Tag Archives: suicide

My One Wish Wouldn’t Be for Me

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The genie grants you a wish. What is it?

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.

Every single time.

Stay safe,

BC

Things I’ve Learnt Along the Way

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What are some life hacks that you practice?

I’m not sure I’d call these life hacks.

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.

Because trust it probably won’t be.

There will always be another bill.

Another job.

Another problem.

Another thing that needs fixing.

Another bloody email.

There will always be something.

So enjoy the cup of coffee.

Read the book.

Take those photographs.

Watch the birds.

Have the conversation.

Laugh at something stupid.

Tell somebody you love them.

Go outside.

Stand in the sea.

Get your feet wet.

And if you end up with wet shorts afterwards…

Well.

Apparently that’s just part of the experience.

Sometimes life doesn’t need fixing.

Sometimes you just need to be there for it.

And sometimes…

that’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

No Strategy, No Plan, Just Scribbles and the Occasional Crow

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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.

Stay safe,

BC

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 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

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

The Two Things I Stopped Worrying About

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What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

There are two answers to this.

The obvious one is death.

Most people worry about it, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. It’s the one certainty we all spend our lives trying not to think about.

The difference for me is that I’ve been clinically dead.

That experience didn’t make me fearless or convince me I’m invincible. I still value my life. I still wear a seatbelt. I still look both ways before crossing the road. But it did change my relationship with death.

(Read Hello old Friend)

I no longer see it as something lurking around every corner, waiting to steal today’s happiness.

It’ll come when it comes.

Until then, I’d rather spend my energy living than worrying about the inevitable.

The second answer took much longer to conquer.

Other people’s opinions.

Again, I think most of us care far more than we’re willing to admit. We worry about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish, being judged or misunderstood. We edit ourselves before we’ve even opened our mouths.

I certainly did.

Then, about ten years ago, I started writing honestly on this blog.

Not the polished version of life.

The real one.

The struggles with mental health. Autism. PTSD. Family life. The victories, the failures, and all the wonderfully messy bits in between.

When you spend a decade opening your heart to complete strangers on the internet, something unexpected happens.

You realise the world doesn’t end.

Some people won’t like you.

Some will misunderstand you.

A few will judge you without ever really knowing you.

And that’s perfectly alright.

Because just as you’re free to have an opinion about them, they’re free to have one about you.

Turning fifty probably helped as well.

There’s something wonderfully liberating about reaching an age where you finally understand that you were never going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and you don’t actually need to be.

The people who matter already know who you are.

The people who don’t… probably never will.

Life is far too short to spend it performing for an audience you’ll never satisfy.

So these days I worry less about death.

I worry less about what strangers think.

Instead, I try to focus on something far more worthwhile.

Living a life that feels honest.

If I manage that, the rest tends to take care of itself.

Stay safe,

Bc

The Best Advice I Can Ever Give You

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If you had to give one life-changing tip, what would it be?

If I had to give just one life-changing tip, it would be this:

Look after your mental health just as much as your physical health.

We spend hours thinking about our bodies. We count our steps, join gyms, watch what we eat, and book check-ups when something doesn’t feel right. Yet when it comes to our minds, many of us simply hope we’ll be okay.

Hope isn’t a strategy.

The truth is, your mind is involved in every decision you make, every relationship you build, every challenge you face, and every dream you pursue. If your mental wellbeing is neglected, everything else eventually feels harder. Stress becomes overwhelming. Small problems become mountains. Joy becomes difficult to recognise.

For far too long, we’ve been taught to “keep going,” “man up,” or “just get on with it.” Those phrases have probably caused more harm than they’ll ever receive credit for. Strength isn’t found in suffering silently. Real strength is recognising when you’re struggling and having the courage to speak up.

Looking after your mental health doesn’t always mean counselling or medication, although both can be life-changing for many people. Sometimes it means getting enough sleep. Sometimes it means putting your phone down and taking a walk. Sometimes it’s saying “no” without feeling guilty. Sometimes it’s talking honestly with a friend over a cup of tea.

And sometimes it’s simply admitting, “I’m not okay today.”

There’s no shame in that.

We service our cars before they break down. We charge our phones before the battery reaches zero. Yet so many of us wait until we’re completely exhausted before giving ourselves permission to rest.

Imagine if we treated our minds with the same care we treat our bodies.

The world would be a kinder place.

So, if there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do today, it’s this: check in with yourself. Not the automatic “I’m fine” we all give, but a genuine moment of honesty. Ask yourself how you’re really doing.

Because your mental health isn’t a luxury.

It’s the foundation everything else is built upon.

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/