Tag Archives: freemasonry

Things I’ve Learnt Along the Way

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What are some life hacks that you practice?

I’m not sure I’d call these life hacks.

That makes them sound as though I’ve discovered some secret formula for life.

I haven’t.

If I had, I’d probably be considerably more organised.

And significantly less likely to walk into a room and immediately forget why the hell I went there.

But over the years, I’ve picked up a few little things that seem to make life slightly easier.

Nothing revolutionary.

No twelve-step morning routine involving seventeen different types of herbal tea.

Just a few things that seem to work for me.

Don’t Carry Everything (The Art of Letting Go)

This is probably the biggest one.

For a long time, I spent an incredible amount of energy carrying things that had already happened, you know.

Arguments.

Regrets.

Things people had said.

Things I wished I’d said.

Things I couldn’t change, no matter how many times I replayed them in my head.

Meditation has helped me with that.

Not by magically emptying my mind.

Anyone who knows me will understand how unlikely that sounds.

Instead, it’s taught me to notice my thoughts without automatically climbing aboard every single one of them.

Sometimes you just have to acknowledge something.

Learn whatever lesson there is to learn.

And then put the bloody thing down.

You don’t have to carry everything just because you once picked it up.

Some things belong in the past.

Leave them there.

Go outside

Another incredibly complicated life hack.

Leave the house.

Go for a walk.

Look at the sky.

Watch the birds.

Stand by the sea.

Get rained on.

Apparently, I’m particularly good at that last one.

There’s something about getting away from four walls and screens that resets the brain.

Sometimes the solution to a problem isn’t another hour staring at it.

Sometimes it’s a walk and a coffee.

Sometimes it’s feeding the crows.

Sometimes it’s standing in the sea with wet shorts and wondering why you thought that was a good idea in the first place.

And sometimes…

that’s enough.

We spend so much time trying to do things that we forget there’s value in simply being somewhere.

Outside.

Breathing.

Looking.

Listening.

Being present.

Write shit down

My brain has always been a noisy place.

So I write.

Sometimes it’s poetry.

Sometimes it’s complete nonsense.

Sometimes it’s a sentence that eventually becomes something.

And sometimes it’s simply a case of getting the thoughts out of my head and onto a piece of paper before they start having a bloody committee meeting in there.

There’s something strangely powerful about seeing a thought written down.

It becomes something outside of you.

You can look at it.

Question it.

Rearrange it.

Understand it.

Or decide that actually, it was rubbish…

…and throw it away.

Writing started for me as a way of processing thoughts and emotions.

Twenty years later, I’m still doing it.

Apparently, I’ve committed to the bit.

And I’m quite glad I did.

Protect you time

We live in a world that seems determined to fill every available second.

Notifications.

Messages.

News.

Social media.

Emails.

Opinions.

More opinions about the opinions.

Sometimes you need to switch the bloody lot off.

Read a book.

Play a game.

Sit in the shed.

Take photographs.

Write.

Watch the birds.

Drink a coffee.

Do absolutely nothing.

And yes, I know that doing nothing sounds like the sort of thing we’re all supposed to feel guilty about.

But doing nothing isn’t necessarily wasting time.

Sometimes doing nothing is exactly what your brain needs.

We don’t have to be productive every minute of every day.

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is stop.

Fucking ask for help

This one took me far too long to learn.

I’ve still got the scars

I used to think asking for help meant

Not being able to “Man Up”

admitting weakness.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes it means recognising that you’re human.

We aren’t designed to carry everything alone.

If something is too heavy, put it down.

If you don’t know what to do, ask someone who does.

If you’re struggling, tell someone.

That isn’t failure.

It’s being sensible.

There’s a strange idea that we’re somehow supposed to have all the answers.

We’re not.

None of us do.

Sometimes strength isn’t about carrying something until your back breaks.

Sometimes strength is saying:

“I can’t carry this on my own.”

And letting somebody give you a hand.

Finally…

Don’t wait for everything to be perfect before you enjoy your life.

Because trust it probably won’t be.

There will always be another bill.

Another job.

Another problem.

Another thing that needs fixing.

Another bloody email.

There will always be something.

So enjoy the cup of coffee.

Read the book.

Take those photographs.

Watch the birds.

Have the conversation.

Laugh at something stupid.

Tell somebody you love them.

Go outside.

Stand in the sea.

Get your feet wet.

And if you end up with wet shorts afterwards…

Well.

Apparently that’s just part of the experience.

Sometimes life doesn’t need fixing.

Sometimes you just need to be there for it.

And sometimes…

that’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

Karma, The Universe & The Occasional Piece of Lego

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Do you believe in karma?

Yes.

I do.

Call it karma.

Call it the universe.

Call it cause and effect.

Call it whatever the hell you like.

I believe that the things we put out into the world have a habit of coming back to us.

Not necessarily in the mystical, Hollywood sort of way.

I don’t necessarily believe that if someone is horrible to you on Tuesday, the universe will arrange for them to stand on a piece of Lego on Wednesday.

Although…

I’m not entirely ruling it out.

What I mean is something a little simpler.

Our actions have consequences.

The way we treat people matters.

The choices we make shape the person we become.

And sometimes, those choices have a funny way of catching up with us.

I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

There have been times in my life when anger would have been the easy option.

Someone hurts you.

Someone wrongs you.

Someone treats you badly.

And every fibre of your being screams:

“Go on then.

Give them some of it back.”

I understand that feeling.

I really do.

But I’ve also learned that revenge rarely gives you what you think it will.

It doesn’t undo what happened.

It doesn’t repair the damage.

It doesn’t magically make you feel better.

Sometimes all it does is create another problem.

And another.

And another.

A bit like emotional dominoes, except you’re the idiot who keeps knocking them over.

There’s something I’ve taken from my reading around Buddhism that I find particularly useful.

Not some grand mystical promise that the universe will punish the bad people and reward the good ones.

Something much simpler.

Our intentions and actions matter.

What we cultivate inside ourselves matters.

If I spend my life feeding anger, resentment and hatred, then I’m the one carrying those things around.

Nobody else has to.

I do.

And frankly, I’ve carried enough baggage in my lifetime without deliberately packing another suitcase.

So yes, I believe in karma.

But perhaps my understanding of karma has changed over the years.

I don’t see it as some cosmic courtroom where a celestial judge sits behind a desk handing out sentences.

I see it more as a reminder.

Be careful what you put into the world.

Because your words matter.

Your actions matter.

The way you treat the person who can do absolutely nothing for you matters.

The kindness nobody sees still matters.

The apology nobody expected still matters.

Walking away instead of escalating an argument matters.

Helping someone when you could easily have walked past matters.

And maybe that’s where the universe comes into it.

Maybe there is some great cosmic mechanism at work.

Maybe there isn’t.

I honestly don’t know.

I’m quite comfortable admitting that I don’t have all the answers.

What I do know is that kindness tends to create more kindness.

Anger creates more anger.

Compassion can change the direction of a conversation.

And sometimes choosing peace instead of revenge changes the direction of your entire life.

So if you want to call that karma…

Fine by me.

If you want to call it the universe…

That’s fine too.

If you want to call it simple cause and effect…

You might actually be onto something.

Personally, I’ll probably continue sitting somewhere in the middle.

A little bit spiritual.

A little bit sceptical.

A little bit Buddhist.

And quite a lot of bloke who has made enough mistakes to know that actions have consequences.

Because perhaps karma isn’t about waiting for somebody else to get what they deserve.

Perhaps it’s about making sure that what we put into the world is something we’re happy to live with when it comes back around.

And if the universe wants to throw in the occasional piece of Lego for educational purposes…

Well…

Who am I to argue?

Stay safe,

BC

No Strategy, No Plan, Just Scribbles and the Occasional Crow

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How do you write what people actually want to read?

It’s an interesting question.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not entirely sure I do.

I don’t mean that to sound arrogant.

Quite the opposite.

I’m probably one of the least commercially minded writers you’re ever likely to meet.

I don’t sit down at my keyboard thinking:

Right, Bob. What will the internet like today?

What’s going to get the most clicks?

What’s going to go viral?

What will the algorithm be particularly fond of?

If I did, I’d probably have given up years ago.

The truth is, I started writing for a completely different reason.

I needed somewhere to put the stuff rattling around inside my head.

Twenty-odd years ago, my “poetry” was barely poetry at all.

I called them scribbles.

Still do, actually.

They were thoughts, emotions, anger, fear, confusion and occasionally a bit of hope, thrown onto paper because keeping everything inside clearly wasn’t working terribly well.

Writing became a form of therapy.

The scribbles eventually became poems.

The poems eventually became books.

And somehow, along the way, people started reading them.

Which still amazes me.

Because I never really set out to become a poet.

I certainly didn’t start writing because I thought:

One day, thousands of people might read this.

I was just trying to make sense of myself.

And perhaps that’s the answer to the question.

Maybe you don’t write what people want to read.

Maybe you write what you need to say.

And then you hope that somewhere out there, somebody needs to hear it.

That’s certainly how I approach this blog.

Some days I’ll write about mental health.

Some days it might be something completely ridiculous.

Photography.

A walk.

A memory.

A book.

A film.

Something that made me laugh.

Something that pissed me off.

Something that made me stop and think.

And occasionally, for reasons known only to the universe, I’ll write about bloody crows.

There isn’t necessarily a grand content strategy behind it.

It’s just me.

Rambling.

Hence the name.

And yes, I’m aware that there are probably people who read something I’ve written and think:

What the hell was that bloke going on about?

Fair question.

I’ve asked myself the same thing.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t normally write poetry, scribbles, or these ramblings because I want to be liked.

I don’t write them because I want everyone to agree with me.

And I certainly don’t write them because I expect everyone to enjoy them.

I write because it helps.

It helps me process things.

It helps me understand what I’m thinking.

Sometimes it helps me put a name to an emotion I couldn’t quite identify before.

And sometimes, putting something down on paper means I can stop carrying it around in my head.

That’s why the mental health side of my writing has always mattered so much to me.

There have been times when writing wasn’t just a creative outlet.

It was part of keeping my head above water.

Poetry gave me a way of taking all that internal noise and turning it into something I could actually look at.

Something I could shape.

Something I could eventually put down.

And then something rather lovely happened.

Other people started saying:

“I understand that.”

Or:

“I’ve felt like that.”

Or:

“Thank you for writing this.”

And that’s when you realise that something you wrote purely to help yourself can sometimes become useful to somebody else.

That, to me, is the magic bit.

Not the numbers.

Not the views.

Not the likes.

Not whether something gets shared fifty times on Facebook.

Although, obviously, if you do want to share it fifty times, I won’t complain.

I’m not completely bloody stupid.

But that isn’t why I write.

If somebody reads something I’ve written and gets something from it, brilliant.

If somebody laughs, even better.

If somebody sees themselves in one of my poems and realises they aren’t quite as alone as they thought they were, then bloody hell…

That’s worth more than any number on a screen.

So, how do you write what people actually want to read?

I honestly don’t know.

I suspect there are people far cleverer than me who can explain algorithms, audience engagement, SEO, demographics and all the other mysterious machinery that apparently makes the internet go round.

Me?

I just write.

I write what interests me.

I write what bothers me.

I write what makes me laugh.

I write what hurts.

I write what I’m trying to understand.

And sometimes I write complete and utter nonsense because my brain has apparently decided that’s what we’re doing today.

And if people want to read it?

Well…

That’s a happy little accident.

(Bob Ross would approve.)

The funny thing is, though, perhaps the best writing isn’t created by trying desperately to please an audience.

Perhaps it comes from being honest enough to say the thing you actually wanted to say.

Because somewhere, there might be someone who needed those exact words.

I never expected my scribbles to become twenty years of poetry, six books, guest publications and all the other amazing things that have happened along the way.

I certainly didn’t have a five-year plan.

I had a pen.

A head full of noise.

And a desperate need to get some of it out.

Everything else has been a happy little accident.

And I think I’m quite happy keeping it that way.

So I’ll carry on rambling.

I’ll carry on scribbling.

I’ll carry on taking photographs.

I’ll carry on writing about mental health, life, love, the ridiculousness of being human, and whatever else wanders into my head.

If you enjoy it, thank you.

If something I write helps you, even better.

And if you don’t like it…

Well, there are plenty of other blogs on the internet.

No hard feelings.

I’ll still be here tomorrow.

Probably writing something nobody asked for.

And quite possibly enjoying myself immensely while I do it.

Stay safe,

BC

Two Cats, 300 Miles & A Very Good Idea

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What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?

Packing two cats and what was left of my house into a car and driving nearly 300 miles to go and live with someone I’d only known for a few months.

Completely sensible behaviour.

Obviously.

In hindsight, I suppose there were a few warning signs.

For starters, I was leaving behind pretty much everything I knew.

Home.

Friends.

Familiar places.

The life I’d built.

And replacing it with a car full of belongings, two probably very confused cats, and a woman I’d known for a few months.

What could possibly go wrong?

To be fair, the cats probably had the biggest adjustment.

They hadn’t exactly been consulted on the matter.

I imagine their conversation went something like:

“Why are we in the car?”

“Where are we going?”

“Why has he packed the litter tray?”

“IS THIS A VET?”

And then several hours of feline outrage.

Meanwhile, I was driving nearly 300 miles towards an entirely new chapter of my life.

I’d met Mrs Bob only a few months earlier.

And somehow, somewhere between those early conversations and whatever bizarre sequence of events brought us to that particular day, I’d reached the point where I thought:

“Yeah.

This seems like a good idea.”

So I loaded up the car.

Cats.

Stuff.

Whatever possessions had survived the previous chapter.

And off I went.

Towards Narnia.

Which, for those who don’t know, is what I affectionately call this part of the world.

Although technically it’s twinned with Totnes.

Which is probably about as close to Narnia as Devon is going to get.

There’s something slightly terrifying about starting again.

We tend to imagine big life changes as these carefully planned things.

You know the sort of thing.

Step one:

Make a five-year plan.

Step two:

Research everything.

Step three:

Make a spreadsheet.

Step four:

Have another meeting about the spreadsheet.

Step five:

Eventually do something.

I apparently skipped steps one through four.

I just got in the bloody car.

And yet…

It turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.

The following year, we got married.

And somehow that spontaneous decision turned into more than a decade together.

A marriage.

A family.

A home.

A completely different life.

And eventually, a new career.

There have been ups and downs, obviously.

Life isn’t a Disney film.

There are bills.

There are arguments.

There are days when you wonder why you’ve spent twenty minutes trying to explain to a cat that the cardboard box isn’t actually a suitable substitute for the perfectly good cat bed sitting six inches away.

But that’s life.

It’s messy.

It’s unpredictable.

And occasionally it involves putting everything you own into a car and driving 300 miles because you have a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re heading in the right direction.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed where I was.

What if I’d talked myself out of it?

What if I’d decided it was too risky?

What if I’d waited until everything was perfect?

I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now.

I wouldn’t have Mrs Bob.

I wouldn’t have this life.

I wouldn’t be wandering around Devon with a camera, photographing birds, beaches, cats and whatever else happens to catch my eye.

I wouldn’t have written all the poetry.

I wouldn’t have met all the people I’ve met.

And I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here calling this place Narnia.

Sometimes we spend so much time worrying about making the right decision that we forget something rather important.

There isn’t always a right decision.

Sometimes you just have to make a decision.

Take the leap.

See what happens.

And occasionally, against all odds, it works out rather bloody brilliantly.

So, what’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done?

I packed two cats and what was left of my house into a car.

I drove nearly 300 miles.

I went to live with a woman I’d known for a few months.

And I started a completely new life.

Spoiler alert:

We got married the following year.

And after more than a decade together, I can honestly say that moving in with Mrs Bob and starting that new life and career in Narnia was the best decision I’ve ever made.

Sometimes the biggest adventures don’t begin with a plan.

Sometimes they begin with a full boot, two pissed-off cats and a very questionable sat-nav route.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because if I’d waited for certainty…

I might never have found home.

Stay safe,

BC

It’s Your First Time Being Alive

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What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?

Don’t worry if, in your twenties, you don’t know where you’re going.

Honestly.

Most of us are making it up as we go along.

There seems to be this unwritten expectation that by a certain age you’re supposed to have everything worked out. A career. A five-year plan. A purpose. A clear idea of who you are and where you’re heading.

Life rarely works like that.

When we’re young, we somehow expect ourselves to have all the answers despite the fact we’ve barely had time to collect the questions.

It’s your first time being alive.

Be kind to yourself.

I didn’t know who I truly was, or what I wanted my life to look like, until I was nearly forty. Looking back, I spent far too much time worrying that I was behind everyone else.

The truth?

Nobody knows what they’re doing quite as much as they pretend to.

And that’s okay.

Because life isn’t really about the final destination anyway.

It’s about the journey.

It’s about the people you meet along the way.

The late-night conversations.

The road trips.

The laughter that leaves your face aching.

The memories you make with friends and family.

Years later, you won’t remember every deadline, every promotion, or everything you thought was a disaster at the time.

You’ll remember the people.

You’ll remember how they made you feel.

You’ll remember the moments.

Another thing I’d tell my younger self is this:

Learn to love yourself.

Not in an arrogant way.

Not in a “look at me” sort of way.

Just learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

Because once you stop trying to be who you think everyone else wants you to be, and start accepting who you actually are, something wonderful happens.

You can breathe.

You stop fighting yourself.

And that feeling is worth more than you can imagine.

I’d also tell you to let go of grudges.

They’re heavy things to carry.

The person who upset you years ago is probably not sitting at home replaying the argument.

Meanwhile, you’re giving them space in your head they haven’t earned.

They don’t deserve to live rent free in there.

Forgiveness isn’t always about them.

Sometimes it’s about freeing yourself.

So be patient.

Be kinder to yourself than you think you need to be.

Take photographs.

Make memories.

Tell people you love them.

Don’t panic if the map isn’t clear.

Most of us are finding the path one step at a time.

And sometimes the scenic route turns out to be the best one.

Stay safe,

BC

Ps Don’t forget to wear sunscreen

I Finally Realised I Know Nothing

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

That’s actually quite a difficult question.

You might expect the answer to be something obvious.

Getting your first proper job.

Paying your first bill.

Buying your first house.

Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.

For me, though, it was none of those things.

I think it was when I finally learned to let go.

And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.

Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.

Surely adulthood is about knowing things?

Having the answers.

Being responsible.

Knowing what you’re doing.

Apparently not.

Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.

I probably never did.

I just got better at pretending I did.

When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.

Then, one day, you become one of those adults.

And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.

Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.

For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.

Old arguments.

Old mistakes.

People who had hurt me.

Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.

The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.

And that’s exhausting.

Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.

You can’t change the past.

You can’t control other people.

You can’t make everyone understand you.

And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.

So you let go.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.

That’s when I think I finally started growing up.

Not when I got older.

Not when I had responsibilities.

Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.

It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.

Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.

And being comfortable with that.

I’m still learning.

I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.

But that’s okay.

Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:

Congratulations. You are now officially an adult.

There isn’t one.

There are just experiences.

Mistakes.

Lessons.

People who come into your life.

People who leave it.

Things you hold on to.

And things you eventually learn to let go.

And perhaps that’s the real trick.

Not knowing everything.

Just knowing that you don’t.

Stay safe

Bc

Different Paths, Same Journey: Being a Buddhist Freemason

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People often look at me a bit sideways when they discover I’m both a (lay) Buddhist and a Freemason.

Usually there’s a pause.

You can almost hear the gears grinding.

“Aren’t those two things contradictory?”

Honestly?

No more contradictory than being a poet who also loves archery, or an autistic bloke who can lose himself for hours behind a camera, quietly watching the world through a lens.

Human beings are complicated creatures. We contain multitudes, contradictions, rough edges and unfinished thoughts. That’s part of the beauty of it all.

The truth is, Buddhism and Freemasonry actually complement one another in ways many people don’t realise.

Both are less about blind belief and more about self-improvement.

Both ask uncomfortable questions.

Both encourage reflection.

And neither hands you all the answers wrapped up neatly with a bow.

That part matters.

Because I’ve never trusted anyone claiming to possess absolute truth. History tends to show that certainty often causes more damage than doubt ever did.

Buddhism taught me stillness.

Or at least the attempt at it.

Anyone who knows me personally will probably laugh at the idea of my brain being still. My mind has always felt like several televisions all playing different channels at once. Thoughts colliding with memories, anxieties wrestling with imagination.

But Buddhism introduced me to the idea that I don’t have to fight every thought that enters my head.

Sometimes you just observe it.

Let it pass like weather.

Not every storm needs chasing.

That alone changed a great deal in my life.

Freemasonry, on the other hand, gave me structure.

Not control — structure.

There’s a difference.

It gave me symbolism, ritual, tradition and the reminder that becoming a better man is an ongoing process rather than a final destination. Contrary to all the strange conspiracy theories, most of Freemasonry is far less dramatic than people imagine. It’s ordinary people trying, imperfectly, to improve themselves and help others along the way.

There’s something deeply human about that.

Both paths also share another thing in common:

Humility.

A Buddhist understands suffering is universal.

A Freemason understands no stone is perfectly shaped.

Both acknowledge imperfection not as failure, but as part of the work itself.

And maybe that’s why the two fit together so naturally for me.

Neither demands I hate others for believing differently.

Neither tells me I alone possess divine truth.

Neither asks me to stop questioning.

If anything, both encourage it.

I’ve sat in forests listening to birdsong and felt something sacred.

I’ve stood in lodge during moments of quiet reflection and felt the same thing.

Different rooms.

Same silence.

Same sense of connection to something bigger than ego and noise.

That’s probably the part many people misunderstand about spirituality.

It isn’t always about certainty.

Sometimes it’s about awareness.

Compassion.

Patience.

Trying to leave the world slightly kinder than you found it.

Failing occasionally.

Trying again anyway.

I’m not interested in converting anyone.

Truthfully, I think people spend too much time arguing over whose path is “correct” and not enough time asking whether they’re actually walking theirs with honesty.

Because a belief system means very little if it doesn’t make you kinder.

Or calmer.

Or more understanding toward others.

If your spirituality only teaches you who to hate, you’ve probably missed the point entirely.

For me, being a Buddhist Freemason simply means I’m still learning.

Still building.

Still trying to smooth some of the rougher corners off myself while accepting a few will probably always remain.

And perhaps that’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

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