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.
Well, I say job — I’m one of the official volunteer photographers for this year’s Pride event in Torbay.
It might not be a paid position, but it’s the first time someone has looked at my photography and thought, “Yes, let’s give him a chance.”
More importantly, it’s an opportunity to learn. I’ll get to experience what happens behind the scenes on a real assignment; taking the photographs, editing them, and delivering the finished images rather than just pretending to be a photographer in my spare time.
Everyone starts somewhere, and today feels like the first real step on that journey.
So, fingers crossed, wish me luck, and let’s see what happens.
Sure, I love comic books. I love photography. And I’m definitely passionate about Mrs Bob—but that’s a story for another day.
The thing that truly sets my soul on fire is poetry and mental health awareness.
At first glance, they might seem like two completely different worlds. One is art. The other is survival.
But for me, they’re inseparable.
Because poetry helped save my life.
More than twenty years ago, I wasn’t the happy, well-adjusted bloke many people know today. In truth, I was a mess. My mental health was spiralling dangerously out of control. I was drinking heavily, drowning emotions I didn’t understand, and convincing myself that I had to carry every burden alone.
Like many men of my generation, I believed I had to “man up.”
Keep quiet.
Stay strong.
Don’t talk about it.
But silence can be a dangerous thing.
There were times when the darkness became so overwhelming that I tried to end my life. More than once.
Eventually, after waking up in the resuscitation room of my local hospital following one particularly close call, something shifted inside me. Looking back now, I realise it was a crossroads.
I could continue pretending everything was fine until it killed me.
Or I could ask for help.
I chose help.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
But because I looked at my two young children and realised I couldn’t leave them growing up without a father.
For the first time in my life, I stopped trying to fight alone.
One of the professionals helping me suggested I start writing down my thoughts and emotions. The idea was simple: get the chaos out of my head and onto paper so I could begin to understand it.
At first, I filled notebook after notebook with late-night scribbles. Thoughts. Fears. Anger. Pain. Hope. Anything that was bouncing around inside my head.
Then something unexpected happened.
As I read back through those pages, I started arranging some of the words into verses. The emotions were still raw and chaotic, but now they had rhythm and shape.
It wasn’t poetry as I know it today.
It was closer to rap lyrics.
But it was the beginning.
The real turning point came when I wrote a piece for a family member’s naming ceremony. Afterwards, people kept asking me where I’d found the poem.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed genuinely surprised.
And so was I.
For the first time, I allowed myself to think:
Maybe I’m a poet.
Over the following two decades, I spent countless hours learning, practising, refining and developing my craft. Every poem taught me something new—not just about writing, but about myself.
In the early days, poetry was my pressure valve.
A way of releasing everything that threatened to consume me.
My work was dark.
Unflinching.
Sometimes uncomfortable.
I wrote about depression, self-harm, suicide and the realities of living with poor mental health. Topics many people preferred not to talk about.
But those conversations mattered.
They still do.
Today, my writing covers a wider range of subjects. There’s more light alongside the darkness. More hope alongside the pain.
Yet mental health remains close to my heart.
Particularly men’s mental health.
I’ve been inspired by some incredible slam poets and advocates who have used their voices to challenge the outdated belief that men should suffer in silence. The idea that being strong means never showing vulnerability. The lie that asking for help is weakness.
Because it isn’t.
Real strength is speaking up.
Real strength is reaching out.
Real strength is staying.
The truth is that there are countless blokes out there who are fighting battles nobody else can see. Men who smile on the outside while struggling desperately on the inside. Men who believe they’re alone.
They’re not.
And that’s why I keep writing.
Because somewhere, someone might be reading these words and recognising a piece of themselves.
Someone who feels exhausted.
Someone who feels trapped.
Someone who is standing closer to the edge than anyone realises.
If my poetry, my story, or my words can make just one person pause for a moment and choose to talk to someone—anyone—instead of suffering alone, then every difficult chapter of my journey has been worthwhile.
Because poetry didn’t just give me a voice.
It gave me a future.
And if sharing that future helps someone else find theirs, then I’ll keep writing for as long as I have words left to write.
If you asked me which season of the year I hold closest to my heart, my answer would come without a moment’s hesitation: autumn.
There is a magic in that turning of the Wheel. Summer’s relentless heat softens, mornings arrive shrouded in mist, and the world transforms into a living tapestry of gold, amber, and crimson. Nature seems to pause, taking a long, slow breath before the hush of winter descends.
I have always found comfort in the cooler air. The oppressive heat of summer gives way to crisp walks through the woods, to the scent of fallen leaves that carries a nostalgia that words can barely touch. Autumn asks us to slow down, to reflect, to reconnect with the rhythms of the natural world that too often pass unnoticed.
But my love for this season runs deeper than the beauty of its colors or the relief from heat. Autumn holds my favourite of the eight Sabbats: Samhain.
For many, Samhain is simply Halloween, a time for costumes and candy. Yet in the Pagan traditions, it holds far more weight. Samhain marks the close of the harvest and the onset of the darker half of the year. It is a transitional season, when the boundaries between worlds thin and the veil between the living and the dead grows fragile. It is a time for remembrance, for reflection, for honouring those who came before us.
There is profound comfort in this. In our modern world, conversations about death are often avoided, yet Samhain asks us to face it, to embrace it as part of life’s natural cycle. It reminds us that those who are no longer physically with us continue to shape our lives through their stories, their wisdom, their love.
Each year, as the nights lengthen and the leaves drift from the trees, I pause to remember my ancestors, family, and friends who have passed. I light candles. I share stories. I offer gratitude. In doing so, I feel tethered not just to those I have known, but to the countless generations who have honoured this season long before my time.
Autumn teaches that endings are not to be feared. The falling leaf is not only a symbol of death but also a promise of renewal. Nature sheds what is no longer needed so that fresh growth may emerge when the time is right. There is wisdom in that, a lesson I carry with me throughout the year.
Every season has its own song, but autumn speaks most clearly to my soul. It is a season of reflection, of gratitude, of transformation. A season of remembrance. A season of quiet mystery.
And as the veil thins and the year leans toward its close, I find myself once more beneath an autumn sky, listening to the whispers of the ancestors riding on the wind.
Not because it’s expensive. Not because it’s the latest model. And certainly not because it makes me look like a photographer.
It’s a luxury because it helps me see.
A camera slows me down. It makes me notice the details most people walk past—the play of light on a wall, a fleeting expression, a quiet moment that would otherwise disappear forever.
The older I get, the more I realise that memories fade, but photographs have a remarkable way of bringing them back to life. They remind us not just what we saw, but how we felt.
So if I had to choose one luxury, it wouldn’t be a watch, a car, or a gadget.
It would be my camera.
Because it doesn’t just capture moments—it helps me appreciate them while I’m living them.
What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
People spend a lot of time chasing the secret to a good life.
More money.
A bigger house.
A better job.
More followers.
More stuff.
Yet the older I get, the more I realise that most of those things are optional.
The foundations of a good life are surprisingly simple.
First, you need a solid moral compass.
Not somebody else’s.
Your own.
A set of values that helps you recognise the difference between right and wrong, especially when nobody is watching. Life becomes a lot easier when your decisions are guided by principles instead of convenience.
The second thing is a good heart.
Good intentions matter.
Treat people with kindness.
Show compassion when you can.
Help where you’re able.
The world already has enough people looking out only for themselves. It never seems to have enough people genuinely trying to leave things a little better than they found them.
Will you always get it right?
No.
None of us do.
We’re human. We make mistakes. We stumble. We learn.
What matters is that you keep trying.
A good life isn’t built on perfection.
It’s built on character.
A solid moral compass.
A good heart.
And the willingness to keep moving forward when life gets messy.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 