Have you seen the film He’s Just Not That Into You? It focusses on how we can spend a great deal of time interpreting excuses, mixed signals and inconsistent behaviour as evidence of hidden affection, when sometimes the explanation is that the other person is simply not interested. Whilst the film focusses on romantic relationships, I feel it can shape how we approach friendships, professional relationships and other connections too. As someone who prides themselves on nurturing relationships and seeing the best in people, I have often thought that if I am willing to put in the effort, the other person will eventually do the same. If their behaviour is inconsistent, I might explain it away with them being busy or having other things on their mind. It hasn’t always crossed my mind that perhaps the connection is not right for them (or me). I try to live by my values and whilst bringing this to my relationships is a good quality, I have learnt that it takes two to tango. There needs to be a mutual level of interest, responsiveness and commitment and if this is not there, letting go can be done in a respectful way that is still true to my values. I’ve struggled with the balance of putting in the effort versus letting go. I don’t want to lose my positive outlook on the world, but the challenge comes when that optimism prevents us from seeing what is really happening. There is a difference between giving someone the benefit of the doubt and repeatedly disregarding a pattern of behaviour. One missed message or cancelled meeting may mean very little but ongoing inconsistency or a lack of reciprocal effort may be communicating something important. We can acknowledge those signals without turning them into a judgment about our own worth. Someone’s lack of interest does not necessarily mean that we are uninteresting or unworthy. It might just mean that the connection is not right for them—or that they are not able to invest in it. I know I’ve been guilty of taking these things personally but over the years I’ve become more philosophical about it. I can enjoy interacting with a stranger without trying to turn it into a lifelong friendship. When someone is not putting in the effort, I have a choice. I can continue making excuses for them, I can ask directly whether something has changed or I can decide that I no longer want to pursue the connection. It might feel awkward to ask for clarity but if it’s an important connection, an honest conversation could be just what is needed. Of course, people go through difficult periods. Circumstances change, and there will be times when one person temporarily has less capacity than the other. Letting go does not mean abandoning people at the first sign of difficulty. It means paying attention to patterns, communicating honestly and recognising when the relationship no longer has enough mutuality to continue in a healthy way. When considering connections, we can ask: Is this connection reciprocal? Am I responding to the person’s actual behaviour or to the potential I see in them? Have I communicated what I need clearly? Am I continuing because the relationship is nourishing, or because I am hoping it will eventually become so? What advice would I give a friend in the same situation? Walking away from a connection that is consistently one-sided can be an act of self-respect. It creates space for relationships in which interest, care and effort are shared rather than negotiated. Seeing the possibility of a rewarding friendship is not enough; a connection cannot be built on one person’s vision of what it could become. It has to be based on what both people are prepared to contribute now.  So, if you find yourself doing all the nurturing, perhaps it is time to accept what the behaviour is telling you. Not with resentment or self-blame, but with the understanding that your energy is precious—and better directed towards connections where it is genuinely reciprocated.

July has felt like a month of reset for me. In the past few weeks, I’ve done two big swims: a solo 9-mile swim in Dover and a 6-person relay swim to France. On paper, the Dover swim was the harder one. But what surprised me most was how much more stressful I find team events. They seem to stir up an older version of me: the girl back at school, waiting to be chosen, afraid of being the weak link, terrified of letting people down. And in those moments, that old voice can become so loud that I lose sight of who I am now. I’ve also been getting clearer about how I speak about myself and my life. I am learning to talk openly about all the parts of me, including the ones that don’t earn me money but bring me joy, meaning, and a deeper sense of who I am. For a long time, I felt I should lead with the more polished, high-profile, income-generating parts of myself. But I’m beginning to understand that the quieter, less visible parts matter just as much, if not more. I’ve had my garden redone this month too, and something about the planting of new seeds (admittedly not by me!!) felt symbolic. A quiet reminder that this is a season of sowing, of waiting, of not quite knowing what will grow, and trusting that some things may surprise and delight me in time. As I slow down and reset, I can feel myself becoming aware of where I am a little out of kilter. In swimming, I seem to have found a rhythm, especially when I have a goal to train for. But elsewhere, I’ve drifted from the structure of habit tracking into something looser, more open, more serendipitous. There is freedom in that, but also a kind of drifting. And the list of all the things I want to be, do, and hold can feel heavy: swim, volunteer, work, see friends, read, learn, …the list keeps going! So what am I carrying forward from this reset? Two ideas have stayed with me. The first is common humanity — the reminder that we are not alone in what we feel, and that others are often walking something similar. Maureen Evans talked about this in a recent workshop referencing the work of Dr. Kristin Neff. This has been especially helpful in swimming, where I so often assume I am the slowest, the least capable, the one who will hold everyone back. But the more I speak those fears aloud, the more I see how universal they are. It’s also a reminder that I don’t have to be a lone wolf. I am a connector, but when I’m struggling or scared, I can retreat into myself. What I know now is that these things are better shared. The second is the quiet relief of not needing everything to be resolved. Oliver Burkeman wrote about living without the hope of resolution, something in that is strangely freeing. It has softened my relationship with the endless list in my head and helped me ask a gentler question: what actually matters today? More than anything, I am remembering that connection to myself is the foundation of a more intentional life. When I pause long enough to breathe, to listen, to notice where I can be fully present and of real value, life feels fuller, more aligned and more me.  Whilst the habit trackers of my past may be too rigid for the person I am today, I don’t think I need less intention — just a different kind. One that is softer, wiser, and more spacious. One that asks me to be more conscious with my time and energy, more willing to ask for support, and less afraid to celebrate myself. To speak a little louder. To shine a little brighter. To trust that I, too, am part of what is blooming.

I was reflecting the other day on the fact that I’ve connected a number of people who have gone on to work together, find new opportunities, or become firm friends. This brings me such joy! It’s especially rewarding when I can see from the outset that two people are a good fit, and even more so when I later hear the success stories. It made me think about my own connections, and whether I am nourishing my work relationships enough. Somehow, it feels easier to do that for other people than for myself. But am I doing enough to create space for my own growth, too? I recently learned that one of my projects is no longer happening. With that comes uncertainty, of course, but also the opportunity to step into something new. As I look to build work connections, I keep thinking about the old adage that new business is a numbers game. That has never quite stacked up for me. Perhaps that’s true if you’re selling a straightforward product. But what people are really buying from me is the strength of our connection, the trust and respect, and the possibility that I might have a positive impact on them and their business. For me, that comes through nurturing relationships rather than simply casting the net widely. I’m reminded of a rule I used to follow before lockdown: I aimed to connect with three people a week, sometimes by email, often in person. It was a fun and disciplined practice, and it made me more intentional about deepening relationships rather than just collecting contacts. Coming out of lockdown, I found myself immersed in a couple of big projects. The world had changed, in-person time was reduced, and I continued to fight with the tension between following rules and leaving things up to the universe. But what I’ve realised this week is that I am much clearer on my values, and on where I genuinely add value. Because of that, I know I would benefit from making a more conscious effort to build new work connections because I know where I should put my energy. What’s interesting is where those connections come from. Whilst I’m talking about paid work, I find that having a narrow lens on where work connections come from is very limiting. Often it’s better for me to seek out people who see me fully and understand what I can offer and that might be through friends, pro bono work as well as the more traditional work routes. And from there, new opportunities and introductions often grow naturally. I know I need to connect every day to feel fully alive. That can take many forms: a random chat with a stranger, a swim, volunteering, time with family and friends, or doing work that allows me to inspire others and make a positive difference. So on this quest to deepen my work connections, I realise it is not about a frantic flurry of emails. It is about pausing, slowing down, tuning into myself, and finding the connections that allow me to shine brightly and have the greatest impact.  I will be making a point of connecting with someone every week, but it is the depth of the connection, not the number of connections, that will allow me to flourish. So who might you connect with today?

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.