Tag Archives: Wicca

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

Comics, Cameras and Other Bad Ideas

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If you could start a new business right now, what would it be?

If I’m being completely honest, the obvious answer would probably be photography.

I love photography.

It’s gone from being something I did with my phone, wandering around taking pictures of anything that caught my eye, to something I genuinely want to get better at.

Nature.

Birds.

Beaches.

People.

Events.

The occasional photograph that makes me stop and think, bloody hell, I actually took that.

I’ve even started doing photography work at events, and there’s something rather lovely about being able to turn something you enjoy into something people are willing to pay you for.

So yes.

If I was being sensible…

A photography business.

Easy.

Except…

I think I’d love to own a comic book shop.

Yep.

A comic book shop.

Because apparently being a bloke in his fifties who already has far too many hobbies, books and bits of geekery apparently isn’t enough.

I need premises.

And stock.

And shelves.

Lots and lots of shelves.

I’ve loved comics and graphic novels for years.

I’ve rambled before about how Watchmen was my first graphic novel and how that started a lifelong love affair with comic books.

And the more I think about it, the more I realise that owning a comic shop wouldn’t really be about selling comics.

Not entirely.

It would be about creating somewhere people actually want to go.

A proper little geeky Aladdin’s cave.

Comics.

Graphic novels.

Maybe some collectables.

Games.

A few bits of nostalgia.

Somewhere you could walk in looking for the latest issue of something and end up having a forty-minute conversation about Batman.

Or Transformers.

Or why the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were considerably better than they had any right to be.

Somewhere you could discover comics for the first time.

Somewhere adults could rediscover the things they loved when they were younger.

And somewhere people could simply geek out without having to explain themselves.

I think I’d like that.

There’s something quite appealing about having a little shop that feels like your place.

Not some huge corporate business.

Just a little independent shop, run by a bloke who probably knows far too much about fictional characters and not nearly enough about accounting.

So maybe photography is the sensible answer.

It’s something I’m passionate about.

Something I’m already doing.

Something I’m increasingly taking seriously.

But the comic shop?

That’s the one that makes me smile when I think about it.

And perhaps that tells me something.

Because sometimes the business you could build isn’t necessarily the business you’d love to build.

And if I ever do open one…

You’ll probably find me behind the counter with a camera around my neck, a comic in my hand, and absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Which, if we’re being honest, is pretty much how I approach most things.

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

Productive-ish

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

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

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

Of course, I took the camera with me.

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

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

Coffee.

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

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

Obviously, I had to say hello.

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

Photography locations sorted.

Coffee enjoyed.

Cat fussed.

All in all, not a bad morning.

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

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

Stay safe,

BC

The lady in question

No Thanks, I’ll Keep the Year I’ve Got

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If you could relive one year of your life, which one would it be?

Truth is, I wouldn’t.

Because unless I did exactly the same things, I’d change everything that came afterwards. Basic string theory, space-time continuum stuff…

Besides, I spend my time looking forward.

Everything behind me happened for a reason. The good, the bad and the downright bloody awful made me who I am.

Life’s a journey, not a rerun.

And if you spend too much time staring into the rear-view mirror, you’re far more likely to crash.

So I’ll keep looking forward, thank you very much.

Stay safe,

Bc

I Was Told What to Believe. I Asked ‘Why?

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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.

And don’t be too much of a dick along the way.

That’s probably a pretty good religion in itself.

Stay safe,

Bc

I Finally Realised I Know Nothing

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

That’s actually quite a difficult question.

You might expect the answer to be something obvious.

Getting your first proper job.

Paying your first bill.

Buying your first house.

Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.

For me, though, it was none of those things.

I think it was when I finally learned to let go.

And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.

Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.

Surely adulthood is about knowing things?

Having the answers.

Being responsible.

Knowing what you’re doing.

Apparently not.

Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.

I probably never did.

I just got better at pretending I did.

When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.

Then, one day, you become one of those adults.

And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.

Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.

For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.

Old arguments.

Old mistakes.

People who had hurt me.

Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.

The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.

And that’s exhausting.

Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.

You can’t change the past.

You can’t control other people.

You can’t make everyone understand you.

And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.

So you let go.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.

That’s when I think I finally started growing up.

Not when I got older.

Not when I had responsibilities.

Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.

It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.

Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.

And being comfortable with that.

I’m still learning.

I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.

But that’s okay.

Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:

Congratulations. You are now officially an adult.

There isn’t one.

There are just experiences.

Mistakes.

Lessons.

People who come into your life.

People who leave it.

Things you hold on to.

And things you eventually learn to let go.

And perhaps that’s the real trick.

Not knowing everything.

Just knowing that you don’t.

Stay safe

Bc

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

Congratulations You Made it

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If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

If my future self could send me one sentence, I think I’d want it to say:

“Congratulations, you made it through everything you once thought would break you, and somehow you became the person you were always meant to be.”

Not you became rich.

Not you became famous.

Not even you got everything you wanted.

Just…

You made it.

Because I think we spend far too much of our lives measuring success by destinations.

The job.

The house.

The money.

The achievements.

The things we can put on a CV and point at proudly.

But perhaps the greatest achievement is simply reaching the other side of the storms that once convinced us we wouldn’t.

Looking back and realising that the mistakes weren’t the end.

The heartbreak wasn’t the end.

The failures weren’t the end.

The days when getting out of bed felt like an achievement weren’t the end.

They were chapters.

Some difficult.

Some ridiculous.

Some I’d happily rip out of the book altogether.

But they were still chapters.

And if future me is reading this, I hope he smiles.

Not because life turned out perfectly.

But because it turned out to be worth it.

So yes, future me…

Congratulations.

You made it.

Now go and enjoy the next chapter.

Stay safe

Bc