What’s a common misconception people have about happiness?
One of the biggest misconceptions people have about happiness is that it arrives with success.
That somehow happiness is parked in the driveway beside the flashy car, hidden behind the front door of the big house, or tucked away in a bank balance that resembles the GDP of a small country.
The truth?
Most of the happiest moments in my life have cost absolutely nothing.
They’ve been the quiet evenings sat on the sofa until 2am with Mrs Bob, not doing anything particularly exciting, just enjoying each other’s company. They’ve been impromptu dances on the beach on a Sunday morning. They’ve been sunny afternoons sat in the shed with Tiddles, listening to the world go by.
No fireworks.
No fanfare.
Just moments.
The trouble is that we spend so much time chasing the next big thing that we forget to appreciate the small things already sitting right in front of us.
Happiness isn’t a destination. It isn’t something waiting for us once we’ve earned enough money, bought enough possessions, or impressed enough strangers.
It’s a state of mind.
A choice to notice the warmth of a cup of coffee, the laughter of someone you love, the comfort of a familiar companion, or the peace of a quiet afternoon.
Life is made up of little moments.
The secret is realising they were the important ones all along.
If you’d asked me at the start of the year what I was, I’d probably have answered, “A poet cosplaying as a photographer.”
Photography has always been something I loved, but if I’m honest, I never really took myself seriously. I was happy enough wandering around with a camera, taking pictures of birds, nature, and whatever happened to catch my eye, while quietly convincing myself that “real photographers” were other people.
This year, I decided to change that.
Rather than treating photography as a hobby I occasionally dabbled in, I made a conscious decision to push myself outside of my comfort zone and see what would happen if I actually gave it a proper go.
As it turns out, sometimes the universe rewards you for taking a chance.
Earlier this year, I was offered a place on the photography team at a local event. It might not seem like a huge thing to some people, but for me it was a turning point. It was the moment I realised that perhaps I wasn’t just pretending after all.
Don’t get me wrong, imposter syndrome still likes to whisper in my ear from time to time. It tells me I’m not good enough, that I’m making it up as I go along, and that sooner or later someone will realise I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.
The difference now is that I no longer believe it.
I’ve learned that growth isn’t about becoming fearless. It’s about taking the next step despite the fear. It’s about backing yourself, taking opportunities when they appear, and accepting that occasionally you’ll stumble along the way.
And if I do fall?
I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again.
So the biggest way I’ve grown this year is simple.
I’ve finally become the poet and photographer my business cards have been insisting I was all along.
What is something you wish you could tell your 20-year-old self?
If I could tell my 20-year-old self one thing, it would be this: keep going. Life feels confusing, overwhelming, and at times completely impossible right now, but things do get better.
The struggles you’re facing aren’t because you’re broken, weak, or failing. The truth is, it’s not schizophrenia or bipolar disorder at all — it’s autism, and understanding that will eventually make so much of your life make sense.
So stick at it. One day you’ll look back and realise you survived far more than you ever thought you could.
Do you think humans will ever colonize Mars? What would life there actually look like?
The short answer is yes, I think humans will probably establish some form of permanent presence on Mars eventually. Whether that deserves the grand title of “colonization” is another matter entirely.
Human beings have always been explorers. We crossed oceans, climbed mountains, and sailed into places that previous generations thought unreachable. Mars feels like the next chapter in that story. The technology is advancing, the ambition certainly exists, and there are powerful voices arguing that becoming a multi-planet species is essential for humanity’s long-term survival.
But before we get carried away with visions of thriving Martian cities beneath glass domes, it is worth asking a more uncomfortable question:
Why are we so eager to leave a planet we are still struggling to look after?
Earth is not merely our point of origin. It is, so far as we know, the only place in the universe where forests breathe, oceans teem with life, and countless species coexist in an astonishingly complex web. Yet we continue to pollute rivers, destroy habitats, overconsume resources, and alter the climate at a pace that many ecosystems struggle to adapt to.
There is something slightly ironic about dreaming of transforming an entire planet when we have not yet learned how to live sustainably on the one that already supports us.
Mars is often portrayed as a backup plan. In reality, it would be a brutally hostile world. The atmosphere is far too thin to breathe. Radiation levels are dangerous. Temperatures can plunge to extremes that make Antarctica seem welcoming. Even the dust may pose serious health risks. Any early settlers would live inside sealed habitats, dependent on technology for air, water, food, and survival itself.
Life there would probably look less like a science-fiction adventure and more like a permanent research station. Imagine a cross between a submarine, an Antarctic base, and a greenhouse. Every litre of water would be recycled. Every kilogram of food would matter. Every piece of equipment would need maintenance. The simple act of stepping outside would require a spacesuit.
In many ways, Mars would remind us just how extraordinary Earth really is.
Perhaps that is the greatest value of exploring Mars. Not as an escape route, but as a mirror. A stark, red reminder of what a living planet is worth.
I am not opposed to Mars exploration. Scientific discovery has always expanded human understanding, and there is much we can learn from venturing beyond our world. But I am wary of the narrative that suggests we can neglect one planet because another might someday be available.
A species that cannot live responsibly on Earth is unlikely to suddenly become wise and sustainable on Mars.
So yes, I think humans may eventually build settlements there. They may mine ice, grow food under artificial lights, and establish small communities beneath protective shelters. But if we ever reach that point, I hope we do so having first learned the lessons that Earth has been trying to teach us all along.
Well, I say job — I’m one of the official volunteer photographers for this year’s Pride event in Torbay.
It might not be a paid position, but it’s the first time someone has looked at my photography and thought, “Yes, let’s give him a chance.”
More importantly, it’s an opportunity to learn. I’ll get to experience what happens behind the scenes on a real assignment; taking the photographs, editing them, and delivering the finished images rather than just pretending to be a photographer in my spare time.
Everyone starts somewhere, and today feels like the first real step on that journey.
So, fingers crossed, wish me luck, and let’s see what happens.
Sure, I love comic books. I love photography. And I’m definitely passionate about Mrs Bob—but that’s a story for another day.
The thing that truly sets my soul on fire is poetry and mental health awareness.
At first glance, they might seem like two completely different worlds. One is art. The other is survival.
But for me, they’re inseparable.
Because poetry helped save my life.
More than twenty years ago, I wasn’t the happy, well-adjusted bloke many people know today. In truth, I was a mess. My mental health was spiralling dangerously out of control. I was drinking heavily, drowning emotions I didn’t understand, and convincing myself that I had to carry every burden alone.
Like many men of my generation, I believed I had to “man up.”
Keep quiet.
Stay strong.
Don’t talk about it.
But silence can be a dangerous thing.
There were times when the darkness became so overwhelming that I tried to end my life. More than once.
Eventually, after waking up in the resuscitation room of my local hospital following one particularly close call, something shifted inside me. Looking back now, I realise it was a crossroads.
I could continue pretending everything was fine until it killed me.
Or I could ask for help.
I chose help.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
But because I looked at my two young children and realised I couldn’t leave them growing up without a father.
For the first time in my life, I stopped trying to fight alone.
One of the professionals helping me suggested I start writing down my thoughts and emotions. The idea was simple: get the chaos out of my head and onto paper so I could begin to understand it.
At first, I filled notebook after notebook with late-night scribbles. Thoughts. Fears. Anger. Pain. Hope. Anything that was bouncing around inside my head.
Then something unexpected happened.
As I read back through those pages, I started arranging some of the words into verses. The emotions were still raw and chaotic, but now they had rhythm and shape.
It wasn’t poetry as I know it today.
It was closer to rap lyrics.
But it was the beginning.
The real turning point came when I wrote a piece for a family member’s naming ceremony. Afterwards, people kept asking me where I’d found the poem.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed genuinely surprised.
And so was I.
For the first time, I allowed myself to think:
Maybe I’m a poet.
Over the following two decades, I spent countless hours learning, practising, refining and developing my craft. Every poem taught me something new—not just about writing, but about myself.
In the early days, poetry was my pressure valve.
A way of releasing everything that threatened to consume me.
My work was dark.
Unflinching.
Sometimes uncomfortable.
I wrote about depression, self-harm, suicide and the realities of living with poor mental health. Topics many people preferred not to talk about.
But those conversations mattered.
They still do.
Today, my writing covers a wider range of subjects. There’s more light alongside the darkness. More hope alongside the pain.
Yet mental health remains close to my heart.
Particularly men’s mental health.
I’ve been inspired by some incredible slam poets and advocates who have used their voices to challenge the outdated belief that men should suffer in silence. The idea that being strong means never showing vulnerability. The lie that asking for help is weakness.
Because it isn’t.
Real strength is speaking up.
Real strength is reaching out.
Real strength is staying.
The truth is that there are countless blokes out there who are fighting battles nobody else can see. Men who smile on the outside while struggling desperately on the inside. Men who believe they’re alone.
They’re not.
And that’s why I keep writing.
Because somewhere, someone might be reading these words and recognising a piece of themselves.
Someone who feels exhausted.
Someone who feels trapped.
Someone who is standing closer to the edge than anyone realises.
If my poetry, my story, or my words can make just one person pause for a moment and choose to talk to someone—anyone—instead of suffering alone, then every difficult chapter of my journey has been worthwhile.
Because poetry didn’t just give me a voice.
It gave me a future.
And if sharing that future helps someone else find theirs, then I’ll keep writing for as long as I have words left to write.
If you asked me which season of the year I hold closest to my heart, my answer would come without a moment’s hesitation: autumn.
There is a magic in that turning of the Wheel. Summer’s relentless heat softens, mornings arrive shrouded in mist, and the world transforms into a living tapestry of gold, amber, and crimson. Nature seems to pause, taking a long, slow breath before the hush of winter descends.
I have always found comfort in the cooler air. The oppressive heat of summer gives way to crisp walks through the woods, to the scent of fallen leaves that carries a nostalgia that words can barely touch. Autumn asks us to slow down, to reflect, to reconnect with the rhythms of the natural world that too often pass unnoticed.
But my love for this season runs deeper than the beauty of its colors or the relief from heat. Autumn holds my favourite of the eight Sabbats: Samhain.
For many, Samhain is simply Halloween, a time for costumes and candy. Yet in the Pagan traditions, it holds far more weight. Samhain marks the close of the harvest and the onset of the darker half of the year. It is a transitional season, when the boundaries between worlds thin and the veil between the living and the dead grows fragile. It is a time for remembrance, for reflection, for honouring those who came before us.
There is profound comfort in this. In our modern world, conversations about death are often avoided, yet Samhain asks us to face it, to embrace it as part of life’s natural cycle. It reminds us that those who are no longer physically with us continue to shape our lives through their stories, their wisdom, their love.
Each year, as the nights lengthen and the leaves drift from the trees, I pause to remember my ancestors, family, and friends who have passed. I light candles. I share stories. I offer gratitude. In doing so, I feel tethered not just to those I have known, but to the countless generations who have honoured this season long before my time.
Autumn teaches that endings are not to be feared. The falling leaf is not only a symbol of death but also a promise of renewal. Nature sheds what is no longer needed so that fresh growth may emerge when the time is right. There is wisdom in that, a lesson I carry with me throughout the year.
Every season has its own song, but autumn speaks most clearly to my soul. It is a season of reflection, of gratitude, of transformation. A season of remembrance. A season of quiet mystery.
And as the veil thins and the year leans toward its close, I find myself once more beneath an autumn sky, listening to the whispers of the ancestors riding on the wind.
Not because it’s expensive. Not because it’s the latest model. And certainly not because it makes me look like a photographer.
It’s a luxury because it helps me see.
A camera slows me down. It makes me notice the details most people walk past—the play of light on a wall, a fleeting expression, a quiet moment that would otherwise disappear forever.
The older I get, the more I realise that memories fade, but photographs have a remarkable way of bringing them back to life. They remind us not just what we saw, but how we felt.
So if I had to choose one luxury, it wouldn’t be a watch, a car, or a gadget.
It would be my camera.
Because it doesn’t just capture moments—it helps me appreciate them while I’m living them.
What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
People spend a lot of time chasing the secret to a good life.
More money.
A bigger house.
A better job.
More followers.
More stuff.
Yet the older I get, the more I realise that most of those things are optional.
The foundations of a good life are surprisingly simple.
First, you need a solid moral compass.
Not somebody else’s.
Your own.
A set of values that helps you recognise the difference between right and wrong, especially when nobody is watching. Life becomes a lot easier when your decisions are guided by principles instead of convenience.
The second thing is a good heart.
Good intentions matter.
Treat people with kindness.
Show compassion when you can.
Help where you’re able.
The world already has enough people looking out only for themselves. It never seems to have enough people genuinely trying to leave things a little better than they found them.
Will you always get it right?
No.
None of us do.
We’re human. We make mistakes. We stumble. We learn.
What matters is that you keep trying.
A good life isn’t built on perfection.
It’s built on character.
A solid moral compass.
A good heart.
And the willingness to keep moving forward when life gets messy.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 