Sharing and taking up space in the world – how do we move past a scarcity mindset?

There are 8.3 billion people in the world, and several perspectives on whether this rock is big enough for all of us. If we zoom out, we may have to reckon with a correlation between population growth and the destruction of our home planet, though that might tell us at least as much about a capitalist approach to extracting, creating or sharing resources as it does about an inherent relationship between people and planet. Closer to home, we’re living through a turbulent political time where there is widespread encouragement to view the ways in which we share space and resources with fellow humans through a lens of scarcity and fear. Far-right narratives encourage fear and exclusion of those positioned as ‘other’, prompting many to shrink themselves for the benefit of a wealthy minority intent on claiming more space. I’m interested in exploring the ways that we share and take up our space in the world, and how we might begin to protect against a scarcity mindset in relation to this. Join me on a meander through considerations of sharing space and migration, gender roles, wealth and status, and how social change can begin with looking at things from different angles.

‘There’s not enough for everyone’ is a political choice, not a material reality

There are enough resources globally to meet everyone’s needs. The real issue is distribution - a fact that’s widely accepted but rarely sparks outrage or calls for change. In a predictable ‘tale as old as time’, attention has been diverted away from the few who have amassed enough wealth to eradicate global poverty, and pointed squarely at those who are already marginalised and navigating extreme danger in hopes of eventually reaching safety. The anger and fear being directed at asylum seekers and refugees may not be new, but the context in which it currently exists is. What’s new is the amount of money being thrown at anti-immigration campaigns from domestic and international sources, the technology available to support the rapid spread of disinformation, and the implosion of clearly defined political positioning (see for example, the Labour Party in the UK rushing to make policies that were further to the right on immigration than their Conservative predecessors). Counter-messaging may need to up its game in order to be heard above the well funded and emotive cacophony of hate.

At the risk of entering into a political diatribe about the policing of borders, I feel it’s probably worth addressing the question of how we know when a country is ‘full’, and what decisions are made on the basis of this. There tends to be a dearth of factual information about levels of migration into and out of a country, birth rates, ageing populations, and investment in infrastructure when arguments are being made for further restricting immigration. The intention is to engage people on an emotional level, and it works because of a sense of there not being enough to go around. That seems like an obvious assumption to make when people are choosing between heating and eating, struggling to find work and living in poor housing conditions. When people express fears of overcrowding, it’s almost always an expression of a sense of scarcity regarding public services, job and housing. There may be another conversation to be had about the uneven pressure on services and economies, with more urban areas often experiencing more poverty and issues with infrastructure, alongside a bid to protect what remains of a country’s green spaces from the impact of high human population. There are also inconsistencies around which communities and areas are invested in or neglected. But, ultimately, this issue boils down to economics and political decision making about what is invested in and what is cut.

The UK’s housing crisis persists, even as nearly a million homes in England stand empty or serve as second residences. A ‘lack of social housing stock’ is an expression of political will, not a material reality – social housing stock will exist if the government of the day invests in it. While there may be ‘no magic money tree’, there is an abundance of funding available for things that may be less popular with the voting public, yet more attractive to key political allies (the most obvious and controversial being contributions to wars and illegal occupations elsewhere in the world).

We’re served a sense of inevitability about this system, which likely makes us feel powerless. The people making political and economic choices are too powerful to be stopped – the mega-rich can get away with anything if they throw enough money at the problem. So, where does that leave us? Perhaps in search of someone else to take the fight to – someone we can win against. This is how despots have used scapegoating to redirect anger towards a vulnerable minority throughout history, and apparently, it still works.

If we feel confident that it’s possible to fairly distribute resources and access to public services (which are disproportionately staffed by ‘immigrants’) among all those who need them, we have no reason to fear losing what we have to anyone newly arrived. What reframing would it take to believe, and behave as if, there is actually enough space and resource for all of us? This is a conversation I’d like to hear in political spaces.

Taking up your space – how we embody or resist our assigned roles

I’ll be honest – this piece began in my head as a rant about ‘manspreaders’, and later morphed into something a little loftier about how humans negotiate sharing space in the world. London commutes in recent years have seen me choosing passive aggressive sighing over potential confrontation (or having to touch the offending manspreader). For the uninitiated, the term ‘manspreading’ refers to men taking up more than their allocated amount of space in public by sitting with legs spread wide in what seems reasonably interpreted as a show of casual dominance. It’s a minor issue on the face of it, but I’m interested in the ways in which we embody the roles we’ve been given in life via the accident of birth, and the interplay between how much space we feel entitled to take up and social hierarchy. This is not a new concept - feminist and anti-racist discourse has had much to offer about the idea of shrinking ourselves to avoid appearing threatening to those who hold a kind of social power that, on some level, they know is fragile. That fragility can be dangerous, and so those of us in female, Black, Brown, queer, trans, disabled and other marginalised bodies often learn – consciously or unconsciously – to make those bodies as small and convenient as possible when faced with potentially dangerous situations. And of course, there has been a tennis match of backlash in response to this – one notable example being the game of ‘patriarchy chicken’ that some women have documented as a way to test how often they would collide with men while walking in public if they didn’t give way to them (spoiler – the answer is ‘very often’).

I’m concerned and curious about the ways in which social divisions and a return to restrictive ideas about gender might calcify some of these embodied expressions of role and power, and the potential for violence as a response to non-conforming self-expression and claiming of space. This policing of norms, bodies and entitlement to space in the world comes straight from the fascist playbook. And while I don’t want to advocate for anyone to put themselves at risk of harm, I feel that we must continue to work on taking up our space in the world, letting others take theirs, expressing ourselves authentically, and pushing back on archaic roles and power dynamics.

Lawns, legroom and lobbies - social hierarchy in measurable terms

Literal space in the world, in the form of land, has been available to acquire through purchase or invasion throughout most of human history. This is a concept that might feel inevitable, in spite of its absurdity when we zoom out from it. We exchange our labour for currency, a human construct that (in contemporary times) fluctuates in value according to the whims and anxieties of professional gamblers. We hope that this exchange of labour and currency will allow us to say that a slice of the planet we live on belongs to us to do with as we please (local planning regulations permitting). The more value our labour is deemed to be worth by mysterious market forces and the social structures that influence them, the more space we are permitted to occupy. The value assigned to specific forms of labour doesn’t necessarily bear any relation to its social or environmental impact – what’s valued most is potential for further economic growth. So, taking up a lot of space in the world may be considered to be a reward for contributing to companies’ profits and the overall profits made on of a larger patch of land.

In contemporary society, buying a space to call home is increasingly inaccessible. For many of us, the aim is to take up the space that we need in order to live a comfortable and peaceful life. But the number of square feet we can call our ‘own’, and other forms of entitlement to space have also been status symbols throughout history. Take, for example, the humble suburban lawn. This patch of trimmed grass isn’t traditionally designed to support biodiversity, to grow food, or even necessarily to be occupied by its owners. It’s often an extension of the home that is maintained and observed, but doesn’t offer much functionality. Lawns originated as status symbols among the upper classes and, even today, modest lawns serve as displays of wealth—often in climates ill-suited for them. The point of this example is not to berate anyone who meticulously maintains a small patch of grass, but to step back from social norms and markers of status and look at them with curiosity. Disentangling ourselves from the idea of inevitability in the ways we organise our lives (both in private and in community) offers an opportunity to start imagining how things could be different, and what we might want that to look like.

Another example of this ‘space as status symbol’ phenomenon is the hotel or corporate office lobby. These are spaces whose practical function doesn’t necessarily tally with their square footage or their grandeur. They exist to let people know immediately that they are entering a prestigious, important and/or expensive space. The impact of this may be a sense of importance, power and belonging, or a feeling of exclusion (if not, in some cases, a more literal experience of exclusion). We can communicate a lot about who is or isn’t welcome in a space, and how we would like them to feel, through the ways in which we present and organise that space. This is not news to designers, architects, or city planners, but may be a consideration to bear in mind for those of us creating spaces that we wish to be welcoming and inclusive, often on a far more modest budget than a luxury hotel owner.

And now, to air travel… Each time I’ve flown over the last few years, I’ve found myself expressing the same frustration. I’m a pretty small person, but I’m convinced that the amount of space available to me on economy flights is reducing a little with every trip (no, it’s not me expanding). The shift of functional services and relative comfort from standard to premium is a common feature of life in the 2020s. This reminds me of ‘enshittification’ - a corporate tactic of initially offering quality before degrading it and raising prices, while pushing competitors out of the market. A version of this applies to leg room and seat space on flights. I remember complaining about having splashed out for ‘economy plus’ on a flight and apparently being put in a cramped economy seat. When the actual economy seats in the back half of the plane were pointed out, I was reluctantly glad not to be a six foot person who’d spent upwards of £1000 to be crammed into a child sized seat for eight hours. This was an airline I’d flown with a few years previously, and the difference was jarring. What’s interesting about this is the sense of scarcity and acceptance of declining standards around access to space and comfort. In a struggling economy, companies will take whatever action they deem necessary in order to stay afloat, including packing people into spaces like sardines. I’m curious to see how far we will go in accepting the widening division between those who can afford comfort, space and functional services (both commercial and public), and those who have their access to experiences cut off or limited by miserable conditions, long waits and increasing inconvenience. Since my expertise lies in the social, rather than the economic field, it’s difficult to imagine an effective solution for this. But I’m interested in what progressive and creative experts have to say on the matter, and I’m aiming to stay curious about what’s possible, rather than let my lack of knowledge lead me back to a sense of powerlessness and inevitability.

Abundance mindset – what looks different through this lens?

With all of these weighty social issues in mind, it might feel overwhelming to tackle questions of what’s possible as an alternative to a competitive, fear based approach to sharing the world with other humans. We’re not going to revolutionise embedded systems and perspectives easily, quickly or singlehandedly. But if we zoom all the way back in to our own thought processes (and how we communicate them to others), there is a starting point that could be both achievable and encouraging.

I’m using the concepts of ‘scarcity mindset’ and ‘abundance mindset’ here as a way to frame different ways of looking at the world. But I don’t use them uncritically – these are ideas that might lend themselves to over-simplification and stigmatising people for their experiences of structural inequality, so it’s important that they’re offered and considered with nuance and an acknowledgement of the two way relationship between how we think and the systems and cultures we are living in.

A scarcity mindset tells us that there is not enough to go around – this may be about physical space, housing, food, public services, jobs, money etc., but also may be applied to more relational concepts like power, love, being seen and heard, time and attention. If our baseline is a sense of scarcity, an obvious survival response may be to fiercely guard our resources, shut others out and compete for more. We might need to tell ourselves or be told various stories in order to position this as ‘fair’ and maintain our sense of ourselves as ‘good people’. Even though we’ve evolved to survive through cooperation, the amygdala-driven instinct to narrow our focus for our own survival can be powerful, hence populists successfully connecting with this response in disillusioned people, no matter how many times we say ‘never again’.

Conversely, an abundance mindset is similar to a growth mindset, in that it assumes that there is enough to go around and that we have the capacity to access the resources we need. It’s a focus on the possible, which tends to encourage us towards action because it positions us as powerful. It’s easy to see why economic crises, oppression and deteriorating living conditions make it harder to cultivate an abundance mindset – in these situations, evidence, experience and exhaustion tell us that we’re not powerful, and that resources are scarce and inaccessible. Spending the time and energy on reflecting and cultivating an abundance mindset might feel like a luxury when we’re in survival mode. But perhaps it’s a good, preventative practice to get into before we hit survival focused tunnel vision. Change starting with a belief in what’s possible is a cliché, but also an important aspect of human psychology. One of my favourite coaching questions is ‘what would you do if you did believe [insert relevant growth focused belief]?’ Imagining and outlining the steps towards a goal doesn’t guarantee success, but it’s a good starting point from which to look for ways around barriers, keep motivation alive and catalyse change. I’m not advocating for some bootstrap capitalist approach (no doubt, that’s obvious from the mini manifesto above) – it’s not about the power of the individual to improve things for themselves. It’s about taking the time, space and energy to reimagine what sharing the world with others could look like, even when time, space and energy feel scarce. And sharing ideas and imaginings with others may be another step towards changing things for the better – as interdependent creatures, we have so much capacity to make apparently impossible things happen when we tackle them together.

Reclaiming wellbeing – from ‘nice to haves’ and magic wands to essential tools for surviving and thriving

In recent years, the concept of wellbeing has become ubiquitous and yet undervalued. For professionals and leaders in socially conscious organisations, the stakes are especially high. As financial pressures mount and crises become more frequent, funders and decision makers are increasingly cutting wellbeing related programmes, viewing them as expendable luxuries rather than essential investments. This trend is potentially damaging to organisations and communities, especially at a time when living and working conditions, and over-exposure to distressing information, are adversely affecting so many of us.

The false economy of cutting wellbeing

When budgets tighten, wellbeing initiatives are often the first to go. The rationale is straightforward enough - in times of crisis, only the “essentials” survive. But what if we’ve misunderstood what is truly essential? Workforce wellbeing is not a peripheral concern – done well, it is foundational and preventative. Contributing to positive wellbeing is the bedrock upon which sustainable, effective, and compassionate organisations are built.

Neglecting or cutting corners with wellbeing is a false economy. The costs of burnout, absenteeism, turnover, and diminished performance far outweigh the investment required to support staff meaningfully. In sectors where professionals routinely support people through distressing or traumatic experiences (often while being underpaid and overworked), the risks of neglect are even greater. In this case, wellbeing isn’t a “nice to have” – it’s a matter of survival. I’ve seen too many examples of organisations in crisis because of a lack of effective support for their teams. This often comes as a shock when fed back by disillusioned staff at exit interviews, because the people at the top are working hard to protect and support their workforce, but they may have failed to join the dots between working conditions, structural issues in the organisation, meaningful opportunities for people to be heard, and workplace wellbeing.

Beyond sticking plasters: the limits of superficial solutions

Too often, wellbeing programmes are reduced to a handful of token gestures: morning meditation sessions, discounted gym memberships, or access to mindfulness apps. While these can be helpful, they are not solutions to complex, systemic issues. Our wellbeing cannot be separated from our living and working conditions, and the impact of events in the wider world. What each of us needs to thrive will be different, and meaningful support requires careful thought, genuine investment, and a willingness to address root causes. It’s understandable that capacity for all of this may be limited in times of crisis, but it may be a case of allocating time and resources now to prevent disaster further down the line.

A “sticking plaster” approach risks trivialising wellbeing, offering temporary relief without addressing underlying problems. It’s not enough to encourage self-care in isolation; we must also create environments where people are safe, valued, and empowered. There is a shift in many sectors and communities from a focus on self-care to self and collective care. This, too, needs to be backed up with investment and resources.

Reclaiming the language of wellbeing

Part of the challenge lies in the language we use. “Wellbeing” has become associated with the sprawling, unregulated “wellness” industry—heavily filtered influencer videos, expensive retreats, and miracle solutions promised by social media ads. For many, the term now evokes images of hyper-individualist self-improvement, rather than a more nuanced, systemic approach.

Perhaps it’s time to reclaim the concept of wellbeing, or even to find new language that better reflects its true meaning. Wellbeing should not be about chasing perfection or subscribing to the latest trend. It should be about placing humans in all their complex, imperfect glory at the centre of our organisations, communities, and societies. It should evoke a vision of shared effort, learning, and mutual support - tools that are essential for surviving and thriving, not “fluffy” extras.

Wellbeing as a community effort

A meaningful approach to wellbeing recognises that no single solution fits all. There is room in the world for whatever form of support works for each of us - no one approach is inherently better than another. But when late-stage capitalism co-opts the concept of health and wellbeing, we are bombarded with an overwhelming array of simple, siloed solutions to complex, structural problems. This might lead some of us to feel dismissive of the whole field, undermining genuine efforts to support people.

Instead, we need to foster a culture of shared responsibility for wellbeing, which means investing in environments where people can learn from one another, share tools and strategies, and build resilience together. This might involve a slow burn and a non-linear process, which is perhaps a less exciting prospect for those who want to see the results of their investment as soon and as clearly as possible. But the likelihood of this leading to real, sustainable change seems to me to be worth it.

The risks of deprioritising wellbeing

When those holding the purse strings deprioritise wellbeing, the consequences can be far-reaching. Staff morale declines, turnover increases, and the quality of support offered to those in need suffers. In the long term, organisations risk losing their most dedicated and compassionate people—those who are drawn to socially conscious work precisely because they care deeply.

Moreover, the ripple effects extend beyond the workforce. When professionals are supported to thrive, they are better equipped to help others do the same. In sectors where the work is emotionally demanding, this is essential.

Investing in meaningful wellbeing

Meaningful investment in wellbeing starts with listening. Leaders actively listening to their teams to understand their needs, challenges, and aspirations. A commitment to addressing structural issues such as workload, pay, job security, and organisational culture, rather than relying solely on individual interventions.

It also means recognising the diversity of needs within any workforce. Some may benefit from flexible working arrangements, others from peer support networks, and others from opportunities for professional development. The key is to offer a range of options, grounded in empathy and respect. The best approaches to this I’ve seen and experienced involved trusting individuals to know what will work best for them and to find ways to accommodate them where possible (or support them to work out what will help if they’re not sure).

A call to action

For decision makers with responsibility for workplace and community wellbeing, there is a strong, evidence based case to be made: effective wellbeing support is not a luxury, a magic wand, or a a sticking plaster. It is a set of essential tools for surviving and thriving, both individually and collectively. By reclaiming the concept from the clutches of the wellness industry and investing in meaningful, systemic support, we can build organisations that are resilient, compassionate, and successful.

The benefits of doing so are clear, and so are the risks of failing to act. In times of crisis and scarcity, it is more important than ever to prioritise the wellbeing of those who do the vital work of supporting others.

‘Nothing about us without us’ – addressing tokenism, conflict and exploitative practice in work with experts by experience

Involving the people closest to a social issue in the design, delivery, evaluation and investigation of services that address the issue is a well-established and important concept. Across different social services, government initiatives, research bodies and charities, we hear an array of terms such as ‘experts by experience’, ‘co-production’ and ‘lived experience practitioners’ to describe and highlight the importance of collaborating with service users or people affected by a specific challenge. And yet, the same pitfalls I’ve seen in the field of participatory work over the last twenty years keep tripping us up in both new and familiar ways. That’s not to say we haven’t made progress – I’ve seen some incredible examples of meaningful co-production. But there are sticky challenges to address in the planning and delivery of participatory services, and it feels important to talk about and address them.

The recent news story about conflict within the survivors involved in the Rotherham grooming gangs investigation was one of the things that got me thinking about this (the other is being in the process of designing new services for young adults, but more on that later). One of the elements that seems to have led to chaos and conflict in this investigation is a lack of clarity around scope, boundaries and purpose. Concerns about transparency were shared as part of the reasoning behind the resignation of two panel members last month. This raises the issue of clear communication, expectation setting and support at the outset of a piece of work (as well as throughout). There are potentially significant consequences, both positive and negative, for people taking part in processes like this, and it’s essential that they know what they are getting involved with, what is expected of them and what the project hopes or may be able to achieve.

Disagreements between survivors on the panel also highlight the fact that people with lived experience each bring their own views, needs and challenges to a process of addressing the issues they have faced, and that it’s likely that they will have a significant emotional investment in seeing them addressed in a specific way. Group decision making processes in this context are reasonably likely to yield disagreements, and this may look and feel different for people whose lives are being examined and affected by the subject at hand than for the professionals who will likely do their best to ‘unplug’ from it all at the end of the working day. Particularly when the service, research project or investigation involves discussions of traumatic and distressing experiences, every aspect of the planning process needs to be considered with harm minimisation and ethical practice in mind. It seems so obvious to say that working with survivors or experts by experience needs to be handled with a careful, compassionate and trauma informed approach. And yet, there are clearly still barriers to this approach being consistently carried out. Let’s consider some of the challenges, and how we might begin to address them.

‘Performers to the stage’

I’m working with young adults to develop some new services that seek to address gaps in their support provision. At one of the projects I’m involved with, I recently heard someone referring to being asked to ‘put on the show’, in reference to the request to share personal stories, talk about the impact of the support they’re receiving, or offer helpful insights to decision makers. Many of the people who have both lived experience and the time, motivation and confidence to do so are asked to share their stories and ideas over and over again. We’ll come back to the potential psychological impact of this, but for now, there’s something to consider about what it means to push the most confident people to the front in participatory processes. There will always be barriers to access to overcome, especially when working with populations who face complex challenges and disadvantages. Often, the people we most need to hear from are those who are most excluded from participation for many reasons, including some that are outside of our sphere of influence. But it’s important to consider ways to address barriers where possible, and to support those with less confidence and fewer resources to be heard.

What might help?

-Pay/reimburse people for their participation

-Provide tailored support and training to help experts by experience feel ready to take part in project planning, public speaking etc.

-Ensure access needs are responded to and spaces are as accessible as possible (this includes asking people to say what they need in order to participate)

-Structure group discussions, meetings etc. in ways that offer everyone a chance to share their views (using a range of methods to capture opinions, ideas and stories)

-Consider how you will assess a participant’s readiness for a specific role and how you will safeguard them

The Trauma Industrial Complex

This is a reference to the recent book of the same name by Darren McGarvey. He explores the ways in which the proliferation of traumatic stories shared in popular culture is driven by a cynical industry capitalising on distress regardless of the consequences, and may play a role in preventing people from recovering from traumatic experiences. There’s a lot of nuance to be explored in this discussion (I recommend reading the book for a deep dive into it), but the key question in this context is about balancing the potential harms and benefits if we are asking people to discuss traumatic experiences. In order to prevent exploitation or retraumatising, there needs to be sufficient support in place, alongside high levels of control and choice for those with lived experience.

What might help?

-Consider potential harms and how to reduce them in the planning and risk assessment process

-Offer access or signposting to appropriate support services

-Ensure informed consent by offering clear, comprehensive and transparent information ahead of sign up

-Build in choice points and explicit permission to decide how much to share, withdraw consent to take part, take breaks, say no etc.

The funding game – tokenism and competing for resources

Co-produced work can sometimes look great on paper but lack the necessary support structures to be successful and ethical. When charities, social enterprises and public sector bodies are competing for limited resources by demonstrating an approach aligned with funders’ priorities, we risk unintentional tokenism. There is an element of ‘saying the magic words’ in order to be in the running for any given funding pot, with trends and priority areas coming around in cycles. Participatory work is almost always a useful addition to a bid for resources, though some decision makers are more strict than others in requiring evidence that this is a meaningful aspect of the work, rather than an additional box to tick in order to stay afloat.

Sometimes, service user involvement is a great idea, but needs more resourcing to support key people to be ready to step into, and feel clear about their roles, and to protect enough capacity for successful delivery. This is a potential vicious cycle in circumstances where a participatory approach is needed in order to access enough funding and resources to sustain the work, but the resources required to carry this out well are lacking.

What might help?

-Realistic budgeting and setting aside enough resources for meaningful participation work

-Working with funders to share challenges and feed back what’s realistic in terms of resources required

-Be honest about the level of participation that’s required/being carried out

Space to slow down and reflect

Over-stretched services might find that the first things to be sacrificed in survival mode are those that are considered to be add-ons and ‘nice to have’, rather than foundational. The danger here is what I would consider to be a misunderstanding of the importance of what might traditionally be considered ‘soft skills’, ‘wellbeing activities’ and the like. I know from experience that building in space and time for reflective practice can make – it allows us to learn from experience and mistakes, to check for signs of bias and tokenism, to prevent burnout and to carry out good safeguarding practice. This may not always feel like a priority when services are stretched to breaking point, but they are likely to be much more brittle without the support of well held reflective practice spaces.

What might help?

-Create or use a framework for reflective practice sessions

-Protect weekly or monthly time for reflective practice groups

-Offer/access relevant training and CPD that incorporates reflective space

Transparency and trust building

Open and transparent communication is a key aspect of building the trust necessary for good collaboration and transformative work. It may be the case that key decisions and information have yet to emerge, but keeping communication channels open at each stage can help to prevent confusion about what’s possible and what’s expected of everyone. I’ve recently encountered a situation where the nature of professional, peer support and participant roles in a project I joined were unclear, leading to confusion, disappointment, and long delays to project delivery. There were potential reputational damage issues to address as a result of the lack of clarity at the outset. This was preventable, and in this case, a result of decisions being made by people who lacked connection with the project and the context it operated in – this, in itself, offers an argument in favour of keeping decision making as close to those with lived and professional experience of an issue as possible.

What might help?

-Communicate clearly about the scope and boundaries of the project, and each person’s role within it

-Be transparent about the level of participation you need and are able to support

-Check in with participants throughout to elicit feedback, check understanding and address any concerns

I hope that this doesn’t serve to make co-production and participatory work seem too daunting and risky to take on – while there are many considerations and situations to handle carefully and respectfully, it’s very much worth the effort for many reasons. For starters, it feels presumptuous to design services and solutions for people affected by a specific issue without putting them at the centre. It’s also less likely to yield the best possible results. And I’ve also found that supporting the efforts of experts by experience to overcome huge and complex challenges has been some of the most rewarding and hopeful work I’ve been lucky enough to take part in.

‘You’ve got to fight for your right to party’ – balancing accessibility and momentum building in a time of social isolation

Recently, I travelled a few hundred miles to one of the three cities I consider to be a ‘home town’, in order to host a party marking a new chapter in my life. The tricky decision making process about how many people to invite, what venue to hire, what food to provide, what time of day to gather, and anything I could do to make showing up easier and more enjoyable got me thinking about how we get people together and make things happen in this peculiar moment in history. I’m starting from an assumption that it’s harder than it used to be to bring people together in person, whether in a social setting, on a group programme or for a community event. It's important to explore and challenge this assumption, though the struggle to assemble in the 2020s is a fairly established concept.

Reflecting on my own experiences of being a host, facilitator or participant, I’ve been wondering about how we can strike a balance between creating spaces that respect and accommodate people’s complex lives, depleted energy levels and access needs, and eliciting commitment and participation at a time when it seems like we need strong community more than ever. Of course, this may be a more crucial question when applied to building movements than in relation to party planning. But community and connection take many forms, and we are living in a particularly fractured time, with lasting impacts from Covid lockdowns, healthcare and economic crises, and safety concerns for many as we descend into scary political territory. So perhaps it’s worth considering how we get people together for whatever reason in this difficult context.

Let me offer a caveat. I don’t want to use this as a platform to complain about being inconvenienced or upset by people not showing up for things, nor as a way to question whether progress towards more accessible spaces and communities has ‘gone too far’ – in most situations, accessibility has not gone nearly far enough. I’m interested in our changing social contracts, the impacts of technologies on how we plan, communicate and socialise, what it might mean if we’re all too exhausted to get together, and how we address these challenges in a way that honours people’s autonomy, need for downtime, and variable or limited capacity to consistently take part in community life.

And so, to the challenges of planning parties, meetings, training sessions, workshops, community events and so on. The rule in 2025, I’m told, is that we should expect around 50-75% of an invite list to say yes, and around 50% of that group to show up on the day. This seems to be surprisingly accurate a lot of the time, though it’s not something we can rely on in the planning process - who wants to risk being the host who only provided for half of the people who RSVP’d ‘yes’, only to find that everyone actually shows up? In my experiences of both facilitating and attending events in the last few years, there is a marked difference from expectations pre-pandemic in terms of attrition rates. Last minute apologies often come in a flurry, especially if someone starts the process of responding publicly on a chat thread or group invite. It can seem as if a handful of people sharing their (entirely reasonable) stories of exhausting days, heavy workloads or babysitting issues gives anyone on the fence about attending an event the green light to cancel. I’d hate to live in a world where people felt pressured to attend a meeting, party or group session, no matter the emotional, physical or financial cost. And I also wonder how our ability to show up has been shaped by a world that’s hyper-individualised, and full of endless choice about what to buy, where to go and what to engage with (all filtered through algorithmic curation by billionaire owned tech platforms).

How might we be influenced by a culture offering so many options that we find ourselves exhausted and in decision paralysis? I remember considering this in my first few years of living in London, during and after Covid lockdowns. The experience of being newly resident in one of the world’s mega-cities was surreal at a time when I could only explore my immediate surroundings for an hour a day. Later, it was equally surreal and overwhelming to find that there were countless events, groups, places and experiences available to me at any given time. I eventually found activities and groups that I was able to integrate into my weekly routine, but otherwise dipped in and out of communities, political organising, and recurring activities fairly inconsistently. I suspect this may be a feature of life in a big city at a time when communication technology and good public transport links make it possible to find just about anything we’re interested in, and to unconsciously assume that all of these opportunities will still be there next time if we miss out today. It seems that being in large group spaces also became more energetically costly during recent years - our post-pandemic relationships to the risks and compromises of sharing physical space form part of the changing social landscape. There have been many times in the last few years when I’ve been faced with a choice between stretching myself to face a sweaty, crowded London commute to gather with people for something that would bring me a sense of purpose, connection, energy, catharsis or joy, and staying in my comfort zone at home, with the option of quietly recharging my batteries or doing something requiring minimal social effort. I’ve almost always felt better for choosing to stretch myself if I’m able to, and happy with my decision to have a recharge day if I genuinely need one. But there have been other times when I convinced myself to avoid something I’d been looking forward to because I was apprehensive about meeting new people, or didn’t want to travel, only to find myself later wishing I had. One example of this is an embodiment group that I’d hoped to be involved in developing with some peers. Life took me in an unexpected direction, and I stepped back for a while. When I found myself more available, I struggled to build a routine of attending consistently, but hugely valued the sessions. I was disappointed when the group inevitably ended due to a lack of participation, but had to acknowledge my part in that.

Conversely, I’ve found that I respond well to activities with built-in accountability when it comes to building routine and making commitments. I appreciate the clear expectations, and also the discretion and flexibility of attendance and cancellation policies offered by some groups I’m part of - they’re not designed to prevent people with inconsistent health or life challenges from being able to meaningfully participate, but they lay the groundwork for enough consistent participation to allow progress towards a goal, or a critical mass of participants. It can feel like an uncomfortable wielding of power or boundaries to implement something like this, especially at a time when we’re more conscious of each other’s needs and challenges. But if we’re able to self-advocate, negotiate and offer flexibility within these boundaries, perhaps it’s less necessary to avoid setting them. I wonder whether living in curated bubbles that cater to individual needs and desires via an array of goods, services and personalised settings has made our comfort zones so enveloping and enticing that we have diminishing levels of incentive to step outside of them into a world that may involve risk, inconvenience, over-stimulation, and also growth, connection, challenge and learning. At the risk of falling into a ’back in my day’ cliché, I can’t help thinking about the contrast between making and carrying out plans in a pre-smartphone era and doing so today. I’m not the first to notice the impact of being able to fire off a quick message half an hour before an event to offer an apology without having to look the recipient in the eye, and with the assumption that the message will be received in time because we expect each other to be tethered to our devices by default. I’m grateful for the obsolescence of the communication fails I occasionally experienced as a teenager (e.g., a friend and I waiting for each other at different branches of the same city centre coffee chain, resulting in some comedic pay-phone relay calls to each other’s parents). And, while I appreciate living in a more convenient world, I must admit to a pang of nostalgia for the expectation that a plan would go ahead because there was no easy way to change last minute without knowingly affecting whoever was waiting for us. Maybe this nostalgia signals a new phase of life for me, as a member of the last generation to spend our childhoods without 24/7 online connection and then enthusiastically adopt it in early adulthood. Regardless, I find it interesting to reflect on the ways in which technological and social changes are inextricably linked, and shape our social contracts.

When I’ve had friendships or professional helping relationships with people whose health makes it difficult for them to reliably show up, there has been a clear and direct message from many of them – ‘please keep inviting me’. One resident at a housing project where I offered wellbeing support said ‘I really appreciate you inviting me to sessions, even when I don’t respond. Please don’t give up on me’. That was a powerful reminder of the tenacity required to keep trying to build a shared space in the face of barriers and challenges. And yet, there are finite resources (including energy and tenacity), as well as minimum levels of participation required in order for most projects to work. I’ve been disappointed when courses I’ve enrolled in have been cancelled because there weren’t enough participants. But it happens - sometimes the timing is wrong, and sometimes, the challenges with getting bums on seats tell us something about the economic or political climate that it’s worth paying attention to. This is the main reason that I’m refocusing a significant proportion of my work from private client contracts to funded programmes that are more accessible to those who need them most. Some programmes I offered saw a disparity between interest and participation because people who needed the input weren’t able to make the investment at that time. It felt important to respond by considering how to meet people where they are.

This doesn’t neatly answer the question of how we might meet people where they are, if where they are is a place we can’t find a way to reach. And of course, there isn’t one right answer. Something I’m working on is not taking others’ non-participation personally. It’s true that a last minute drop in numbers for an event or programme might have an impact on resources, plans and dynamics, but the challenge is to keep perspective. It’s easier to learn about what has worked and what could be done differently next time from a place of curiosity than from feelings of rejection. Sometimes, meeting people where they are involves continuing to invite them to let them know that they are valued, even if they never show up. Often, clearly addressing access needs, preferences and anxieties experienced by people who are new to a space or group can improve participation. And in some contexts, agreements about accountability and commitment levels are necessary to ensure that enough people consistently show up to keep an activity or movement alive. I find myself returning to the same question in many of my posts - where is the balance of individual and collective responsibility here? There are many things that a collective, or those with responsibility for hosting events can do to meet as many participants’ needs as possible. And there are things we can do as individuals in order to contribute to a world where communities grow and thrive, and where in-person, embodied gatherings remain viable and accessible. I’m enormously grateful for the way that meeting virtually has opened up opportunities and connections to people regardless of location, health or mobility. I’m also someone who often needs time to recharge my social battery, an experience I share with many of my friends. So, I understand that we won’t solve society’s problems and improve our own wellbeing just by pushing ourselves to spend more time in groups. And yet, in this particular moment, where billionaires stand to benefit hugely from our isolation and exhaustion, it feels like an act of resistance and social change to find ways to step out of our curated comfort zones and into community.

The ‘authentic self’ - what is it, and does it help to try to find the elusive ‘real me’?

We live in a moment where the concept of ‘authenticity’ shows up just about everywhere. We might debate and denigrate the lack of real, raw and unfiltered versions of people showing up on social media platforms. We might see wall art and online posts (which may or may not be AI generated) encouraging us to just be ourselves. We might offer coaching and facilitation that, in part, is about supporting people to show up or communicate authentically – okay, that last one might only be applicable to a few of us, but it’s what led me to being curious about the concept of being our authentic selves and what that might mean. There’s potential for this thought thread to unravel to an existential level, so please consider this a disclaimer in case it leads you into vaguely cosmic territory.

I started engaging with a question around what our most authentic selves might be when I described a programme I was delivering to a wonderfully analytical friend. I used a phrase along the lines of ‘supporting people to show up as their authentic selves’, and we debated the meaning and usefulness of the term for a while. I felt sure that there was something meaningful and relatable in the idea of feeling safe and welcome enough in a shared space to be able to communicate openly and honestly, let go of excessive self-monitoring and masking, and feel valued for the unique combination of traits, skills, ideas and experiences we bring to the table. There’s something in this that, for me, is about being able to let go and just be. I’m both lucky enough to know what it feels like to experience this, and unlucky enough to have experienced dangerous environments where it was necessary to adapt, hide or try to proverbially puff myself up to seem intimidating in hopes of staying safe. So, on some level, it’s a question of safety and belonging – who are we when we don’t have to look over our shoulder, or squeeze our square peg self into a round hole in order to be accepted?

My friend agreed about the importance of developing spaces and communities where everyone can experience this feeling of letting go and being themselves. But digging into the concept of what ‘being yourself’ actually means, things got a little more complicated. We’re probably all aware of the ways that we adapt our language, speech patterns, tone, clothing, body language etc. to fit the culture and expectations of the different places and groups we find ourselves in. We might be aware of our brains’ use of specific neurons to subconsciously mirror others’ movements and expressions as a way to fast-track relationship building. That is to say, as humans, we’re interdependent animals who are profoundly influenced by each other. There’s a philosophical question here about whether one of the ways we present is the one that truly represents who we are, with others being adaptations that we’ve developed as a strategy for social cohesion. Is the ‘authentic’ self the one that shows up when nobody’s watching? This seems like an over-simplification - we are continuously changing as we learn from experience, adapt to environment and experience our bodies first growing and then ageing. And even if the unfiltered ‘self’ is the most authentic one, is there value to bringing that part to the front in any given situation? Like so many of the themes I’ve been reflecting on lately, this speaks to a dance between individualist and collectivist approaches – in other words, do the needs of the individual or the needs of the group take precedence here? I have spent many years supporting clients to advocate for themselves, speak up about their needs, be unapologetic about who they are, and (when safe to do so) share how they really feel. These are skills that I believe are essential for everyone, and doubly so for those whose voices and needs have been sidelined, dismissed or weaponised by people and systems driven by a need to keep a tight grip on power and resources. And yet, if we all focus primarily on ensuring our own needs are met and our own authentic responses are honoured in every situation, the balance of considering self and considering others is likely to be skewed. Sometimes, our most authentic response or way of showing up might be unhelpful – perhaps we need a little time to process and make sense of our feelings before sharing them. Or maybe something that would bring comfort, joy or a little more ease to our day is conflicting with someone else’s needs. This seems to suggest a dichotomy between self-interested authenticity and inauthenticity in the name of compromise. I don’t believe that it’s necessary to be less of ourselves in order to consider the needs of others, especially since many of the people I work with tend to have gone in the other direction and developed people pleasing tendencies as a strategy for maintaining belonging. What I am considering is the problem with an individualist construction of the ‘authentic self’ (you know, the one that all of those Instagram ads tell you that you can express more fully if you buy one more supplement). Going to the opposite end of the individual-collective scale, family, community, duty and tradition may be significantly more important than the needs, desires and idIosyncracies of any individual. In this context, the focus on interdependence is clear, but the potential pressure to suppress any aspects of self that don’t fit with cultural expectations can tip over into causing harm. This pressure to suppress aspects of ourselves is something I’m acutely aware of as a queer person. I’m tempted to wander down the rabbit hole of exploration about whether queer identity is a fundamental and fixed aspect of the ‘authentic self’, but perhaps the philosophy is less important than the ways that we make space for, celebrate and create safety for the different aspects of each other’s identities (especially when those identities and experience have been met with oppression). And we might extend this idea to the concept of the ‘authentic self’ in general. We might theorise that each human has an eternal, unchanging soul; that we are the products of a combination of environment and genetic inheritance; that there is no true ‘self’; or that our sense of reality and self is essentially a hallucination. It’s a fascinating and potentially destabilising thread to pull a little, and it’s quite possible that our beliefs and assumptions on this existential level have an influence on how we think and behave. But when it comes to allowing people to show up authentically, what seems more important is the intention and action required to create spaces that feel safe and welcoming enough for people to let their guard down and just be.

What might that look like in practice?

Some examples…

-Providing accessible spaces that offer accommodations and, where possible, pay attention to the sensory environment (can background noise be minimised, can lighting be adjusted, is there a quiet breakout space?)

-Getting into a practice of checking in and finding out how people really are (the boundaries and appropriate level of depth with this is context dependent)

-Developing a practice of encouraging compassionate and appropriate challenge

-Inclusive, diverse and non-tokenistic representations and celebrations of different identities in a space

-Challenging assumptions and thinking critically about how we police and restrict language, appearance/style, body language etc., especially in work contexts – consider who decides which dialects, clothing choices etc. are deemed the most professional

-Explicitly and equally valuing different forms of intelligence and skill sets

-Providing gender neutral spaces, not making assumptions about people’s gender or orientation

-Staying curious and developing awareness of assumptions about others’ experiences (e.g. asking questions that assume a particular family structure, experience of a cultural celebration or identity)

-Developing good negotiation and compromising skills to manage competing needs

-Valuing rapport building, while understanding that different people have different ways of making connections

In praise of discomfort (unlearning white politeness, masking and conflict avoidance)

I’ve spent a lot of time in the five years since being diagnosed with ADHD thinking about masking, and how I might consciously or unconsciously choose to modify my behaviour in order to be more socially acceptable. Lately, I’ve noticed a desire and a tendency to put less effort into this, though it feels risky and exposing to do so. At a certain point in the life of many neurodivergent people, especially those diagnosed later in life, the mask begins to slip, perhaps because we no longer have the capacity to spend energy on maintaining it, or because we choose to take it off. It’s interesting to look at how this is received in different contexts – the world is changing, and our understanding of different neurotypes is developing quickly, even though this feels like something that’s still in its infancy. In some situations, people are accepting of, and accustomed to unusual communication styles, movements, ways of thinking and requests for adjustments. In others, we might be judged more harshly (like the time someone on a training course told me that nobody will ever take me seriously if I continue to move my hands like that when I talk). Masking, or toning ourselves down in order to fit in or be ‘taken seriously’ is more about others’ comfort than the needs of the person wearing the mask. Sure, it might stem from a deep seated need to belong (or a less deep but equally crucial need to be employable). But holding back our need to manage our nervous systems and energy levels, admit that we’ve forgotten someone’s name, bow out of small talk, zone out or follow a mental tangent is largely about managing others’ comfort. We might try not to do something because we’ve learned that it’s received as impolite or thoughtless – a classic example of this being the tendency to relate to others by sharing our own equivalent story when someone shares an experience. It might be read as one-upmanship or self-centredness, rather than a genuine attempt to connect. This is an example of what has been referred to in recent years as the ‘double empathy problem’. Essentially, the neurodivergent and neurotypical person in this scenario might be trying to connect with each other in different ways, but we’ve tended to locate the ‘problem’ within the neurodivergent person. It might be assumed that an Autistic person is less capable of empathy, while in fact a lack of understanding exists between people who have different ways of mentalising and communicating. Since neurodivergence is generally a pathologised and ‘othered’ identity, there is often pressure to conform to social conventions that might serve to make others more comfortable. There are many ways in which neurotypical people might experience pressure to mask, adapt and suppress instinctive behaviours or needs in order to maintain a sense of social cohesion or ‘civility’.

During these last few years, I’ve also become increasingly aware of a link between this phenomenon and the idea of ‘white politeness’. Being ‘civilised’ was (and in so many ways, continues to be) a concept weaponised in colonialism, positioning white European societies as morally, intellectually and culturally superior to the global majority. This offered apparent justification for the violent and dehumanising practices carried out by colonisers, and assumed anything outside of the cultural mores of Britain and other northern European countries at the time to be ‘barbaric’ and in need of control and assimilation. Civility during the heyday of the British Empire was inextricably linked with a hierarchical, monarchist social structure in which those with inherited wealth and power separated themselves from the lower classes in part via a system of ‘good manners’ that involved indirect communication, repressing emotions and bodily sensations, presenting ‘modestly’ and avoidance of conflict. We can still see the legacy of this in the ways in which politeness is sometimes weaponised and used as a way to wield power – for example, the continuing positioning of Black women who are communicating directly or expressing an emotion as ‘aggressive’. This form of bias and prejudice is something I’ve been aware of for a long time, but I was less aware of how a culture of ‘white politeness’ was shaping some of the spaces I inhabit until it was pointed out to me. That’s not unusual - it’s so often the case that we can’t see what we’re in while we’re in it, and also a feature of privilege to not have to notice something if it’s not obviously disadvantaging us. Even in some spaces where care and communication skills are highly valued, I started to notice the slightly awkward ways that we unconsciously attempt to avoid discomfort. We might start to put masks on if things are getting a little emotional, heated or weird. We’ll often use small talk, humour or subject changes to take the edge off when things threaten to get a little uncomfortable. Even those of us who are well versed in therapy speak and big fans of emotional literacy will lean on our learned social crutches when something threatens the relative politeness of the space sometimes. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, if it’s a conscious choice that fits with the social contract of the space – maybe we’re in this space together as a way to have some respite from big feelings, or maybe it’s a workplace and there are limited opportunities to fully unmask, process our emotions and process what’s unsaid in the space. But what I’m finding less helpful is the unconscious post-colonial hangover that has us subtly policing our own and others’ behaviours, bodies and words in order to maintain a sense of decorum. There may be a time and a place for showing up in all of our flawed, messy, noisy glory, but if we haven’t found enough of these times and places, it’s likely that our repressed emotions, sensations, movements etc. will cause us harm in some way, whether we realise it or not.

There’s also the impact of all of this on our ability to communicate with courage and integrity. Growing up in cultures (whether family, community, country or all of the above) that prioritise immediate comfort over voicing dissent, setting boundaries and sitting with difficult feelings has the potential to push us towards avoidant, people pleasing and incongruent behaviours and communication styles. Avoiding conversations and situations that might involve challenge, conflicting needs, awkwardness or inconvenience is only likely to bring short term gain, while problems go unaddressed and unmet needs grow into resentments over time. It feels very familiar to me to provide facilitation in workplaces that prioritise a veneer of ‘niceness’ over tackling the far less pleasant challenges that are festering beneath the surface because it’s so difficult and not in keeping with a ‘nice’ working culture to address them. Employees who were grappling with how to raise their concerns and struggles in these situations have told me how scary it can be to consider speaking up in an environment that has become profoundly silencing. This is a direct example of a culture of politeness and ‘civility’ preventing issues from being addressed and upholding a hierarchical structure where people who aren’t in charge may not feel safe to share feedback, challenge, concerns or even ideas that deviate from the norm. This is something I find concerning when I see signs of it, and I’m always keen to unpack the assumptions, beliefs and fears that contribute to this culture. And in the spirit of honest communication, I’ll level with you… I’m not here to criticise or shame anyone who has (intentionally or otherwise) contributed to a culture like this, partly because I don’t think that would be particularly useful, and partly because my own tendency is towards conflict avoidance and over-adapting in order to maintain a sense of belonging. This is something that I’ve spent years working on, and will likely continue to work on for the rest of my life – I don’t have it all figured out by any means. I notice at times an inner conflict between my learned defence mechanisms (‘avoid conflict, rejection and upsetting others at all costs’) and the communication style that I value and need (direct, open, congruent, assumes a healthy balance of care for self and care for others). I believe that moving beyond repressive cultures of ‘politeness’ and towards deeper connections and more equitable communities starts with curiosity and critical thinking. Maybe it’s a feature of my particular type of neurodivergence, but I’m grateful to have never lost the instinct to ask ‘but why?’ that we tend to associate with exhaustingly inquisitive toddlers. I find social conventions and unspoken rules fascinating. I can’t help pondering where they came from, what purpose they serve, whether we’re finding them helpful, and what else might be possible if we’re not. Taking space to examine the cultural norms, communication preferences and expectations within a community might yield some rich insights and opportunities about how different people are supported, excluded, silenced or relatively unaffected by them. And the prospect of examining this might in itself provoke anxiety – there’s a distinct possibility that, in spite of our best efforts to prevent conflict and offence, we will discover ways in which avoiding discomfort is inadvertently causing harm. It seems important here to both take our capacity to cause harm seriously, and at the same time, hold it lightly. If we find out that we have contributed to someone else’s pain or exclusion, we can take the gift of that learning and apply it in future, rather than entering a shame spiral that seems to threaten our sense of identity and values. Sometimes that’s easier said than done - I’m sure most of us have been horrified at some point to discover that our well intentioned words, actions or contribution to a wider culture have been harmful. But getting comfortable with the short term discomfort that might arise from sharing or receiving challenges, needs, boundaries, concerns and emotions is likely to offer longer term gains. And a culture of compassionate honesty, valuing each other’s contributions and welcoming an array of different feelings and perspectives seems to me to be a great hangover cure for the last vestiges of Empire and its restrictive grip on the human experience.

Community as an anchor – staying connected to self, others and reality during turbulent times

This weekend, I met a friend for lunch and a stroll through the park. As we shared our news, lamented the price of a coffee in a central London café and promised to meet for wholesome Sunday walks more often, I felt a familiar sense of being re-resourced by taking time to relax, reconnect and enjoy some time out in nature. This was briefly disrupted by unexpectedly passing a far-right rally in the park – suddenly, the two of us seemed significantly outnumbered by people who would likely wish harm on us and many others. We moved on and inevitably spent a long time discussing the state of the world and how we might respond to an increasing sense of division and uncertainty. I reflected on what helps me to keep things in perspective and feel safe when things feel scary and hopeless, and immediately thought of various communities that I’m part of, and the concepts of mutual support and safety in numbers. I also remembered some tools from trauma therapy, like Babette Rothschild’s oases, anchors and safe places[1], which are helpful in addressing feelings of overwhelm and detachment. Bringing the therapeutic concepts and the idea of community together, I’ve been considering community as a form of anchor, which might serve to keep us grounded and connected.

What are oases, anchors and safe places?
An oasis is an activity that you enjoy, and that you need to concentrate on (such as knitting, playing an instrument, learning a language, or cooking from a recipe). If you can carry out the activity on ‘autopilot’ without really thinking, it won’t function as an oasis unless you incorporate something new or challenging into the activity (such as learning a new piece of music or trying a new knitting pattern). This serves to give your conscious mind a break from potentially spiralling, as well as using the positive associations with the activity to signal to you that it’s time to relax and recover from stress responses.

An anchor, is something or someone external that exists in material reality (rather than something that you can imagine or draw upon from within yourself), and that you find supportive in some way. Anchors can be objects, places or people that create a sense of calm in your mind and body when you are in contact with them or when you think about them. Anchors can be identified and used in therapeutic settings when a client becomes overwhelmed and needs support with getting grounded. The therapist might ask a question about the anchor in order to take a break from distressing content and to offer a nervous system reset.

A safe place is, as the name suggests, a place where you feel or have previously felt safe and relaxed, and it’s a specific type of anchor. Ideally, this should be a real place that you can call to mind, in order to make use of somatic markers (or memories of colours, sounds, smells, textures, body sensations etc.) associated with it. This safe place can be called to mind during times of high stress or overwhelm, and may also be used in modalities such as hypnotherapy.

The aim with all of the above is grounding and re-connection (to self, to here-and-now reality, to safety). While this might be directly applied in situations where people are experiencing post traumatic stress, they can also be helpful concepts for anyone at a time when we may be feeling overwhelmed, unsafe, disconnected or powerless in response to what’s happening in the world.

How might community become an anchor?

Maintaining wellbeing and being safe requires a balance of self and collective care. Exploring and finding this balance of looking after ourselves and others (while allowing ourselves to receive support when we need it) feels especially important in a context of widespread unrest and a social structure set up to benefit profit over people, as we’re increasingly sold the idea that our wellbeing is entirely our own responsibility. Hyper-individualistic society necessitates a ‘one up/one down’ structure and competition over collaboration; while highly collectivist societies may sideline the needs of individuals in favour of the needs of the group, potentially leading to aspects of a person’s identity or choices being suppressed. Community that respects the autonomy of all of its members, and offers space where people feel supported and equally valued can be part of recovery, personal development and social change processes. It can also be a means of safety, with looking out for and protecting each other being part of the remit during times when there are significant threats or a lack of institutional resources and safeguarding.

Community can become a form of ‘anchor’ by offering a real-world experience of human connection, support and collective power. If a community feels safe and grounding, it’s something we can call to mind to anchor ourselves in moments of disconnection (either through recalling our experiences of being together, or by reaching out to the community in a bid for connection). There are so many distressing things in the world that we’re being relentlessly exposed to, and that lead to a sense of instability, powerlessness and disconnect. In a world of quick and cheap dopamine hits and algorithmically driven content, my first instinct when I feel overwhelmed by distressing news and doomscrolling is often to seek connection and people expressing shared values through online platforms. I’m not advocating for throwing the baby out with the bath water and getting rid of this. But there’s something important about the embodied, real-time, and relatively uncurated nature of connecting with people in person that offers a good foundation for developing authentic and strong connections and alliances, away from the profit driven influence of most online platforms. In-person interaction, community and movement can offer solid ways out of the stuckness. Supportive and robust relationships with others can also allow them to fulfil the role of anchor, which becomes one of the resources supporting us to re-regulate our nervous systems and reconnect with our Adult capacity when we start to drift.

What might building communities that serve as anchors and places of safety look like?

The older I get, the more I notice how difficult it can be to carve out space and time to get a group of adults together, given the responsibilities and pressures of work, family, and all the various tasks involved in living in a fast paced society during an economic crisis. Slowing down and protecting time to nurture multiple relationships can be a challenge at the best of times. And finding the energy to engage in the often messy business of being in community with people with different and potentially competing needs, ideas and ways of communicating might be an even bigger challenge. So, we need leverage – what is the shared set of values, goals, interests or needs that makes it worth the cat-herding efforts, social contracting, miscommunication and conflicting ideas that will likely arise as we attempt to build inclusive and powerful communities? It might be addressing a social issue or injustice, sharing an activity we’re passionate about, being together in a space that allows us to unmask, feel seen and give/receive support. It might be a space where we can allow ourselves to be vulnerable and connect with ourselves and each other on a deeper level, or it might be a space for playfulness, levity and a break from the heaviness of the world. At different times, it might be all of the above. As I write this, I’m thinking about a couple of examples of groups and communities that fulfil all of these needs for me, and as I do so, I notice the impact on my breathing, which in turn, allows me to let go of some of the tension I’ve been carrying around. And that’s an example of community as anchor.

I’ll admit that it’s not always been easy to get to a place where a community gives me more nourishment and energy than it asks of me (sometimes it’s remarkably easy, but I think there’s an element of luck in that). I’ve been part of many developing groups and communities in different contexts, often with challenges arising when something functioned well in the context of a small group of friends building a group activity or supportive space together; and then struggled to keep up with expectations, access needs and the need for more formalised agreements when it grew into something bigger. In order to become the safe anchor, there has to be something worth persisting through the ‘storming’ phase for, clarity of purpose and communication, and a desire to work together to overcome obstacles. We can never be all things to all people, and my own and others’ experiences demonstrate the unfortunate reality that someone may feel shortchanged no matter how much effort we put into creating safe, accessible, welcoming and compassionate spaces. We may need to manage expectations about what can be offered and how we will need to work together to address challenges (as opposed to organisers providing a service for people showing up in ‘customer’, rather than ‘contributor’ mode).

There is also an edge to the concept of safety in terms of community building – in any given group, people can work together to agree and implement a social contract that aims to address any barriers to people feeling welcome, valued and as psychologically safe as possible. But we can’t eliminate risk, conflict, competing needs and being in community with people we may not get on with (even if we share common goals or values). There’s a limit to the promise of safety and comfort; and yet, within these boundaries, it’s still possible to create the conditions for healthy challenge, disagreement and overcoming obstacles without compromising an overall sense of safety. If we each take responsibility for developing and practising the self-awareness and communication skills necessary to navigate this, we’ve already done most of the work required to build communities that keep each other safe, grounded, connected and hopeful.

Having shared goals and values, and a sense of our collective power can help us to address feelings of helplessness, dissociation and overwhelm, which feels like something that’s desperately needed right now. In the midst of so many storms, it’s important to be able to pause and put anchors in place, and to find places of safety in which we can rest and recover before braving the elements again.  

[1] Rothschild, Babette, 2000; The Body Remembers

Reframing resilience – collective care, ‘staggered breathing’ and permission to be vulnerable

The word ‘resilience’ has become one of the ubiquitous buzzwords that has been favoured in fields from education, to workplace wellbeing, to psychology (in both pop and clinical forms) for quite some time. While I’m in favour of finding ways to pick ourselves back up when we’ve been knocked down – and occasionally even partial to a Kelly Clarkson karaoke moment – I find myself asking questions whenever the concept of resilience comes up. I might wonder whether it’s the most helpful word to use in the given context, and how it’s being understood. For example, I used to offer wellbeing support to a woman who had been through an extraordinary amount of adversity and trauma in her life. When I met her, she still faced some significant challenges, but the way she had turned things around and overcome massive obstacles was remarkable. Any time people heard her story, they would comment on how unusually resilient she was. There’s no denying the truth of that, but she internalised the message that she was ‘a resilient person’, and struggled to reconcile this with her experience on days when she felt overwhelmed and less able to cope. We worked on reframing the idea of resilience, reflecting on the idea that it’s not something we are, but a part of us that we might feel more or less in touch with at different times. We also considered the potential confusion between resilience and stoicism, since she would say things like ‘I know I’m supposed to be resilient but some days I don’t feel strong and I just want to hide from the world’. Sometimes, when people think about resilience, they might place it at odds with vulnerability. We might conflate the old ‘bootstrap’ mentality (where painful experiences are ‘character building’) with the idea that adversity can lead to more ability to bounce back in future. But of course, it’s not a given that experiencing more difficult or traumatic experiences leads to greater resilience – it’s true that humans are masters of adapting and adjusting to our circumstances, but getting used to difficult experiences is not the same as becoming more skilled at coping with, and growing through them. That depends on a number of factors, such as what support and resources are available to help us to rest, reflect, make sense of things, safely connect with others and express emotions. If anything, developing greater resilience requires us to have permission to be vulnerable enough to let ourselves fall, be caught and learn, as well as the courage to get back up and try again.

The connection between resilience and supportive human relationships feels crucial to me, and I’ve also spent a lot of time recently thinking about how the idea of resilience is used in workplace contexts, especially where wellbeing and working conditions are concerned. There are so many challenges we’re all facing right now, from economic crises and funding cuts, to political unrest, law and policy changes, and widespread health issues. Most of us are being asked to do more with less, and the helping professions are seeing higher levels of need and crisis. It’s not all bleak, but there’s no doubt that this is a context that requires practically superhuman levels of resilience. It seems like a big ask for each individual to build up enough proverbial muscle to carry more and more cognitive, emotional, physical or other labour – not for the first time, I find myself asking how much responsibility lies at the level of the individual, workplace, community or government. I’ve seen organisations struggling with dramatic funding cuts and getting into disputes with employees over increasing workloads, staff sickness and a lack of time and space to process traumatic events. Senior leaders with responsibility for preventing service closures and protecting staff from as best they could from the worst effects of sector wide challenges were at their edges, and responded defensively to staff concerns. The top-down messaging in these situations was often simply, ‘you need to be more resilient’. Sometimes, this was delivered along with a checklist of the wellbeing support on offer to those who felt they needed more support, but reminding traumatised and burned out frontline workers and managers that lunchtime yoga was available did not tend to go down well. Intentionally or otherwise, this is the sort of situation in which the concept of resilience can be weaponised, and used to locate problems at the level of the individual. Given the importance of relational support and connection in terms of resilience building, this is unlikely to be a winning strategy. It’s also a way to avoid taking on the daunting task of considering the systemic issues that might be causing or contributing to challenges. This in itself requires a level of resilience and robustness that it can be difficult to get in touch with when we’re in survival mode and under-resourced. This, for me, highlights the importance of protecting space to take some time out to really reflect, create the conditions for genuinely reflective, vulnerable, honest and challenging conversations (with outside support if necessary). Developing strategies that will lead to more organisational or collective resilience needs to start with this level of listening and honest reflection.

I’m pondering the idea of collective resilience, and how this might be a helpful goal in workplaces and communities. What might collective resilience look like, and how do we develop it? Firstly, there’s a sense of shared responsibility. This means not over-relying on one person (distributed responsibility, collaboration and transparent information sharing come into play here). It balances the rights and responsibilities of each individual with the needs and responsibilities of the collective. We’re not individually let off the hook here – each person needs to uphold their end of the bargain as best they can. There’s an acknowledgment of our flawed, vulnerable, diverse and brilliant humanity in this. Teams and communities that benefit from a range of different perspectives, skill sets and experiences are demonstrably stronger. And in a group of humans, it’s a guarantee that people will get sick, experience traumatic life events, have bad days or become overwhelmed with their responsibilities at some point. A resilient collective would have enough resources to make contingency plans and to let people step up and support each other when needed. If everyone is at their edges, it’s very difficult to shoulder the extra responsibility needed to keep things running smoothly when one person finds themselves in crisis. As a lifelong choral singer, I was delighted to come across ‘staggered breathing’ as an analogy for this recently. Staggered breathing is a technique that choirs employ in order to be able to sustain long notes and phrases far beyond what one person could manage on their own. People take breaths at different times, knowing that the group will keep singing when they need to refuel, and the audience experiences this as an uninterrupted sound. Skilled choral singers pay close attention to the breathing patterns of their neighbours, in order to create a more staggered effect and ensure that if the person next to them is breathing, they are singing and vice versa. Maybe it's the choir nerd in me, but I find this to be a perfect analogy for the ways that communities can support each other. It’s well established in grassroots organising spaces, where burnout is common and expected. Being aware of, and responsive to each other’s needs lets the community as a whole sustain its work more effectively.

I also connect collective resilience with the ability to disagree, withstand conflict and learn from relational challenges. Rupture and repair is a well rehearsed idea in the therapy world – this means that successfully navigating and repairing after conflict leads to a stronger foundation in relationships. This concept is closely related to the idea of resilience, with the experience of not only surviving, but also learning from a difficult experience building a sense of confidence that future challenges will also be manageable. This feels especially pertinent in situations where teams and groups are under pressure and different views, communication styles and needs potentially lead to getting stuck. And learning the skills to be in community with people in spite of difference and disagreement feels more necessary than ever, in the wider political context. This is something I struggle with personally at times – my neurodivergent justice sensitivity and experience of being ‘othered’ can make it tricky to let go of a desire to stick with those who align most closely with my values at all costs. But in the context of algorithmic echo chambers and purity politics, the chances of minds being changed or short term compromise for long term gain are low. Being able to humanise and hear each other when we disagree seems to offer the best shot of developing nuance, reducing othering and building resilience. Having said this, I’ve heard this argument used to pressurise oppressed groups into arguing for their rights with those who wish them harm. I admire people who feel able and willing to take on this kind of risky emotional labour, but it shouldn’t be an expectation. It’s easy for calls for building bridges to spill over into platforming human rights violations and hate speech – whether a group of people deserves to be considered to be fully human and treated equitably is not something I am willing to debate or ‘agree to disagree’ on. So, there is a need for boundaries and clear social contracts, within which, rupture, repair and different perspectives can lead to growth. And I have to hope that it’s possible (though no doubt relatively rare) that, with enough resilience and connection, prejudicial beliefs might be changed. My idealised vision of a resilient community involves having enough resources, time, space and will to meet everyone’s needs and value each member equally (even when we’re frustrated with each other). Under these circumstances, the chances of dehumanising, scapegoating or weaponising ‘resilience’ as a demand for people to withstand increasingly difficult conditions, are pretty low. As utopian as this might sound, the business of creating these conditions is hard and messy work. But in my experience, the move from prioritising individual resilience (or stoicism) to collective care is very much worth the effort.

Navigating personal and political grief in a time of chaos and change

‘I don’t know if we were meant to carry so much grief in one body… Yet, we are not alone’ (Alexandra/Ahlay Blakely)

-These are the lyrics of a song that I’ve sung with others at song circles, protests and other events where groups have assembled to process and express grief (alongside other emotions) and to share the experience of trying to make sense of things that feel big, scary and unfathomable. The song also contains a part that is essentially a tuneful wail, in a bid to reconnect us to the embodied, messy, loud and cathartic nature of expressing grief. Right now, I’m struck by the ways in which reclaiming ritual, authentic expression and communal grieving can be forms of resistance to the legacy of colonial, Victorian Britain, where emotional repression and sanitised grief processes became the only socially acceptable options.

I’m thinking – and feeling – a lot about grief at the moment for two reasons. Firstly, because I recently experienced an important loss in my own life. My family has always been small and very well versed in grief and generational trauma. For the last twenty years, my Gran was my last living close relative. She died two weeks ago, at the age of ninety five. The loss process was a slow one, with so many of our ‘lasts’ taking place over a period of months, years and even decades. It’s been a long time since the last of our trips to the garden centre for coffee, cake and unnecessary purchases of hand cream and silly ornaments. It’s been a few months since we had a real, two-way conversation that I could be fairly sure was understood. It’s been six years since I cleared out the last of my childhood homes, which contained three generations worth of photo albums, favourite mugs, books, school reports and the like. And so, this particular grief process has been less of a crash landing and more of a slow glide than others I’ve experienced, although it also feels even more significant in some ways. My main regret is that she died while I was on my way to say goodbye and support her transition. But I’m relieved that she was not alone at the end, and that we’d had a conversation about dying while she was still able to communicate. When I finally made it to the nursing home, I had a first experience of witnessing death up close, and I reflected on how odd it was to have never done this before. I sat beside Gran, still in her bed, and chatted with a relative and the local minister in a way that felt strange and surreal, yet somehow, also normal and natural. We played one of her favourite songs as she was taken to the funeral home, and the nursing home staff lined up to say goodbye and send her on her way. At the funeral, although I felt safe, held and not especially overwhelmed, I was struck by a familiar sense of disconnect between what my body wanted and what felt possible and acceptable in the relatively formal environment of a crematorium and church service. I feel sure that I wouldn’t have been judged for a loud or physical expression of grief, and I didn’t especially feel the need to wail or collapse in that moment; and yet, something in my body said ‘this feels too distant and mysterious – how am I supposed to be present in this space?’

All of this has made me think about the need for more open conversation, ritual and encouragement of authentic emotional expression in the culture I’m part of. Social media and public health campaigns are awash with messaging about the importance of sharing our feelings through talking and other forms of expression. That’s a step in the right direction, though it might sometimes feel like a bit of a platitude. But what about the impact of bracing against and repressing our expressions of grief in order to stay acceptable and ‘sane’? And what might happen when a person’s expression of grief becomes too noisy, inconvenient or disturbing to be considered healthy? Like most people I know, I’m a passionate advocate for accessible, free and de-stigmatised mental health care, but I also feel I need to acknowledge the ways that psychology and psychiatry have been used as forms of social control, and have pathologised responses to grief and trauma that may be culturally specific or entirely rational in the face of irrational and intolerable circumstances. What might happen if we allowed ourselves and others to reconnect with the full experience of being human - the moments of irrationality and madness; going through and holding each other in moments of despair, rage, exhaustion, guilt, hope and new growth; witnessing the full cycle of life in all of its magical and sometimes horrifying glory? It feels like something that we need to explore further if we  want to stay well both individually and societally. And I say this as someone who often has a hard time expressing vulnerability and big emotions. I feel things deeply, but I’ve always tended to save them up and channel them through singing and other forms of creative expression. Embodied practices, especially if they involve music, have always cut right through my defences, and I find them incredibly powerful when I need to process big or sticky emotions (hence why I coach others in finding embodied tools that work for them). I’m hopeful in general about change in relation to how we sit with, process and express difficult feelings. But a move towards widespread emotional intelligence is in direct opposition to the global rise of the far right and backslide on gender equity – fascism venerates the ‘strong man’ and seeks to shut down forms of self-awareness and communication that might lead to cooperation, inclusion and collective power. And so, we’re seeing disenfranchised communities and lost young people being encouraged to shut down any expressions of vulnerability, grief or fear in favour of turning the discomfort outwards into rage at women, at refugees, at trans people, or whoever the latest scapegoat might be. It’s depressingly familiar, in that we all learned about a similar political climate in the run up to the war that was supposed to remind us to never let this happen again. That took place in living memory for some people – it’s certainly something that profoundly affected my Jewish immigrant Gran, who was brought to Scotland at the age of four in the 1930s. She was an avid follower of world news, and I’m glad that she wasn’t able to see and understand the direction things seem to be heading in the final part of her life.

This leads me to the second reason I’ve been thinking about grief, which is the experience of collective grief over witnessing a genocide that seems to be never ending, and the criminalising of that grief in several countries, including the UK. This also feels consistent with the colonial project of shutting down communities’ own forms of expression in favour of whatever presents the least threat to the people in power. I think it’s fair to say that protesting genocide is an expression of grief. I’ve cried at almost every national march I’ve attended in the last nearly-two-years, and each time felt disbelief about needing to ask for our elected representatives to stop participating in acts that contribute to an unfathomable number of deaths. I’ve also bowed out of protests at times when it’s been too much for various reasons, and felt guilty, since showing up seems to be the very least I could do in the face of such atrocity. But this is where community becomes important – we let each other take breaks and remind ourselves that our power is in being in it together. This is something that we can apply to grief more generally too, since it can feel like such an intensely isolating experience. At this point in ‘late stage capitalism’, division is lucrative, because we’re more vulnerable and malleable when we’re isolated, and because rage creates engagement, which turns into profit. So, our resistance and our healing needs to happen in community. That’s not a particularly new or radical idea, but it feels like the sort of thing I need to remind myself of frequently in this time of chaos. And while nobody can process my grief for me, the power of being witnessed in a moment of full, messy humanity feels like it could be pretty transformative.

Third sector burnout: How can we build sustainable services and treat helping professionals as people first?

I’ve recently been spending a lot of time in charity sector spaces where professionals are at their edges, resources are strained, and there are increasing divides between leadership and frontline staff who are being asked to stretch caseloads and boundaries to breaking point. Words and phrases like ‘burnout’, ‘dehumanising’ and ‘taken for granted’ abound in discussions with tired and disappointed helping professionals. The picture might look bleak for some right now, but there are still choices to be made and opportunities to take space to re-imagine how we can work together in a challenging socioeconomic climate to bring about more sustainable, meaningful change for service users and the workforce alike.

Charities and not-for-profits being asked to do more with less isn’t a new phenomenon, but challenges seem to have intensified in recent years, and a crucial aspect of how this plays out is the way that those in the driving seat choose to allocate resources and how they see and communicate with their staff. The typical vicious cycle at the intersection of workplace wellbeing and funding/resource issues is an effect of trying to deliver the same level of service or respond to increasing need with fewer resources… Staff are expected to take on more direct work with service users, whether this means building up overtime (which should be taken back as Time Off in Lieu, if only they could find a time to take it back) or attempting to squeeze more work into their regular hours. And most often, they will do their best to make this happen, because they have undertaken this emotionally costly, challenging and often poorly paid work due to dedication to a cause and a desire to help. But this is an unsustainable way to work for most people, and the vicious cycle kicks in when staff burn out and need to take time off work to recover. Understaffing as a result of this puts additional strain on the service and the workforce left to cover the gaps, and there’s a risk of developing a revolving door of new, passionate and energetic workers coming on board, rolling up their sleeves, working hard beyond their hours and burning out, only to be replaced with the next person willing to take on the challenge.

Dedicated service managers might experience a similar phenomenon, as the need for additional support of their teams increases, and the gaps in service provisions have to be covered. This tends to have a demonstrably negative impact on vulnerable service users, who need consistency and time to build trusting relationships with the professionals supporting them. That seems to offer good enough leverage to encourage decision makers to address the issue, since providing services that have a positive impact on their beneficiaries’ lives is the purpose of most third sector organisations. And this purpose is compromised when the wellbeing and humanity of the workforce is discounted, given the impact on service delivery. It feels uncomfortably utilitarian to point out that workplaces should value and support their staff on the basis that people are their most valuable resource. While that may be true, there’s also a question of values at play here – if organisations aim to provide person-centred support and trauma-informed practice, and to value people seen as experts by experience, what might prevent them from responding well when their staff express feelings of not being heard, valued or supported?

An astute colleague and mentor recently summed the situation up as a reliance on the third sector mentality of saying yes where everyone else has said no. Charitable organisations tend to exist to plug the gaps left by systems and governments that are failing to adequately support their people, hence the culture of needing to find a way to make things work, since our ‘no’ might leave a vulnerable person out of options. Senior leaders may also face the additional pressure of competing for the funding that keeps service users supported and staff in a job, since decreasing resources and increasing need means an environment where organisations race to provide services for less than their partners/competitors. This is another ‘yes’ that means stretching boundaries and working harder to meet increasingly complex needs. Decision makers may be working hard to absorb as much of the impact as possible, and at times, this might lead to feelings of defensiveness and frustration when frontline staff and middle managers express dissatisfaction about the challenges they are facing. A context where both resources and capacities are strained can become a tinderbox for conflict, empathy fatigue, burnout and staffing issues, not to mention reputational damage and further unintended impact on service users.

This may be a representation of an organisation or sector in crisis, rather than the day-to-day reality of many not-for-profits. But there’s a sense of these issues becoming increasingly likely as so many face difficult decisions about how to stay afloat in stormy waters. So, what can be done to address this? I’d love to offer the mythical magic bullet response here, but of course, complex issues faced by diverse groups require nuanced and situation specific responses. However, here are some questions that might go some way to starting to get unstuck and look towards longer term change:

1.        What partnership opportunities might exist or be developed to promote a more collaborative approach to providing services, sharing resources and addressing the wider issues?

2.        How honest are we being with funders about what can realistically be delivered within the available budget on offer? What opportunities do we have to work with them towards addressing discrepancies between needs and resources?

3.        When staff concerns and work related wellbeing issues arise, are we genuinely responding and collaborating in a way that is consistent with our values and approach? What might be getting in the way of this, and what resources or support might we seek to facilitate brave and compassionate spaces to address these issues?

4.        When might we need to say no or adjust what can be delivered when resources are limited?

5.        What campaigning and communications might need to be put in place to push for increased funding, policy change etc.?

6.        Have we considered workplace wellbeing in the context of working conditions and increased living costs, as well as offering EAP programmes? Can staff delivering highly skilled work in challenging conditions afford to live on the salaries on offer?

7.        How are we involving service users and staff in change processes and decision making? How can we do this in a way that genuinely values their work and does not contribute to burnout?

8.        What assumptions might we be making that could be holding us back? What opportunities are there to challenge and move past these assumptions?

Ultimately, there are issues that need to be tackled in the context of sector-wide collaboration and transparent communication with those who hold the purse strings about what’s needed and what’s possible in the current climate, rather than overstretched leaders in survival mode participating in a race to the bottom. And then, there are the human relationships at the heart of the matter. Community and helping relationships are the fundamental point of most organisations working in this field, so it feels especially important to find the capacity and the will to engage with the most sticky challenges in a compassionate, trauma-informed way that positions everyone as skilled fellow humans on a shared mission. This is easier said than done when people are at their edges, which leads back to the problem of overworking and preventing burnout. It may feel like there’s no time and space to slow down and engage with this right now, but it’s worth framing this work as just as important as the day-to-day running of services. With healthier boundaries, recovery time and opportunities to re-regulate in place, it’s far easier for dedicated professionals to roll up their sleeves and collectively do what they do best, which is getting stuck into complex challenges and finding ways through difficult and distressing territory towards recovery and change.