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.
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.
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.
I’ve noticed that the older I get, the smaller my circle becomes.
During the working day, I spend most of my time with two other people. We’re a close-knit team and, after enough hours together, you end up knowing each other’s habits, quirks, and coffee requirements better than you probably should.
Outside of work, it’s mostly Mrs Bob and our cat Tiddles (which, for legal reasons and feline dignity, is not actually her name).
Truthfully, I’m not a particularly social creature.
I don’t go out much unless it’s lodge night, Saturday coffee morning, or I’ve wandered off somewhere with a camera looking for birds that refuse to sit still long enough to be photographed.
And I’m perfectly content with that.
So, who do I spend the most time with?
The people who matter.
Because if I’m choosing to spend lots of time with you when nobody is paying either of us to be there, then you’re probably someone rather special to me.
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
Truth be told, I’m not always very good at knowing when it’s time to unplug from the matrix. Being autistic, I can get so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t always notice the signs until my batteries are already running low. By the time I realise I need a break, I’m usually feeling drained, overwhelmed, or struggling to process the constant noise that modern life seems determined to throw at us.
When that happens, I keep things simple. I’ll put my phone in another room, switch it to Do Not Disturb, or if I really need some peace and quiet, I’ll turn it off completely. It’s the same thing I do at night when I need to sleep. There’s something reassuring about that silence, knowing that for a little while the messages, notifications, and endless demands can wait.
The world will still be there when I switch it back on. Sometimes, giving yourself permission to step away is exactly what you need to recharge and find a little calm again.
That’s always a slightly awkward question to answer, because the honest answer is…
Sort of.
I suppose the easiest way to explain it is that I have a belief system rather than following one strict path. It’s a mixture of Buddhism, witchcraft, and a lot of personal reflection and soul-searching along the way. In fact, I even wrote a book inspired by some of those ideas called Spells and Scribbles.
Now before anyone starts clutching pearls or reaching for holy water, let me say this clearly: I have absolutely no issue with mainstream religion whatsoever. If someone’s faith helps them become kinder, more compassionate, and more understanding of other people, then I genuinely think that’s a beautiful thing.
The problem only starts when belief becomes a weapon. When it’s used to shame people. Control people. Exclude people. Or hurt people for simply existing as themselves.
That part never sat right with me.
For me personally, I’ve always preferred finding my own path through life rather than being told exactly what I should think or believe. I’m not particularly good at blindly following rules anyway — anyone who knows me will probably laugh knowingly at that.
Buddhism appealed to me because there’s no angry deity standing over you with a clipboard waiting to condemn you for being human. At its heart, Buddhism recognises something incredibly honest:
Life involves suffering.
Not because we’re evil. Not because we’re broken. But because being human is messy and painful and complicated sometimes.
The whole point seems to be learning. Growing. Trying to become a little wiser, a little kinder, a little more aware of ourselves and the impact we have on the world around us.
Nobody is expected to be perfect.
You just do your best.
And if you stumble? Well… you learn from it and keep going.
That makes far more sense to me than the idea of eternal punishment for simply failing at being human occasionally.
Then there’s Wicca and witchcraft, which drew me in for completely different reasons. I love the connection to nature, the seasons, the moon, the idea that the earth itself deserves respect rather than ownership.
There’s also something deeply comforting in the balance of it all. Masculine and feminine energies existing side by side, neither above the other, both equally necessary. The world works through balance. Nature teaches that constantly if you stop long enough to notice.
Honestly, both paths seem to meet in the same place eventually:
Be mindful of your actions. Take responsibility for the harm you cause. Show compassion where you can. Try to leave the world a little softer than you found it.
That feels like enough spirituality for me.
The older I get, the less interested I am in who has the “correct” religion and the more interested I am in whether someone is kind to waiters, animals, strangers, and themselves.
Because I suspect whatever magic or enlightenment exists in this world probably lives there far more than it does in arguments about doctrine.
What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?
People often talk about “having it all” as though it’s some finish line hidden behind a bigger house, a flashier motor, or another few zeros in the bank account.
Truth is… I don’t think that’s it at all.
Because wants and needs are two very different beasts.
A want whispers. A need sustains.
And somewhere along the line, society convinced us they were the same thing.
To me, having it all is much simpler than people make out.
It’s being able to pay the bills each month without lying awake at 3am wondering which direct debit is about to knock you sideways.
It’s opening the fridge and knowing there’s food in there.
It’s having enough left over for little moments that make life feel human — fish and chips on the beach, an ice cream on a warm afternoon, a coffee shared with someone you love while the world rushes past unnoticed.
That’s wealth too.
Just not the kind they advertise on billboards.
Having it all is also love.
Not the Hollywood nonsense. Not grand gestures and violins in the rain.
I mean real love.
The kind where someone stands beside you when life gets messy. The kind where they steady you when your own mind becomes too loud. The kind where they push you towards your dreams while reminding you not to lose yourself chasing them.
A good woman. A true partner. Someone who helps carry the weight of the world when your arms are tired.
That matters more than any sports car ever will.
I think the mistake many of us make is believing happiness lives somewhere else.
In the next promotion. The next purchase. The next achievement.
So we spend years running.
Chasing.
Grasping.
Only to discover peace was quietly sitting beside us the whole time, waiting patiently for us to notice it.
There’s an old idea found in a lot of eastern philosophy — though you don’t need to shave your head or sit on a mountain to understand it — that suffering often begins with attachment.
With wanting.
With believing life must look a certain way before we allow ourselves to be content.
And maybe that’s true.
Because the older I get, the more I realise happiness rarely arrives with fireworks.
Usually it turns up quietly.
In ordinary moments. In enough. In gratitude. In learning the difference between what fills the soul and what merely fills the shopping basket.
So, is “having it all” attainable?
Yes.
But only once you stop trying to own the world and start appreciating your small corner of it.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 