly as it left.

A letter arrives with a story.

I still have letters tucked away in boxes that are over thirty years old. Every now and then I’ll stumble across one, unfold it and be transported straight back to that moment. I can’t say the same for emails buried somewhere in an inbox with 1,800 unread messages.

Technology has given us incredible ways to stay connected. We can video call someone on the other side of the world in seconds. We can send photos instantly. We can share our lives in real time.

That’s progress, and I wouldn’t want to lose it.

But I do think we’ve sacrificed a little of the human touch in the process.

Sometimes the slow way was the better way.

Not because it was more efficient, but because it reminded us that the person on the other end had invested something you can’t download or automate.

Time.

And perhaps that’s the bit of old technology I miss the most.

Stay safe

Bc

We’re All Being Sculpted

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Do you think we’re shaped more by our experiences or by who we are?

This is one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.

Until you actually stop and think about it.

At first glance, most people tend to fall into one of two camps.

Some believe we’re born with a certain personality and that’s pretty much who we’ll always be.

Others argue we’re products of our environment—that life writes the story and we’re just the paper.

Personally?

I think the truth is somewhere in the middle.

But not in a neat little 50/50 split.

If I had to choose the stronger force, I’d probably say experiences do more of the sculpting.

Not because who we are doesn’t matter.

It matters enormously.

Our temperament, our natural way of seeing the world, our strengths, our vulnerabilities, the way our brains are wired… that’s the raw material we begin with. Some people are naturally cautious. Others adventurous. Some seem to feel every emotion at full volume while others process life more quietly.

Those foundations are real.

But foundations aren’t the finished house.

Life gets to work after that.

Every friendship.
Every heartbreak.
Every success.
Every failure.
Every act of kindness.
Every betrayal.

Each one leaves a mark.

Sometimes those marks are barely noticeable.

Sometimes they’re deep enough to change the entire landscape.

I’ve often found myself looking back at moments I’d rather not have experienced at all, only to realise years later they quietly taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way. Pain has an odd habit of becoming perspective, if we’re willing to let it. Failure often teaches resilience far better than success ever could. And the people who hurt us sometimes end up teaching us the sort of compassion we never imagined we’d possess. Those aren’t lessons we’re born with. They’re earned.

That doesn’t mean everyone responds to the same experiences in the same way.

Far from it.

Give two people the exact same childhood and they’ll often become completely different adults.

Why?

Because experience doesn’t happen in isolation.

It passes through the filter of who we already are.

The naturally optimistic person may see hardship as a challenge.

The naturally anxious person may experience the same hardship as proof the world isn’t safe.

Same event.

Different interpretation.

Different outcome.

That’s the fascinating part.

Life isn’t simply happening to us.

We’re constantly interacting with it.

It’s a conversation between our nature and our experiences, with each shaping the other over time.

Perhaps that’s why human beings are so wonderfully complicated.

We’re not born as blank slates.

Nor are we trapped by the person we happened to be at birth.

We’re works in progress.

Still learning.

Still adapting.

Still being quietly reshaped by the people we meet, the places we go, and the moments that catch us completely by surprise.

So yes, I think experiences probably do more of the sculpting.

But the sculpture still depends on the stone you started with.

And maybe that’s the beautiful part.

No two pieces of stone are ever quite the same.

Stay safe,

Bc