I think this last week has probably been the pinnacle of my 2026 journey.
But before we get into that, let’s rewind a little.
At the start of the year I spotted an advert on Instagram looking for volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
Now, being me, I thought…
Why not?
So I threw my hat into the ring.
Somehow, they said yes.
And suddenly I found myself being one of the volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
My first proper photography gig.
And I bloody loved it.
Something had happened.
That little spark had caught light.
So when my hometown of Narnia announced its own Pride in July, I did what any sensible person would do.
I sent them a cheeky email asking if they needed a photographer.
Apparently, nobody had thought of that.
So, by a mixture of enthusiasm, timing and possibly nobody else putting their hand up, I became the official Pride photographer.
Which brings us to last week.
Totnes Pride.
Another fantastic day. Another camera full of photographs. Another reminder of just how much I love doing this.
And then came the inevitable bit.
The bit where I sat down afterwards and started looking through hundreds of photographs.
Yes, they were in focus.
Yes, they were clear.
But…
Did they have that something?
Probably not.
And when you combine that with a healthy dollop of imposter syndrome and failing to score in a poetry competition, it’s fair to say I was being a little hard on myself.
Then Friday happened.
One of the Pride volunteers contacted me.
She sent me a lovely photograph of me in action with my camera.
Then came the unexpected bit.
She was looking for a volunteer photographer to photograph 80s music legend Howard Jones while he had his portrait painted, followed by an auction raising money for a local youth music charity.
Would I be interested?
Well…
Yes.
Obviously.
I didn’t even need to think about it.
More experience.
More hours behind the camera.
A chance to build my portfolio.
And, quite frankly, an excuse to take photographs.
What’s not to like?
Then, as if the universe was trying to make its point, some of my astrophotography started producing some rather lovely results too.
And suddenly that slump didn’t seem quite so deep.
Perhaps I’d just forgotten something fairly obvious.
I’m still learning.
I’m still finding my eye.
Not every photograph is going to be the photograph.
And that’s okay.
You take the next one.
You learn.
You keep going.
Sometimes you just need to stop judging the last frame long enough to notice that you’re already holding the camera for the next one.
And maybe there’s something to be said for simply being there for that moment, rather than worrying too much about what comes afterwards.
Anyway…
The camera’s charged.
There are more photographs to take.
And apparently, I’ve got a portrait of Howard Jones to go and shoot.
It’s one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.
You rub the lamp. The genie appears.
Three seconds later, you’re suddenly faced with the biggest decision of your life.
And I’m guessing most people would go for something fairly obvious.
£100 million in the bank. A mansion. Fame.
Maybe becoming a bestselling author, a world-famous photographer, or whatever else happens to float your particular boat.
And don’t get me wrong, I’d quite happily take the £100 million, but there’s a problem. If I became a successful poet or photographer because some magical blue bloke handed it to me, I’m not sure I’d want it. I want to know that I earned it.
Every poem. Every photograph. Every little bit of progress.
The mistakes. The failures. The hours nobody sees.
That’s where the meaning comes from.
So if the genie stood in front of me today and said: “Bob, you get one wish. Anything you want.” My answer would probably surprise you.
I wouldn’t ask for money. I wouldn’t ask for fame. I wouldn’t even ask for anything for myself. I’d wish for one thing.
I would wish to eliminate child sexual abuse.
Completely. Everywhere. No exceptions. No child ever having to experience it. No teenager carrying a secret they’re terrified to tell anyone.
No adult waking up decades later and realising that something that happened in childhood has somehow followed them through and affected their entire life.
Because I know what it’s like.
I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse.
It happened more than forty years ago.
Forty.
Years.
And yet here I am, all these decades later, still thinking about it. Finally talking about it. Still understanding that something that lasted for a relatively small part of my childhood managed to leave fingerprints all over the man I became.
That’s the thing about abuse.
People sometimes imagine that when the abuse stops, the damage stops too.
It doesn’t necessarily work like that.
The perpetrator might walk away.
The child grows up. Life moves on. People get married. Have children. Build careers. Take photographs. Write books. Stand on beaches. Have therapy.
Laugh. Love… Live.
But sometimes, the past comes along for the ride. It sits quietly in the passenger seat. You might not notice it for years. Then something happens: A smell. A place. A memory.
A conversation.
A particular feeling.
And suddenly that little passenger taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that it’s still there.
That’s why my wish wouldn’t be about making me rich. It wouldn’t even be about erasing my own past. Because if I could magically remove what happened to me, I’d also remove part of the journey that made me who I am today.
And despite everything… I don’t want to erase myself, now.
I want to erase the reason children need to become survivors in the first place.
That’s the difference.
I don’t want a world where we become really good at helping people pick up the pieces.
I want a world where fewer people have pieces to pick up.
I want children to grow up knowing what safety feels like.
I want survivors to know that they will be believed when they find the strength to tell someone what happened, or is happening.
I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them.
That saying no means no.
That adults are supposed to protect children, not exploit them.
And perhaps most importantly…
I want survivors to know that what happened to them wasn’t their fault.
Not then. Not now. Never.
Because shame has a nasty habit of attaching itself to the wrong person: The child carries it. The teenager carries it. The adult carries it. Sometimes, to their grave.
Meanwhile, the person responsible may carry absolutely none of it.
That’s backwards. The shame belongs with the person who caused the harm, not the person who survived it.
So yes, if that genie ever does turn up, lamp in hand, waiting patiently for my answer… I know exactly what I’ll ask for… I’d simply look him in the eye and say:
“Make sure no child ever has to become a survivor of sexual abuse again.”
And if that sounds like an impossible wish… perhaps it is.
But I’ve spent enough of my life being told that some things are impossible. Sometimes impossible just means we haven’t tried hard enough yet.
So until that genie turns up, perhaps the rest of us have a part to play.
Listen. Believe. Protect. Educate.
Speak when silence would make things easier for the wrong person.
And when a survivor finally finds the courage to say those words:
“This happened to me.”
Don’t ask them why they didn’t tell someone sooner. Don’t brush it off with a throwaway comment. Don’t ask what they were wearing. Don’t ask what they did to cause it. Don’t ask why they didn’t fight or scream.
Just listen.
Believe them.
And do remind them of something they may have spent years struggling to believe themselves:
It wasn’t their fault.
Forty years later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still taking photographs. Still telling stories. Still trying to turn some of the darker parts of my life into something that might help somebody else. Perhaps that’s the closest thing I have to magic.Not changing the past, but using what happened to me to try to make somebody else’s future a little safer.
And if I only ever get one wish… That’s the one I’ll choose.
If you could start a new business right now, what would it be?
If I’m being completely honest, the obvious answer would probably be photography.
I love photography.
It’s gone from being something I did with my phone, wandering around taking pictures of anything that caught my eye, to something I genuinely want to get better at.
Nature.
Birds.
Beaches.
People.
Events.
The occasional photograph that makes me stop and think, bloody hell, I actually took that.
I’ve even started doing photography work at events, and there’s something rather lovely about being able to turn something you enjoy into something people are willing to pay you for.
So yes.
If I was being sensible…
A photography business.
Easy.
Except…
I think I’d love to own a comic book shop.
Yep.
A comic book shop.
Because apparently being a bloke in his fifties who already has far too many hobbies, books and bits of geekery apparently isn’t enough.
I need premises.
And stock.
And shelves.
Lots and lots of shelves.
I’ve loved comics and graphic novels for years.
I’ve rambled before about how Watchmen was my first graphic novel and how that started a lifelong love affair with comic books.
And the more I think about it, the more I realise that owning a comic shop wouldn’t really be about selling comics.
Not entirely.
It would be about creating somewhere people actually want to go.
A proper little geeky Aladdin’s cave.
Comics.
Graphic novels.
Maybe some collectables.
Games.
A few bits of nostalgia.
Somewhere you could walk in looking for the latest issue of something and end up having a forty-minute conversation about Batman.
Or Transformers.
Or why the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were considerably better than they had any right to be.
Somewhere you could discover comics for the first time.
Somewhere adults could rediscover the things they loved when they were younger.
And somewhere people could simply geek out without having to explain themselves.
I think I’d like that.
There’s something quite appealing about having a little shop that feels like your place.
Not some huge corporate business.
Just a little independent shop, run by a bloke who probably knows far too much about fictional characters and not nearly enough about accounting.
So maybe photography is the sensible answer.
It’s something I’m passionate about.
Something I’m already doing.
Something I’m increasingly taking seriously.
But the comic shop?
That’s the one that makes me smile when I think about it.
And perhaps that tells me something.
Because sometimes the business you could build isn’t necessarily the business you’d love to build.
And if I ever do open one…
You’ll probably find me behind the counter with a camera around my neck, a comic in my hand, and absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Which, if we’re being honest, is pretty much how I approach most things.
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.
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.
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.
People keep calling me a hipster. I laugh, obviously, every time. Not because it is funny, but because it proves everything. Because apparently, that is exactly what a hipster would do.
“No, no, no,” I tell them, “I just appreciate craftsmanship.” You hear that? Not denial. Denial dressed in artisan packaging, wrapped carefully – in brown paper, naturally.
I do not wear a pocket watch for quirkiness. I wear it because I appreciate history, sincerely. Actually, give me a second. I need to check something. Yes, the time, like it’s still 1894 somewhere.
I did not grow this beard because it was fashionable. I grew it ironically, which somehow feels much worse now.
Irony has an annoying habit of overstaying its welcome. Leave it long enough, and irony becomes sincerity with lighting— better lighting, usually, and much more expensive beard oil.
I own vinyl, not because it sounds better, necessarily. I just enjoy paying forty quid for technical difficulties. There is something beautiful about music arriving with problems: a little crackle, a little hiss, a little emotional damage.
I drink caramel skinny lattes because coffee needs accessories. If coffee tastes exactly like coffee, then what was accomplished? Why pay six pounds for something that knows its own identity?
I wear charity shop T-shirts and call them vintage, confidently. No, Dave from Torquay donated that in 2018, mate.
I wear a flat cap because my forehead needed branding. I write poetry about societal issues because subtlety failed. I bought a notebook because the paper felt creative. That sentence alone should disqualify me from several conversations.
I collected crystals, insisting they were decorative, nothing more. Then Mercury went retrograde, and suddenly quartz looked suspicious.
I have tattoos, and every one carries meaning, because apparently I cannot get ink without writing commentary. Even my mistakes need footnotes, context, and emotional symbolism.
Somewhere between prayer beads and thrift shops, I started wondering. Between beard wax and obscure Scandinavian bands nobody knows. Thirty-seven monthly listeners, and yes, I checked yesterday. Do not worry. You’ve probably never heard them.
That is important, apparently, because obscurity is credibility.
And somewhere beneath all this carefully curated nonsense, I realised: this was not a phase, an aesthetic, or rebellion. This was a lifestyle subscription, and I somehow renewed it.
I spent years trying desperately not to become labelled. I avoided stereotypes so carefully that I became one.
I accidentally became the human equivalent of a farmers’ market: organic, locally sourced, and somehow charging extra for conversation.
The worst part is not the beard, vinyl, or crystals. It is what happens whenever somebody says it.
“Mate, you are such a hipster.”
And I still answer, “No, I am not.”
Which is exactly, exactly what a hipster would say.
God. I am a hipster.
There. I said it, and somehow the room survived.
I suppose confession is healthy, especially in vintage denim. Maybe I should accept it, like an overpriced emotional diagnosis. Maybe this is simply who I am now.
A man wearing irony until irony started wearing me. And honestly, that is probably the most fashionable tragedy available.
Still, before we finish, I have one final request.
Can we have this confession somewhere with exposed brick? Maybe near a plant, a record player, and gluten-free sourdough.
I think the answer is that I’ve finally realised I have to.
We’re usually pretty good at looking after our physical health.
We eat better.
We try to exercise.
We go to the doctor when something hurts.
We know that our bodies need looking after.
But our minds?
That can be a different story.
For me, I’ve learned that I need to make time for my mental health in exactly the same way.
Not when I’ve completely run myself into the ground.
Not when everything has become too much.
Before that.
Because self-care isn’t about being selfish.
It’s about maintenance.
Much like putting fuel in the car before the warning light comes on.
For me, that maintenance comes in a few different forms.
Sometimes it’s a coffee with friends in the market.
Nothing particularly complicated.
Just sitting down, having a coffee, chatting, laughing, putting the world to rights and generally not rushing off somewhere.
There’s something incredibly therapeutic about good company and a decent cup of coffee.
Then there’s my shed.
My little escape from the world.
There’s something about closing the door, sitting down and having some quality downtime that just works for me. Sometimes I’ll write. Sometimes I’ll tinker. Sometimes I’ll do absolutely nothing.
And sometimes doing absolutely nothing is exactly what you need.
Then there’s Sunday.
Beach day.
Mrs Bob and me, heading down to the sea and switching off from the week.
There’s something about the beach that resets me.
The sound of the waves.
The wind.
The smell of the sea.
Just being there.
Not worrying about what needs doing tomorrow.
Not replaying what happened yesterday.
Just being present for a little while.
And, of course, there’s the camera.
I love going out with my camera.
It gives me an excuse to slow down and actually look at the world around me.
A bird.
A tree.
A strange bit of light.
Something that most people might walk straight past.
Photography makes me stop.
Look.
Notice.
And sometimes that’s self-care too.
Then there’s meditation.
Taking a little time to sit quietly, breathe and simply be.
I’m not going to pretend I’ve suddenly achieved some state of perfect enlightenment.
I’m still me.
I still overthink things.
Probably more than I should.
But those quiet moments help me step back from the noise.
And perhaps that’s what all of these things have in common.
They give me space.
Space to breathe.
Space to think.
Space not to think.
Space to be Bob.
I don’t think self-care has to involve expensive retreats, complicated routines or seventeen different types of herbal tea.
Sometimes it’s a coffee with a mate.
Sometimes it’s sitting in a shed.
Sometimes it’s standing in the sea with Mrs Bob.
Sometimes it’s going out with a camera and looking for something beautiful.
Sometimes it’s simply sitting quietly and breathing.
The important thing, for me, is recognising that these things matter.
They aren’t luxuries.
They’re part of maintaining the balance.
Because life can be bloody noisy.
There’s always something that needs doing.
Someone who needs something.
Another email.
Another job.
Another problem to solve.
And if we’re not careful, we can spend all our time looking after everything and everyone else…
…and forget to look after ourselves.
So I make time.
Not because I have loads of spare time.
I don’t.
I make time because I know I need it.
Because my mental health matters just as much as my physical health.
And because I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to keep moving forward…
