Anger is often the most reactive, volatile, and misunderstood emotion. It is the emotion most likely to push us into defensive behaviour, protective reactions, emotional outbursts, withdrawal, guilt, and regret. It is often the emotion that leaves us afterwards thinking, “Why did I react like that?” or “That wasn’t how I wanted to handle that.”

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.

There is a moment, somewhere around day three or four of every NLP Certification, when the room begins to change. If you were standing beside me, you would see it long before anyone says a word. This is the power of NLP.

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.

There’s something tender about this week between Christmas and New Year. It’s a strange, floaty space. Not quite the year that was, not yet the year that’s coming. It’s a quiet pause in the middle and a moment where the noise softens just enough for us to hear ourselves think.

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.

Are you being a bit of a drama queen? Stay with me. I know that might land with a sting. Your first instinct might be, Absolutely not. How dare you? But if we’re honest with ourselves, most of us have an inner drama queen who loves to come out and play. They’re the part of us that builds situations up in our heads. The one who loves to slip into the role of the victim. The one who secretly enjoys being the saviour. And yes, even the one that becomes the persecutor, convinc

What do we really mean when we say we want to be happy? Is it a feeling? A destination? A reward for getting life “right”? We chase it in our work, our homes, our endless to-do lists, as though it’s something out there, waiting to be found. But maybe what we’re really searching for isn’t happiness at all. Maybe it’s connection.

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.

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.

The lunch tin isn't just a container of food. It's a mirror. Of our intentions. Our pressures. Our need to nourish, yes, but also to prove that we have 'done it', that we are good, that we are enough.

I know what it’s like to hold everything so tightly that you start to lose your shape. To smile and say, “I’ve got it,” when really bits of you are leaking out quietly in the form of snappy words, heavy sighs, evil glances at your partner, or that ever-growing feeling of resentment of life you don’t want to admit.

Stress shows up in tense shoulders. Anxiety lives in a clenched jaw. Anger tightens the fists. Love flutters through our tummies, and adrenaline makes our hearts pump. The body has always spoken for us. Even when we didn't realise it.

Sometimes, healing doesn't look like crying on the bathroom floor. Sometimes, healing looks like realising you've been holding your breath for 18 years and didn't know it.

There has been an interesting feeling around. I hear many describe it as "let's just get through this", while others feel a sense of the unknown, the question of "what will ever happen next?" tends to be the tone.

This week I got pissed off, and I mean really pissed off. I've been listening to incredible women who are strong, fiery, and just bloody amazing, and they're feeling caught up in knots and twists. They're unsure, worried, panicked, and they feel like their only option is maybe to leave something they've worked so hard for. Their confidence is low. They can't focus.