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.

5 Reasons to go on a Burnout Prevention Retreat

If you're anything like many of my clients, you're probably really invested in personal development and wellbeing, but a bit fed up with wading through busy online spaces full of quick fixes and wonder cures. You might be feeling the weight of supporting others while struggling to maintain your own work-life balance, or noticing the early signs of burnout creeping in.

1. Deep Reflection Beats Quick Fixes

Let's be honest - there are no magic bullets when it comes to preventing burnout or reconnecting with your sense of purpose. What I've found has a much bigger impact is taking dedicated time out to do some in-depth personal work. Unlike trying to squeeze reflection and recovery into the gaps between meetings, a retreat offers the rare gift of uninterrupted time to tune into what you truly need at this stage of your life and career.

2. A Whole Person Approach to Burnout

While there are many valuable ways to address burnout - from counselling to medical support - most tend to treat specific issues in isolation. I approach burnout from a whole person perspective, recognising the connections between our emotions, thoughts, body sensations and behaviours. This retreat offers not just respite, but practical tools for recognizing early warning signs and establishing sustainable practices that work for you.

3. Embodied Learning That Actually Makes Sense

If you're new to embodied approaches or skeptical about some of the more magical claims sometimes made in the wellness world, you're not alone. I won't offer you unrealistic promises or pseudoscientific jargon. Instead, you'll learn practical, evidence-based techniques for tuning into your body's signals and re-regulating your nervous system. These tools can help you navigate challenging situations with more confidence and authenticity.

4. Small Group, Big Impact

Working in a small, carefully curated group creates something special. It's not about doing deep work in a large room full of strangers, but about building real connection and trust. Maybe you're used to being the supporter, the fixer, the one who holds space for others. Here's an opportunity to receive support yourself, benefit from outside perspectives, and remember that you don't have to figure everything out alone.

5. A Different Kind of Reset

Sometimes, making decisions from a place of exhaustion leads us to focus more on getting away from problems than moving towards what we need. This retreat offers something different - a chance to step back, breathe, and reconnect with your most up-to-date, wise Adult self in a beautiful, nurturing setting.

Is This Right for You?

I’m offering a burnout prevention retreat, specifically designed for people who:

• Work in supporting roles (e.g. third sector leaders, coaches, facilitators, frontline support workers)

• Value personal development but may be new to embodied approaches

• May be feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, or disconnected from their sense of purpose

• Want practical tools for preventing burnout and maintaining healthy boundaries

• Need time and space to reflect and re-evaluate who they are and what they need now

I know it's a big step to take time away from your responsibilities to focus on your own wellbeing. But here's the thing - investing in your resilience isn't just about self-care. It's about ensuring you can continue to show up effectively for others and maintain the impact you want to have in your work and life.

Remember: taking time out isn't a luxury - it's essential for sustainable performance and wellbeing. Sometimes the most powerful step we can take is creating space to receive support in a setting designed for deep, transformative work.

Secure your space today - click here to book or contact me to find out more.

‘So what is it that you actually do?’ – Stories from a coach and facilitator with a niche job title (Part 2)

I offer coaching, facilitation and consultancy in a wide range of contexts with people in very different situations. But there are some common themes that arise for many clients – these include:

*Burnout and compassion fatigue

*Finding it difficult to express themselves or state their needs

*Feeling stuck in a ‘freeze’ response

*Working out ‘who am I now, and where next?’

*Creating community and finding places where they feel a sense of belonging

These challenges can show up in different ways and different situations, and it’s not always obvious at the outset that these are things that might need some attention. Sometimes, the reason a person comes to coaching is that they’re stuck with a specific issue in the workplace, difficulty communicating with someone in their life, needing support to make life decisions, or because they feel that they need some space to focus on improving their wellbeing.

But when we get below the surface, a lot of the themes that come up for people are human experiences that so many of us share in common. As a species, we’ve evolved to survive and thrive through cooperation, and we can be motivated by a need for belonging. That’s part of the reason that the relational aspect of any good coaching can be so transformative, and it’s also why I often find myself focusing on relationships, communication and what’s going on psychologically, emotionally and somatically in relation to them, regardless of what specific issues a client has come in with. Underneath a fear of speaking up and asking for a specific need (or want) to be met is often a belief such as ‘I’m too much’, ‘I’m not enough’ or ‘I mustn’t risk rejection’, which was likely a result of interactions with significant people earlier in life. Although coaching differs from therapy by being predominantly present and future focused, rather than spending a lot of time reflecting on the past, understanding why we’re carrying around self-limiting beliefs or struggling with a particular aspect of communication, self-care or decision making can be powerful in terms of breaking cycles and creating meaningful change.

So, what do I find useful in addressing these big topics?

The Coaching Relationship

A major foundation of any effective therapeutic or personal development focused relationship is building rapport, trust and enough safety to allow clients to express how they really feel and know that this will be met positively. That in itself, along with any interactions that lead to feeling seen and heard can be a powerful intervention for someone who is working with internalised beliefs about being ‘too much’, ‘not enough’ or ‘taking up too much space’. This might look like – for example - explicitly stating that emotions are welcome in the coaching space, responding calmly and warmly to what a client has shared, demonstrating reliability and showing that I’ve heard and understood, and offering permission to clients to be in the space, in their body and in the coaching relationship in whatever way they need to.

Beyond this, I might offer an experimental, sometimes slightly playful approach to collaboratively working with clients to discover what tools, resources and communication styles work best for them. I may use gentle challenge and checking out assumptions to support them to move past self-limiting beliefs. We may explore models, frameworks and metaphors or stories to make more sense of something a client is stuck with. These are tried and tested aspects of coaching work, and I’m always delighted when they result in a new insight that leads to meaningful change – like when one client realised that there was a pattern of discounting her own needs when communicating with others in her personal and professional life, and began working on a strategy to address this that led to huge improvements in her work and relationship with her partner.

An Embodied Approach

I also find an embodied approach to addressing some of these big themes is really effective. We’re finally starting to move away from approaches to personal development that seem to view us as floating heads with clear distinctions between the cognitive, emotional, physical and behavioural aspects of ourselves. It’s becoming clear to more and more people that we can’t really separate our thoughts, emotions, experiences, body sensations and physical/mental health. I got into embodiment work because I was in a wellbeing and communication crisis of my own, and because most of my coaching work, at least in the early days, focused on performance and presentation, which have embodied aspects to them. We communicate using our bodies, and when this is in the context of verbal communication or vocal performance, our body is our instrument. There’s a feedback loop between the physical sensations we feel, whether we’re holding tension in our bodies, how we’re taking up space, how we feel emotionally, and what we communicate. On a societal level, we’re learning more and more about the ways in which we can re-regulate an over or under-stimulated nervous system in order to get back to a place of calm, clear thinking and here-and-now presence. That’s really helpful in situations where we might feel stressed, anxious, angry or overwhelmed. So there’s always an element of embodied practice in my coaching, even if that ‘only’ involves encouraging clients to notice physical responses and offering sugggested ways to ground themselves when things get challenging. We might also play with embodying a particular thought, feeling or experience, and seeing what happens to the client’s communication, emotions or thought processes when they try different ways of breathing, taking up space, engaging muscles or letting go of tension.

Connecting with Intuition

Offering tools that support deep relaxation, connection with our most intuitive, Adult selves and space to meaningfully reflect can also be transformative when someone is stuck in a place of feeling ‘frozen’, unable to work out what to do next, or afraid to set courageous goals that will bring them what they need in order to feel as healthy and fulfilled as possible. Using breathwork, guided visualisations and other tools that can help clients to enter this deeply reflective space can be a great jumping off point for identifying values, working out what they would ideally like their life to look like, connecting with what they feel passionate about, and moving on to take steps towards the goals they have set from a place of calm, curiosity and intuition. Sometimes, we can surprise ourselves when we tap into feelings, ideas and dreams that we’re less aware of on a conscious level, and that can lead to powerful insights and ability to get ‘unstuck’ in decision making processes. One client came to coaching because of burnout and a need to address work-life balance. They hadn’t had the time or space to reflect on what they wanted to do next in life or how to achieve a more sustainable pace while satisfying their career goals until they found a way to protect some time for coaching sessions in which to slow down and consider this. We used visualisation exercises to connect with the client’s values, needs and passions. This was the first step in a change of career that they later fed back brought them joy and helped them to feel more like their authentic self than they had in a long time.

Self-Expression Work

I also support clients to express themselves with courage, authenticity and clarity. That might be in the context of speaking up about their own needs and views, performance and presentation, addressing a fear of being seen and heard or all of the above. It can be so helpful to have a practice space in which making mistakes, ‘saying the unsayable’, being vulnerable and making noise are explicitly welcomed and encouraged. Again, the working relationship makes a huge difference here, as it’s far easier to take risks when we trust the person who is supporting us to do so. It’s important to go at the pace that works best for each person, and for them to be reminded that they are in control of the situation. Permission to stop, say no and ask for a specific need to be met are important in letting a client know this – especially if they have a history of needing to over-adapt in order to please others and stay safe. Beyond this, there are lots of ways that I might support someone to express themselves more freely. Inviting a playful approach can be helpful in some situations (and absolutely the wrong thing to do in others – tailoring support to individual need is so important here). Distraction can help in cases where someone is caught in a feedback loop of self-criticism and stifled expression/communication. I enjoy seeing the difference it can make when I support people to connect with their emotions and speak, sing or present as themselves (rather than emulating someone else or trying to be who they think others might want to hear). The changes can be subtle or hard to pin down, but the difference is in the emotional connection – it’s so exciting when someone expresses something in a way that sparks a real human to human connection and helps me tap into my own emotional world for a moment. That’s an example of courageous, authentic communication, which can be so transformative in contexts from moving past conflict, to advocating for our needs, to being able to move and inspire an audience.

If you’d like to find out more and discuss how I might be able to support you with any of the challenges described here, I’d love to hear from you – you can contact me here.

‘So what is it that you actually do?’ – Stories from a coach and facilitator with a niche job title (Part 1)

I have a confession to make. I sometimes dread the question ‘what do you do?’, because my work might sound like a very specific niche that I need to spend some time explaining. I offer services based on concepts like ‘embodied communication’, though I realise that they may be unfamiliar for a lot of people. So, in the interests of practicing what I preach and communicating authentically, here is an explanation of some of the things I actually do in my professional life.

I’ve spent many years working in the charity sector, part of which has involved considering and discussing how to make services more inclusive, fair and easy to access for service users, staff and volunteers. Sometimes, it also involved discussing our response to global and local events and injustices. These conversations and reflections ranged from life affirming, to awkward and uncomfortable, right through to downright traumatic. Conflicts and competing needs could arise, even in close knit, emotionally intelligent teams. We sometimes found ourselves grappling with shame, guilt or defensiveness as we considered privileges given to us by society at large; and conversely, we may have experienced fear, anger or exhaustion if marginalised elements of our own identities were up for discussion. I vividly remember the emotional intensity of discussing gender as a social construct and gender roles in the workplace with one team I was very invested in working with. And the discomfort of reckoning with my own white privilege in an organisation where I was one of two white team members (and also in a position of authority). I learned a lot from spending so many years in environments where we were all so invested in social issues, but still struggled at times to formulate what felt like a ‘good enough’ response.

Meanwhile, on my days off, I was training in various body and psychology focused modalities. I’d experienced these as a client, working with performance psychology practitioners on recovering from a vocal fold injury and slowly learning to trust my body to help me to communicate clearly again. I learned to tune into physical sensations, to give myself physical support and to regulate my Autonomic Nervous System when I found myself in a nerve-wracking, emotionally charged or even exciting situation. Initially, this was focused on supporting performance and public speaking, but it soon became clear that these techniques were useful in other aspects of life and communication. I started to notice subtle physical warning signs during difficult conversations, and respond to them in order to prevent escalating into unproductive and stressful conflicts.

When I set up my full time coaching and consultancy practice in 2020, I seemed to fall into Equity, Diversity and Inclusion (EDI) work as one of my main areas of focus – partly because of my experience in this area, and partly because so many people and organisations were thinking about issues related to this in the wake of the murder of George Floyd and other horrific events that brought structural inequalities sharply into focus while the world went into lockdown. A theme that quickly emerged in my work was a palpable sense of anxiety around confronting complex and difficult topics related to power, privilege and identity. There was often ambivalence or resistance among people in positions of authority and those with societal privilege – sometimes based on a sense that perhaps they were going to be shamed or ‘told off’ for things that may be out of their control. And there could also be a question for people with any role or identity about whether a group environment in the workplace was a psychologically safe enough space in which to openly and honestly discuss any challenges related to inclusivity, accessibility and fairness. I found that it was getting increasingly difficult to get a group of professionals together in a room to discuss these issues or, in fact, anything else that required quite a lot of vulnerability, risk and trust in order to be tackled well. Some initial projects I facilitated that had an EDI focus moved painfully slowly, as leadership teams tried to decide how invested they were in this work. This could be frustrating, but it was also important to accept the pace of change, and it also offered me some further learning.

These experiences led me to become really interested in how I might use the resources available to me from the world of body focused, trauma-informed work to help set up the conditions for difficult conversations in groups and teams. One way to offer this might be through individual coaching with leaders, with an element of focus on deepening awareness of the client’s communication preferences, physical warning signs of overwhelm, triggers, assumptions and preferred resources for getting calm and grounded. Another is to work in a group setting, taking time to co-create a space where people feel enough of a sense of rapport, calm and safety to tackle difficult conversations with courage and honesty. This can be a big ask, particularly in an organisational setting where not everyone is on board with either the subject matter or the addition of my approach to holding space for it. In an ideal world, I would focus on people who want to be there – if something feels forced or coercive, it’s much less likely to be effective. But sometimes, people have felt able to give voice to their resistance, and exploring what’s behind that can be powerful. I really appreciate it when people can show up and say how they’re really feeling, rather than feeling pressure to conform to social expectations and telling me what they think I want to hear. Of course, there are limits to how people’s real feelings might be helpfully communicated, and we’ll have created a group contract that outlines how we will attempt to create a compassionate, courageous environment during sessions. But discussing feelings of reluctance, resentment, anxiety or uncertainty, and doing a bit of myth busting early on in a piece of work can be a good way into authentic communication. And I’ve had people who were deeply sceptical at the outset offer some of the most usefully challenging and insightful contributions to a conversation, and also sometimes tell me that they felt very differently by the end of a session.

Part of what I do in sessions involves offering people ways to tune into their bodies and sit with how they’re really feeling underneath the social veneer that we tend to bring to professional situations and groups where we don’t have established, comfortable relationships. For some, this might feel like a risky approach – particularly if they’ve been working hard to keep emotions out of the way in case they ‘splat all over the walls when the lid comes off’, or if they feel a general sense of disconnect from their body. It’s really important to offer choices, adaptations and ways of letting everyone involved know that they are in control and are encouraged to do what they need to do in order to keep safe. Another simple strategy that can be helpful is an extended process of checking in to share a bit about how everyone is feeling and what’s on their mind as we form our group and ‘land’ in the space. This has two purposes – helping everyone to feel more focused and present, and also reminding us all that everyone here is a fellow human who might have had a stressful time with public transport, a joyful school drop-off, or a frantic rush out of the door with toast in hand before arriving to a session. We might also explore different ways of connecting with each other, and creative approaches to reflecting on subjects that might bring up fear or other difficult emotions.

It's important to draw a distinction between this type of work and therapy – that’s not to say that there can’t be therapeutic elements. But it’s helpful to inject an element of lightness into discussions that can get heavy at times, and to emphasise that, while all of our emotions are welcome in the space, the aim is to notice them and sit with them, then move to a place of working out where we collectively go from here. If things get particularly intense, there may be a need for reflection and support beyond the scope of the session. I learned this early on in my journey as a freelance facilitator – sometimes, I was asked to come into organisations where conflicts were all-encompassing and raw, and found that there was a need to be very clear about the scope of the work and what we could hope to achieve in a space where emotions ran high and traumatic experiences were very recent. It’s also helpful to pay special attention to rapport building, even in groups where everyone (with the exception of me as facilitator) knows each other. Deepening trust is one of the keys to encouraging authentic, courageous communication.

I’ve worked with teams on subjects including making a women’s space more trans-inclusive, exploring why specific groups are critically under-represented in an organisation, tackling white fragility, and discussing staff members’ anger at a ‘sticking plaster approach’ to vicarious trauma and burnout. I really appreciate being part of a group where there is a real willingness to meaningfully take on sensitive topics, rather than keep things compliant, operational and superficial. It’s a privilege to have people share their thoughts, feelings, ideas and challenges in a way that can sometimes be risky. And I’m delighted every time I see, hear or feel a difference in the atmosphere in the room, or the depth of communication after I’ve supported participants to connect with themselves and each other with curiosity and compassion.

If this sounds like it might be useful for you or a team you’re part of, why not book a free exploratory call?

Free Coaching! Volunteers wanted...

FREE COACHING!

-Feeling stuck with a workplace or career related issue?
-In need of support to connect with your purpose, values and direction?
-Struggling to speak up for yourself?

I'm looking for the first of 3 volunteers to receive 12 FREE coaching sessions. I've been offered a fantastic opportunity to deepen my practice and try out some new models.

So, here's what's on offer:
*A brief intro session where we discuss what's on your mind, what's on offer and work out whether this feels like a good fit for you.
*Monthly 50 minute coaching sessions (all likely to take place online)
*Resources to suit your individual needs and goals.
*A confidential service: while I'll share information about my practice with my supervisors, your details will be kept private.

What I'm asking for:
*That you're able to make the time and space to commit to monthly sessions
*That you feel able to offer constructive feedback throughout and at the end of the process

What's the next step?
Please contact me for a chat.

The Psychology of Voice

Or ‘The Courage to be Heard and Understood’.

When I talk about ‘the psychology of voice’, people may hope or expect to learn tactics for being heard, understood and ‘taken seriously’, based on studies that show which pitch, accent, body language or tone audiences best respond to. I believe there may be value in taking time to consider how we may be coming across when we communicate, but I do not offer tips and tools that promise to endow you with an air of authority, confidence or persuasiveness. My passion lies in wholehearted, authentic communication. I’m a Performance Psychology practitioner – I specialise in voice and communication, trauma recovery, relationship and a body psychology approach to wellbeing. 

When I think of ‘voice’, I think about being heard, speaking out against things we find unacceptable, advocating for ourselves or others, performing or presenting in front of an audience, and vocal technique (be it for speaking or singing). Things that can get in the way of any and all of these include the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, the messages we received from our parents or caregivers, how we are feeling physically and how safe we feel in the environment in which we are attempting to be heard. It’s impossible to truly separate the mental, emotional and physical aspects of voice. This is one of the reasons I’m so fascinated by it. The voice is the interface between the internal and external worlds*. A thought is an internal process, but when we decide to speak that thought, express that emotion, it exists outside of our body. Can you think of a time when you wanted to cry but made the decision to try fighting back the tears? Felt that ‘lump in the throat’ feeling as you attempted to swallow your feelings because it didn’t feel safe or socially acceptable to let them out? This is an example of how our emotions, vocal apparatus and communication interact with each other.  

How safe we feel and our self-talk has an impact on what comes out of our mouth and how. Before I understood the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of this, I experienced it first-hand. As a teenager, I was training in classical singing. Though I was a born performer with a flair for the dramatic, I suffered terribly with performance anxiety (a term I was not familiar with at the time – back then, we just called it ‘nerves’ and were encouraged to ‘toughen up’). The more formal the environment, the more nervous I became. My breathing became erratic and my voice shook fearfully. On a number of occasions, I auditioned for roles that allowed me to show a more playful, exuberant side. I remember Directors expressing shock at the sudden transformation – meanwhile, I thought ‘this is how I really sound!’  

Years later, disaster struck. A perfect vocal storm, involving a bad bout of bronchitis, a load of unprocessed trauma and a lack of rest, led to me completely losing my voice. A combination of surgery, vocal rehabilitation, breath work and Performance Psychology support helped me to find it again. A key aspect of this was the building of solid therapeutic relationships. I had to trust the people coaching me through this recovery with some of the things most precious to me: my emotions, stories and voice. This is something I hold in mind as a coach – I remember how vulnerable I felt and how important it was to be treated with care. 

As I learned about what was stopping me from expressing myself fully, the first lesson was about ‘body armour’. We tense and brace our bodies when we feel threatened, and often, we don’t let that tension go. Fear had me tied in knots, so tense that I struggled to express myself. To use our voices clearly, we need the support of our diaphragm and core muscles, and a steady flow of breath. The tension we carry in our neck, jaw, throat, chest and shoulders when we are stressed, anxious, scared or under pressure can seriously inhibit this.  

I went on to explore the ‘unsaid’. What were the things I did not feel safe enough to say? What messages had I received as I grew up about the acceptability of particular emotions? What did I tell myself when I felt those emotions and how did my body respond? Making sense of what was going on under the surface yielded surprising results, and the improvements in my communication were tangible.  

I re-built my performing experience from scratch – starting with audiences of people with whom I had built relationships of trust and moving on from there. Vocally, I am still more sensitive than I once was to physical, emotional or environmental changes, but this is often as much of a gift as it is a curse. My voice lets me know what I need, and perfectly communicates how I am feeling.  

What I experienced, and what I went on to learn in years of training is that being heard and understood requires the courage to be vulnerable. This courage can come partly from trust – both in yourself and the people around you. But sometimes, there won’t be a ‘safe person’ in the room with you at a time when you need to use your voice to speak up. There are ways to boost feelings of internal safety – though the specifics are different for everyone, I suggest starting with breathing ‘in your belly’ (i.e. using your diaphragm), grounding your feet and consciously releasing tension from your shoulders, neck and jaw. Communicating wholeheartedly, honestly and boldly is a skill you can keep developing: ‘speak your truth, even if your voice shakes’.  

For support with any of the issues mentioned here, please contact me. If you have concerns about your vocal health, talk to your GP first.  

*See ‘The Singer’s Psyche’ - research by Dr. Denise Borland for more on the psychology of voice.

Psychological safety

In recent times, the term ‘psychological safety’ seems to have become something of a buzzword. Outside the therapeutic circles I tend to move in, I’ve also heard people talk about it in relation to team meetings, political disagreements on social media platforms and other situations involving groups of people. And I must say, I am pleased to hear terms like this used in popular discourse (as long as they’re meant genuinely).  

Safety is a concept that can’t have been far from anyone’s mind lately. This may be a more practical, rather than emotional form of safety – assessing the risk of a trip to the local shop during lockdown, asking ourselves ‘should I self-isolate?' when we perceive the slightest tickle in our throats, weighing up the pros and cons of meeting a friend in the park for a socially distanced catch up. These decisions might weigh heavily on the psyche for some of us. Our perception of safety, or lack thereof, is psychological. Material risks may not be directly altered by the power of our minds – they exist regardless of our acknowledgement. But our individual relationships to managing risks have a bearing on how we go on to interact with them. At the risk of shaming different approaches to dealing with Covid-19, it’s an interesting study in our different approaches to safety. From those who were furious about joggers continuing their exercise regime in public because they assessed the risk to be critical, to those who flat out denied that anything out of the ordinary was taking place and that the virus is ‘just a flu’, perception informs behaviour, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever before seen an example of this scale where our choices could so profoundly affect the lives of others.  

When I talk about psychological safety, I’m not just referring to the mental risk assessments we all regularly carry out, but they’re a crucial part of the picture. For me, psychological safety is about creating an environment where people feel emotionally safe enough* to allow themselves to be vulnerable and to be seen and heard as they truly are. The term appears in the therapy and coaching worlds because they are about self-reflection, making sense of things that have hurt us and allowing ourselves to be witnessed in a state of vulnerability. In order to feel safe enough to do this work, we need to be able to trust the person or people we’re sharing with. Our mental risk assessment might involve asking questions like ‘will they keep my story confidential?’, ‘do they have my best interests at heart?’ and ‘are they reliable?’ As someone who is trusted with the gift of other people’s stories, emotions and thoughts, I take the responsibility of building a safe enough environment for my clients very seriously. This influences the physical environments I work in, how I set up and contract at the beginning of a relationship with a client, how I organise my time in order to be consistently available and how I respond to clients in session. Occasionally, things go wrong in a client-coach relationship – with enough rapport, trust and safety built up, we can move past any misunderstandings and use them as a powerful learning process.  

This way of thinking has influenced how I am outside of my professional practice. I tend to be acutely aware of how psychologically safe a given situation feels, and will adjust my choices accordingly. I should also add that I am a naturally risk-averse person. Or perhaps it’s less ‘natural’ and more learned. I grew up in a family that had endured an unusual amount of tragedy by the time I came along. My life, health and safety were upheld as the most precious commodity – not to be squandered by doing dangerous things. Of course, there were times in my youth when I rebelled against this as hard as I possibly could. But the tendency to shy away from risk remains. It’s something I work to override when I perceive a risk to be worth taking.  

And so, as we cautiously creep out of our homes after three months of relative isolation, my risk assessment process threatens to go into overdrive. While large gatherings are not yet permitted in London, there will soon come a time when I need to use the city’s notoriously busy public transport system. The question of trust appears in this context as I consider whether those running services will prepare adequately to manage risks, whether I can trust my fellow commuters to take necessary precautions and whether the ‘powers that be’ are offering sensible guidance (I’ll let you guess my take on that last question). And hopefully, before too long, it will be safe to congregate in larger groups again. I imagine that, in our first forays into a wider social life, many of us will experience feelings of elation, relief and a new appreciation for experiences we may have previously taken for granted. But I also expect there to be anxiety and awkwardness for those of us who tend towards a more cautious relationship with risk. How can we reach a place where we feel able to trust not only the people closest to us, but the people we share cultural and physical space with? How do we build psychological safety on a grander scale? This question feels especially pertinent in the current climate of oppression being brought fully into the light, civil unrest and resistance. And it’s one that I do not claim to have an answer to, but we can start with a moment of self-reflection. We can ask ourselves questions like ‘what makes me feel safe and why?’, ‘how do I react when I feel threatened?’ and ‘how do I react when my view of the world is challenged?’. An honest examination of these questions may yield some hard truths. It can be helpful to discuss these with someone we feel psychologically safe with. I believe that getting to know what makes us feel safe and why we feel, think and act the way we do is at least the first step towards collective safety and from there, on to healing the deep rifts in our societies. 

*I refer to ‘safe enough’ or ‘safer spaces’, rather than ‘safe spaces’ because we can only take steps that contribute to another person’s sense of safety. We can’t create it for them. If someone has a deep internal sense of being unsafe due to trauma, we can mitigate by building enough trust and a secure enough environment for them to begin working on this. It’s neither transparent, nor realistic to claim that “you will feel safe here”. 

Collective Psyche, Myth and Ritual

(Content warning: suicide, Holocaust) 

It’s a well-rehearsed argument that humans are hard wired for connection. Ultimately, we are pack animals who historically relied upon safety in numbers. Much has been made already of the possible mental and emotional impacts of existing in a state of relative social isolation during this pandemic. And while it can sometimes be weird, frustrating and exhausting to engage in a barrage of video calls and online chats, those of us who have the luxury of being able to do so may manage to stave off the worst effects of being locked down away from our social networks. As well as being pack animals, we’re meaning-making beings, and when things don’t make sense, it impacts us. So, what sense can we collectively make of who we feel we are in the midst of a crisis? 

 I’ve alluded before to the collectivism that there can be in a global situation like Covid-19, even in our separateness and our different levels of comfort and privilege. Around the UK, there have been acts of kindness and solidarity springing up to replace (for now) the old norms of politely ignoring each other. Rainbows on windows and ‘low skilled workers’ becoming ‘key workers’: symbols and narratives agreed upon collectively. Throughout human history, stories around the campfire, told to warn of the consequences of actions, to create and stay connected to a shared identity and to honour ancestors, grew into religion and ideology. Our unique human ability to think conceptually helped us to collectively imagine – to strengthen our safety in numbers by imagining stories, symbols, tribal identities and rules. This would establish an insider/outsider structure – once myths, symbols and rules were in place, there were consequences for stepping outside of them. Being ousted from your group would, at one time, have meant certain death – this is not necessarily true in the modern world, though the deaths of those who have taken their own lives after being shamed on social media platforms might suggest otherwise.  

We have come a long way in material terms since all our stories were told around campfires (I’m still very partial to a campfire story). And yet, we still participate in collective meaning making as we yell into a curated online bubble and pin our colours to the mast, be they rainbow flag, Union Jack, stars and stripes, Saltire, anarchy symbol... I shout loudly about the causes I care about, and while I do my best to build bridges and find our common humanity, I admit that it’s tough at times. Especially when those I disagree with appear to be invested in stripping people unlike themselves of their rights and their humanity. I’m sure they feel the same way about me. Each of us has decided that the other is on the wrong side of the tribal rules. 

What scares me right now is the use of myths, symbols and stories intended to create a collective narrative for the personal gain of those who are promoting them. This is propaganda. The Nazis used an incredibly slick, powerful campaign of oratory and visuals to convince the poor and disillusioned that putting and keeping them in power, and scapegoating Jews (along with Romany people, LGBT people and other groups) would be in their best interests. Referencing the Holocaust as a warning about sleepwalking into dangerous political action is nothing new. Yet, the VE Day celebrations that took place recently on the streets of England didn’t speak to me of quietly contemplating how the world became so broken that millions of lives were lost to a fight against fascism, or of considering how we can make the ‘never again’ story a reality. Instead, it spoke to me of a need for togetherness, shared identity and hope gone wrong. An attempt to celebrate the myth of a nation, built on empire, priding itself on stoicism, stiff upper lip and standing up to the ‘bad guys’. But when we break out the bunting to celebrate those purported shared values and do the conga while thousands die alone, and carers are sent into perilous situations, I feel we may have lost sight of this national concern for social justice and speaking truth to power, if indeed we ever had it.  

What I take from all of this is that it is time to start creating new narratives. These stories need not be dictated by those who have power and guard it jealously. This requires some form of coming together to ask what kind of society we want to be. What are the needs of our collective psyche? When it comes down to it, we all need the same fundamentals. Belonging is a significant part of that picture, though belonging that exists at the expense of the rights of an ‘other’ cannot be healthy for the psyche of either the ‘in’ our ‘out’ group. We all need those bottom lines of food and shelter, safety and security (a la Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs). Needing to protect our own resources can lead us to believe that the existence and behaviour of others is a threat to our safety, especially in times of scarcity. I suppose that’s the next building block for ‘othering’ and drawing lines in the sand. But assuming that there’s enough food, shelter and security to go round (which there is, it’s just that some people have a lot more of it than others), our next needs in line are social. Some of the powerful people who would have us believe that a national myth of heroic stoicism is more important than our common humanity or safety seem to be abundant in resources and pretty starved of real love and belonging. So, while they may (rightly or wrongly) have been given the job of steering this ship through a storm and ensuring our survival, I hope that we don’t also let them steer us into believing jingoistic national myths. Or, if I’m now dealing in lost causes, that the rest of us will find our collective voice and use it powerfully.

I’m curious about what rituals may be created and what will endure beyond this crisis. I’ve spoken with people a lot recently about the importance of ritual, be it the first coffee of the morning, the lighting of commemorative candles, the lunch time jog, daily meditation or coming together with friends (virtually or otherwise) to connect and blow off some steam. The rituals we choose both demonstrate and shape the stories we tell ourselves. They say things like ‘it’s important to remember those gone before us’, ‘mental and physical health are important’ or ‘in this time of chaos, there are some things I can predict and control, and that makes me feel safe’. For me, intention is important here. It doesn’t really matter whether the ritual is a prayer or a double shot espresso – it’s the meaning that we ascribe to it that gives it significance. So, if we’re up for the challenge of creating new shared stories and rituals, how might that look? Could the VE Day conga lines be replaced with action that really stands up for the little guy? Don’t get me wrong, one of my favourite things is coming together with people to celebrate – to dance up a storm, to sing together, to let go, be silly and be human. This is a bit like my annual pilgrimage and I’m missing this summer’s cancelled festival season already. But much like the importance of the meaning we ascribe to rituals, context is key too. Coming together in defiance of something scary and unjust is a remarkable human trait... though a virus isn’t to be stood up to as if it were some kind of terrorist, so in this case, best to stay at home. It’s hard not to be able to gather in the way we’ve evolved to, but it will happen again before too long. I look forward to being able to come together to connect, analyse, plan and celebrate. In the meantime, we’ve been offered a chance to reflect on who and how we collectively want to be.  

For support around self-care and building helpful rituals during a chaotic time, contact me. If you’re experiencing mental health crisis, contact The Samaritans or your GP. 

Celebrating Neurodiversity

Being diagnosed with ADHD well into adulthood is a fascinating experience and one I’m glad I had. My understanding of what ADHD is has changed a lot over the years. I was vaguely aware of the concept during my school career - it was something ‘naughty boys’ had and manifested in an inability to sit still, disruptive behaviour in class and bad grades. This didn’t apply very neatly to me, so it didn’t occur to anyone as a possibility, as far as I’m aware. I was easily distracted and chatty (a word I’m sure was used exclusively to describe girls), but not ‘badly behaved’. I was brilliant when I put my mind to it, if I do say so myself! The issue seemed to be whether or not I wanted to put my mind to it. I did well at school and university, except in anything too mathematical, but I learned to do well by the seat of my pants. To use creativity and caffeine to pull me through year after year of slightly left-field essays finished at 4am. To sound like I’d read a book after skimming through it on the bus. I eventually learned better study skills and time management capabilities but it was an adrenaline-filled journey getting to the stage of ‘reasonably sensible adult’. 

During my MSc, my main area of study looked at how young people educated outside of mainstream school due to ‘social, emotional and behavioural difficulties’ self-identified. More specifically, how young men and young women* internalised different messages about their struggles. Most of these young people had ADHD. Safe to say, at this point I had no idea how close to home my studies were. I was then of the belief that ADHD diagnostic criteria were far too blunt an instrument, that it was over-diagnosed and that we were pathologising children for not fitting into an education system that was not designed to meet all learners’ needs.  I still believe there’s some truth in that last point, but learning more about ADHD as a neurological difference in the years leading up to my diagnosis made my views on the rest a little more nuanced. 

It feels more positive, here in 2020, to be discussing Neurodiversity as a term to describe, for example, ADHD, Autism Spectrum Disorders and Dyslexia. The word is celebratory, with ‘diversity’ seen as something to be achieved and delighted in. An acknowledgement of all the different ways that brains can work and that this contributes to the many different skills and traits that make up a well-rounded society. Of course, they are still described as ‘disorders’ and still, in many cases require treatment, be it medical or psycho-educational. I’ve been reframing the language of ‘disorder’ for myself by looking at some of the traits and tendencies that can present challenges, and how they so often seem to have a ‘mirror’ trait that is an advantage (like the struggle to think clearly through a task in ordered steps, vs. the creative thinking that gave me the edge in those 4am essays). Still, a society that, just like the school system I remember, is not designed with Neurodiversity in mind can be an exhausting place to navigate.

I have found that body work, be it singing and humming, breath work, yoga or more active forms of meditation are hugely helpful in terms of bringing me back to focus and clearing my busy head. I’d previously put times when I was especially distractable, fidgety or struggling to regulate my emotions down to other causes - did I have anxiety? Was this unprocessed trauma? This is by no means black and white - having a diagnosis doesn’t mean that every road leads back to ADHD. And while it’s true that feeling anxious, stressed, over-tired or otherwise ‘out of whack’ is likely to exacerbate symptoms, I hadn’t realised that there was an underlying cause. But even before I knew the terminology or the layperson neurobiology, I knew what resources worked well for me. Although at first, I struggled to settle into a routine with using them, the more I did it, the more progress I saw. Training as a practitioner gave me even more opportunities to sing, breathe and get in touch with my body. This time of crisis that we’re living through really intensifies the challenges we already face, meaning that it’s more important than ever to stay on top of self-care and connect with our bodies, as well as to stay out of shame when we have a less ‘functional’ day.

A relatively high percentage of the people I’ve worked with over the years have been Neurodiverse in some way. This, along with my own experience, has led me to get really interested in finding out what links and overlapping traits might exist between, for example, ADHD, trauma and attachment (watch this space!). Academic interest aside, it’s been a privilege to be on this adventure together - using my skills and clients’ expertise in their own lives combined to figure out what works best for each amazingly unique person.

*I was quite unaware of the concept of non-binary gender identities at this point! 

Breathing through a pandemic

These are strange, scary, illuminating times. My voracious love of dystopian, post-apocalyptic literature, films and TV did not prepare me for the reality of living through a life and world changing crisis like Covid-19. Like so many of us, I find my days drastically altered and have time on my hands with which to worry, reach out, create, reflect and breathe.

It strikes me that it’s important to neither succumb to despair, nor to allow ‘toxic positivity’ to take hold - there is room for the hope and fear, the heaviness and excitement at new prospects, the boredom and creativity. Most of us will have unexpected time on our hands and in this brave new world of staying indoors, a need to find ways to occupy ourselves. The pressure to learn a new language, write a novel, redecorate your home, grow vegetables and record an album in your living room may be lurking in the background, and a testament to the creativity and adaptability of humans. I fully support all of these endeavours - taking time to slow down, create, express and make your environment safe and comfortable is something I often encourage for myself and my clients! However… it’s okay if none of these things happen in the end. It’s okay if all you achieve today is to inhale and exhale.

As a busy professional with ADHD, I’ve sometimes found it challenging to consistently practice what I preach by keeping a long standing, daily self-care routine going. Don’t get me wrong, I am skilled at using my resources when needed to get to a place of calm, ‘unblock’ emotions and connect to my creativity. And at times, I’m also skilled at making excuses for being too busy to slow down and consciously breathe each day. This tragic global situation has a few silver linings that call us to do things differently, both in terms of the small choices each of us makes and on a bigger, collective level. I am out of excuses to keep running so fast, and this reminds me that breathing and connecting with my body is the basis for being creative, keeping perspective and connecting with my most adult self.

Beyond that, I am encouraged and moved to see that aforementioned adaptable human nature kick in as we play, sing and share thoughts with each other via video call, find creative ways to help our neighbours from a six foot distance, get in touch with long lost friends and feel grateful for connections with our loved ones. I’m more aware of my privilege than ever - for many, lockdown in unsafe circumstances and poverty lead to potentially more serious danger than the virus itself. There are some ways we can help indirectly if we are able to - by donating to projects working with the most vulnerable, by supporting small businesses, by looking out for each other and offering support. But this pandemic inescapably highlights a need for global change that gives people and planet a fighting chance of safety and wellbeing - for those fortunate enough to have time, space and capacity to breathe and reflect, there is an opportunity to focus on what we can do to contribute to a better post-pandemic world. We may be in this for a while though, so for now, inhale, exhale, slow down.