Tag Archives: mental health

We’ve Become Smarter… But Less Capable

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What’s a skill you consider basic, that most people don’t actually know how to do?

Read a map.

Use a compass.

Administer basic first aid.

Look after yourself if things don’t go to plan.

In other words, the sort of skills many of us picked up through Scouts, the Cadets, the military, or simply from parents and grandparents who believed you should know how to do practical things.

It’s funny really.

We’ve got access to more information than any generation in history. We carry supercomputers in our pockets. We can ask AI almost any question imaginable and get an answer in seconds.

Yet many people would be completely lost—literally—if their phone battery died.

I remember when learning to read an Ordnance Survey map wasn’t unusual. You learned what the symbols meant, how contour lines worked and, if you were lucky, someone would hand you a compass and expect you to work out where you were.

There was no blue dot showing your location.

You had to think.

The same applies to first aid.

I’m always surprised by how few people know what to do when someone collapses, how to deal with a serious cut or even how to make someone comfortable until help arrives.

These aren’t specialist skills reserved for doctors or mountain rescue teams.

They’re simply useful.

Hopefully you’ll never need them.

But if you do, you’ll be very glad you learned them.

The same can be said for lighting a fire, putting up a shelter, purifying water or tying a decent knot. They’re not about preparing for the apocalypse; they’re about understanding the world around you and having the confidence to deal with it.

Looking back, I realise Scouts and later the Army taught me far more than outdoor skills.

They taught self-reliance.

Responsibility.

Teamwork.

The ability to stop, assess a situation and solve a problem without immediately reaching for someone else to fix it.

Perhaps that’s what concerns me most.

We’ve become brilliant at finding answers, but we’re losing the ability to work things out for ourselves.

Convenience is wonderful.

Technology is incredible.

Neither should replace capability.

There’s something reassuring about knowing that if the sat-nav stops working, you’ll still get home.

If someone gets hurt, you can help.

If circumstances change, you can adapt.

Those aren’t old-fashioned skills.

They’re timeless ones.

Maybe it’s time we started teaching them again.

Not because the world is becoming more dangerous.

But because capable people make stronger families, stronger communities and, ultimately, a stronger society.

And if, along the way, a few more young people discover the joy of getting gloriously lost with nothing more than a map, a compass and a bit of common sense…

…I don’t think that would be a bad thing at all

Stay safe 

Bc

Ten Years of Words, Thoughts and a Journey I Never Expected

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Well, it turns out it’s my website’s birthday.

Ten years ago, I sat down and started building something from scratch. At the time, it was simply a place to put my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words — a way of making sense of the world around me after being diagnosed as Autistic. (Looking back it makes sense)

I don’t think, even in my wildest dreams, I could have imagined where that small beginning would lead me.

Ten years later, this little corner of the internet has become so much more than a website. It has become a place for connection, understanding and shared experiences. It has allowed me to tell my story, to open conversations, and to hopefully help others feel a little less alone on their own journeys.

When I first started writing, I had no idea who would read my words or where they would take me. I certainly never imagined that so many people would come along for the ride, follow my journey and offer their support along the way.

For that, I am truly grateful.

To everyone who has read a blog post, shared a story, sent a message, offered encouragement or simply taken the time to understand — thank you. Your support has meant more than you probably realise. Every interaction has been a reminder that sharing our experiences can create connections that we never expected.

Of course, there is one person who deserves a very special thank you: Mrs Bob.

Behind the scenes, she has been my constant support throughout this entire journey. She has written, proofread, made phone calls, helped shape my thoughts and, most importantly, been my neurotypical whisperer when I’ve needed someone to help translate my way of seeing the world.

She has worked tirelessly alongside me, often without recognition, and I honestly couldn’t have reached this point without her.

Looking back over these ten years, I realise this website has been a record of growth, discovery and acceptance. It has captured moments of frustration, joy, learning and everything in between.

The journey hasn’t always been straightforward, but it has always been mine.

So, on this tenth birthday, I’m not just celebrating a website. I’m celebrating the conversations started, the friendships made, the lessons learned and the incredible community that has grown around it.

Thank you for being part of my journey.

Here’s to the next chapter.

Bob

Stay safe

Bc

Ps here’s that first post I put out…

https://bob-christian.com/2016/07/31/hello/

Everything Happens… But Not Always for a Reason

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Do you think everything happens for a reason?

“Everything happens for a reason.”

It’s one of those phrases that usually arrives just after something awful has happened.

Someone loses a loved one.

A relationship ends.

A diagnosis turns life upside down.

And almost without thinking, someone says it.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

I know it’s usually meant kindly.

It’s an attempt to comfort.

To make sense of chaos.

To reassure us that the universe hasn’t completely lost the plot.

But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it.

Not because I think life is meaningless.

Far from it.

I think the problem lies in what we mean by reason.

If by “reason” we mean that every tragedy was deliberately planned by some higher power—that every child who becomes ill, every war, every act of cruelty was intentionally designed as part of some grand blueprint—then I struggle with that idea.

Not because I lack faith in mystery.

But because it asks us to believe that unimaginable suffering was somehow necessary.

I’m not convinced.

There’s another way of looking at it, though.

Perhaps “reason” doesn’t mean purpose.

Perhaps it simply means cause.

Everything that happens has causes and conditions.

A tree doesn’t fall because the universe chose that exact tree.

It falls because roots weaken, soil shifts, fungi grow unseen beneath the surface, and eventually gravity finishes the conversation.

Human lives are much the same.

Who we become isn’t usually shaped by one dramatic moment.

It’s thousands of tiny moments.

The family we’re born into.

The kindnesses we receive.

The wounds we carry.

The books we read.

The strangers we meet.

The mistakes we survive.

Each one nudges us ever so slightly until, years later, we look in the mirror and wonder how on earth we became this particular version of ourselves.

That’s not destiny.

That’s cause and effect.

In many ways it’s far more fascinating.

It also reminds us that our own actions become part of someone else’s chain of causes.

A smile offered to a stranger.

A harsh word spoken in anger, to the driver that cut you up.

A poem that reaches someone on exactly the day they needed it.

None of these things happen in isolation.

They ripple.

Sometimes far further than we’ll ever know.

Perhaps that’s why I try to choose kindness whenever I can.

Not because I think it’ll magically make the universe reward me.

But because every action adds another thread to the web we’re all helping to weave.

Life isn’t always fair.

Bad things happen to good people.

Good things happen to difficult people.

And sometimes there isn’t an answer that satisfies us.

But there are always causes.

Always choices.

Always consequences.

Maybe that’s enough.

So no…

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason.

But I do believe everything happens because of reasons.

And understanding the difference might just change the way we understand ourselves.

Stay safe,

Bc

One Was Always Enough.

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What’s your biggest dream?

When I first started this website and began yelling into the void that is the internet, I had one dream.

Not a book deal.

Not a viral post.

Not thousands of followers hanging on every badly punctuated sentence.

Just one person.

If something I wrote found its way into the right hands, at the right time, and nudged someone towards hope instead of despair, kindness instead of bitterness, or courage instead of fear, then I reckoned the whole experiment would have been worth it.

That was the dream.

The internet has a funny way of making us believe that numbers are everything. Views. Likes. Shares. Subscribers. As though the value of a thought is measuredby the size of the crowd listening.

I’ve never been convinced.

History is full of quiet conversations that changed lives, while the loudest voices were forgotten before the ink had dried.

Over the years, I’ve had a few messages from strangers. from people who stumbled across a poem, or one of my rambling posts at exactly the moment they needed it.

“Thank you.”

Those messages mean more than you’ll ever know.

Because every single one reminds me that words still matter.

Not because they’re mine, but because honest words have a peculiar habit of finding the people they’re meant to find.

If anything I’ve written has helped you laugh when life felt heavy, think when the world demanded outrage, or believe that tomorrow might just be a little brighter than today, then you’ve given me something far greater than any statistic ever could.

You’ve allowed this grumpy old poet to live beyond his original dream.

So thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for sharing the journey.

And thank you for reminding me that even when it feels like we’re all shouting into the void, sometimes the void quietly whispers back.

Stay safe

Bc

When Mail Call Meant Everything.

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Which outdated technology do you miss the most, and why?

The answer may surprise you, because it isn’t an old gadget or a forgotten piece of kit.

It’s letters.

Not because I’m against email. Far from it. Email is brilliant at what it does. It’s instant, searchable and gets the job done. When Adam from HR or Tom from Accounts needs last quarter’s numbers by 3pm, you don’t reach for a fountain pen and a sheet of A4.

But somewhere along the way, convenience quietly replaced something much more personal.

I joined the Army in the 1990s, before smartphones, social media and the internet became part of everyday life. Back then, one of the biggest highlights of the week was mail call.

It wasn’t just about hearing your name.

It was knowing that someone had sat down, found the time, and written to you. Every envelope was different. Different handwriting. Different paper. Sometimes there were photographs folded inside. Sometimes childish drawings. Sometimes a pressed flower, a train ticket or some other little keepsake that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to you.

And then there were the things technology still can’t replicate.

You can’t spray an email with her favourite perfume.

You can’t instantly recognise who’s written before you’ve even opened it because of the handwriting on the envelope.

And you certainly don’t get the entertainment of trying to decipher handwriting so spectacularly bad it needs its own translator.

A letter had character. It had imperfections. It had fingerprints, creases and coffee stains. It had travelled hundreds or even thousands of miles before it landed in your hands.

An email arrives exactly as it left.

A letter arrives with a story.

I still have letters tucked away in boxes that are over thirty years old. Every now and then I’ll stumble across one, unfold it and be transported straight back to that moment. I can’t say the same for emails buried somewhere in an inbox with 1,800 unread messages.

Technology has given us incredible ways to stay connected. We can video call someone on the other side of the world in seconds. We can send photos instantly. We can share our lives in real time.

That’s progress, and I wouldn’t want to lose it.

But I do think we’ve sacrificed a little of the human touch in the process.

Sometimes the slow way was the better way.

Not because it was more efficient, but because it reminded us that the person on the other end had invested something you can’t download or automate.

Time.

And perhaps that’s the bit of old technology I miss the most.

Stay safe

Bc

Still Learning… Thankfully

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Are you a lifelong learner?

I’d like to think so.

Not because I have a wall full of certificates, or because I’m forever signing up for courses, but because life has a habit of reminding me just how much I still don’t know.

The older I get, the less interested I become in being right all the time.

I’d much rather understand.

That might sound like a small distinction, but I think it’s an important one.

Learning isn’t just about collecting facts. It’s about allowing new experiences to reshape old opinions. It’s about listening to people whose lives are completely different from your own and being willing to admit they might have something valuable to teach you.

Some of the greatest lessons I’ve learned haven’t come from classrooms at all.

They’ve come from raising children.

From loving someone.

From making spectacular mistakes.

From living with autism long before I understood I was autistic.

From photography, where standing still and really looking at the world often reveals beauty everyone else walked straight past.

And, of course, from books.

Books have introduced me to worlds I’ll never visit, people I’ll never meet, and ideas that have quietly changed the way I see life.

One of those ideas comes from the Buddha.

Whether you see Buddhism as a religion or simply a philosophy, there’s something deeply refreshing about the idea that we’re all works in progress.

The Buddha didn’t really teach that life should be comfortable.

He taught that it could be understood.

The Four Noble Truths ask us to look honestly at suffering instead of pretending it isn’t there. The Eightfold Path isn’t a quick fix or a self-help slogan. It’s a lifelong practice of becoming a little wiser, a little kinder and a little more compassionate than we were yesterday.

I like that.

Not because I expect to become enlightened.

Let’s be honest—I still lose my patience when technology decides today is the perfect day to update itself.

But because it reminds me that growth isn’t a destination.

It’s a direction.

Too often we think learning stops when school finishes, or when we retire, or when we reach a certain age.

I think that’s when the real education begins.

Every conversation teaches us something.

Every mistake offers a lesson—assuming our pride doesn’t get in the way.

Every challenge asks us whether we’re prepared to adapt or whether we’d rather stay comfortably wrong.

For me, lifelong learning isn’t about becoming the smartest person in the room.

It’s about becoming a slightly better version of the person who walked into it.

If I can go to bed tonight knowing something I didn’t know this morning…

If I can understand another person’s perspective just a little more…

If I can show a little more compassion than I managed yesterday…

Then I’d call that a day well spent.

After all, none of us ever truly finish learning.

And perhaps that’s one of life’s greatest gifts.

Stay safe,

BC

The Weight We Choose to Carry.

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What’s one habit that has improved your life the most?

f I had to choose just one habit, it would be meditation.

Not because it gives me all the answers, but because it helps me stop fighting battles that only exist in my own mind.

For a long time, I held onto anger. I replayed conversations, revisited old hurts, and carried resentment far longer than I probably should have. I thought holding on somehow made me stronger or somehow proved I was right.

It didn’t.

It only hurt me.

The people or situations I was angry about often carried on with their lives while I carried the weight. Looking back, it seems like such a waste of energy.

Meditation changed that.

It didn’t erase the past. It simply taught me to observe my thoughts without becoming trapped by them. It reminded me that I always have a choice: hold on or let go.

Most of the time, letting go is the better option.

Not because what happened doesn’t matter, but because my peace matters more.

These days, I still get frustrated. I’m only human. But I no longer give anger a permanent home. I acknowledge it, learn what I can from it, and move forward .

That small daily practice has made me calmer, more patient, and far more present.

Funny really. I started meditating to quiet my mind.

What I discovered was that the greatest benefit wasn’t learning how to be still.

It was learning what was never worth carrying in the first place.

Stay Safe 

Bc

Ps here’s a scribble I wrote on this subject some time ago

https://bob-christian.com/2025/07/05/the-art-of-letting-go/

The Story I Nearly Didn’t Get to Tell

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What’s a chapter of your life you’d title “The Hard Years” — and what got you through it?

If you’ve read my books or been following this blog for a while, you’ll probably know the answer before you’ve finished the question.

Roughly twenty years ago.

That was the chapter.

It was the point where it honestly felt like life had looked at me and thought, “Go on then… let’s see how much this bloke can actually take.”

I was on the verge of homelessness.

I was fighting to have a relationship with my daughters.

My PTSD was running riot.

I was autistic but had absolutely no idea at the time.

And my mental health?

Well… “shot to shit” is probably the most accurate medical diagnosis I can give you.

Let’s unpack that.

After a relationship ended, I found myself with nowhere to live. My family couldn’t help, so I ended up sleeping on the sofa of an old wrestling mate. It wasn’t glamorous, but it beat sleeping rough again.

Eventually she moved in with her boyfriend and we came up with what seemed, at the time, like a sensible solution.

I’d stay in her little council house and carry on paying the rent.

Yes.

I know.

Subletting.

Not exactly legal.

But when your choices are breaking the rules or sleeping rough, morality suddenly becomes a luxury.

While all that was going on, my daughters’ mum had started making contact as difficult as humanly possible.

I’d turn up to collect the girls.

“Oh… we’ve gone out.”

“They’re not here.”

“They don’t want to come.”

The excuses changed.

The result didn’t.

Letters from my solicitor about parental responsibility went unanswered.

Phone calls rarely got through.

And when they did, the girls were apparently never available.

It was only last year that I found out some of the things they’d been told about me growing up.

One of them was that I’d wanted my youngest aborted before she was born.

I hadn’t.

But lies have a habit of hanging around long after the people telling them have moved on.

Looking back now, I understand why I was falling apart.

Back then I just thought I was broken.

Everything piled on top of everything else.

The housing.

The court stuff.

Missing my girls.

The PTSD.

Trying to make sense of a brain that worked differently without knowing why.

So I did what a lot of blokes do when they’re drowning.

I reached for anything that promised five minutes of peace.

Drink.

Drugs.

Self-harm.

None of it fixed anything.

It just delayed having to feel it.

Then came the moment that genuinely broke me.

The council discovered I was living in the house.

I was told that if I cleared about £400 of rent arrears I could take over the tenancy.

I worked every bit of overtime I could.

Paid every penny.

Walked into the meeting convinced I’d finally caught a break.

Instead, I was told I had four weeks to move out.

When I reminded them about what I’d been promised, I was told I’d have to bid on the property along with everyone else.

I’d basically paid someone else’s rent arrears for nothing.

That one hurt.

For the next month I bid on every property I could.

Nothing.

That’s when I hit rock bottom.

I tried (for the first time) to end my life.

I woke up in hospital the following day to two police officers asking why I’d done it and telling me how selfish I’d been for upsetting everyone.

Different times.

Thankfully we’ve moved on a bit since then.

Recovery wasn’t some magical Disney montage.

It took years.

Hospital admissions.

Medication.

Counselling.

Learning how to exist without constantly wanting to disappear.

Then, during one of my final stays in hospital, a member of staff suggested I start writing down how I felt.

I nearly laughed.

Writing a diary?

Really?

I’d grown up believing men dealt with problems by getting on with them.

You certainly didn’t write about your feelings.

Still…

I’d tried almost everything else.

What was one more roll of the dice?

Those first pages weren’t poetry.

They were just chaos.

Anger.

Fear.

Grief.

Questions I didn’t know how to answer.

Slowly, without me really noticing, those pages started changing.

Sentences became verses.

Verses became poems.

Poems became something that made sense of everything that didn’t.

People often ask me what saved my life.

It wasn’t poetry.

Not at first.

Poetry came later.

What saved me was finally giving myself permission to be honest.

The poetry simply gave that honesty somewhere to live.

Without those notebooks there probably wouldn’t have been books.

There wouldn’t have been performances.

There wouldn’t have been conversations with complete strangers who’ve quietly said, “I thought I was the only one.”

There probably wouldn’t be this blog.

So what got me through The Hard Years?

My daughters.

Even when I couldn’t see them, they gave me something to keep fighting for.

Pure bloody-minded stubbornness.

I’ve never liked being told I can’t do something.

And somewhere deep down, underneath everything else, there was still a tiny voice saying,

“Don’t let this be how your story ends.”

Turns out that little voice was right.

Life isn’t perfect now.

It never will be.

But I’ve learned that the hardest chapters aren’t always the end of the book.

Sometimes they’re just the part that explains why the rest of the story matters.

Stay safe

Bc

If 1984 Had a Sequel, We’d Already Be Living in It

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What’s a book you think deserves a sequel?

1984.

Not because George Orwell got it wrong.

Quite the opposite.

He got so much right that it’s almost unsettling to read today.

The genius of 1984 wasn’t really Big Brother. It wasn’t Room 101, the Thought Police, or even Winston Smith.

It was Orwell’s understanding that power doesn’t just control people.

It controls reality.

Back then, that meant burning books, rewriting newspapers, and dropping inconvenient facts into the Memory Hole.

Today?

I’m not convinced anyone would even bother.

Why erase history when you can simply personalise it?

Imagine an Orwell sequel set in the present day.

Every citizen has a different version of yesterday.

Not because the government rewrote it overnight, but because an algorithm quietly decided which version would keep you engaged.

Your neighbour remembers an event differently because their feed told a different story.

Your parents saw another version.

Your children never saw it at all.

History wouldn’t disappear.

It would fragment.

Truth would become localised.

Debatable.

Optional.

And that’s far more dangerous than censorship.

Because it’s difficult to fight lies when everyone is convinced they’re looking at the facts.

Big Brother would have changed too.

In Orwell’s world, oppression wore a face.

There were posters.

Slogans.

A dictator watching from every wall.

Today’s version wouldn’t need any of that.

Big Brother wouldn’t be a man.

It wouldn’t even be a government.

It would be a seamless partnership between corporations, artificial intelligence and state interests, quietly learning everything about us while insisting it’s all for our convenience.

No boots stamping on faces.

Just terms and conditions we never read.

No compulsory telescreens bolted to our walls.

We’d happily carry them ourselves.

We already do.

Tiny glowing rectangles that know where we are, what we’ve bought, who we talk to, how fast our heart beats, what keeps us awake at three in the morning, and which adverts are most likely to make us click “Buy Now.”

And we’d queue overnight to upgrade them.

The Thought Police wouldn’t arrest you for thinking the wrong thing.

They’d predict what you were likely to think before you knew yourself.

They’d know when you were lonely.

When you were angry.

When you were vulnerable.

Not to protect you.

To market to you.

To influence you.

To gently nudge your decisions until they felt like your own.

The cleverest form of control has never been force.

It’s persuasion disguised as freedom.

That’s what makes Orwell’s world feel less like fiction every year.

The scary part isn’t that 1984 might need a sequel.

It’s that, if Orwell were alive today, he might simply rename it…

2026.

Stay safe,

Bc

If I Could Live Anywhere… Don’t Expect a Beach!

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If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

For anyone who knows me, you’ll know I come alive when the temperature drops. Give me crisp air, snow-covered landscapes and somewhere I need a proper coat, and I’m a happy man. You can keep the tropical beaches—I start looking for somewhere cooler.

So if I had to choose somewhere to live, it would come down to two places: Norway or Iceland.

Norway will always have a special place in my heart because it was the first adventure Mrs Bob and I took together.

Norway where it all began

It wasn’t just any holiday either.

We found ourselves sailing through the Norwegian Sea during a total solar eclipse. Watching totality from the deck of a ship is one of those moments that reminds you just how spectacular our universe really is. It’s impossible to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

As incredible as that was, it still wasn’t the highlight.

Later, inside the Arctic Circle, we sat for hours simply watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky. No phones. No distractions. Just nature putting on one of the greatest shows on Earth.

Those are the memories that stay with you forever.

An added bonus? Mrs Bob can almost speak the lingo, which would certainly make settling in a lot easier than relying on my Yorkshire charm and enthusiastic hand gestures.

Then there’s Iceland.

Every time I read something new about the country, I find another reason to admire it.

For starters, they’ve mastered something most countries are still trying to figure out: making use of the natural resources they already have.

Geothermal water is pumped directly into homes, providing heating in one of the coldest climates on Earth. Even better, many pavements and sidewalks are heated too, meaning winter doesn’t automatically equal icy paths and broken hips.

Now that’s using common sense.

But what really stands out isn’t the technology.

It’s the attitude.

Following the financial crash in 2008, Iceland took a very different approach from many other countries. Rather than simply rescuing the financial system and moving on, several senior banking figures faced criminal investigations and prosecutions. Whether you agree with every decision or not, it showed a willingness to ask difficult questions about accountability instead of pretending nothing had happened.

Then there’s one of my favourite stories.

In the northern town of Akureyri, after the financial crisis had hit morale, the council fitted heart-shaped filters over the red traffic lights. Instead of glowing red circles, drivers were greeted by glowing red hearts.

It sounds like such a small gesture.

But sometimes small gestures matter the most.

The hearts were there to remind people what was really important and, hopefully, give someone a reason to smile during difficult times.

I love that.

So… Which One?

If you forced me to pick today, I’d probably still struggle.

Norway gave Mrs Bob and me memories we’ll never forget.

Iceland continually impresses me with its ingenuity, resilience and ability to think differently.

Maybe that’s why the answer isn’t really about the country.

It’s about how a place makes you feel.

Somewhere peaceful.

Somewhere beautiful.

Somewhere cold.

That sounds just about perfect to me.

What about you?

Stay safe 

Bc

Northern Lights