Tag Archives: men’s mental health

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

The Glasses I Don’t Need

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I have a pair of glasses.

My glasses

Proper glasses.

You know the sort. You go to the opticians, sit in the chair while someone shines various bits of machinery into your eyes, reads out letters that get progressively smaller, and eventually tells you that your eyesight is apparently not quite as good as you thought it was.

Except…

Mine are a little bit different.

One lens is Plano.

In other words, completely plain. No prescription. Nothing.

The other one had a very, very small prescription in it.

And I mean tiny.

So tiny, in fact, that I’ve now outgrown the prescription altogether.

Technically, I don’t need the glasses anymore.

But I still wear them.

Why?

Because they are my Clarke Kent glasses.

Yes.

Really.

Those of you who know me will already know that I’m a massive comic book nerd, so perhaps this shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

But there’s actually a bit more to it than that.

You see, glasses can create a little physical barrier between me and the world.

Not a huge one.

Nobody looking at me would think, “Blimey, that bloke has constructed a defensive perimeter around himself.”

But they do something.

Much like sunglasses do.

For years, I’ve found sunglasses useful in social situations because they make eye contact easier. They create that tiny bit of separation between me and the person I’m talking to.

I can still see them.

I can still listen.

I can still have the conversation.

But somehow, having something between their eyes and mine makes me feel a little less exposed.

A little less vulnerable.

And that can make a surprisingly big difference.

The problem with sunglasses, of course, is that they’re not exactly practical all the time.

At night?

Not really.

In a dark room?

Probably not.

When it’s raining and the sky looks like it’s personally offended by the existence of daylight?

Definitely not.

And wearing sunglasses indoors can occasionally result in people wondering whether I’m about to perform at a nightclub rather than attend a perfectly ordinary meeting.

So these glasses fill the gap.

They look like normal glasses.

Because, well, they are.

Nobody needs to know that one lens is doing absolutely nothing and the other one is basically on permanent holiday.

They give me that little barrier without making the world around me darker.

And when I’m nervous, particularly if I’m standing on a stage or speaking in front of people, they help.

Stage fright is an odd thing.

You can know exactly what you want to say.

You can have prepared.

You can know that the people in front of you aren’t actually waiting for you to fail.

And yet your brain can still decide:

“Excellent. This is the moment we panic.”

Having my glasses on gives me something.

A tiny bit of confidence.

A little shield.

Perhaps even a psychological costume.

Which brings me back to Clarke Kent.

Because Superman has always fascinated me.

Not simply because he can fly, lift cars and apparently survive being thrown through buildings.

It’s the idea of the alter ego.

Clark Kent puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly he’s just an ordinary bloke.

Nobody looks twice.

Nobody expects him to save the world.

And while I’m certainly not claiming that my glasses give me superpowers

They help me feel like I’m wearing my social armour.

They give me a little bit of distance.

A little bit of protection.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

I think we all have things like that.

Little routines.

Objects.

Clothes.

Jewellery.

Music.

Something we carry with us that makes the difficult things feel slightly easier.

They might look completely insignificant to somebody else.

But they aren’t insignificant to us.

For me, apparently, it’s a pair of slightly ridiculous glasses with one lens that doesn’t need a prescription and another that doesn’t need one anymore.

To everyone else, they’re just glasses.

To me?

They’re my Clarke Kent glasses.

And sometimes, even when you don’t need a prescription, you still need the glasses.

Stay safe,

BC

Productive-ish

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Today was one of those mornings where work didn’t really feel like work.

I headed into town to have a wander around and look at potential locations for an upcoming photography gig for Totnes Pride.

There’s something about photographing an event that makes you look at familiar places slightly differently. Suddenly you’re not just seeing streets, buildings and corners of town, you’re looking for light, angles, backgrounds and those little spots where a photograph might just come together.

Of course, I took the camera with me.

Because apparently I’m incapable of going anywhere without looking at things through a lens these days.

Once the location scouting was done, it was time for the important stuff.

Coffee.

A slow, relaxing coffee morning in the market, with some good friends, and friends I’d just met, absolutely no rushing about and nowhere particularly urgent to be.

And then, as if The Universe hadn’t already delivered enough, a calico cat wandered down the stairs.

Obviously, I had to say hello.

The cat seemed perfectly happy to accept some fuss, so who was I to argue?

Photography locations sorted.

Coffee enjoyed.

Cat fussed.

All in all, not a bad morning.

Sometimes the best days are the ones where you manage to get a little bit of work done…

…and still find time to stop and enjoy the small stuff.

Stay safe,

BC

The lady in question

Wet Feet, Happy Crows & A Clearer Head

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This morning, Mrs Bob and I finally managed it.

Our first trip to the beach in a couple of months.

Two months.

That’s quite a long time when you live close enough to the sea that going to the beach should probably be considered a basic human right.

So, naturally, we did what any sensible couple would do.

We took coffee.

And apples.

The coffee was for us.

The apples were for the crows.

Priorities.

There’s something about getting back to the beach that I find difficult to explain.

It’s not just the sea.

Although, obviously, the sea helps.

It’s the whole thing.

The sound of the waves.

The wind.

The smell of salt in the air.

The gulls screaming at each other as though one of them has just insulted the other’s mother.

And, of course, the crows waiting patiently for their breakfast.

Or at least pretending to wait patiently.

They’re not daft.

They know exactly who brings the apples.

There was another little milestone for me today, though.

For the first time this year, I actually got my feet wet.

And by my feet, I mean my feet.

Including the bottoms of my shorts.

Which probably sounds like a ridiculously small thing to celebrate.

But sometimes the ridiculously small things are the ones worth celebrating.

I stood there with the water washing over my feet and realised just how long it had been since I’d done something so simple.

No great adventure.

No grand achievement.

Just standing in the sea.

Feeling the cold water.

Listening to the waves.

Being there.

And perhaps that was exactly what I needed.

Because life has a habit of becoming noisy.

Not necessarily physically noisy.

Although, let’s be honest, the modern world seems determined to shout at us from every possible direction.

Phones (left it behind).

News.

Social media.

Emails.

Other people’s opinions.

Our own thoughts.

Sometimes especially our own thoughts.

We spend so much time thinking about what happened yesterday and what might happen tomorrow that we forget there’s a rather important bit of time sitting between the two.

Today.

Standing in the sea this morning, I didn’t need to solve anything.

I didn’t need to work anything out.

I didn’t need to have all the answers.

I just needed to stand there.

Breathe.

Listen.

Feel the ground beneath my feet and the water moving around them.

There’s a tiny bit of Buddhism in that thought, although I promise I’m not about to start sitting cross-legged on the beach chanting at the seagulls.

It was simply about being present.

For a few minutes, I wasn’t worrying about next week.

I wasn’t replaying last week.

I was just there.

Me.

Mrs Bob.

The sea.

A couple of coffees.

And some very happy crows.

And somehow, that was enough.

By the time we headed home, I felt a little more grounded.

A little calmer.

A little more ready for whatever the week decides to throw at me.

Sometimes we imagine that looking after ourselves requires some huge lifestyle change.

A retreat.

A holiday.

A complicated morning routine involving seventeen different types of herbal tea and an alarm clock that sounds like Tibetan monks.

Maybe sometimes it’s much simpler than that.

Maybe it’s a walk.

A coffee.

A conversation with someone you love.

Feeding the crows.

Or just standing in the sea with wet shorts and remembering that, for all the chaos going on around us, you’re still here.

And sometimes…

That’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

The Bravest Thing Nobody Saw.

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What’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done when no one was watching?

For me, the answer is surprisingly simple.

I put the razor blade and pills down.

And I asked for help.

Now, I appreciate that might not sound particularly brave to you.

There was no crowd cheering.

No medal.

No dramatic soundtrack playing in the background.

Nobody was watching.

But that moment probably took more courage than anything else I’ve ever done in this life.

Because admitting that I was struggling wasn’t easy.

Admitting that I was teetering on the edge of the abyss, and that I genuinely didn’t know how to climb back from it, meant admitting something I’d spent years trying to hide.

I wasn’t okay.

Not “a bit stressed.”

Not “having a bad day.”

Not something I could simply “man up” and get through.

I was in serious trouble.

And for someone who had spent far too long believing that asking for help was a sign of weakness, reaching out felt bloody terrifying.

But I did it.

I put those things down.

And I spoke to someone.

Looking back now, I realise that was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

Not because I suddenly became strong.

But because, for once, I stopped pretending that I had to be strong all by myself.

That decision saved my life.

It also taught me something I wish more people understood.

Sometimes courage doesn’t look like standing on a battlefield.

Sometimes it looks like sitting alone in a room and admitting:

“I need help.”

There’s nothing weak about that.

In fact, I’d argue there’s an enormous amount of strength in it.

We’re often taught that bravery means facing something frightening head-on.

But sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose to stay.

To put down whatever you were going to use to hurt yourself.

To pick up the phone.

To knock on a door.

To tell someone the truth.

Even when your voice is shaking.

Especially when your voice is shaking.

Nobody may see that moment.

Nobody may ever know just how close you came.

But you will.

And sometimes, that one decision becomes the dividing line between the life you thought was ending and the life you hadn’t yet had the chance to live.

I’m still here.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful that on that particular day, when nobody was watching…

I chose to ask for help.

Stay safe,

Bc

She Fought for Me When I Couldn’t

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What’s the kindest thing someone has ever done for you?

That’s actually a surprisingly difficult question.

There are plenty of answers I could give.

Someone making me laugh when I desperately needed it.

Someone listening when I needed to talk.

Someone offering a helping hand when I was struggling.

Someone simply being there.

But if I’m being completely honest, there’s really only one answer that feels right.

Mrs Bob.

The kindest thing anyone has ever done for me was choosing to love me.

Not the polished version.

Not the version who has his life together.

Not the bloke who can string a few words together and occasionally convince people he knows what he’s talking about.

Me.

The complicated version.

The version who has spent far too much of his life fighting battles inside his own head.

The version who, at times, couldn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel.

There have been periods in my life when I simply couldn’t fight for myself.

My mental health was so bad that survival could feel like a full-time job. There were times when I couldn’t see my own worth, let alone believe anyone else could.

And then there was this woman.

She didn’t magically fix me.

She didn’t wave a wand and make everything better.

She did something much more important.

She stayed.

She loved me when I wasn’t particularly easy to love.

She believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

And, perhaps most importantly, she fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself.

That means more to me than I could ever properly put into words.

Because love isn’t just the grand gestures.

It isn’t always flowers, chocolates, romantic meals or expensive presents.

Sometimes love is sitting beside someone in the darkness and saying, in whatever way you can:

I’m still here.

Sometimes it’s reminding someone who they are when they’ve forgotten.

Sometimes it’s holding the line until they have enough strength to hold it themselves.

And sometimes it’s simply refusing to give up on someone who has already given up on themselves.

Mrs Bob has done all of those things.

And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay her for that.

Although, knowing her, she’d probably tell me that’s not how love works anyway.

Looking back now, I can see just how much of my life has been shaped by the people who showed me kindness at precisely the moments I needed it most. A book handed to me at the right time changed the direction of my thinking. Writing eventually gave me a way of processing the things I couldn’t say out loud. And the people around me helped me discover that asking for help isn’t weakness.

But Mrs Bob?

She was there for the whole bloody adventure.

The good bits.

The bad bits.

The messy bits.

And all the bits in between.

She didn’t fall in love with some finished product.

She loved the work in progress.

And maybe that’s one of the greatest acts of kindness one human being can give another.

To look at someone and say:

“I see you.”

“I know you’re struggling.”

“I know you don’t believe in yourself right now.”

“But I do.”

So, what’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me?

It’s not something someone bought me.

It’s not somewhere someone took me.

It’s not even something someone said.

It’s this:

Mrs Bob chose to love me, and she fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself.

And every day I get to wake up beside her is a reminder that sometimes the greatest kindness in the world is simply refusing to walk away.

For that, Mrs Bob, I will be forever grateful.

Stay safe,

Bc

I Promise, Grandad

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If you could relive one day from your past, which day would it be and why?

That’s easy.

There wouldn’t be a second thought.

I’d go back to the last day I saw my maternal grandfather, in hospital.

Not my wedding day.

Not the birth of my children.

Not some great adventure or holiday.

That day.

Because sometimes the moments that matter most don’t look particularly important while you’re living them.

My grandad was one of the most important men in my life.

When my biological father walked out the night before Mother’s Day, I was not even ten years old. Whatever role a father is supposed to play, I was suddenly missing it.

My grandad filled some of that space.

He taught me what being a decent man meant.

Not through grand speeches or profound wisdom, but through the little things.

Work hard.

Be honest.

Take pride in yourself.

Help people regardless of their background or beliefs.

Be a gentleman.

Most importantly, be someone others can rely on.

He was a retired firefighter, a gardener, an artist, a sign-writer and a handyman. He was happiest pottering around in his shed or greenhouse, surrounded by tools, plants, bits of wood and whatever else he had decided might come in useful one day.

I’ve often joked that my love of sheds is probably hereditary.

I suspect it is.

Anyway, back to that day.

I finally managed to visit him in hospital.

I took him a paper and a few things, and we spent some time together.

Nothing particularly remarkable happened.

There was no dramatic conversation.

No warning that this would be the last time.

Eventually, it was time for me to leave.

And as I was going, he asked me:

“You will come and see me again won’t you son?”

I turned around and said:

“Yes, I promise.”

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

And for years, that sentence haunted me.

Because I didn’t know it was goodbye.

I went away believing I had another visit coming.

Another conversation.

Another opportunity.

Another chance to tell him what he meant to me.

Then came the guilt.

The horrible, irrational little voice that kept asking whether I should have stayed longer.

Whether I should have said more.

Whether I should have known.

For a long time, that guilt ate away at me.

Until I was told something that changed how I remembered that day.

Later that same day, my grandad had called my mum.

He told her how pleased he was that I had taken the time to visit him.

He told her how proud he was.

And suddenly, that memory changed.

Because I had spent years looking at that final visit through my own eyes.

I remembered leaving.

I remembered his question.

I remembered my promise.

But I hadn’t known what happened afterwards.

I hadn’t known that, once I’d gone, he’d picked up the phone and told my mum that my visit had meant something to him.

That matters.

More than I can explain.

So yes, if I could relive one day from my past, I’d go back there.

But I wouldn’t change what happened.

I wouldn’t try to prevent the inevitable.

I wouldn’t even want some magical extra week or month with him.

I’d simply stay a little longer.

I’d sit beside his bed.

I’d tell him how much I loved him.

I’d thank him.

For the lessons.

For the example.

For being there when I needed a male role model.

For teaching me that being a man isn’t about being tough, silent or emotionless.

It’s about being decent.

I’d tell him that so much of what he taught me stayed with me.

I’d tell him that I still think about him.

I’d probably tell him about the shed:

I was so influenced by him that I eventually took his name professionally.

The Christian in Bob W Christian is a little piece of him that I carry with me.

Every time I write something.

Every time I put my name to a poem.

Every time someone reads something I’ve created.

A little bit of Walter S Christian is still there.

So perhaps I don’t really need to relive that day after all.

Because although I can’t go back and change those final moments, I can still honour them.

I can remember the man.

I can carry forward the lessons.

And I can try to be the sort of man he would have been proud of.

Funny thing, memory.

So when you love someone, tell them.

When you’re grateful, say thank you.

And if you get the chance to spend another ten minutes with someone who matters…

Take the ten minutes.

You never know just how valuable they might become.

Stay safe,

Bc

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

Charlie Mike

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If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

If I could send just one message back to the person I was, it would be this:

No matter how dark life becomes, you’re going to get through it.

There will be times when you genuinely believe the pain will never end. You’ll carry anger, fear, grief and questions you don’t yet have answers for. You’ll have moments when giving up seems easier than taking another step.

But keep going.

You don’t know it yet, but the hardest chapters of your life aren’t the end of your story. They’re the chapters that will teach you just how strong you are, and eventually, how to let go of the things that were never yours to carry forever.

You will find peace.

Not because life suddenly becomes perfect—it doesn’t. But because you’ll learn that peace isn’t about changing the past or controlling everything around you. It’s about accepting what you cannot change, letting go of what weighs you down, and choosing to keep moving forward.

So breathe.

Stay.

Keep going.

There is a life waiting for you that you cannot imagine from where you’re standing now.

And trust me…

“you’re going to be okay.”

Stay safe

Bc