What’s something you do completely differently from how you were raised?
Religion.
That’s probably the quickest answer I could give to this question.
I was raised Christian and, like many people, religion was simply part of everyday life.
Sunday meant church.
Not “would you like to go to church?”
Not “shall we discuss your spiritual preferences over breakfast?”
It was more along the lines of: get dressed, we’re going to church.
Then I went to boarding school and the tradition continued, except there it wasn’t really a family decision anymore. We were expected — forced, really — to go to church every week.
So church was something I did for most of my childhood and into my late teens.
And yet, somewhere along the way, I started asking questions.
Lots of questions.
Probably too many questions for some people’s liking.
I’ve never been particularly good at accepting something simply because somebody tells me that’s the way it is.
If someone says, “This is what you must believe,” my immediate reaction tends to be:
“Okay… but why?”
Which isn’t always the most convenient personality trait to have.
As I got older, I started looking beyond Christianity and reading about other religions and spiritual traditions.
And rather than finding one particular religion and deciding, “Right, that’s it, I’ve found the answer to everything,” I ended up doing something slightly more Bob.
I nicked bits I liked from different places.
Not literally, obviously.
Although I suppose spiritually speaking, that’s pretty much what I’ve done.
I’ve developed my own path, which is a mixture of witchcraft and Buddhism.
Now, before anyone imagines me wandering around the house wearing a pointy hat, stirring a cauldron and chanting at the moon, that’s probably not quite how it looks.
Although I’m not ruling anything out.
For me, witchcraft has brought an appreciation of nature, ritual, intention and the idea that what we put into the world matters.
Buddhism, meanwhile, has given me a different way of looking at suffering, attachment, compassion and, perhaps most importantly, myself.
And I’ve found that combination works for me.
That’s the important bit.
It works for me.
I’m not suggesting it should work for you.
And that’s where I think I’ve ended up very differently from how I was raised.
I don’t believe spirituality has to be a one-size-fits-all arrangement.
We’re all different.
We have different experiences.
Different personalities.
Different emotional needs.
Different things that frighten us.
Different things that give us comfort.
Different ways of dealing with grief, loss, love, death and all the other complicated stuff that comes with being a human being.
So why would we all need exactly the same spiritual path?
I’ve got absolutely nothing against organised religion.
If going to church every Sunday gives you comfort, community and a sense of purpose, then fantastic.
If praying helps you get through a difficult day, then pray.
If your faith makes you a kinder, more compassionate person, then I’m certainly not going to criticise it.
What I do struggle with is the constant use of fear.
“You’d better believe this or you’ll burn in hell.”
Really?
Is that honestly the best sales pitch we’ve got?
Imagine if we did that with everything.
“Try this restaurant or you’ll suffer eternal damnation.”
“Remember to renew your car insurance or Satan gets your policy.”
It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.
And yet, using fear to control people’s beliefs is something that has been around for a very long time.
For me, faith shouldn’t need a threat attached to it.
If something is meaningful, surely it should be able to stand on its own.
That’s probably one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed learning about different religions so much.
The more you look, the more you realise that although people can have wildly different ideas about gods, the universe and what happens after we die, there are some remarkably similar messages running through many traditions.
Be kind.
Help people.
Don’t be a dick.
Look after your community.
Take responsibility for your actions.
Try to become a better person.
I’m paraphrasing, obviously.
Some ancient religious texts are considerably more eloquent than “don’t be a dick.”
But the general idea is there.
And perhaps that’s also why I enjoy Freemasonry so much.
Because when we’re in the temple, we’re not sitting around comparing whose God is bigger.
We’re brothers.
We have different backgrounds.
Different experiences.
Different opinions.
And yes, different ideas about the divine.
But that’s put to one side for the greater good.
I really like that.
Perhaps because I’ve spent so much of my life being told that there was a particular path I was supposed to follow, I appreciate being somewhere where we can acknowledge that other people might walk a completely different path and still sit beside us as equals.
I don’t need you to believe what I believe.
And I don’t expect you to.
You can believe in God.
You can believe in several gods.
You can believe in something else entirely.
You can be deeply religious.
You can be spiritual but not religious.
Or you can sit somewhere in the middle and spend your time wondering what the hell is going on.
Which, if I’m honest, is probably where most of us are.
And that’s okay.
I’ve come to realise that I don’t actually need all the answers.
In fact, I’m increasingly suspicious of anyone who claims they have them.
I’d much rather remain curious.
Read another book.
Ask another question.
Listen to somebody else’s point of view.
Change my mind occasionally.
And continue figuring out what I believe as I go along.
So, what’s something I do completely differently from how I was raised?
I was raised to follow a particular religious path.
I’ve chosen to explore my own.
And perhaps that’s the biggest lesson I’ve taken from all of this:
Your spiritual journey belongs to you.
You don’t have to follow somebody else’s map.
You don’t have to be frightened into believing.
And you certainly don’t have to agree with everyone else.
Just try to be kind.
Try to leave the world slightly better than you found it.
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:
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.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?
People occasionally ask me what the best piece of advice I’ve ever received is. They’re usually expecting a memorable quote from a famous person or perhaps something a mentor once said to me.
My answer is a little different.
As I’ve often mentioned before, many years ago a girlfriend gave me a copy of Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitionerby Scott Cunningham. At the time, i couldn’t have imagined how significant that simple gift would become. It wasn’t just another book to add to the shelf; it opened my eyes to a completely different way of looking at the world.
That journey eventually led me to explore both Wicca and Buddhism. While they are very different spiritual traditions, I discovered they shared a lesson that has stayed with me ever since.
The best advice I’ve ever received is this:
Realise that peace comes from within, not from trying to change the outside world.
It’s such a simple idea, yet it takes most of us years to truly understand.
We spend so much of our lives believing happiness will arrive when circumstances improve. We tell ourselves we’ll be content when we find the perfect relationship, earn a little more money, get the promotion, move house or finally tick off the next goal.
But life has a habit of reminding us that there is always another challenge waiting around the corner.
If our peace depends entirely on the world behaving as we’d like it to, we’ll spend much of our lives disappointed.
One of my favourite Wiccan sayings captures this beautifully:
“True peace is kindled within the sacred circle; tend your inner flame, and the world will mirror calm.”
Whether you interpret the sacred circle literally or simply as the space within your own mind, the message is still the same. Before we can bring peace into our lives, we have to nurture it within ourselves.
Years later I found exactly the same wisdom expressed through Buddhism.
The Buddha taught that much of our suffering comes not from what happens to us, but from our attachment to how we think life should be. We exhaust ourselves trying to control people, situations and outcomes that were never ours to control in the first place.
The more we resist reality, the more we suffer.
The more we accept the present moment, while still doing our best to respond wisely, the more peaceful life becomes.
That doesn’t mean giving up or becoming indifferent. It means understanding where our real power lies.
We can’t control every event.
We can’t control other people.
We can’t stop change.
But we can choose how we respond.
Looking back now, I realise that the greatest lesson wasn’t simply found in the pages of Scott Cunningham’s book. It emerged through years of reading, reflection and experience. Wicca pointed me towards the importance of living in harmony with myself and the natural world. Buddhism deepened that understanding by teaching me that lasting peace isn’t something we discover outside ourselves.
It’s something we cultivate within.
So if someone asked me today what the best advice I’ve ever received is, my answer would still be the same.
Don’t spend your life trying to create the perfect world.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 