If I had to choose one life lesson I wish I’d understood earlier, it would be this:
Your health is your wealth. And I’m not talking about the money in your bank account.
We spend so much of our lives chasing money, success, careers and security. We work longer hours, sacrifice sleep, put off holidays and convince ourselves that one day, when we’ve achieved everything we’re working towards, we’ll finally have time to enjoy it.
But what happens if, by then, we’ve sacrificed the very thing we need to enjoy it?
What’s the point of a healthy bank balance if you’re too exhausted to enjoy life? What’s the point of a comfortable retirement if years of neglecting yourself have taken their toll?
We’re very good at looking after our cars, houses and possessions, but not always so good at looking after ourselves.
We ignore the warning signs, push through exhaustion, put off exercise until next week and tell everyone we’re fine, even when we’re anything but.
And it’s not just our physical health. Our mental wellbeing matters just as much.
Sometimes we need to slow down, get outside, have a proper conversation, switch off our phones or simply admit that things aren’t quite right. There’s no weakness in that.
Money is important. We all have responsibilities and ambitions, but it cannot buy back lost time, yesterday’s energy or the years we’ve spent running ourselves into the ground.
I suppose the lesson I’ve learned is that we’re supposed to enjoy the journey, not just work towards some distant point when we finally give ourselves permission to live.
So work hard. Chase your dreams. Build something you’re proud of.
But remember to look after yourself along the way.
Get some fresh air. Go for that walk. Get enough sleep. Spend time with the people who matter. Find reasons to smile.
And perhaps most importantly, don’t wait until something goes wrong before you start taking your health seriously.
Don’t spend so much time making a living that you forget to make a life.
Because ultimately, the greatest wealth isn’t what’s sitting in your bank account. It’s having the health, energy and freedom to enjoy the life you’ve worked so hard to build.
Has your idea of what makes a good friend changed as you’ve gotten older?
Absolutely.
And I suspect I’m not alone in that.
As I’ve gotten older, my friendship needs have changed too.
When we’re younger, friendship can be about having people around us. The more, the merrier, as they say. Going out, having a laugh, sharing experiences and generally getting into whatever mischief life throws our way.
But somewhere along the road, things change.
You start to realise that having lots of friends isn’t necessarily the same as having good friends.
These days, I value quality over quantity.
I don’t need someone who wants to talk to me every five minutes, or someone who feels the need to fill every silence.
I value people who understand that sometimes life gets in the way. That we might not speak for weeks, perhaps even months, but when we do, it’s as though we’ve only just put the kettle down.
I value honesty.
Loyalty.
Kindness.
People who accept me for who I am, warts, weirdness and all.
Someone who can have a meaningful conversation one minute and take the absolute piss out of me the next.
Because friendship shouldn’t feel like hard work.
It shouldn’t be about keeping score, wondering who messaged last, or feeling obliged to be someone you’re not just to keep somebody happy.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that a good friend doesn’t necessarily need to have all the answers.
Sometimes they just need to listen.
Sometimes they need to offer a shoulder.
Sometimes they simply need to sit alongside you while life does its usual impression of a complete bloody circus.
I also think getting older teaches us to be a little more selective about who we allow into our lives.
Not because we’re becoming miserable old sods (although I make no promises there), but because peace of mind becomes increasingly important.
I’d rather have a handful of genuine friendships than a hundred superficial ones.
People who bring something positive into my life, and whose lives I can hopefully enrich in return.
Because friendship works both ways.
It’s about showing up, making an effort, accepting differences and remembering that everyone has their own battles going on.
So yes, my idea of a good friend has changed.
Perhaps it’s not that I’ve become more demanding.
Perhaps I’ve simply become better at recognising what actually matters.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
A good friend isn’t necessarily the person who’s been around the longest, or the one you see most often.
It’s the person who makes you feel comfortable being exactly who you are.
No pretence.
No expectations.
Just friendship.
And honestly?
At this stage of life, that’s worth its weight in gold.
What’s a small moment from your past that you still think about years later?
What’s a small moment from your past that you still think about years later?
I suppose there are quite a few moments I could choose from.
But if I’m honest, there’s one that comes to mind almost immediately.
My last interactions with my maternal grandparents.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How certain moments stay with you long after the people involved are no longer here.
I don’t necessarily think it’s always the big occasions that leave the deepest impression. Sometimes it’s the little things. The conversations, the time spent together, the things said, and even the things that perhaps weren’t said.
I have photographs of my grandparents in my office at home. They’re there every day, quietly looking back at me while I’m working, writing, or generally making a nuisance of myself.
And every now and again, I’ll catch sight of those photographs and find myself stopping for a moment.
Remembering.
Thinking about them.
Wondering what they’d make of the person I’ve become, and perhaps wishing I could have just one more conversation with them.
My maternal grandfather, W S Christian, was a particularly important influence in my life. He taught me a great deal about being a gentleman, about honesty, hard work, and treating people properly. Some of those lessons have stayed with me throughout my life.
In fact, there’s a reason his name became part of my own writing identity.
Some people leave you more than memories. They leave you with values, lessons and little pieces of themselves that you carry forward without even realising it.
And that’s something rather special.
But it’s not just my grandfather.
It’s the fact that I had two grandparents who were part of my life, and those last interactions with them are something I still think about years later.
I don’t think we ever really appreciate how precious those ordinary moments are while we’re living them.
You don’t necessarily know that a conversation will be one of your last. You don’t know that a visit, a hug or a simple goodbye will eventually become something you’ll replay in your head years down the line.
(It’s why I wrote “When I Said Goodnight, I didn’t know I meant goodbye”)
If I could go back, would I do things differently? Probably. I suspect most of us would.
I’d probably ask more questions, spend a little longer listening and make the most of whatever time we had.
But that’s the trouble with hindsight, isn’t it?
It has a habit of showing us the value of things only after they’ve become memories.
So those photographs in my office are staying exactly where they are.
They’re a reminder of where I’ve come from, the people who helped shape me, and the importance of trying to be the sort of person they would be proud of.
And perhaps that’s the thing about memories.
We don’t always get to choose which moments stay with us.
Sometimes they simply settle somewhere in our hearts and refuse to leave.
And I’m rather glad these ones haven’t.
Because while I can’t sit down and have another conversation with my grandparents, I can still carry a little of them with me every day.
Is it the amount of money sitting in your bank account? The shiny car parked on your drive? The size of your house, the holidays you take, or the number of expensive gadgets you’ve managed to accumulate?
Don’t get me wrong, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with having nice things. If you’ve worked hard for them and they’re what makes you happy, then good for you.
But are those things really what make someone successful?
Personally, I don’t think so.
For me, success has very little to do with what’s in your bank account or what you own. It’s much more about the person you are, the challenges you’ve faced, the obstacles you’ve overcome, and perhaps most importantly, whether you can look at yourself in the mirror and be comfortable with the person looking back.
And if I’m honest, that’s taken me quite a few years to achieve.
You see, my journey hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park.
I didn’t grow up with everything handed to me on a silver platter. Far from it.
I experienced sexual and physical abuse throughout my childhood. I spent my teenage years living in a hostel, without many of the things that other young people might have taken for granted.
Life wasn’t particularly kind, and there were plenty of times when simply getting through the day was an achievement in itself.
I also spent a large part of my life trying to understand why I seemed to experience the world differently from other people.
It wasn’t until later in life that I understood I was autistic. For years, I was living with undiagnosed autism, trying to navigate a world that often felt as though it came with an instruction manual that everyone else had received except me.
There were plenty of hurdles along the way.
Some were visible. Others were carried quietly, behind a smile or a seemingly ordinary conversation.
And yet, here I am.
At 50, I can honestly say I’m comfortable in my own skin.
Now, that might not sound like a particularly spectacular achievement to some people.
I’m not standing on a stage collecting a lifetime achievement award. I haven’t got a mansion, a Ferrari or a yacht parked somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Although, if anyone happens to have a spare yacht, I’m prepared to discuss the matter!
But seriously, when I look back at the younger version of myself, living in a hostel with very little, I think he’d probably be rather surprised by where life has taken me.
Because somehow, somewhere along the way, I managed to build something.
I found my voice through poetry.
What started as a way of getting the thoughts and emotions out of my head eventually became something much bigger. Those early scribbles developed into poems, and those poems eventually became books.
I’ve now written several poetry books, had my work published in books and magazines, and even picked up a few awards along the way.
Not bad for a bloke who originally started writing because he was simply trying to make sense of himself.
Then there’s photography.
Another passion that started out as something I enjoyed doing, which has gradually opened doors and given me opportunities I never imagined I’d have.
I’ve had photographs published, worked behind the camera at events, and experienced moments that the younger me probably wouldn’t have believed possible.
Am I famous? Absolutely not.
Am I some sort of photographic genius? Mrs Bob might argue otherwise, but I’m certainly not going to make that claim!
But I’ve achieved things that I’m genuinely proud of.
And perhaps that’s the point.
Success doesn’t have to mean becoming rich, famous or particularly important in the eyes of the world.
Sometimes, success is simply doing something you were once told, or perhaps believed, you would never be able to do.
Sometimes it’s getting out of bed when life feels overwhelming.
Sometimes it’s finding the courage to speak about things you’ve spent years keeping buried.
Sometimes it’s learning to accept yourself, including the bits you once thought needed fixing.
And sometimes, it’s reaching the age of 50 and realising that you no longer need to apologise for being you.
For me, that’s a pretty big deal.
I also wouldn’t be telling the whole story if I didn’t mention Mrs Bob.
Because behind every bloke who thinks he’s got his life reasonably well organised, there’s quite often someone quietly keeping everything from falling apart.
And in my case, I’ve been incredibly lucky.
The love, support, patience and courage of Mrs Bob have been an enormous part of my journey.
She’s been there through the good times and the not-so-good times. She’s supported my writing, encouraged my photography, helped me navigate some of life’s more complicated moments and, on occasion, probably had to put up with more than her fair share of my ramblings.
She’s believed in me when I’ve struggled to believe in myself.
She’s encouraged me to keep going, even when I’ve doubted what I was capable of.
And she’s helped me become comfortable with the person I am today.
I don’t think you can put a price on that.
So, when somebody asks me how I define success in life, my answer is actually quite simple.
Success is being able to look back at where you started, recognise everything you’ve been through, and still be proud of the person you’ve become.
It’s not about having the biggest house, the fanciest car or the healthiest bank balance.
It’s about character.
It’s about resilience.
It’s about kindness, compassion and the ability to keep moving forward, even when life gives you every reason to stop.
It’s about finding something that makes you happy, having the courage to pursue it, and appreciating the people who walk alongside you.
Most importantly, it’s about understanding that your past doesn’t have to dictate your future.
I can’t change what happened to me as a child. I can’t go back and give that teenage boy the childhood he deserved.
But I can look at the life I’ve built since then.
I can look at the poetry books, the photographs, the opportunities, the friendships and the people who have become part of my world.
And I can look at Mrs Bob, knowing just how fortunate I am to have her beside me.
Then I can look in the mirror.
And for perhaps the first time in my life, I don’t see someone who needs to be different, someone who doesn’t quite fit, or someone who hasn’t achieved enough.
I see me.
A bloke who’s had his fair share of knocks, who’s made mistakes, who’s still learning, still scribbling, still taking photographs and still occasionally wondering what on earth he’s doing.
But a bloke who’s happy with who he is.
A bloke who’s proud of what he’s achieved.
And a bloke who knows that, despite everything life has thrown at him, he’s still here.
And if that’s not success, I really don’t know what is.
So perhaps the next time we measure somebody’s success, we should spend a little less time looking at what they’ve got and a little more time considering what they’ve overcome.
Because you never really know what battles someone has fought to get where they are today.
And sometimes, the greatest achievement isn’t what you’ve accumulated along the way.
What’s a completely useless fact you love sharing?
I’ve always loved random facts. The more pointless, the better.
When I first met Mrs Bob back in 2012, I impressed her (or possibly confused her) by telling her the speed of light in miles per second.
186,282.4 in case you wondered.
You’re welcome.
My latest little gem came about while reading one of the QI fact books to Mrs Bob at bedtime.
Penguins can’t taste fish.
Now, obviously, I had to investigate this one.
It turns out penguins have lost three of the five basic taste receptors: sweet, bitter and umami (that savoury taste).
So, as far as scientists can tell, they’re left with salty and sour.
And there’s more.
Penguins don’t chew their food. They have backwards-facing spikes on their tongues, designed to grip slippery fish, krill and squid before swallowing them whole.
Basically, nature has given them the equivalent of a takeaway service with no need for a menu.
Imagine eating fish your entire life and never actually knowing what it tastes like.
Anyway, that’s today’s completely useless fact.
You’re welcome.
And if you happen to meet me, please don’t ask me for the speed of light. I’ve got plenty of other facts to bore you with.
What’s one piece of travel advice you always follow?
If I had to give just one piece of travel advice, it would be this.
Make an effort to learn a little of the local language and culture before you go.
Notice I said a little.
I’m not suggesting you need to complete a university degree in linguistics before booking your flights. Nor am I suggesting you need to arrive sounding like you were born in Oslo or Reykjavik.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
Norwegian and Icelandic have both featured on my list of languages I’ve attempted to get my head around. How successful have I been?
Well, let’s just say I probably made a bit of a pig’s ear of it.
But that’s not really the point, is it?
The point is that you try.
There’s something rather lovely about making the effort to say hello, please, thank you, or even attempting to order something without completely butchering the pronunciation.
Although, in my case, butchering the pronunciation is probably a distinct possibility.
Still, most people appreciate the effort. You’re showing them that you recognise their country is more than a backdrop for your holiday photographs. It’s their home. Their culture. Their history. Their everyday life.
And you’ve taken a little time out of your own life to understand it.
That matters.
Of course, learning a few words is only part of it.
Take the time to understand local customs, too. Find out what’s considered polite, what might cause offence, and how people go about their daily lives. Try the local food. Visit somewhere beyond the obvious tourist attractions. Listen to people when they tell you about their home.
You might discover something wonderful.
Or you might discover that the local delicacy isn’t quite to your taste.
It happens.
But at least you tried.
I think we sometimes forget that travelling isn’t just about seeing places. It’s about experiencing them, even if only for a short time.
And you don’t need to be fluent to do that.
You don’t need perfect grammar, an impressive vocabulary, or the ability to hold a philosophical debate over dinner.
You just need a little curiosity, a bit of humility, and the willingness to look slightly silly now and then.
Which, given my attempts at Norwegian and Icelandic, is something I can manage quite comfortably.
So, if you’re heading abroad, learn a few words. Read a little about the culture. Be respectful. Be curious. And don’t be afraid of getting it wrong.
Because the locals might not remember your accent.
They might not remember your name.
But there’s a good chance they’ll remember that you tried.
And sometimes, that small effort makes all the difference.
There’s a question guaranteed to send anyone of a certain age spiralling back into the mists of time, when gaming meant a television, a cassette player, a rubber-keyed computer and an almost religious belief that, if you waited long enough, something would eventually happen.
What was your first ever videogame?
For many of us, the answer was probably Horace Goes Skiing. Or perhaps it was one of those games you spent hours typing into a Sinclair ZX Spectrum 48K, carefully copying lines of code from a magazine, desperately hoping you hadn’t missed a comma, a number or one of those mysterious little symbols that could bring the whole thing crashing down.
Either way, getting to the actual game was an adventure in itself.
Loading… Please Wait
If you were lucky enough to own a Spectrum, you’ll remember the ritual. You connected the cassette player, typed LOAD "", pressed Enter and hit Play. Then you waited.
And waited.
And listened to that extraordinary electronic noise that sounded like a robot having an argument with a fax machine.
There was always that moment when you wondered whether it was working. Was the volume too high? Too low? Had the tape stretched? Was the computer about to reward your patience, or were you going to have to rewind the cassette and start all over again?
You could make a cup of tea in the time it took some games to load. You could probably make the tea, drink it and wash the cup before the title screen appeared.
And heaven help you if the game failed at 99%.
That wasn’t a minor inconvenience. That was a personal tragedy.
Enter Horace
For those of us who remember him, Horace Goes Skiing was a classic of its time. Released in the early eighties, it offered the chance to guide our unfortunate hero across a busy road, hire his skis and head for the slopes.
Simple enough, you might think. Except that crossing the road was a challenge in itself, and every unfortunate collision ate into Horace’s limited funds. You could spend more time trying to reach the ski hut than actually skiing.
It was maddening. It was addictive. And when you finally got going, it felt like you’d achieved something genuinely worthwhile.
Which, in fairness, you had. You’d survived the loading process, mastered the controls and negotiated a road system that would have given the average driving examiner nightmares.
And if you crashed? Well, you had another go.
There was no hand-holding, no friendly tutorial explaining what to do next, no convenient checkpoint waiting just around the corner. You learned by playing, failing and playing again. Sometimes you learned by shouting at the screen.
Mostly, you learned that trees were not your friends.
The Games We Built Ourselves
Of course, not everyone had a cassette with a shiny label and proper instructions.
Some of us had a magazine, a keyboard and an unhealthy amount of optimism.
You’d sit there typing in a program, line after line, convinced you were doing something terribly clever. And you were, to be fair. The Spectrum was a wonderful little machine, and learning to make it do things felt a bit like having your own personal magic box.
But there was a catch.
One typo.
One missing line.
One misplaced character.
And suddenly, instead of a glorious new game, you had a screen full of error messages and an afternoon’s work to do all over again.
Still, there was something special about it. You weren’t just playing games. You were learning how they worked, even if you didn’t fully appreciate it at the time.
And when you finally got the thing running?
Blimey.
You’d practically invented the internet.
Well, not quite. But you know what I mean.
Here’s the thing that really strikes me when I think back to those early gaming days.
There were no save points.
You didn’t get to save your progress before the difficult bit. There was no autosave, no checkpoint, no helpful message telling you that your progress had been preserved.
If you ran out of lives, that was it.
If you switched the computer off, that was it.
And if Mum decided she’d had enough of the television being occupied and wanted to watch something else, well, your gaming career had just been terminated without consultation.
You started again.
And again.
And again.
We became remarkably good at accepting failure, dusting ourselves off and having another go. Perhaps that’s one of the things those old games taught us without us even realising it.
Although, in fairness, some of us also learned some rather colourful language.
I still think there’s something wonderful about those early games. Not because they were technically superior to what we have today, but because of what they represented.
They were new.
They were exciting.
They were ours.
We didn’t have online guides, walkthrough videos or somebody on YouTube explaining the entire game before we’d even loaded it. We figured things out ourselves, usually through trial and error, and occasionally through sheer bloody-minded determination.
Today, we have games with extraordinary graphics, enormous open worlds, cinematic storytelling and enough features to fill a small instruction manual.
And they’re brilliant.
But sometimes I wonder whether we’ve lost a little of that old magic.
That feeling of finally getting a game to load after half an hour of electronic screeching. That little thrill when you discovered how to get past a difficult section. That sense of achievement when you’d spent an entire afternoon trying to beat your previous score.
No downloads.
No day-one patches.
No subscription required to access your own memories.
Just a computer, a cassette tape and a few hours to spare.
And if the game crashed?
Well, you learned to live with disappointment.
Or you threatened to throw the Spectrum out of the window.
Usually both.
For me, the question isn’t simply which game came first. It’s about remembering a time when playing a videogame was an event in itself.
Maybe it was Horace Goes Skiing. Maybe it was Manic Miner, Jet Set Willy, or one of those home-coded adventures that took longer to type in than they did to play.
Perhaps your first game wasn’t on a Spectrum at all. Maybe it was an Atari, a Commodore 64, a BBC Micro or something else entirely.
Whatever it was, I’d wager you remember more about the experience than you do about the graphics.
Because those games weren’t just games.
They were afternoons spent with friends, arguments over whose turn it was, the frustration of losing your progress and the excitement of discovering something new.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, a generation of us became gamers.
Those things we’re apparently supposed to set ourselves so we can become more productive, more successful, and generally a better version of ourselves.
You know the sort of thing.
Attend a motivational seminar, buy a rather expensive notebook, write down your five-year plan, and spend the next twelve months feeling guilty because life got in the way.
Yeah… I’ve never really gone in for all that.
Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who set themselves goals and work hard to achieve them. If that’s your thing, crack on. Good for you.
It’s just never really been my cup of tea.
I’ve never been particularly interested in turning my life into a spreadsheet, complete with targets, deadlines, and little boxes to tick.
I’m a poet, a photographer, and a professional rambler. I spend a good deal of my time scribbling words, taking photographs, and generally following whatever creative rabbit hole happens to catch my attention.
And honestly?
I quite like it that way.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to grow.
Of course I do.
I’d love to see my poetry reach more people. I’d love for my photography to find its way in front of a few more pairs of eyes. I’d love for the things I create to connect with somebody, somewhere, who might need them.
Who wouldn’t?
There’s something rather lovely about putting a little piece of yourself out into the world and discovering that somebody, somewhere, has connected with it.
Especially when that little piece of yourself started life as a few scribbles in your head.
But I’ve never felt the need to turn that desire into some grand, all-singing, all-dancing personal development programme.
No five-year plan.
No motivational posters telling me I can achieve anything if I just believe hard enough.
And absolutely no standing in front of a mirror at six in the morning, telling myself I’m going to conquer the world.
The neighbours would probably worry.
Besides, I’ve come to realise that life doesn’t always work according to plan. Sometimes things go brilliantly, sometimes they go spectacularly pear-shaped, and sometimes you spend an afternoon wondering what on earth you went into the kitchen for.
That’s life.
So, do I have a goal?
Well, I suppose I do.
Although calling it a goal might be stretching the definition somewhat.
At the end of every month, I have a little look at the number of interactions my creative work has received.
That’s it.
Nothing complicated.
My goal, if you can call it that, is simply to do as well as I did the previous month.
Not necessarily better.
Just the same would do nicely.
If the numbers go up, which they usually do, then that’s a lovely little bonus.
If they don’t?
I’m not going to beat myself up because a particular post didn’t reach as many people as the one before it.
Nor am I going to decide that my work has somehow become less valuable because an algorithm has had a funny five minutes.
After all, numbers can tell you how many people interacted with something.
They can’t always tell you what it meant to them.
And that’s an important distinction.
Because somewhere out there, somebody might read a poem of mine and feel a little less alone.
Somebody might look at a photograph and see something beautiful in an otherwise ordinary day.
Somebody might read one of these ramblings, have a little chuckle, or find a thought that stays with them long after they’ve closed the page.
I’ll probably never know about most of those moments.
And that’s okay.
I don’t need to.
If something I’ve created makes a difference to even one person, then there’s value in that which no monthly statistic can properly measure.
Perhaps that’s the thing about creativity.
You can spend hours worrying about reach, engagement, followers, likes, shares, and all the other things the internet has taught us we’re supposed to care about.
Or you can get on with creating things because you enjoy doing it, because you have something to say, or because sometimes putting words on a page is simply how you make sense of the world.
Personally, I’ll take the second option.
I’ll keep writing.
I’ll keep taking photographs.
I’ll keep sharing whatever happens to fall out of my head and onto the page.
And if more people find their way here along the way, then that’s wonderful.
But I’m not going to spend my life chasing a number.
Life’s a journey, after all.
And I’d rather enjoy the scenery than spend the entire trip staring at the satnav, worrying whether I’m getting there quickly enough.
Which brings me to something I really do want to say.
To those of you on the other side of this screen…
Thank you. Genuinely.
Whether you’ve been reading my scribbles for years or you’ve only stumbled across one of my ramblings today, I’m grateful you’re here.
Every comment, every like, every share, every message, and every moment you’ve taken out of your day to read something I’ve written means more than you probably realise.
I know the internet is a busy place. There’s an almost endless supply of things demanding our attention, and yet you’ve chosen to spend a little of your time here.
With me.
And that genuinely touches me.
I started writing because I had things I needed to get out of my head. Over the years, those scribbles have grown into something much bigger than I ever expected.
And the fact that other people have found something in them?
Well, that’s a rather lovely bonus, isn’t it?
So, no, I don’t have a grand plan for world domination.
I’m not aiming to become the next big thing.
I’m not sitting here plotting how to turn every waking moment into an opportunity for personal growth.
I’m just Bob.
An old soul with a head full of thoughts, a camera, a keyboard, and an apparently endless supply of things to ramble about.
I’ll keep doing what I do.
Creating, and keep putting my work out into the world.
And at the end of each month, I’ll have a little look at those numbers and see how things are going.
If they’re up, I’ll do an extra happy dance.
If they’re the same, I’ll be very happy.
And if they’re down?
Well, there’s always next month.
Because perhaps the point isn’t to keep setting bigger and bigger goals until we’re so busy chasing the next achievement that we forget to appreciate what we’ve already got.
Perhaps it’s about enjoying what we’re doing, appreciating the people who come along for the ride, and being grateful that we get to do it in the first place.
At least, that’s how I see it.
And once again, to everyone who reads, shares, comments, or simply stops by for a little while…
What’s something you’ve done that you never thought you could?
This one is very easy to answer.
In fact, I reckon I could probably give you two answers. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?
Around twenty years ago, I started writing poetry.
Well, poetry is probably what we’ll call it. Back then, I referred to them as my scribbles, and if I’m honest, that’s still a pretty good description of some of them.
I didn’t start writing because I wanted to be a poet. I wasn’t dreaming of seeing my name in magazines, winning awards, or having people read my words.
Nope.
I started writing because I needed to get the stuff in my head out of it.
My mental health was in a pretty rough place, and I needed a way to process the thoughts, emotions, and general chaos that I was struggling to make sense of. Writing became a form of therapy, a pressure valve, and eventually a way of understanding myself a little better.
It was never about being good enough for anyone else.
It was about trying to be okay.
As I kept writing, something unexpected happened. People started taking an interest in my words. I wrote a poem for a family member’s naming ceremony, and people began asking where I’d got it from.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed rather surprised.
Truth be told, so was I!
Perhaps there was something in this poetry malarkey after all.
Fast-forward twenty years, and I’ve had my work published in magazines and books, written six books of my own, and even picked up awards for my poetry.
For a bloke who started writing just to try and keep his head above water never imagined that his words would find their way into print, let alone receive recognition.
I certainly didn’t set out with any of that in mind.
I was just trying to make sense of life, one scribble at a time.
And yet, somewhere along the way, those scribbles became something more.
They became my voice.
Then there’s the camera…
The second answer would obviously be photography.
I’ve always enjoyed taking pictures, but it was never something I thought of as a talent. When I got my first camera phone, I started snapping away at whatever caught my eye.
A bird. A landscape. Something interesting on a walk. Whatever took my fancy, really.
I wasn’t following some grand artistic vision. I wasn’t studying photography or worrying about aperture, shutter speeds, focal lengths, or any of those other technical things that proper photographers seem to know about.
I just liked taking pictures.
Still do, actually.
The difference is that people started noticing them.
Some of my photographs have been shared by local news outlets, which is something I certainly never expected when I first started pointing a phone at things and pressing a button.
And then there was the opportunity to photograph an event featuring Howard Jones.
Yes, THAT Howard Jones!
Genuine 80s pop royalty.
If you’d told me years ago that one day I’d be taking photographs at an event with someone whose music helped soundtrack an era, I’d probably have looked at you as though you’d been at the cooking sherry.
But it happened.
And that’s the thing about life. Sometimes you stumble into opportunities that you never even knew were possible, simply because you followed something you enjoyed.
No master plan. No five-year strategy. No carefully mapped-out career.
Just a bloke with a camera, taking pictures of things that caught his eye.
So what have I learned
I suppose the biggest lesson is that you don’t always need to know where something is going before you start.
Sometimes, you just need to begin.
You don’t have to be brilliant at something on day one. You don’t need qualifications, a grand ambition, or even the confidence to call yourself good at what you do.
Sometimes, you just need to give yourself permission to have a go.
For me, poetry started as a way of looking after my mental health. Photography started as a bit of fun.
Neither began with the intention of achieving anything spectacular.
And yet both have taken me places I never expected to go.
My poetry has been published, recognised, and awarded. My photographs have reached audiences I never imagined, and I’ve had opportunities that the younger version of me would probably have thought were beyond his reach.
Am I some sort of literary genius or photographic wizard?
Absolutely not.
I’m still learning. I’m still experimenting. I still write things that need a fair bit of work, and I still take photographs that don’t quite turn out the way I imagined.
But I keep going.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last twenty years, it’s that you never really know what might come from doing something that makes you feel a little more like yourself.
Sometimes, the thing you start doing simply to survive becomes the thing that helps you thrive.
And sometimes, the hobby you pick up without a second thought turns into an opportunity you could never have dreamed of.
So, if you’re sitting there wondering whether you should give something a go, perhaps this is your nudge.
Write the poem.
Take the photograph.
Pick up the paintbrush.
Try the thing that’s been sitting at the back of your mind.
You don’t have to know where it will lead.
You just have to start.
Because twenty years ago, I was a bloke scribbling words to help make sense of his own head and taking pictures because something caught his eye.
I never imagined either would lead to the things they have.
