Dear you, I've been sitting with this letter for a few days now. There is so much I want to say. So many thoughts swirling around in my head and so many feelings that have been rising and falling over the past couple of weeks, and yet… every time I've tried to write, the words haven't quite landed. Not because nothing has been happening, but because everything has been happening. I think, if I'm honest, I've been in survival mode. Just doing what needed to be done: packing, d

There are so many conversations we're not having. The quiet ones. The ones that swirl around at night when the house is finally still. It's not just the silent drift that can grow between two people in a relationship. It's the way we slowly stop seeing ourselves, and how that quiet erosion changes how we see them, too.

The person you speak to the most, every single day, is yourself. And that voice influences you more than anyone else ever will. Internal narrative runs the show.

Am I doing enough? Why does this still feel hard? Why can't I just move on? How can I change what I've struggled to change for so many years? Will this New Year's resolution even stick? Who am I kidding, it'll just be the same as last year… Those questions can sound like defeat, but they're not. They are information. They're the echoes of the parts of you still trying to protect you, the versions of you who learned that striving, pleasing or performing kept you safe.

NLP taught me that meaning is never fixed; it’s created. That every state, every story, every reaction can be reframed. That awareness isn’t just noticing what’s happening, but it’s choosing how to meet it.

The appeal of hustle is real. For many, it represents drive, resilience, and the willingness to do what others will not. It is how careers are built, businesses are saved, and opportunities are created when there is little certainty. In that sense, hustle deserves respect. But it is worth asking whether the version of hustle we glorify today still serves us, or whether it has morphed into something unsustainable.

Somewhere in the middle of all this movement, I caught myself feeling something that didn't feel quite right. It was that creeping sense that the world was rushing past me, that I was hanging onto the edge of it, that I had somehow lost my say in how things were unfolding. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt like too much.

Spend any time in a leadership program, personal development workshop, or even a local book club on self-growth, and one pattern quickly emerges: the room is often filled with women. Curious, engaged, and eager to learn, they are embracing growth with remarkable energy. Men, by contrast, are frequently underrepresented or arrive through encouragement from their partners, friends, or colleagues.

I was staying in a small serviced apartment, and over a few days, I noticed a quiet pattern forming. A coffee cup left from the morning, a breakfast bowl, then a dinner plate, each waiting to be washed later. It didn’t seem like much at first, just a few dishes for one person. But by day three, the little sink was full, and suddenly it felt like too much.

Most of us say we want healthy boundaries. But often, what we're actually building is a defence, a line in the sand drawn in frustration, not clarity. We say things like I'm not working late anymore, or I'm done with people taking advantage of me, but those lines rarely hold. Not because we're weak, but because the boundary was built to block, not to serve.

Who’s having endless discussions about AI and the future of our tasks, our jobs, our workforce, heck, our humanity?!?! Will AI replace me? Is AI a faster, smarter, better-looking, and more articulate version of me?

This week, I found myself, quite literally, covered in mud. I'd spent the day in the garden, laying stones, clearing tiles, digging out weeds, and finally laying fresh mulch. It was hard work, but when I stood back and saw the transformation, it was magic. The grime of winter washed away, green shoots ready to bloom, the quiet promise of spring in every corner.

With the end of the year approaching, how many of you have slipped into "panic work" mode? Working late, dropping boundaries, telling yourself you'll just "get a bit more done", but actually achieving less. I've been noticing how often I hear people say, "I can't believe it's already September, we're in the last quarter." I've even caught myself saying it. At first, it feels harmless, but here's the truth: those small words start to wire the brain into panic. Suddenly, time f

Over the past few weeks, I've been discussing our beautiful brain's filtering system extensively. At a recent corporate workshop, we had the privilege of coaching a leadership team on what's really happening beneath the surface of their everyday communication. While many of them had attended training sessions before, something clicked this time, because we weren't just discussing what they were doing, but why their brains were doing it in the first place. Which, let's be hone

There's a moment that has stayed with one of my clients, and, in truth, it echoes in the lives of many of the people I've worked with. She was about ten. Dressed in sequins and nerves, ready to perform her part in a school dance. The music began, and she missed a step. Just a beat, nothing more, but in that moment, from the back of the room, came a sharp voice, a family member's offhand comment, wrapped in frustration: "Honestly, you're so clumsy. Can't you get anything ri

A couple of weeks ago, something happened to me. I sat at my desk staring at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but not typing, not really doing anything. I felt physically stuck, my body wouldn’t move, my head was spinning, thoughts racing like they were chasing each other in circles: “I can’t do this. I’m not good enough. I’m so tired. I should know better. I don’t look great. I don’t feel great. I am failing at everything”

Focusing on what we do not want is an avoidance tactic. It is comfortable because it does not require much of us. We do not have to imagine anything new or stretch ourselves. We simply point to what exists (or what we fear might happen) and reject it.

I have always been described as an extrovert. I get involved in conversations, laugh, and tell stories, but what the outside world doesn't see is my internal narrative. This battle goes on when I am going to meet people I don't fully know, join a networking group, or go into a place I haven't been before.

We live in a world that has blurred the lines between presence and performance. A world that rewards the appearance of things over the felt experience of them. And nowhere does that show up more than in the lives we quietly compare ourselves to through the social scroll.

It's a strange thing to step back into your life and feel slightly like a guest in it. Nothing's wrong on the surface. But there's an internal mismatch. A quiet discomfort that's hard to name. It's a familiar pair of shoes. Same shoes, same colour, same size. But feels like I'm wearing the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left.