Every morning before the sun stretches itself across my window, before my coffee tastes like anything but bitter, happiness hides.
She’s crouched behind the blinds, folded into the corner of yesterday’s pillow, laughing quietly at me as if I don’t know how to look for her.
I try.
I try like I know her favorite hiding spots, like I know the exact way she breathes when she’s shy, like I can coax her out with half-empty mugs and songs that smell like home.
But she moves.
Slips under the fridge, slides into the cracks of my bathroom tiles, hides in the sound of my keys clattering like she’s daring me to follow.
So I do.
I follow.
And sometimes, just sometimes, she peeks out like a shy smile from a stranger in a crowded street.
For that moment, my chest remembers what it’s like to be full, and I swear I hear the echo of her saying,
you found me again.
Then she disappears.
And I swear I’ll find her tomorrow.
Because happiness isn’t something that knocks politely.
It is a professional hide-and-seek champion, undefeated for as long as I’ve known her.
And me?
I am the kid counting with my eyes closed, hands over my face, promising the dark that I’m still playing.
What’s a piece of media (book, movie, song) that changed how you see the world?
This is a very tough choice, truth be told.
There’s obviously The Watchmen, my first ever graphic novel, which started a lifelong love affair with comic books that’s still going strong today.
Then there’s String Theory for Dummies, the book that accidentally sparked a conversation with what is now Mrs Bob.
Both of those deserve posts of their own, and I’m fairly sure I’ve rambled about them before.
But if I had to choose the one piece of media that genuinely changed the direction of my life, it would be…
Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham.
This book came into my life at exactly the right moment.
At the time, my life was an absolute mess. I was going through a particularly nasty breakup, carrying around a lot of anger, hurt and resentment. Looking back, I also realise I was an autistic man who hadn’t yet been diagnosed, trying to make sense of emotions I simply didn’t have the tools to process.
Then someone showed me kindness.
A witch, who had once found comfort in the very same book herself, passed it on to me.
It wasn’t a book about casting spells that changed me.
It was a book about responsibility.
About balance.
About understanding that every action has consequences.
The lesson that has stayed with me happened shortly afterwards.
My ex broke into my home, took a lot of our belongings and trashed much of what she left behind.
The old me would probably have jumped in the car, driven straight over there and made the whole situation infinitely worse.
Instead, something clicked.
For the first time, I understood that anger wouldn’t repair my home.
It wouldn’t replace what had been stolen.
It wouldn’t heal what had happened.
All it would do was make me ill, and give the people who had hurt me the satisfaction of knowing they’d got exactly the reaction they wanted.
Walking away wasn’t weakness.
It was peace.
That one lesson changed everything.
It led me to read more about Wicca, which in turn eventually led me towards Mahāyāna Buddhism. Although they’re very different paths, both encouraged me to slow down, look inward and understand that my mental and physical wellbeing are deeply interconnected.
Those philosophies helped me become a calmer person.
A happier husband.
A better father.
A better grandfather.
They’ve also influenced the way I write, the way I see people, and the compassion I try to show others.
Without that one book…
Without the kindness of the woman who first placed it into my hands…
I honestly don’t know where I’d be.
There’s every chance I’d have let my anger make decisions for me.
And when anger starts making your decisions, the ending is rarely a good one.
Sometimes the books that change your life aren’t the bestselling novels or the classics everyone studies at school.
Today is Father’s Day here in the UK, and I’d like to use my little corner of the internet to give a huge shout-out to a man who is technically my stepfather.
Although, after nearly forty years of being there, I think we can safely dispense with the “step” part.
Because here’s the thing.
Anyone can create a life and become a dad.
But it takes a different kind of man to step into a child’s life and choose to stay. To take on the responsibility, the worry, the sacrifices, the school runs, the advice, the support, and all the other things that come with raising children who aren’t biologically your own.
That takes character.
It takes commitment.
And it takes love.
The older I get, the more I realise that fatherhood isn’t defined by DNA. It’s defined by presence. By consistency. By being the person who turns up, day after day, year after year, regardless of whether anyone notices or says thank you.
My stepfather did exactly that.
Not only did he help raise me, but he also became the only grandad my own children have ever known. He’s been there through the milestones, the celebrations, the challenges and the ordinary moments that, when you look back, turn out to be the ones that mattered most.
The truth is that parenting can often feel like a thankless job. You invest your time, energy and heart into other people and rarely stop to count the cost. Most of the time you simply get on with it because that’s what love does.
So today, I want to say thank you.
Thank you for sticking around.
Thank you for stepping up.
Thank you for treating me as your own.
And thank you for showing my children what a grandfather looks like.
Father’s Day should be about celebrating the men who choose to be present, whether they are fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers, foster parents or father figures. The title matters far less than the impact.
And finally, a quick nod to all the fur parents out there too. The dog walkers, the cat feeders, the sofa sharers and the treat dispensers. I see you.
Happy Father’s Day to all those who show up, stick around and make a difference.
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.
There’s a strange thing that happens as you get older.
You spend most of your youth trying desperately to become your own person — carving out your own identity, your own voice, your own little corner of the world.
You swear blind you’ll never become your parents, never pick up the odd habits of your grandparents, never start saying things like:
“Don’t leave that light on, it’s like Blackpool illuminations in here.”
And then one day…
You catch yourself doing exactly that.
For me, it happened in the shed.
Now, if you’ve read my ramblings before, you’ll know there’s always a shed somewhere in the story. Like some recurring side character that quietly steals the scene. But sheds aren’t really about wood and nails and rusty hinges, are they?
Not really.
They’re memory boxes.
Little sanctuaries built out of timber, silence, and inherited habits.
When I was younger, both my grandads had sheds — though, much like the men themselves, they were completely different worlds.
My maternal grandad, Walter was a retired firefighter and gentleman of the old school variety, had a shed that smelled of compost, damp wood, and honest work. Plant pots stacked everywhere. Garden canes leaning in corners. Twine, tools, and jars full of screws that “might come in useful one day.”
There was always an old bit of carpet on the floor.
Always a greenhouse nearby. Always tomatoes growing somewhere.
His shed wasn’t tidy by modern standards, but it made sense in the way only a working man’s shed can. Every object had a purpose. Every scratch and stain told a story.
And him?
He was happiest there.
Not because it was an escape from life — but because it was life.
Then there was my paternal grandfather Sydney — a former Rolls Royce engineer with the larger-than-life personality and a shed that felt more like a workshop for some eccentric inventor. Freezers, tools, cables, bits of machinery, shelves packed with things no child understood but instinctively believed were important.
He approached life like an engineer and a comedian trapped in the same body.
One minute he’d be discussing something technical enough to launch a rocket, and the next he’d be making ridiculous noises or blowing raspberries just to make us laugh.
And somehow, despite being worlds apart, both men found peace in exactly the same place.
A shed. A chair. Something to tinker with. A bit of quiet.
Funny, that.
Now I’m older — older than I ever imagined myself becoming when I was young and invincible — I’ve realised I’m becoming a strange hybrid of both of them.
I’ll spend one afternoon carefully organising tools and muttering about “doing the job properly,” then the next I’m wandering around annoying Mrs Bob with terrible jokes and sound effects like a man who’s escaped supervised care.
I catch myself polishing shoes properly. Taking pride in appearance. Pottering in the garden. Sitting in the shed just listening to the rain on the roof.
And honestly?
I don’t mind it one bit.
Because the older I get, the more I realise inheritance isn’t always money, property, or genetics.
Sometimes inheritance is smaller than that.
It’s habits.
Expressions.
Ways of sitting quietly with yourself.
The understanding that peace can sometimes be found with a mug of coffee in a shed while the world carries on without you for half an hour.
My own shed these days is a mixture of both men.
There’s the practical side — tools, chargers, bits of wood I refuse to throw away because they might become useful in approximately seventeen years time.
Then there’s the softer side.
A chair. A rug. A notebook. A place to write scribbles that occasionally become poetry.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not Pinterest-worthy. And it certainly wouldn’t survive one of those minimalist home makeover shows.
But it’s mine.
And somewhere in its walls live echoes of both the men who helped shape me.
The firefighter with soil on his hands and kindness in his heart.
And the engineer with a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of humour.
Maybe becoming your grandparents isn’t something to fear after all.
Maybe, if you’re lucky, it’s something to be grateful for.
Because one day you realise the people you loved never really leave.
They remain in the small things.
In the way you make tea. In the way you speak. In the habits you never consciously chose.
Or in the way you smile quietly to yourself while sitting in a shed on a warm afternoon, completely at peace for the first time all week.
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.
