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What a Hug Really Is

Fri, 23 Jan 2026 03:47:13 GMT

Safety, sensation, and the quiet intelligence of the heart.

When was the last time you truly sat down and contemplated the direction of your life?

Not in terms of productivity or achievement, but in the deeper sense — did it feel meaningful, rewarding, rich? Not in monetary terms, but in the richness of aliveness, beauty, and human connection?

This year, instead of staying in the UK through grey skies, lingering colds, and the familiar post-Christmas heaviness, I chose something different. I chose myself — not in a selfish way, but in a life-affirming one. I wanted to feel alive in my body and soul, so that whatever I offered to others came from joy, not depletion.

That choice brought me to North Goa — often called the California of India. A place someone once told me “answers all of your prayers.” I can now say, quietly and honestly, that he spoke the truth.

Here, life is lived in a deep yesness. From volunteering at the legendary Goa Sunsplash festival , to teaching weekly at a destitute home for girls, I found myself reflected in remarkable human beings who, despite their trauma and stories, shine unmistakably through dance, song, laughter, and presence.

Welcome to volunteering at the Goa Sunsplash 10-year anniversary — working on the merch and help-desk stall at the very heart of India’s reggae renaissance. From the moment I arrived, the vibes were infectious, the unity unwavering, and the future of reggae in India felt brighter than ever.

The culture of the festival — peace, love and unity — truly lived up to its name. It wasn’t just a slogan; it was embodied in every interaction, every smile, every helping hand. The music and the sound systems were incredible, pumping high vibrations across the Goan ocean and far beyond. Deep, uplifting reggae beats carried us through the days and nights, amplified by powerful performances that stirred something ancient and joyful in the body.

What stayed with me most, though, were the people . Meeting, hugging, and connecting with sincere, genuine human beings who deeply cared about one another’s safety, presence, and enjoyment was profoundly moving. I felt real team spirit — a shared sense of purpose and play — and it was pure fun meeting people from all around the world, united by rhythm, love, and open hearts.

Goa Sunsplash is India’s biggest celebration of reggae music, but it is also so much more than a festival. It is a living, breathing community, gathering on the sunny shores of Goa to dance, connect, and remember what togetherness feels like. It was an honour and a privilege to be part of it — to serve, to hug, to laugh, and to connect with so many like-minded souls through the shared joys of music, movement, and community.

Alongside the festival, volunteering at the d estitute girls home t ouched me in a quieter, deeper way. Watching the radiant girls perform Bollywood and Goan dances — singing with such open hearts — moved me to tears. Sitting with them afterwards, answering their curious questions about life and education in the UK, I felt humbled beyond words. The nuns who care for them are doing extraordinary work: instilling confidence, dignity, and a sense of possibility, without denying the reality of what these girls have lived through.

I am deeply aware that trauma lives in the body. And yet, so does joy.

What struck me most was not denial of pain, but the permission to feel alive again . To move. To sing. To connect. To be held in community without explanation or performance.

Regardless of the system — school, home, institution, or festival — there is a shared human resonance that emerges when people are held in real community. Not as denial. Not as performance. But as movement, sound, laughter, sweat, and connection. When that resonance is felt, something ancient wakes up. The body remembers. And life, unapologetically, begins to dance again.

Real community is felt — not taught, not explained.

In Goa, generosity flows without transaction. Gratitude doesn’t need to be announced — it’s embedded in action. My scooter has been lifted from ditches more times than I can count. Compassionate locals rush to fix a stranded car without hesitation. Food is shared. Chai appears. Coconut cakes are offered. Families invite you to sit, to rest, to belong — not because you’ve earned it, but because you’re there.

This way of living — giving without expectation — is profoundly regulating to the nervous system. It reminds the body that safety can exist now, not only in the past or future.

And somewhere between all these moments, between countless simple, human hugs, a poem revealed itself.

Not about romance.
Not about politeness.
But about what the body knows .

What a Hug Really Is

Hugs remove distance and eye-narrative.
The mind steps back,
and the body speaks.

A felt knowing.
The body is a living instrument.

When close — heart to heart —
the instrument responds.
Vibration. Sensation.
Nothing going wrong —
just life moving without obstruction.

The body recognises truth
before the mind can organise a story.

The hug system reads instantly:
coherence, safety, openness,
distortion, suppression —
arriving as sensation, not thought.

Vibration is the real encounter.

Whether harmonious or challenging,
the heart responds honestly.

The heart is a live junction —
not only emotional,
but electrical and spatial.

Energy rises from below,
meets descending awareness from above.

The heart — a transformer —
completes a circuit when you touch another.

No clear borders of you or me.
A movement toward unity, not separation.
Insulation softens.

Unfiltered.

The heart is a threshold:
inside and outside,
self and other.

Opening not politely,
but physically.

Vibration moving through tissue.
Without words.

But love.

For those carrying trauma, it’s important to say this gently:
not every body is ready for touch, and that is okay.
Safety comes first. Choice matters. The body leads.

But when a hug is welcomed — when it is consensual, grounded, and present — it becomes more than comfort. It becomes information. Regulation. Truth without language.

As my time here draws to a close, I leave filled with inspiration and a renewed trust in humanity. Compassionate hearts do exist. Communities that live fully, generously, and joyfully are real.

Peace and blessings to you in the new year.
May you create a life that feels alive to your nervous system.
May every part of you be welcomed — whole, just as you are.

May this be an invitation to honour your own boundaries, rhythms, and capacity for closeness. Whether through a hug, a shared silence, or simply being with yourself — let connection arise where it feels natural, not forced.

Your body’s yes matters.
So does your no.

If this spoke to you, perhaps share it with someone who understands the language of the body — or someone you feel safe enough to explore it with. Connection doesn’t require explanation. Sometimes being witnessed is enough.

Staying in Your Lane

Sun, 07 Dec 2025 13:32:18 GMT

A Modern Guide to Self-Leadership in Chaotic Times.

What does self-love—or self-leadership—actually look like to you? And are they even different things?

In a world where our phones ping more than a microwave and workplaces expect Olympic-level performance as standard, how on earth are we meant to lead ourselves through adversity?

Does it depend on the timeline? The life stage? The frequency we’re vibrating at? Gender? Planetary alignment? (Kidding… mostly.)

Self-love, much like humans themselves, is completely bespoke. It’s as individual as fingerprints—or the way menopause can feel like a 300mph collision for some women while others suddenly sprout wings. And let’s not leave men out of the fun; mid-life crises come with their own delightful plot twists. A little red sports car, anyone? Or the classic ego-boosting “younger model” phase? Bless.

The media, of course, loves to whisper (or shout) that if you haven’t achieved a specific milestone by a specific age, you’re somehow behind. Spoiler alert: it’s stereotypical garbage. For me, every day is a fresh start—a new chance to think clearly without tumbling down the white-rabbit hole of consumerism. Spend more, be less? No thanks. Each day is an opportunity for accountability: What does self-love look like for me today?

Just the other morning over coffee, my girlfriends and I were cracking up about the nonstop advertising machine—from billboards to gym screens to “eat me” posters in fast-food chains—all of it screaming subtle messages that you are not enough. We’ve now nicknamed it “the boogieman”—the gatekeeper of distraction, pulling humans away from their own autonomy.

And here’s what years of travel, research, writing, teaching, and life have shown me:
Truth is simple. Universal. Free.

There’s no price tag attached to the stuff that actually matters.

From Liverpool classrooms to ashram floors across the world, I’ve learned that resilience—at least in the way modern workplaces use the word—is no longer enough. Too many environments (hello, healthcare across the Northwest of England and beyond) confuse resilience with “just keep going,” as though the human nervous system is some endless battery pack that never needs recharging.

Psychologists now call this toxic resilience: the harmful overfunctioning that looks strong on the outside while you’re quietly crumbling on the inside. This culture breeds silent suffering and self-neglect. And the cruel irony? The strongest-looking humans are often the ones at most risk.

We’re not machines. We have limits. Ignore them long enough, and the cost always comes due.
But the beauty? Like a bottle of Tipp-Ex for the soul, we can always course-correct—if we can hear that quiet inner voice. That requires stillness. Aloneness. A deeper level of self-love, or self-leadership, depending on the label you prefer.

Most people aren’t broken—they’re simply stuck in a cobweb of repetitive negative thoughts, spinning on the mental hamster wheel without the tools to get off. In a world this fast, the real skill is knowing when to pause.

So ask yourself:
What signals—mental, emotional, physical—tell me it’s time to hit the self-love button?
And more importantly,
Do I actually listen?

Burnout isn’t hiding. It’s in our homes, our workplaces, and woven into organisational culture. Leadership today requires an entirely new fluency—one that includes emotional load, stress, digital overwhelm, hybrid teams, cross-cultural complexity, and good old-fashioned human exhaustion.

So you can imagine my joy landing in Business Bay, Dubai, to connect with people who get it—leaders who think with both head and heart. An empowering, women-celebrating afternoon with fierce, driven advocates for mental agility across public and private healthcare and education—from the UK and Europe to the Middle East.

What struck me most?

Whether it’s the overworked NHS nurse, the exhausted doctor in a UAE clinic, or any frontline worker anywhere on the globe, the invisible pressures are the same. The “hero” narrative has become a societal expectation—one that desperately needs rewriting.

So how do we rewrite it?
We shift from heroism to humanity.

I can’t wait to dive deeper into a book close to my heart when I’m in India next week. When I asked the author and Mental Agility expert, Magda Snowden, about her mantra, she said simply:
“Stay in your lane.”
A perfect summation of what human-centred, compassion-driven leadership really is.

There’s nothing quite like the power of likeminded women with stories to tell—women who uplift, transform, and create genuine change. Together, we cultivate mental agility, emotional literacy, confidence, and boundaries. We shift from survival mode to intentional thriving.

Because rest is not a reward.
Asking for help is not a weakness.
They are part of being human.

Magda’s book offers a blueprint for leaders ready to trade burnout for balance, pressure for presence, and heroism for humanity.

Mental Agility Leader: Unlocking the Human Advantage by Magda Snowden.

How Trees, Tears & a Tiny Bit of Madness Helped Me Write a Neurodiversity Guide

Sat, 15 Nov 2025 14:27:05 GMT

Nature-Based Insights for Educators & Humans Alike.

A question I’m asked more often than anything else as an author is:
“Where do you get your inspiration from?”

In truth, ask any artist and you’ll get a variation of the same answer: life itself—the lived experience filtered through our senses, wounds, quirks, and half-healed bits.

For me, inspiration usually arrives from the part of my brain that’s slightly off-balance, tugging at me with a powerful emotion that insists on being expressed. My “shadow side”—ever dramatic—loves to manifest as writing. Since childhood, when I couldn’t share my innermost thoughts with another human, I wrote them down instead. Little private poems about the mysteries I couldn’t solve. I have more than a hundred now, spanning forty-five years. (Yes, another publication is brewing… the poems have been whispering about it.)

This summer, I tended to my grief the way a mother tends to a newborn—exhausted, tender, devoted. I disappeared into the hills of Castelo Branco, Portugal, with only my trio of furry companions for company: two protective, comedic dogs and a cat with the emotional intelligence of a therapist. I arrived in early July: dishevelled, nervous system frazzled, belly full of unprocessed sorrow, unsure of who I had become.

A mother.
A grandmother.
A teacher.
An author.
A sister.
A friend.

I missed her—the woman I once recognised in the mirror.

A wife who once held vows and mornings filled with noise and love. A woman whose heart had stretched so widely for others that she had forgotten its edges.

And then came a breakup—not one that destroyed me, but one that revealed me. It taught me endurance, self-respect, and what real healing looks like when no one is watching.

So instead of numbing myself with busyness and conversation, I chose something else: I went back to nature.

I learned permaculture.

Human composting (yes, there’s a story).
How to use solar panels.
How to collect water from a sacred spring.
How to eat from the land.
How to live without TV, noise, or distraction.

Just me and the hills.
The grandmother and grandfather trees.
The velvet skies with no light pollution.
Silence layered thick enough that I could hear myself again.

With space came questions—big, honest, sometimes uncomfortable ones:

Was I truly being kind to myself?
Had I forgiven myself?
Where did I give away my autonomy?
Was “no” safe yet?
What was this showing me?
What did I need to own, or apologise for?
Were my actions aligned with my highest self?

After any relationship ends, I think most of us face similar interrogations of the heart before we start dancing with life again.

And speaking of dancing…

Dance like nobody’s watching.

Let your bones remember the ancient beat,
Before names,
Before rules.
Let your hips write the stories you were too hesitant to ink.
Stamp your prayers into the earth.
Shed shame like an old skin that never fit.
Twirl truth.
Pulse power.
Laugh. Sob. Breathe.
Move as if your spirit was never tamed.
Because maybe no one is watching—
Or maybe they are, wishing they could move just as freely.

Sometimes, I feel like a square peg in a round hole too—overwhelmed, stressed, human. Don’t you?

The grief in my gut kept prodding me awake. Was it regret? Loss? An old memory asking to be honoured? I still don’t fully know.

But I do know this:
Thank you, Rev. Em , at Creative Rootz Retreat Centre in Portugal, for giving me a place to unravel and re-root. For introducing me to the sound of stars singing (they do), the engineering genius of ants, the mycelial wisdom that mirrors the brain and the body. For letting me sync with circadian rhythms instead of calendars. For mornings painted in gold and pink, and evenings wrapped in velvet darkness.
And for the warning on Night One:
“Don’t be alarmed if you hear a wild boar.”
I didn’t sleep. At all.
But I did mark my scent like she advised, and after that, I slept like a log—fitting, since I was in a log cabin.

In that stillness, with nowhere to escape but inward, I wrote my Neuro Guide —a practical, human-level resource for educators. After twenty years in classrooms, I know how difficult it is to support neurodiverse learners while juggling curriculum demands and limited hours. This guide is not a dreamland manual. It is real, honest, messy, doable. It’s about seeing patterns, asking better questions, and teaching with presence.

Because learners don’t fit into neat boxes.
They are mycelial—interconnected, individual, brilliant.

Thank you also to my girlfriends who flew in for a long weekend of peace, love, giggles, and absolutely legendary Sharon Stone moments. And yes, there was an auspicious blessing from Mother Mary and dancing at dawn—fresh, wild, and perfect.

Now, I’m preparing for my next adventure: a solo research journey across Asia, exploring mental health and ageing with women, elders, and mountain communities in India and Nepal. This will weave into my next book (title still hiding behind a curtain).

As always, my writing pours from lived experience and a heart that insists on telling the truth.
More stories are coming.

Peace and Love.

Sacred & Savage

Thu, 09 Oct 2025 09:03:07 GMT

Truth Bares its Teeth and Love Never Flinches.

An excerpt from my new book in the making—

Don’t be fooled into thinking that feminine energy is just about being sweet and gentle, all love and light. Feminine energy embodies the essence of darkness; it’s the deep, black abyss that awakens the soul. It's midnight storms, and velvet voids between the stars that chills your bones—creation and destruction—screams that spilt heavens open, refusing to kneel, and petrifying cowards.

She's not here to be nice but worshipped or feared, and she doesn't care which. The feminine was never about sweetness, bows or ribbons—dare stand in the presence of a woman who knows her darkness and isn't afraid of it—she can resurrect or obliterate with a single hand. Look, that is the divine feminine—respect her or be undone—those are the only options so choose wisely.

She is not here to be your muse. Power is not in heels and perfume but scars and claws. Nor does she turn down her power for your comfort.

For centuries, the world has tried to water her down—be good, be small, be nice—but her energy is not a candle—it's a black hole—pulling everything into orbit—demanding tribute or annihilation. That's what feminine energy is—cyclical, untamed, unpredictable. Her love is a gift—her wrath is a warning. Ignore it at your peril. You can't domesticate what was born wild—she is raw and real. If you survive her fire you are reborn.

She is not afraid of the dark. She is the dark—the question and the answer. She is not here not to comfort you—but to challenge you— to destroy what is false and awaken what is true.

She is the serpent in the garden. She is sacred but she is a savage first. If you cross her, she will erupt. If you betray her, she will vanish. Meet her as an equal or leave her alone.

She is every woman who dared to be whole—dark, divine and utterly unstoppable.

She is the divine feminine and her motto is simple—respect her or be undone.

Wild Water

Sun, 05 Oct 2025 15:44:27 GMT

A Love Letter to Gaddings Dam.

There’s a fine line between bravery and madness — and it’s about 780 feet above sea level at Gaddings Dam.

Have you ever lived in a place and known that you belonged? I mean really belonged — with no effort, no judgement, no thought. A place where every day feels like a quiet celebration of life, and the people and the landscape have that indefinable something that makes you feel utterly at home. A place where being different is celebrated, not scorned. Where honesty is valued, challenges are shared, and authenticity thrives.

That’s exactly how I felt the first time I ventured up to Gaddings Dam . It took my breath away — not just literally, but emotionally. The people I met along the way, each with their own story to tell, made me feel instantly at home. I quickly discovered that it didn’t matter what time of day or night I went — sunrise or sunset, solo or with a group — it was always magical. It still holds a very special place in my heart.

Every wild swimmer has that one place — their go-to, where they feel held, soothed, and instantly better. For me, that’s Gaddings Dam. Up there, you are never truly alone. Whether it’s the cows keeping you company or the resident gatekeeper, Clive — a local legend who practically lives up there — it feels like a safe and sacred space, brimming with charm. But be warned: once you start wild swimming there, you might just get hooked! Incidentally, I never set out to be a wild swimmer — I just followed some mad friends up a hill one day and forgot to say no.

So, you can imagine my excitement when I was asked to be featured in Wild Water , a feature documentary released in 2024 that captures the essence of this very place. I was thrilled — almost as chuffed as when I became a gran for the first time! The filming took longer than expected, and by the time it was finally released, I’d almost forgotten what had been recorded. Nothing was scripted — it was all natural, filmed partly after a particularly difficult time for all of us, during what I like to call the fallout era.

Wild Water is set around Gaddings Dam — a hidden reservoir perched high in the West Yorkshire moors. It’s a wild, often blustery, and deeply romantic landscape, with links to Ted Hughes and the Brontës, and home to England’s highest beach. Every day, a rhythm of people come and go — runners, hikers, walkers, day trippers, and wild swimmers — all taking on the tough, broken footpath through hail, gales, snow, and sunshine. They come in all seasons, seeking connection, peace, or sheer exhilaration.

It’s a place where time stops. Healing happens. And nothing matters but the moment.

The dam has its own thriving ecosystem, and one of its highlights each year is the January Daily Dippers for Crisis , which grows in popularity annually. The film beautifully captures how this community uses the restorative power of clean, cold water — and the surrounding wild landscape — to reconnect with mental health, identity, nature, and each other.

I’m so proud of what Wild Water has become. It has already received awards around the globe and been screened in over fifty cinemas across the UK, taking on a life of its own through 2024—25.

The reviews have been incredible — described as “beautiful, quirky, lovable, with amazing scenery and great music. Many have called it “heart-warming and inspirational,” and almost everyone agrees it will make you want to go wild swimming!

This year, it was shown at the Pretty Gritty Festival in Leeds — to a yurt packed with Prosecco, tears, and warm-hearted laughter. I slipped in quietly but was soon recognised! There are no words to describe how it feels when someone tells you that Wild Water touched them in some way. It’s a feeling a bit like watching my little granddaughter — that same sense of awe and pride in the small, beautiful things that mean the most.

It’s now available to watch on Amazon Prime, Apple TV, Vimeo , and other major streaming platforms.

Dive in — and maybe you’ll find your own special place too. They say wild swimming is great for mental health. I say it’s also a fantastic way to question all your life choices — especially as your toes go numb.

Beyond Gratitude

Fri, 26 Sep 2025 10:09:55 GMT

Grief, Chips & Spiritual Trips.

Thoughts drift as the curtains close after the final musical note of Coronation Street’s theme tune. The mind, restless as ever, wonders about the strangeness of existence. The body, however, is numb. Sarah’s father had just died—suddenly, traumatically, and in a way no one could have prepared her for. Beyond gratitude? She wasn’t even at gratitude. She was floored.

She toyed with a few titles for the book that followed— The Road to Hell and Back, A Journey into Madness —you know, light bedtime reading. But after the umpteenth proofread, something shifted. A new title revealed itself: Gratefulness .

The truths that poured out of her were not taught in schools. They arrived raw, uninvited, stitched together from lived experience, unfiltered wisdom, and the kind of boldness only grief can catapult you into. As one reader kindly put it, the book was “hard, NOT to put down” (yes, that double negative works—it’s basically saying you’ll put the kettle on, but you won’t put the book down).

Sarah insists she didn’t write this book. It wrote her. From classroom to ashram, from Liverpool to the universe itself, she was simply following the burning questions inside her heart. Grief was the rocket fuel. A ten-tonne lorry load of it.

Readers have since called the book “raw, honest, hilarious, and inspiring.” Which is lovely, because Sarah remembers sitting in a café on a Thai island, scribbling in her battered A4 notebook, convinced she was going slightly mad. A friendly stranger noticed her writing—mistake-free, he said—and suggested she publish it. Cue her heart exploding like a Catherine wheel. She followed that thread, and Beyond Gratitude was born.

This isn’t just Sarah’s journey—it’s an invitation. The book takes you by the hand and gently (sometimes not-so-gently) nudges you into asking your own big questions. It’s for those who are sick of being sick and tired. For those who’ve hit midlife and suddenly realised they can’t remember the last time they felt truly alive. For those drowning in the same old routines: Friday-night takeaway, Saturday chippy tea, Sunday ironing, Monday grind, repeat ad infinitum.

Transformation, as Sarah discovered, doesn’t always mean packing up, moving abroad, or doing yoga on a beach at sunrise (though she tried that too). Sometimes it’s simply daring to look closely—really look—at your life, even when it feels like it’s spiralling beyond your control.

Sarah’s path was a solo one. Travelling alone became like riding a bicycle: terrifying at first, then strangely exhilarating, then utterly freeing. Each new adventure gave her courage and insights that helped her process her grief. Unsurprisingly, loved ones didn’t always understand. How could they?

Her journey began with searching—desperate to find traces of her father’s energy in every corner of the globe. She carried conversations unsaid, love unspoken, and questions unanswered. Grief clung to her like a ghost, demanding to be seen. And in searching for her father, she began to discover herself.

As she writes, you’re drawn into that unfolding—petal by petal—like a lotus flower opening. It’s not always pretty, but it’s deeply human.

If you’re seeking a fresh perspective, a shift in your inner landscape, or simply want to walk alongside a “crazy lady’s” heroine’s journey, this book might just nudge you toward your own gifts, your own compassion, your own peace.

Because really, isn’t that what we all long for? Peace.

Beyond Gratitude is available now through Amazon, Waterstones, WHSmith, Foyles, Blackwell’s, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and many other bookstores worldwide.

Build connections, not possessions. Want less, be more. In a world obsessed with fake, remember—real is rare.

Wildest Dreams

Wed, 24 Sep 2025 06:19:10 GMT

Unlocking Wildest Dreams with Gentle Courage.

It’s sunny and glorious outside, and I’ve another reason to feel cheerful today: the revised second edition of my book Wildest Dreams has had a complete makeover.

The first edition received generous five-star reviews, with readers saying:

“A book written in flow that wants to be read in one go.”
“Raw, unconditional essence, unplugged, uncensored—a safe container for souls to process painful experiences.”
“A celebration of life as a whole.”

Written during a turbulent time for us all—when sanity, autonomy, and trust were in question—the book asked: do we hand it all over on a silver platter without proof, or do we politely decline? Do we go along with the status quo and risk the labels, the judgements? It was a deeply challenging time to navigate.

On re-reading, I noticed that some passages carried a harshness. I am, after all, human—with thoughts, feelings, and loved ones. To discern properly, and to bring more sympathy into the narrative, I softened certain sections. Wildest Dreams still holds its thought-provoking edge, but now with a more balanced tone. I own that evolution.

Like many, I’ve been pulled into the realm of individuation—“me, me, me”—as I tried to make sense of tragedies within my own life. I believe this too is part of the path: a rite of passage in the game of life.

The book explores universal themes we all face at some point: light and dark, grief and joy, questions of meaning and belonging. And yet, after all the retreats and self-help manuals, many still feel little difference—no “enlightenment,” whatever that may mean.

One reader said: “It’s a book you don’t want to put down—unless it’s to top up your cuppa!”

For some, diving into Wildest Dreams has offered gentle suggestions and reflections . My stories are offered as a kind of guinea pig trial—an honest, sincere template that others can adapt for their own lives.

Of course, not all feedback has been positive. Some readers felt my words insulted my parents or touched too rawly on my late brother’s mental health and suicide. I respect all perspectives. Even the negative responses are valuable. A fool judges another person’s suffering without knowing the horrors behind it.

Writing this book was a form of embodied processing—it helped me see myself more clearly. I stopped playing the victim, forgave myself, and forgave my parents, who loved in the only way they knew. I have always been a deep thinker, though often my words were too sharp for others to hear. That is why, at fifteen, I turned to poetry. It gave me a room of my own—a place to vent, to play with words without judgement. That love of writing stayed with me.

I never could connect with authoritarian, manual-style books that talk at the reader. My teaching—and my writing—are people-led, side-by-side. No one is above another. As one prophet in a leather thread once sang, “no one gets out of here alive.”

Authentic stories, drawn from lived experience, carry nuggets of wisdom more lasting than polished theories. But choosing to live authentically also has a cost. When you grow lighter, shedding burdens, some friends and family may not recognise the person you are becoming. My journey took me into wild swimming, skinny dipping, skydiving, improvisation dance—the “crazy” adventures that brought me back to myself. After years of putting others first, I finally put on my own life jacket. It wasn’t selfish. It was vital.

As an adopted child, my journey has also meant unravelling ancestral patterns. I’ve had to face my own unconscious behaviours—like emotionally offloading on my sisters after a bottle of wine—then choosing to break those patterns through honesty and clear communication. This has been a long-honed craft.

I was emotionally immature as a young mum, carrying only the scraps of guidance passed down to me. But I burned with the desire to stop those inherited burdens in their tracks. I wanted my children, and their children, to be free.

We don’t always get what we want, but perhaps what we need. Wildest Dreams is meant as a companion through darkness into light. Written during a time when the world felt unhinged, it remains strangely relevant today.

Some may call it indulgent, but it was written in an era of self-help gurus and inward gazing. Turning inward is powerful—but we mustn’t stay there, curled up like hedgehogs. Life is not just theory but application. Wisdom is meant to be lived and shared, through connection, through community, through the courage to be human with one another.

At its heart, Wildest Dreams is an invitation:

To listen deeply, like a friend.
To open wings and express your messy, imperfect humanness.
To notice what lights you up, and what drains you.
To design your own web of nourishing wisdom, raw and real, soft yet strong.

Wildest Dreams is available now through Amazon, Waterstones, WHSmith, Foyles, Blackwell’s, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and many other bookstores worldwide.

And remember: you cannot speak butterfly language with caterpillar people.

Cosmic Ink

Mon, 22 Sep 2025 09:13:35 GMT

Cosmos Cracked, Onion Skinned, Truth Ripped Raw in Ink.

Among the stars, we find stories written in cosmic ink ready to be discovered. Since its release into the cosmos and beyond in March this year, my book Cosmic Onion has been receiving fabulous feedback.

The reason I wrote it is simple—because as an author (and yes, that much-asked question always comes up), I can only write what is burning in my heart, what insists on getting out. If my books help just one person in this life, then I’m happy. It has never been about money— it’s always about the message.

Cosmic Onion is, at its core, a love story with a celestial twist. It’s a fictitious book, and I chose that route deliberately. My previous books carried my voice strongly, something close friends have often told me. But in Cosmic Onion , I didn’t want that. I wanted the reader to hear their own voice, to have their own experience of the story. A private journey, at their own pace—something to read with a cuppa, to put down and reflect on when it gets tough, or to laugh through the funny, comical bits. That’s the beauty of reading: you get to travel without moving your feet, and at the same time, discover so much.

This book carries many universal themes . Maybe they’ll land with you in your own universe, maybe they’ll bring a shard of wisdom. Perhaps you’ll recognise yourself in Elodie—the deep attraction to someone who hurts you, yet whom you forgive again and again, because you believe they’ll eventually mature, like fine wine. Maybe you’ll feel the ache of giving years of yourself to someone who cannot take responsibility for their actions, who distracts with gifts or moves house like it’s a hobby, who resists accountability at every turn.

You might even recognise the endless attempts to “fix” what cannot be fixed —the therapy, the communication workshops, the hope. The loop of manipulation and control. And then, that undeniable chemical pull that keeps you stuck in the cycle, the trauma bond. The highs you know will always come back after the pendulum of the lows has swung.

Readers have told me they found themselves shouting at Elodie like it’s a pantomime: “Look, he’s behind you!”

Funny, isn’t it? From the outside, it looks so clear. From the inside, it feels like home. Familiar. Like a cosy old pair of slippers.

That’s the paradox. What many call narcissism or trauma bonding can, strangely enough, hold the greatest cosmic lessons of your life. But only if you’re willing to peel back the layers, onion-style, until you reveal the jewel hidden within.

I’ve had men read the book and tell me they wanted more from a man’s perspective—that they, too, feel these patterns. And they’re right. This story is not one-sided. But for the purpose of this love story, I wrote it through a woman’s eyes. Labels like narcissist, empath, twin flame—they’re all attempts to name something we don’t fully understand. What Cosmic Onion offers is a mirror to see why we get stuck in the same loops, and perhaps, a safe way through them.

As some early reviews have said, it will make you laugh, it might make you cry, it may even have your heart jumping out of your mouth. But it will also plant seeds. Seeds of awareness, of courage, of humour in the face of intensity.

Cosmic Onion is available now through Amazon, Waterstones, WHSmith, Foyles, Blackwell’s, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and many other bookstores around the globe.

Travel with it. Feel it. Peel it back. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find your own cosmic jewel inside.

Smoke Slick

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 13:21:59 GMT

The Initiation of Fire.

A taste of the untamed—raw words, wild truth, and a story still catching fire. Sneak inside before it names itself. Born of shadow and flame—read what hungers to awaken.

She tried once.
Tried smiling at all the right places, saying “thank you” when she meant “fuck off,”
but her mouth tasted like blood every time she bit her tongue.

She woke slowly.
Not all at once.
Like scales falling one by one from the eyes of her soul.

The first time, she dreamt of fire pouring from her belly.
The second, she felt her spine vibrate like a thousand serpents dancing.
By the third, she stopped dreaming.
She was the dream now.
Other people’s.
And her own.

She walked with a kind of madness that made sane people nervous.
She spoke truths that shook foundations.

She touched others and they remembered things they didn’t know they’d forgotten.

Some called her cursed.
Some called her divine.
It didn’t matter.
She wasn’t here for names.
She was here for impact.

She walked into temples that were collapsing and didn’t try to save them.
She let them fall.
She watched the dust rise like prayer.
She wept.
And then she laughed.
Because the soul remembers.
And sometimes remembering means breaking.

She did not seek war.
But she came with weapons.
Truth was one.
Silence was another.
Love —the kind that sears through falsehood—was her sharpest blade.

They wanted her to be sweet.
She was salt.
They wanted her soft.
She was storm.
They wanted her still.
She was Becoming.

And when they tried to burn her, she didn’t scream.
She slithered out of their grip, left her skin in their fire, and walked away smoke slick and reborn...

She wasn’t born to be soft spoken or sweet to the ear. She came as friction. Fire. A soul seeded in the old codes – ones that cracked illusions open like snakeskin ready to shed. People called her dangerous, too much, or simply didn’t call her at all. But it wasn’t personal. Her presence stirred things. Stirred truth. Stirred pain. Stirred memory. And not everyone wants to remember.

The Great Woman Creator didn’t send her to be adored. She was sent to challenge. To provoke healing. To break the curse of smallness. Her love was jagged, like glass turned to light. Her path? Lonely. Sacred. Free. Peace walked beside her – not the peace of silence, but the peace of knowing that she was in service. That she was the hand of awakening. That her solitude was her protection, not punishment. She had made her choice long ago: to be the storm that clears the air, not the breeze that soothes it. And so, she walked on. Snake Woman. Not here to be liked. Here to be real.

How She Learned to Burn

She was not forged in comfort, but in confrontation. Her spirit bore the mark of a soul sent not to please, but to provoke. Her eyes saw too much. Her silence spoke too loudly. Where she went, truths unravelled. People mistook her for a destroyer. But she was a revealer. A mirror. A living edge where illusion went to die.

This book is not here to explain itself to you.
It is here to warm you… or burn away what you thought you were.

An initiation of fire does not arrive politely. It crackles. It disrupts. It asks nothing but your presence. Fire doesn’t seek belief—it seeks contact. And once touched, you are no longer quite the same shape as before.

If something in you stirred while reading—unease, excitement, resistance, recognition—good. That’s the signal. Curiosity is the first flame. Not the kind that consumes, but the kind that illuminates the dark corners you didn’t know you were avoiding.

This book is still becoming, as you are.
I am not ahead of you. I am in the fire with you.

So don’t rush to understand.
Don’t try to tame it.
Let it work.

If you feel called back, follow that heat.
If you feel nothing, trust that too. Fire knows its own timing.

Some initiations don’t begin with answers—
they begin with a spark.

And once lit, there is no unknowing it.

The story is still coiling itself.

Unfinished. Uncontained. Burning anyway.