Last week a complete stranger stopped me in my local pool and complimented me on my swimming. I can’t tell you how excited I was – it felt like getting a gold star from the teacher, and it made my day. It came in the context of me pushing myself hard to improve my swimming, which can feel very tough at times. Lately I’ve been attending a couple of classes where the speed and pace have increased considerably, and I often find myself trailing at the back of the lane, barely able to keep up. On those days, it’s easy to feel slow, behind, not quite enough. But when I take a step back and consider where I’ve come from, the picture looks very different. I’ve significantly improved; the only reason I’m finding it so hard is that I keep choosing more difficult and challenging classes. I’ve moved the goalposts on myself. My benchmark is no longer where I started, it’s the fastest person in the lane, the toughest set, the next stretch of water. No wonder it feels hard. Sometimes it’s difficult to see what we’ve achieved and who we’ve become because we are constantly on a mission to push ourselves and improve. We quietly raise our own standards again and again and then judge ourselves against those higher and higher expectations. The progress is real, but it gets lost in the noise of the next thing we “should” be doing.  When I think about those challenging classes, the truth is that I am the only one getting worked up about my performance. Everyone else is dealing with their own stuff – their breathing, their technique, their day at work – and I doubt they have time to worry about what I’m doing. The story that “everyone is watching” lives mainly in my head. In reality, most people are too busy staying afloat in their own lane to scrutinise mine. Swimming has taught me that I need balance in my life. I want to be operating at my full wingspan, and that’s why I push myself, but it needs to be on my terms. That means noticing where the energy feels right, where I still find joy, and where there is a sense of fulfilment from what I’m doing. It’s the difference between stretching myself and snapping. When I find the right mix – the tough sessions that expand me and the steady sessions that remind me how far I’ve come – I feel more grounded, more present, more myself. It’s not helpful to compare myself to others and yet, however much I know this, I still fall into that trap. We all do. We scroll, we watch, we glance across at the next lane, and before we realise it we are measuring ourselves against someone else’s goals, timeline or definition of success. We forget that we all have our own journeys and our own paths, with different starting points, constraints and dreams. The person flying past me in the pool might have been swimming for decades; I might have had a terrible night’s sleep. The comparison is never as simple or as fair as it seems. Sometimes I feel the tension between wanting to be part of a community and staying on my own path. I want to belong, to be in the lane with others, and at the same time I want to honour my rhythm, my goals, my way of doing things. I’ve realised that the community I need is the one that supports and cheers me on based on my own goals, not someone else’s. I don’t need to be competitive with others; I just want to keep moving forward on my own path, at my own pace. And half the time that path is still being defined. I’m trying things, changing my mind, veering off course and occasionally deciding that the “wrong” lane was exactly the right experiment after all. The friends who support me when I choose a different path – who stay when I show up slower, more tired, or a bit unsure – are the ones who remind me that I am present and moving forward, even when it might not feel like it. They help me see the progress I can’t yet see in myself. So this is the reminder I’m holding on to: nothing compares to me. Not because I am better or worse than anyone else, but because my life, my experiences and my dreams are uniquely mine. Your lane is yours; mine is mine. The real work is not to be faster than the person next to us, but to keep showing up, to keep learning, and to keep honouring the path that is unfolding under our own feet. And if a stranger happens to stop you one day and notice how far you’ve come, let it in. Let it count. Let it remind you that even when you are busy chasing the next challenge, you are already someone who has travelled a long way – and nothing, and no one, truly compares to that.

I used to take it very personally when a friendship fizzled out. I would replay conversations in my head, wondering what I had done wrong and why they didn’t want to hang out with me anymore. As the years have passed, I’ve become more philosophical about it. I’m more in tune with my values, so I immediately notice when something isn’t quite right. As my friendships have got deeper, a superficial friendship stands out and if I’m honest, sometimes I am quietly relieved when it comes to an end. Society often paints endings as a bad thing – as a failure, a sign that we didn’t put in enough effort, or in times of grief, as something only to be met with great sorrow. We’re taught to focus on starting things: new jobs, new projects, new relationships. Very few of us are taught how to end things well – how to say “this has run its course” without labelling ourselves or the other person as the villain of the story. But sometimes ending something can be the most courageous thing you can do. It’s a sign that you are fully aware of how you want to live and clear about what no longer has a place in your life. Of course, we can’t always choose to end things. Some commitments are fixed or bound up in responsibilities and circumstances that are too tricky to navigate an immediate ending. But in other situations, we lack the courage – or maybe the language – to end a friendship, a job, a relationship, even a version of ourselves that no longer fits. We cling on, long after the joy, growth or alignment has gone, because the ending feels scarier than the discomfort that we’re already experiencing. It’s an area I am fascinated by. Recently, I performed my own endings ritual: a deliberate moment of saying goodbye to parts of my life, parts of my personality and limiting beliefs that were no longer serving me. I sat with a notebook and wrote them down, one by one – roles I had outgrown, expectations I was tired of carrying, stories I had told myself for years about who I was “allowed” to be. I acknowledged how each of these had once supported me and then thanked them and let them go. It was incredibly cathartic. There was something powerful about putting it on paper – seeing in black and white the things I no longer wanted to drag into my future. Writing became a way of drawing a line: this belongs to an old chapter, and I’m choosing to close that chapter now. That simple act gave me a new perspective and a lightness, a sense that I could lean more fully into how I want to live my life rather than how I used to live it. Since then, I’ve been thinking about endings in a broader sense. Friendships that once revolved around a shared environment – a workplace, a course, a life stage – may naturally loosen when that context disappears. Identities that we have cherished – the reliable one, the fixer, the always‑available friend – might stop feeling true as we evolve. Recognising this isn’t a failure; it is information. It tells us we’ve grown. What if we saw endings as part of the natural rhythm of a values‑led life? Some things arrive to stay, some to stretch us for a while, and some simply to walk alongside us for a particular chapter. When we honour that, we can let go with more grace. We can appreciate what a friendship, a role or a belief gave us, and still make the brave decision to say, “Thank you. That’s enough now.”  I no longer automatically see an ending as proof that something has gone wrong. More often, I see it as a sign that something in me has changed – that my values have sharpened, and that I’m paying closer attention to how alive, grounded and honest my life feels. The invitation today is to ask yourself whether there is anything in your life you would like to honour and say goodbye to. If you choose to end well, what might quietly begin in its place?

Last week I found myself voluntarily swimming for six hours in 15.7° water. On paper, that sounds a bit mad. In reality, it felt like a strange homecoming: back to the cold, back to the rhythm of stroke, back to that quiet question I keep asking myself – how far can I really go? I was reminded that my mental resilience is strong, and I am lucky not to feel the cold as much as others do. My quiet superpowers held me in good stead. Since my Sealand Swim last year, I’ve been intrigued, if not a little excited, about discovering my edges. I’ve dared to dream about a Channel solo swim – a thought that still feels outrageous when I say it out loud and yet is more “yes” than “no” every time I check in with myself. I’ve also noticed how the people I spend time with change what feels possible. The more I hang out with Channel solo swimmers, the more normalised the idea of doing it myself becomes. They talk about tides and feeds, jellyfish and night swimming, with the same casual tone other people use to talk about their commute. Being around them shrinks the gap between “impossible” and “maybe I could”. Then I speak to my non‑swimming friends, who go pale at the mention of 14‑hour swims and shipping lanes, and I’m reminded that what feels ordinary in one community can seem utterly extraordinary in another. Their visible anxiety has been interesting to sit with. On the one hand, I feel incredibly held by their concern; on the other, I’ve had to get clearer about what is fear‑based “don’t do it” and what is genuine, practical care for my safety. It’s made me reflect on how often we absorb other people’s limitations as our own. How many dreams get quietly shelved because someone else can’t imagine themselves doing it? My swimming journey has been transformational for my mental health and resilience, as well as my physical health. When I first started, it was simply about moving my body and finding some headspace. Over time, it has become the place I go to remember who I am. There is something about immersing myself in cold water, the shock, the breath, the focus, that presses a reset button inside me. It is so calming and yet energising at the same time. Every time I achieve something new in the water – a longer distance, a colder temperature, a tougher sea – it ripples into other areas of my life. If I can stay calm when my face is burning with cold, maybe I can stay calmer in a difficult conversation. If I can keep swimming when the sea is choppy, perhaps I can keep going when a work project feels overwhelming. The water has become a rehearsal room for courage. If I can swim through stormy waters and come out smiling, then life is good. I’m discovering that resilience is less about gritting my teeth and more about staying connected – to my body, to my values, to the supporters around me. My swimming community has been just as powerful as the swimming itself. The incredibly encouraging swimmers I’ve met along the way have taught me the importance of cheerleaders and of getting outside your comfort zone. But having cheerleaders doesn’t mean they always tell you it will be easy. It means they hold your belief when yours wobbles. They remind you of the training you’ve done, the swims you’ve already completed, the grit you’ve shown on days when the chop was high and the wind unkind. When my self-talk wavers, I can rely on them to lift me up. When I think about a potential Channel solo, I still feel that familiar mix of excitement and fear. But underneath it, there is a steadier knowing – a sense that something inside me is indeed so strong. Not invincible, not reckless, just quietly, stubbornly strong. For now, I’m taking it one cold swim, one training session, one conversation at a time.  Maybe that’s the real invitation, whether you swim or not: to ask yourself where your “channel” lies, what cold, slightly outrageous thing is calling you. To surround yourself with people who expand your sense of what’s possible. And to remember that even in the choppiest waters, you might be stronger than you think.

I was asked the other day what my latest project was – is it events or is it coaching? On the surface, it’s a simple question, but this lens feels far too small for me. We live in a world that loves tidy labels, quick LinkedIn headlines and neat “What do you do?” answers, and yet few people have the time or curiosity to get to know who we are underneath those labels. I find myself entering 2026 less tied to a routine, but with a stronger awareness of who I am and where I’d like to put my energy. The more I learn about myself and my values, the harder it is to squeeze what I do into a job title. So I’ve stopped trying. Instead, I talk about finding ways to connect, to build communities, to inspire others to be the best they can be – and the places I do this take many shapes and forms. Part of the discomfort comes from how much of our identity we’ve been taught to hook onto work - “I’m a lawyer” “I’m a teacher” “I’m in events.” These phrases are useful shortcuts, but they can become boxes that feel increasingly tight as we grow and change. A portfolio of different roles – a mix of projects, interests and income streams – is becoming more common, yet our language hasn’t quite caught up. When your week spans facilitating a workshop one day, coaching someone through a career crossroads the next, and then hosting a community event, the old labels start to feel flimsy. What sits beneath it all, for me, is a desire to create spaces where people feel seen, connected and alive.​ So how can we support people to find more meaning in their lives, rather than pushing them back into the nearest box? I think it starts with the questions we ask. Instead of “What do you do?”, we might ask “What are you curious about at the moment?” or “Where are you feeling most alive in your life right now?” Open questions invite longer, more thoughtful answers and help people feel genuinely heard. They gently signal that it’s safe to bring more of themselves into the conversation, not just the polished job‑title version. We also need to be careful about the assumptions we make about what a “good” path looks like. It might be the promotion and the bigger job title – but it might equally be a sideways step, a portfolio career, a season of freelancing or a role that pays less but fits your values more. So many of us quietly crave change but talk ourselves out of it because we don’t have “enough experience” in a new field. Yet if we look honestly at our lives, we are often carrying a rich mix of transferable skills and lived experience: the projects we’ve led, the teams we’ve supported, the crises we’ve navigated, the care work we’ve done. All of this counts. The bigger question is whether we are prepared to take a risk on ourselves. Leaning into this messier, more fluid way of living can feel unsettling. It often leads to a richer life, but also a more complex one – less certainty, fewer straight lines, and more conversations where you see people’s eyes slightly glaze over as you try to explain “what you do now.” A life built around what makes you come alive can mean sitting with more ambiguity day to day, trusting that clarity comes from action rather than over‑thinking. But it also offers more chances to feel in flow, to notice that you are fully present in a moment, using your strengths in service of something that matters to you. I’m reminded of the Howard Thurman quote: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” I come back to this often. It doesn’t mean ignoring responsibilities or pretending life is simple. To me, it is an invitation to keep asking: Where do I feel most alive? How can I bring more of that into my work, my relationships, my community – even in small, everyday ways? When we follow that thread, we don’t just step out of the box for ourselves; we quietly give others permission to do the same.  So perhaps the more helpful question for all of us this year isn’t “What’s your job?” but “What are you building?” A life, a community, a practice, a body of work – even if it doesn’t fit neatly on a business card.

It’s January and many of us make resolutions for the year ahead. “It’s going to be a new me – I’m going to lose weight, exercise more and read every day.” Perhaps the reason we often fall short is that we are aiming for the wrong thing, or we don’t explore ways of achieving it that are in line with how we actually want to live. Maybe it’s more helpful to think about the true you rather than the new you. Societal pressure can make us feel that we should be doing certain things, but are we really taking the time to think about how we would like to live? Exercising more can take many forms. I’ve never found running enjoyable, but I love swimming, and it took time to discover this. If we pick the “wrong” thing, it isn’t a failure; it might simply mean we need to explore other options until we land on something that feels right for us. I’ve just finished a book by Roman Krznaric called Work and the Art of Living. One line in particular has stayed with me: “Is your work big enough for your spirit?” I love this idea of seeking the aliveness in ourselves and questioning whether our work – or our life, for that matter – is truly fulfilling. Sometimes it is fear that stops us following our true calling rather than anything more practical like money or stability. And we all have our own version of this. The more we can look inward and find our own inner spirit, the more fulfilling and alive our lives can become. Whenever we make a decision about how we want to live and work, we have a choice. In the busyness of life, we often find ourselves on autopilot, saying yes to a project because it’s what we’ve always done. We make decisions quickly because our to-do list is overflowing and we just want to tick something off. We don’t always stop, pause and ask whether there is another way, or whether we even want to be doing it at all.  So my invitation to you today is to give yourself permission to pause. Take a moment, create some space, and consider, as Mary Oliver writes, “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

As the year draws to a close, it is natural to reflect on the past twelve months. I often find myself torn between wanting to capture every achievement and simply being present for the moments themselves. I know I will rarely look back over a list of what I have done, yet I recently realised I had forgotten a couple of small but fulfilling projects from earlier in the year, lost in the fog of everything else that had been going on. It is often those smaller moments that bring the most unexpected joy. I recently heard a lovely word: glimmers – “small, brief moments that make you feel safe, calm, connected or quietly joyful.” While the iconic moments of the year may be what spring to mind first, it is usually the glimmers that make me feel most connected: a random chat with a stranger after a swim, an uplifting read, a shared smile on the tube, a chat with a friend. When you start looking for them, these moments are everywhere, offering tiny resets and bursts of joy throughout the day.​ For me, 2025 has been an uplifting year, from celebrating a big birthday to undertaking a big swim. But more than anything, I am remembering the glimmers: with friends and family, with strangers, in something heart warming I read, in the times I could make a difference to someone else. When I really pay attention, those glimmers are never far away. So as the year comes to an end, my hope for you is that something brings a little sparkle and joy into your life – and that you notice it when it arrives.

I have come to a little pause in my working life after a busy year and busy birthday celebrations. As I slow down and pause, I’m noticing a tussle between the unease and uncertainty of not knowing what’s next and the excitement about getting other things in my life done. I used to fight these uncomfortable feelings, but I’ve learnt to listen to them and explore what’s going on. I know that some of the unease is linked to social norms and the fact that when people ask me what I’m doing it may sound as if I am sitting around not working, despite my full days. Some of the unease is linked to the uncertainty and knowing that I want to find the right thing to do next. And on the flip side, I take the opportunity of a lighter workload as a signal to try and achieve everything else I want to do in life and that, in itself, can cause some unease and overwhelm! I have been reflecting on my coaching practice. When I started coaching, I wasn’t sure that I would be able to add value without giving solutions. I soon realised that the more present I was and the more human the connection, the more powerful the conversation and impact could be. And when I look at the next steps to take in my life, it really is this simple – the more I’m present and the more I anchor myself with my values and what’s important to me, the easier it becomes to make decisions about what to do on a daily, weekly and monthly basis; the decisions about whether to take a project on or not, can be viewed through this guiding light.  Last year I did a course on Ikigai – the Japanese concept of your ‘reason for being.’ I love this concept as it gives you an opportunity to explore your passions, skills, what the world needs and what you’re paid for. From this, I designed my Ikigai which is ‘To energetically connect with kindness, creativity, integrity, respect and joy, inspiring myself and others to shine brighter’ As I navigate these new paths, I will hold connection at the heart of what I do and ensure that whatever I’m doing, I’m enabling someone to shine brighter. So, what’s your reason for being today?

I’ve written in the past about the benefits of embedding healthy habits. It’s something that I have found very helpful in my life. When I started a habit tracker 8 years ago, I would track absolutely everything on a weekly basis – how many times I swam, how many steps I walked, whether I had a meat-free day…the list goes on! I loved the ritual of it but over time, I noticed that I would happily tick off the habits that were well embedded to get that dopamine hit but brush over those that were a little harder. I then started to focus more on the habits which weren’t so easy with mixed success. Some of them worked after a bit of tweaking but others resolutely failed to be part of my life. I found myself wondering if they were really things I wanted to do or was this an obligation or feeling that I should be doing them. I recently read Meditation for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman and I was struck by his thoughts around information overload and the fact that we are never going to get everything done. It’s something I have struggled with. A lot of this is self-imposed, but there never seems to be enough time to get it all done. And while we can always blame a lack of ritual for inaction, the truth may be that some things are not in line with how we want to live our life. Perhaps we can let go of a few things which we feel we should do and focus more time on how we can live life more meaningfully. Whilst reading this book, I was reminded of one of my early mentors in the events industry who’s mantra was JFDI (think Nike with an extra word!!) We spend a long time overthinking things or waiting for the ‘right’ moment to do something and that time may never come. Sometimes we just need to take action. Having read the book, I have become less of a slave to my To do list. It has been liberating and actually the things that mean a lot to me do happen. I had been waiting for ages for a Thursday or Friday night to meet a friend and ended up emailing and saying could she meet on a random afternoon and she could! So much wasted energy waiting for the right moment. I heard Matt Haig say “get a routine baggy enough to live in” and I love this. Routines and habits can be helpful, but we also need to flex, improvise and just do stuff when it crosses our mind. Ironically one of my habits of being early is exactly to allow for random chats on the way. Not everything needs a ritual - sometimes we need to seize the moment and take action and knowing what makes you come alive makes it easier to make those choices. Do more of the meaningful stuff that will allow you to shine.

Last Tuesday, I took on my biggest swim to date, swimming from the Principality of Sealand to Felixstowe. I wanted to mark turning 50 with a positive challenge, that would allow me to grow. Why this swim? I have been intrigued by the Principality of Sealand - a micronation on HM Fort Roughs, off the coast of Suffolk. I wanted to challenge myself to do a solo endeavour, take on my single longest distance swim and to train to be able to do it without a wetsuit. It was advertised as 7 miles but ended up being about 9 miles! I signed up in December 2024, giving myself an 8-month training period. And what have I learnt? For something like sport, which I find intimidating, having a long lead time was good for me. I got comfortable with a Personal Trainer, I pushed myself to attend SwimDoctor sessions (still not always loving them), I went on a long-distance swimming week to build confidence and found a group to train with in Dover. Having the time to get into a new scary routine was helpful. It also meant that I had the time to flex training around busy and less busy work periods. I am more resilient than I give myself credit for. In areas of my life where I feel more confident, I recognise my strengths, but sport has felt like a big weakness at school and through my 20s. It has taken me a long time to celebrate what I bring to the swimming. I have learnt that I am quite happy in cold water and that when I set myself a swimming goal, I push myself to do it, despite the fear and discomfort. In fact, I think it’s because of the fear and discomfort, that I am driven to push through! I also know that I enjoy long distance more than trying to sprint so I shouldn’t worry as people whizz past me in a class. My swim was postponed twice and those postponements taught me not to wish away a key milestone. So often we want to tick something off and move on to the next thing, but this was too special to wish it away. I was so nervous the day before my original swim date that I think I got some of the nerves out of my system! By the time my date was finally confirmed, I was more excited than nervous and that felt magical! I thought about coping mechanisms for when things might get tough. I chose a butterfly swimming costume because one mantra that has helped me through training is ‘Let your butterflies fly in formation.’ I channel my nerves to spur me on to do more and accept them as a sign that I care. I learnt to accept what was thrown my way. After 14.5km I was disappointed to learn that I was being swept out and that I would need to get on the boat to be dropped further up the coast to finish the swim (a result of hanging out with too many channel swimmers where this would not be allowed!!) However, I soon made peace with this – there were no rules on this swim to say that this couldn’t happen, and there was so much positivity to celebrate rather than focussing on this. My community has never felt stronger – during the last 8 months, I been supported by swimmers in London, Croatia, Dover and Felixstowe. Friends, family and colleagues have cheered me on endlessly. And the outpouring of love and support (as well as the financial support to charities I am swam for) on the day was truly incredible and overwhelming. It has reminded me that I don’t have to do things on my own. I can share my hopes and fears and the right people will support this. I learnt to enjoy the journey – during my swim, I looked up at the looming Sealand platform, I admired container ships whizzing past, I smiled and joked with my crew, I thought about my Mum, I tried to improve my stroke, and I had a fabulous time. This was a huge difference from previous swims where I have felt amazing afterwards but found the actual swim very challenging and stressful. When things feel hard, we want them to be over, so it was refreshing to lean into it and enjoy every minute of it. I didn’t even realise when I wasn’t moving due to the currents!  “Despite choppy waters, I found my way and my stride, and I loved it!” This was me describing a practice swim to my coaching supervisor and she replied saying she thought it was a great metaphor for life! This swim has taught me to be kinder to myself, to believe in myself, to push myself to do things I never thought would be possible, to find the joy in the journey and to shine brighter. It’s not a bad way to start my 50s and I’m looking forward to whatever comes next.