Not all of it, obviously. I’m not expecting a fourteen-year-old to be taught how to navigate a midlife crisis, assemble flat-pack furniture without swearing, or explain to their children why Dad is hiding in the shed.
Although, actually, that last one might be quite useful.
But there are an awful lot of things I was taught at school that, despite having passed exams and presumably being considered important at the time, have rarely been useful to me since.
Pythagoras’ theorem springs to mind.
Now before all the mathematicians come charging at me with their calculators, I’m not saying mathematics isn’t important.
It absolutely is.
But I can’t remember the last time I stood in my garden, looked at two sides of a triangle and thought:
“Hang on a minute, I know exactly what to do here.”
Meanwhile, nobody thought it might be useful to teach me how to balance a household budget.
Or how tax actually works.
Or what all those frightening numbers and boxes on official forms mean.
Nobody sat me down and explained mortgages, interest rates, borrowing, credit scores, insurance or the simple financial reality that earning £2,000 doesn’t mean you’ve got £2,000 to spend.
Those are things most of us eventually have to learn.
Usually by making mistakes.
Sometimes expensive ones.
And then there’s the practical stuff.
How to put up a shelf without it falling off the wall five minutes later.
How to unblock a sink.
How to change a tap washer.
How to find a stud.
How to use basic tools properly.
How to assemble something from instructions without immediately deciding that whoever designed it was a complete bastard.
Even something as simple as changing a wheel on a car.
These are basic life skills.
And yet I don’t remember anyone teaching them.
I actually learnt more about practical things from my brother Tim and my mates than I ever did sitting in a classroom.
I had an old Honda 90cc, and between taking that thing apart, putting it back together and occasionally wondering why I’d ended up with several mysterious bolts left over, I learnt a surprising amount about mechanics.
I learnt how things work.
How to diagnose a problem.
How to use tools.
How to fix something rather than immediately deciding it was broken beyond repair.
More importantly, I learnt that you don’t necessarily need to know everything before you start.
Sometimes you just need to have a go.
Those lessons have stayed with me.
I’ve used them throughout my life.
I’ve fixed things.
I’ve built things.
I’ve taken things apart.
I’ve occasionally broken things while trying to fix them, but that’s part of the educational process too.
And I suspect I’ve used those lessons far more often than I’ve used my knowledge of the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell.
Sorry, mitochondria.
You had your chance.
I’m not arguing that schools should stop teaching academic subjects.
Of course they shouldn’t.
Education isn’t simply about producing people who can balance a cheque book and change a tyre.
We need scientists.
Engineers.
Historians.
Artists.
Teachers.
Doctors.
Writers.
Mathematicians.
People who understand literature, politics, science, philosophy and the world around them.
Knowledge matters.
But so does knowing what to do when the washing machine starts making a noise that sounds suspiciously like a small aircraft attempting an emergency landing.
Perhaps education needs a bit more balance.
Teach the theory, absolutely.
But teach us what to do with it.
Give teenagers a basic understanding of money.
Show them how rent, mortgages, bills and household budgets actually work.
Explain taxes.
Teach them how contracts work and why you shouldn’t sign something you haven’t read.
Teach basic cooking.
Basic first aid.
Basic DIY.
Basic car maintenance.
How to change a tyre.
How to safely change a fuse or plug.
How to use a drill without removing a finger.
How to recognise when something is beyond your ability and when you need to call someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
And perhaps most importantly, teach them that asking for help isn’t failure.
Because eventually, every child leaves school.
They become adults.
They get jobs.
They rent houses.
They buy homes.
They have children.
They encounter broken boilers, flat tyres, tax forms, insurance documents, dodgy washing machines and bank statements that seem to have been written in a language known only to accountants.
And suddenly they’re expected to know what they’re doing.
Except nobody actually taught them.
We spend years preparing young people for exams.
Perhaps we should spend a little more time preparing them for the bit that comes afterwards.
Because life doesn’t come with an answer sheet at the back of the book.
Sometimes the answer is simply:
“Right, let’s have a look and see if I can fix it.”
And honestly, that’s probably one of the most useful things my old Honda ever taught me.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?
People occasionally ask me what the best piece of advice I’ve ever received is. They’re usually expecting a memorable quote from a famous person or perhaps something a mentor once said to me.
My answer is a little different.
As I’ve often mentioned before, many years ago a girlfriend gave me a copy of Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitionerby Scott Cunningham. At the time, i couldn’t have imagined how significant that simple gift would become. It wasn’t just another book to add to the shelf; it opened my eyes to a completely different way of looking at the world.
That journey eventually led me to explore both Wicca and Buddhism. While they are very different spiritual traditions, I discovered they shared a lesson that has stayed with me ever since.
The best advice I’ve ever received is this:
Realise that peace comes from within, not from trying to change the outside world.
It’s such a simple idea, yet it takes most of us years to truly understand.
We spend so much of our lives believing happiness will arrive when circumstances improve. We tell ourselves we’ll be content when we find the perfect relationship, earn a little more money, get the promotion, move house or finally tick off the next goal.
But life has a habit of reminding us that there is always another challenge waiting around the corner.
If our peace depends entirely on the world behaving as we’d like it to, we’ll spend much of our lives disappointed.
One of my favourite Wiccan sayings captures this beautifully:
“True peace is kindled within the sacred circle; tend your inner flame, and the world will mirror calm.”
Whether you interpret the sacred circle literally or simply as the space within your own mind, the message is still the same. Before we can bring peace into our lives, we have to nurture it within ourselves.
Years later I found exactly the same wisdom expressed through Buddhism.
The Buddha taught that much of our suffering comes not from what happens to us, but from our attachment to how we think life should be. We exhaust ourselves trying to control people, situations and outcomes that were never ours to control in the first place.
The more we resist reality, the more we suffer.
The more we accept the present moment, while still doing our best to respond wisely, the more peaceful life becomes.
That doesn’t mean giving up or becoming indifferent. It means understanding where our real power lies.
We can’t control every event.
We can’t control other people.
We can’t stop change.
But we can choose how we respond.
Looking back now, I realise that the greatest lesson wasn’t simply found in the pages of Scott Cunningham’s book. It emerged through years of reading, reflection and experience. Wicca pointed me towards the importance of living in harmony with myself and the natural world. Buddhism deepened that understanding by teaching me that lasting peace isn’t something we discover outside ourselves.
It’s something we cultivate within.
So if someone asked me today what the best advice I’ve ever received is, my answer would still be the same.
Don’t spend your life trying to create the perfect world.
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.
There’s a thought that’s been rattling around my head lately.
Dangerous thing, really.
Because once certain thoughts get in there, they don’t politely sit in the corner and wait their turn. They pace. They whisper. They pull up a chair at three in the morning while you’re trying to sleep and say:
“Go on then… explain this.”
And this one goes something like:
What if, when you die, you simply move a fraction of a second forward in time?
Not heaven. Not hell. Not ghosts floating around old pubs knocking glasses over for dramatic effect.
Just…
A tiny shift.
A cosmic blink.
A quantum sidestep.
And somehow—you’re still here.
Now before the scientists start throwing textbooks at me and the spiritualists start sharpening crystals into weapons, I’m not saying this is true.
I’m saying it’s interesting.
And sometimes interesting is enough.
Because the more you read about quantum physics, the stranger reality starts to feel anyway. Particles existing in multiple states. Matter behaving differently when observed. Entire theories suggesting reality itself is far less solid than we like pretending it is.
Which raises an uncomfortable possibility:
What if death isn’t the full stop we think it is?
What if consciousness—whatever that truly is—isn’t as fixed to this version of reality as we assume?
There’s a theory called quantum immortality. The basic idea being that from your own perspective, you never actually experience death. Reality simply continues along whatever thread allows consciousness to persist.
Mad idea, isn’t it?
But then again, so is the fact we’re tiny self-aware monkeys standing on a spinning rock, hurtling through infinite darkness while arguing online about pineapple on pizza.
Reality lost the right to demand seriousness a long time ago.
Still…
The idea lingers.
Because haven’t we all had moments that felt strange?
Those near misses.
That split second where things should have gone differently.
The car that almost hit you. The illness you somehow survived. The accident that by all logic should’ve ended badly.
And afterward there’s that odd feeling.
Not gratitude exactly.
More like disorientation.
As if some hidden part of you quietly whispers:
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Maybe that’s just psychology.
Maybe the brain struggles to process proximity to death.
Or maybe—and here’s where it gets wonderfully weird—some version of you did die.
Just not this one.
Perhaps consciousness simply slid sideways into the nearest available moment where the story continued.
Not because you’re special. Not because the universe has a grand plan.
But because existence itself might be stranger than language can hold.
And honestly?
I find that oddly comforting.
Not immortality itself. That sounds exhausting.
Can you imagine eternity?
Eventually even your favourite songs would start feeling like hold music.
No, what comforts me is the possibility that reality isn’t as cold and mechanical as we sometimes fear. That there may still be mysteries beyond our measuring tools. That science, for all its brilliance, may only be scratching at the wallpaper of something far larger.
Because for all our cleverness, we still don’t truly understand consciousness.
We can describe neurons firing. Chemical reactions. Electrical impulses.
But the actual experience of being you?
That inner world?
That strange flicker behind the eyes?
We’re still fumbling around in the dark there.
And perhaps that’s where philosophy and physics awkwardly shake hands.
Both standing at the edge of existence saying:
“Well… this is getting a bit bloody strange.”
The older I get, the less certain I become about anything.
Ironically, that feels healthier than certainty ever did.
Maybe death is the end.
Maybe it’s a doorway.
Maybe it’s just silence.
Or maybe, just maybe…
You move a fraction of a second forward in time.
Enough to keep existing.
Enough to keep wondering.
Enough to still be here reading ridiculous blog posts like this one while the kettle boils in the background.
And if that’s true—
if consciousness does somehow continue—
I hope future-me eventually figures out where I left my glasses.
Who is the fictional character you relate to the most?
There are quite a few fictional characters I’ve admired over the years.
Batman for his determination.
Samwise Gamgee for his loyalty.
Dave Lister from Red Dwarf because, despite the chaos around him, he somehow muddles through with humour intact.
But if I’m being asked which fictional character I actually relate to the most…
It has to be Bilbo Baggins.
Not because I dream of fighting dragons or stumbling across magical rings. In fact, given the choice, I’d much rather leave the dragon to someone considerably younger and fitter.
It’s because Bilbo never quite feels like he belongs in the adventure he’s been thrown into.
He’d rather be home.
Tea brewing.
Book in hand.
Knowing exactly where everything is.
That resonates with me more than I’d care to admit.
As an autistic man, I’ve often felt as though the world handed everyone else an instruction manual and that somehow mine got lost in the post. Social situations can be exhausting. Change isn’t always exciting. Crowds, noise and unpredictability can drain me long before anyone else notices there’s anything to be drained by. I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand rules that other people seem to absorb without even thinking about them.
And yet…
Like Bilbo, life has repeatedly nudged me out of my comfortable little hobbit hole.
Moving across the country.
Changing careers.
Standing in front of audiences.
Publishing poetry.
Talking openly about autism and mental health.
None of those things were part of some grand master plan. They simply became the next step along the path. Looking back, many of the moments that felt most uncomfortable at the time became the ones that shaped me the most.
What I also admire about Bilbo is that he isn’t driven by power.
He’s driven by curiosity.
Kindness.
Common sense.
He solves as many problems with compassion and wit as he does with courage.
Those are qualities I value far more than brute strength.
I also suspect we’d get on rather well over a meal.
Anyone capable of appreciating breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper clearly has their priorities in order. In a world that insists on rushing everything, there’s something wonderfully comforting about someone who understands that conversations should never be hurried.
Perhaps that’s why Bilbo continues to endure as a character.
He reminds us that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things without ever losing sight of who they are.
You don’t have to be fearless.
You don’t have to be the strongest person in the room.
Sometimes it’s enough simply to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when every instinct is telling you to turn around and head home.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that courage rarely looks like Hollywood tells us it should.
More often, it looks like showing up.
Being kind.
Admitting when you’re wrong.
Learning something new.
Writing another poem.
Helping another person.
Or simply choosing to keep going when life would give you every excuse not to.
Bilbo would probably say he was never really a hero.
I suspect that’s exactly why so many of us see one in him.
If you had to give one life-changing tip, what would it be?
If I had to give just one life-changing tip, it would be this:
Look after your mental health just as much as your physical health.
We spend hours thinking about our bodies. We count our steps, join gyms, watch what we eat, and book check-ups when something doesn’t feel right. Yet when it comes to our minds, many of us simply hope we’ll be okay.
Hope isn’t a strategy.
The truth is, your mind is involved in every decision you make, every relationship you build, every challenge you face, and every dream you pursue. If your mental wellbeing is neglected, everything else eventually feels harder. Stress becomes overwhelming. Small problems become mountains. Joy becomes difficult to recognise.
For far too long, we’ve been taught to “keep going,” “man up,” or “just get on with it.” Those phrases have probably caused more harm than they’ll ever receive credit for. Strength isn’t found in suffering silently. Real strength is recognising when you’re struggling and having the courage to speak up.
Looking after your mental health doesn’t always mean counselling or medication, although both can be life-changing for many people. Sometimes it means getting enough sleep. Sometimes it means putting your phone down and taking a walk. Sometimes it’s saying “no” without feeling guilty. Sometimes it’s talking honestly with a friend over a cup of tea.
And sometimes it’s simply admitting, “I’m not okay today.”
There’s no shame in that.
We service our cars before they break down. We charge our phones before the battery reaches zero. Yet so many of us wait until we’re completely exhausted before giving ourselves permission to rest.
Imagine if we treated our minds with the same care we treat our bodies.
The world would be a kinder place.
So, if there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do today, it’s this: check in with yourself. Not the automatic “I’m fine” we all give, but a genuine moment of honesty. Ask yourself how you’re really doing.
Because your mental health isn’t a luxury.
It’s the foundation everything else is built upon.
What’s a skill you consider basic, that most people don’t actually know how to do?
Read a map.
Use a compass.
Administer basic first aid.
Look after yourself if things don’t go to plan.
In other words, the sort of skills many of us picked up through Scouts, the Cadets, the military, or simply from parents and grandparents who believed you should know how to do practical things.
It’s funny really.
We’ve got access to more information than any generation in history. We carry supercomputers in our pockets. We can ask AI almost any question imaginable and get an answer in seconds.
Yet many people would be completely lost—literally—if their phone battery died.
I remember when learning to read an Ordnance Survey map wasn’t unusual. You learned what the symbols meant, how contour lines worked and, if you were lucky, someone would hand you a compass and expect you to work out where you were.
There was no blue dot showing your location.
You had to think.
The same applies to first aid.
I’m always surprised by how few people know what to do when someone collapses, how to deal with a serious cut or even how to make someone comfortable until help arrives.
These aren’t specialist skills reserved for doctors or mountain rescue teams.
They’re simply useful.
Hopefully you’ll never need them.
But if you do, you’ll be very glad you learned them.
The same can be said for lighting a fire, putting up a shelter, purifying water or tying a decent knot. They’re not about preparing for the apocalypse; they’re about understanding the world around you and having the confidence to deal with it.
Looking back, I realise Scouts and later the Army taught me far more than outdoor skills.
They taught self-reliance.
Responsibility.
Teamwork.
The ability to stop, assess a situation and solve a problem without immediately reaching for someone else to fix it.
Perhaps that’s what concerns me most.
We’ve become brilliant at finding answers, but we’re losing the ability to work things out for ourselves.
Convenience is wonderful.
Technology is incredible.
Neither should replace capability.
There’s something reassuring about knowing that if the sat-nav stops working, you’ll still get home.
If someone gets hurt, you can help.
If circumstances change, you can adapt.
Those aren’t old-fashioned skills.
They’re timeless ones.
Maybe it’s time we started teaching them again.
Not because the world is becoming more dangerous.
But because capable people make stronger families, stronger communities and, ultimately, a stronger society.
And if, along the way, a few more young people discover the joy of getting gloriously lost with nothing more than a map, a compass and a bit of common sense…
Ten years ago, I sat down and started building something from scratch. At the time, it was simply a place to put my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words — a way of making sense of the world around me after being diagnosed as Autistic. (Looking back it makes sense)
I don’t think, even in my wildest dreams, I could have imagined where that small beginning would lead me.
Ten years later, this little corner of the internet has become so much more than a website. It has become a place for connection, understanding and shared experiences. It has allowed me to tell my story, to open conversations, and to hopefully help others feel a little less alone on their own journeys.
When I first started writing, I had no idea who would read my words or where they would take me. I certainly never imagined that so many people would come along for the ride, follow my journey and offer their support along the way.
For that, I am truly grateful.
To everyone who has read a blog post, shared a story, sent a message, offered encouragement or simply taken the time to understand — thank you. Your support has meant more than you probably realise. Every interaction has been a reminder that sharing our experiences can create connections that we never expected.
Of course, there is one person who deserves a very special thank you: Mrs Bob.
Behind the scenes, she has been my constant support throughout this entire journey. She has written, proofread, made phone calls, helped shape my thoughts and, most importantly, been my neurotypical whisperer when I’ve needed someone to help translate my way of seeing the world.
She has worked tirelessly alongside me, often without recognition, and I honestly couldn’t have reached this point without her.
Looking back over these ten years, I realise this website has been a record of growth, discovery and acceptance. It has captured moments of frustration, joy, learning and everything in between.
The journey hasn’t always been straightforward, but it has always been mine.
So, on this tenth birthday, I’m not just celebrating a website. I’m celebrating the conversations started, the friendships made, the lessons learned and the incredible community that has grown around it.
It’s one of those phrases that usually arrives just after something awful has happened.
Someone loses a loved one.
A relationship ends.
A diagnosis turns life upside down.
And almost without thinking, someone says it.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
I know it’s usually meant kindly.
It’s an attempt to comfort.
To make sense of chaos.
To reassure us that the universe hasn’t completely lost the plot.
But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it.
Not because I think life is meaningless.
Far from it.
I think the problem lies in what we mean by reason.
If by “reason” we mean that every tragedy was deliberately planned by some higher power—that every child who becomes ill, every war, every act of cruelty was intentionally designed as part of some grand blueprint—then I struggle with that idea.
Not because I lack faith in mystery.
But because it asks us to believe that unimaginable suffering was somehow necessary.
I’m not convinced.
There’s another way of looking at it, though.
Perhaps “reason” doesn’t mean purpose.
Perhaps it simply means cause.
Everything that happens has causes and conditions.
A tree doesn’t fall because the universe chose that exact tree.
It falls because roots weaken, soil shifts, fungi grow unseen beneath the surface, and eventually gravity finishes the conversation.
Human lives are much the same.
Who we become isn’t usually shaped by one dramatic moment.
It’s thousands of tiny moments.
The family we’re born into.
The kindnesses we receive.
The wounds we carry.
The books we read.
The strangers we meet.
The mistakes we survive.
Each one nudges us ever so slightly until, years later, we look in the mirror and wonder how on earth we became this particular version of ourselves.
That’s not destiny.
That’s cause and effect.
In many ways it’s far more fascinating.
It also reminds us that our own actions become part of someone else’s chain of causes.
A smile offered to a stranger.
A harsh word spoken in anger, to the driver that cut you up.
A poem that reaches someone on exactly the day they needed it.
None of these things happen in isolation.
They ripple.
Sometimes far further than we’ll ever know.
Perhaps that’s why I try to choose kindness whenever I can.
Not because I think it’ll magically make the universe reward me.
But because every action adds another thread to the web we’re all helping to weave.
Life isn’t always fair.
Bad things happen to good people.
Good things happen to difficult people.
And sometimes there isn’t an answer that satisfies us.
But there are always causes.
Always choices.
Always consequences.
Maybe that’s enough.
So no…
I don’t believe everything happens for a reason.
But I do believe everything happens because of reasons.
And understanding the difference might just change the way we understand ourselves.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 