When Wellbeing Becomes Another Thing to Get Right

I saw a trend forecast this week that predicted that anti-optimization is the new direction wellbeing is taking. Which is an irony in itself: the not doing of the thing we're supposed to be doing becoming the thing we're now supposed to be doing.

I also feel like we're surrounded by countless maxxing articles right now: summermaxxing, productivitymaxxing, communitymaxxing, even joymaxxing. The drive towards more, more, more. But most of the women I talk to aren't looking to optimise their lives. They mostly just want to get to some state of being okay, a general sense of enoughness and a stronger belief that it will all work out, especially when it feels like it very much won't.

There's a real push and pull around wellbeing right now, so I became curious about what happens when we know all the things, yet it can still feel impossible to do the things, because we're not even sure if, or why, we'd want to.

Talking to clients and podcast guests, friends and workshop attendees, I've pulled together some of the most common narratives I'm hearing around wellbeing itself.

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1. Starting: "I know I need something but have no idea where to start."

Okay, something is off. Something needs to change. We no longer want to feel, think or be like this. But now where do we start? Which of all those incoming messages is most relevant to us? Of all the possibilities available, which one works best? Which bits do we feel confident enough to take on, and which should we let fall away?

There is so much information, and some of it is contradictory. Are we falling for trends? Has the science shifted? What's the right thing to do with the information we have available to us right now? Before we've even begun, there's a whole wall of stuff to get through.

We go sideways into rabbit holes of research. We decide to go running, then spend the time we could have been running researching how to run. We consider a walk and wonder what speed, how long, which environment. We choose to nourish ourselves and suddenly there are question marks around fruit and Greek yogurt. We have three minutes while the kettle boils: should we stand on one leg or journal?

So we stay. Waiting to start. Hoping to start. Not starting.

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2. Outsourcing ourselves: "Ahhh, I just want someone to tell me what to do."

When we're utterly lost, it makes sense that we turn to experts. We want them to make everything all right. We ask them, "Give me the list and I'll do that." We'll follow their ten-step plans. We'll learn all their hows for our whys.

This makes absolute sense because we have access to people who genuinely do know things, who have answers about overwhelm, burnout and productivity.

And they haven't travelled your life, the paths you've already taken or the ones you hope to take. They don't know the shape of your energy, your values or the systems you operate within. So there's some tempering here. I'll learn what you know, and I'll tailor it to what works within my very real, even messy, life over here.

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3. Disconnecting from it all: "That version of magazine wellness doesn't represent my life right now."

We become desensitised to it all. We shrug. We become cynical. We roll our eyes at gratitude journaling and reject it outright. We push back against the very things that might help us. Wellbeing is a bit boring, no? It's just not fun. Or perhaps it doesn't feel serious enough. It becomes something for someone else, with a more photogenic life and a more abundant bank balance.

No one talked about wellbeing when I was growing up. No one talked about wellbeing in the toxic workplaces I found myself in. No one talked about wellbeing in the fast-paced city life that left me holding on and not much more. But it was there all along, in every moment when I longed to feel better, yearned for connection and hoped for purpose. It just looked different from what I imagined.

Maybe that's the same for you.

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4. Procrastination: "When I'm in Majorca on that retreat in a few months' time, then I'll take care of myself."

That shiny life, the perfect practice, doesn't connect with the messy, imperfect lives we actually occupy. Washing piles don't sit well beside yoga mats. Bills to pay alongside affirmations to write. So wellbeing becomes something that happens over there, or not at all. If only we could get to that retreat, that calm space, that beach at sunset, then we'd finally have the capacity to do the thing that would make life better right now.

Our hope is that we'll get there while somehow holding onto here. But there are things we need here, in this life, as we wake up exhausted again, trying not to freeze when we look at our WhatsApp messages yet again, feeling so flooded that the only option is to sob in the car at school pick-up.

"Later." Later can become a mantra, when what we're really asking is, "Okay, now, what do I need?"

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5. Distancing: "Oh, I totally understand. I'll send you a podcast."

We turn all those messages outwards. Maybe even as a shield against connection. We ask a friend whether they've listened to that podcast rather than offering a hug. We suggest a bestselling non-fiction book on the very subject they're struggling with.

I love a good recommendation. I see it as a love message when someone shares an episode they loved. And there's timing here.

Listen first. Connect first. Then share the thing.

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6. Deciding it's not for us."But it's indulgent..."

This is where we turn it on ourselves. We believe wellbeing is indulgent, that we're not the kind of person who... We have more important things to think about than what we perceive as bubble baths and self-care. We may have learned somewhere along the way that taking time for ourselves, which often simply means time away from someone else, is selfish. We do a cost-benefit analysis, and our own column quietly disappears.

This often connects more deeply with self-worth than anything else. There's a pull towards what wellbeing might offer us, alongside a story that it's somehow not for us. There's guilt in considering our own needs when someone else has it worse. Shame when there are more important things to do. A belief that everyone else must come first.

Do any of these sound familiar? Is there a story here that gets in the way of your own wellbeing? What helps you move through it? And what do you hope wellbeing might become, so that it genuinely supports you in the ways you need?

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Where to start

If any of these stories resonate, you're exactly who Amanda and I had in mind when we wrote If Lost, Start Here. We didn't want to create another wellbeing book full of things you should be doing. We wanted to create something more playful, more practical and more human. A guide to help you find your own way forward, one small step at a time.

If you're looking for a place to begin, you can find out more about the book and order your copy today.

Why Mothering Is a Radical Act

One of the things that surprised me when I first became a mum was how interested I suddenly became in my own maternal history.

I wanted to know everything. What had my mother's pregnancies been like? How had she felt holding me for the first time? What had motherhood given her, and what had it taken away? What had she loved about it? What had she struggled with? The boredom. The exhaustion. The joy. The parts she might never have said out loud. Questions that had barely crossed my mind before pregnancy suddenly felt deeply important.

Looking back, I think I was searching for reassurance, but also for connection. I wanted to know that other women had been here before me. That the confusion and intensity I felt were not signs that I was doing something wrong. That I belonged to something larger than my own experience.

It's one of the reasons I was so excited to talk to feminist cultural historian Elinor Cleghorn on my podcast recently. Her remarkable book, A Woman's Work: Reclaiming the Radical History of Mothering, traces motherhood across centuries, uncovering stories that have often been pushed to the edges of history or omitted from it entirely.

What stayed with me most was not simply what I learned about the past. It was how differently I began to think about motherhood itself.

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The Stories We Inherit

For so long, motherhood has been presented as something natural. Instinctive. Automatic. As though women simply know how to do it because they are women. As though care arrives fully formed. As though mothering is somehow separate from intelligence, creativity, skill, knowledge or work. But what if that story is wrong?

Throughout our conversation, Elinor returns again and again to the idea that mothering is not simply an instinct. It is a practice. It is labour. It is ingenuity. It is resilience. It is thought. It is decision-making. It is adaptation. It is often extraordinary acts of love performed under less-than-ideal circumstances.

And perhaps most importantly, it is work that has helped shape human history.

That might sound obvious. Of course mothers matter. Of course children need care. Yet when we look at the stories we preserve and celebrate, motherhood has often been treated as background scenery rather than a force in its own right.

History tends to remember wars, political movements, scientific discoveries and powerful leaders. It is much less comfortable recording the work of feeding children, holding families together, passing on knowledge, sustaining communities and helping life continue. Yet without those things, none of the others would exist.

One of the things Elinor does so beautifully is reveal that motherhood itself is a thought kept. Not simply an experience, but a collection of beliefs and expectations, myths and fears, rituals and instructions that have been passed from generation to generation. Some of those stories have offered care and connection. Others have constrained women, diminished mothers' experiences, and reduced complex human beings to ideals that they could never fully inhabit.

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The Hidden Expertise of Mothering

One of the ideas that stayed with me most from Elinor's book is how often motherhood has been framed as instinct rather than expertise.

We are surrounded by stories that suggest women simply know how to mother. That care emerges naturally. That nurturing is somehow built into our biology. Yet anyone who has spent time caring for a child knows that this version of motherhood bears very little resemblance to reality.

Mothering asks us to become observers, interpreters, negotiators, organisers, advocates and problem-solvers. It asks us to adapt constantly to a human being who is changing almost daily. It requires creativity, flexibility, emotional intelligence and endurance. It involves practical decisions, emotional labour, long-term thinking and often an extraordinary capacity to hold uncertainty.

As Elinor points out, one of the great tricks of patriarchy has been to dismiss this work as natural rather than skilled. To suggest that because women perform it, it somehow requires less thought, less knowledge or less expertise. Yet the reality is that mothering involves an enormous amount of wisdom, much of which has been passed from woman to woman, generation to generation, often outside the institutions that traditionally determine what counts as knowledge.

The result is that many mothers find themselves carrying immense responsibility while simultaneously living in cultures that struggle to recognise the value of what they do.

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Mothering as Resistance

One of the reasons I found A Woman's Work so moving is that it refuses to tell a simplistic story. This is not a history of women as passive victims. Nor is it a story about inevitable progress. Instead, it is a story about women finding ways to mother, care, nurture and protect within the constraints of the worlds they inhabited.

Again and again, Elinor introduces us to women who insisted on their right to love and care for their children despite extraordinary obstacles. Women who documented their experiences when few believed those experiences mattered. Women who preserved family histories, maintained connections, fought for custody, challenged expectations and refused to disappear quietly into the background.

The story of Sojourner Truth particularly stayed with me. Born into slavery, denied ownership of her own children, she nevertheless insisted on her right to mother. She fought for her son. She preserved her family stories. She made visible experiences that powerful systems were determined to erase. In Elinor's telling, her story becomes something larger than a historical account. It becomes an example of what it means to understand mothering as an act of resistance.

There was another story that stayed with me too. Elizabeth Jocelyn, writing in the seventeenth century, became convinced she would die in childbirth. In response, she wrote a book for the child she feared she would never meet. It was a private act, hidden away in a desk drawer, and yet it survives centuries later as a testament to a mother's determination to remain present in her child's life, even in her absence.

What emerges throughout the book is a profound sense that motherhood has never simply happened in private. It has always been bound up with power, freedom, rights, visibility and whose lives are deemed worthy of attention.

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The Conditions of Care

Towards the end of our conversation, Elinor reflects on her own experience of motherhood and the immense gratitude she feels for the conditions that allowed her to mother. Not simply her love for her children, but the wider circumstances around that love. Family and friendship. Economic security. Safe housing. Supportive relationships. Access to education. A community around her. The practical and social structures that make care possible.

Listening to her, I found myself thinking about how often conversations about motherhood become focused on individual women. Are we coping? Are we organised enough? Resilient enough? Present enough? Grateful enough?

Yet history repeatedly reminds us that motherhood has never been solely about individual effort. The conditions surrounding mothers matter. They always have.

The question is not only whether mothers love their children. The question is whether societies value mothers enough to create conditions in which care can flourish.

That feels particularly important right now. At a moment when public conversations often celebrate motherhood in the abstract while doing far less to support the people living it. At a moment when many mothers are carrying enormous emotional, financial and practical burdens while being told that motherhood itself should be enough.

Elinor's work offers a different perspective. It asks us to look beyond individual mothers and towards the structures around them. It asks us to recognise that care is not merely a private concern but a social one.

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Mothering Makes History

Perhaps the most powerful shift this book offers is a simple one. It invites us to stop seeing motherhood as something that happens on the sidelines of history. Mothering is not a footnote to the story of human civilisation. It is one of the ways that story is written.

Every generation has been shaped by women who cared for children, sustained families, passed on knowledge, preserved stories and created the conditions for life to continue. Much of that work has been overlooked because it happened in kitchens rather than parliaments, in nurseries rather than boardrooms, in conversations rather than official records. Yet that does not make it less significant. If anything, Elinor's work reveals just how central mothering has always been. Not because motherhood is the only way a woman can live a meaningful life. Not because all women should become mothers. Not because mothering is always joyful or uncomplicated. But because whenever people choose to mother, the work deserves visibility. It deserves value. It deserves care.

And perhaps that is the truly radical idea running through this history. Mothering does not sit outside history. Mothering makes history.

If this conversation resonates with you, you can listen to my full episode with Elinor Cleghorn on A Thought I Kept.

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And if you're navigating the complexities of motherhood - and with that identity, overwhelm or change — you can also explore our coaching sessions. Book now for space to just be, support to think more clearly, and hope for what’s ahead..

What If Feeling Lost Isn't the Problem?

A few weeks ago, I found myself down an Enneagram rabbit hole.

If you've never come across it before, the Enneagram is a personality framework that describes nine different ways of moving through the world. Unlike many personality tools, it isn't particularly interested in what you do. It's more interested in why you do it. What motivates you. What you're trying to avoid. What you long for. The stories you've come to believe about yourself and the strategies you've developed to navigate life.

I'd encountered it before, but this time I found myself lingering. Was I a Three? A Six? A Nine? The more I read, the less certain I became. Part of me could see myself in the achiever, someone who likes creating things, working towards goals and making ideas happen. Another part recognised the (anxious) planner, always trying to anticipate what might happen next and looking for a way to feel more certain. Then there was the peacemaker, the person who wants harmony, dislikes conflict and can lose sight of themselves whilst attending to everyone else's needs.

The answer mattered less than I expected. What interested me was noticing what happened as I tried to answer the question. What was I hoping the Enneagram would tell me? Why was I so drawn to understanding myself through this particular lens? And what was I really searching for underneath it all?

Perhaps the same thing many of us are searching for when life feels uncertain. More clarity wherever we can find it. And often that does mean starting with ourselves.

When we're struggling, it's often tempting to believe that the answer lies somewhere outside us. A new habit. A better morning routine. A different job. A clearer plan. A version of ourselves that is somehow more confident, more productive or more certain. Sometimes those things help. Sometimes change is exactly what's needed. Yet so often what we're really searching for isn't a better system but a deeper understanding of ourselves.

We want to know why we keep ending up in the same place. Why we say yes when we mean no. Why we struggle to make decisions. Why we feel anxious when everything appears fine on paper. Why success doesn't feel the way we expected it to. Why we're exhausted. Why we're stuck. Why we've somehow become strangers to ourselves.

The older I get, the less interested I become in fixing myself and the more interested I become in understanding myself. Not because understanding alone changes everything, but because it's difficult to move forwards when we're constantly fighting who we are. Before we can choose a different path, we often need to understand the one we've been walking.

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When the Map No Longer Works

One of the things I've noticed through coaching, writing and conversations on the podcast is how quickly we turn feeling lost into evidence that something is wrong. We treat uncertainty as a problem to solve. We assume that if we could just find the answer, make the decision or create the plan, everything would settle down.

Yet when I look back on the periods of my own life when I've felt most lost, they often weren't signs that I'd failed. They were signs that something important was changing.

The life that made sense before no longer fit. The identity I'd been carrying was becoming too small. The coping strategies that had once protected me were no longer serving me. I wasn't lost because I'd gone off course; I was lost because the map no longer worked.

I think this is one of the reasons people are drawn to frameworks like the Enneagram. Not because they provide all the answers, but because they offer language for things we haven't quite been able to articulate. They help us notice patterns. They invite us to become curious about ourselves. They shine a light on habits, fears and motivations that have often been running quietly in the background for years.

Whether or not the Enneagram is your thing, I think it points towards something useful. We all develop ways of being in the world. We find strategies for staying safe, being loved, belonging, succeeding or avoiding pain. We learn what earns approval. We discover what feels dangerous. We adapt.

The challenge is that over time these strategies can become so familiar that we mistake them for who we are.

The person who always takes care of everyone else may no longer know what they need. The person who always achieves may no longer know what they actually want. The person who keeps the peace may no longer know what they think. The person who prepares for every possibility may no longer trust themselves to handle uncertainty. What began as a way of navigating the world slowly hardens into an identity.

Then one day we find ourselves questioning things.

Perhaps we're burnt out. Perhaps a relationship changes. Perhaps the children leave home. Perhaps a career no longer feels meaningful. Perhaps we simply wake up one morning with the uncomfortable feeling that something isn't quite right.

Often what we're experiencing isn't failure. It's an invitation to become more fully ourselves.

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The Lifelong Process of Becoming Ourselves

One of my favourite ideas comes from the writer Cathy Rentzenbrink and it’s the idea of selfing: the lifelong process of becoming more fully who we are.

I love it because it feels so different from the language of self-improvement that surrounds us. Selfing isn't about finding a perfect version of yourself hidden somewhere beneath the surface. It's not about optimisation, reinvention or becoming someone new. It's about developing a deeper relationship with yourself over time. It's about becoming more honest about what matters, more aware of your patterns and more compassionate towards the parts of yourself you've spent years trying to outrun.

Seen this way, there is no final version of you waiting to be discovered. There is only an ongoing conversation between who you have been, who you are and who you are becoming. To me that feels both more realistic and more hopeful.

If you're in a time of life where you're questioning things, feeling disconnected, uncertain or stuck, perhaps the invitation isn't to rush towards an answer. Perhaps it's to become curious.

What keeps repeating in your life? What feels out of alignment? What role are you playing that no longer fits? What are you longing for? What have you stopped listening to? What part of yourself have you lost touch with?

You don't need the Enneagram to ask those questions (though it’s always fascinating to explore). You don't need a personality framework, a diagnosis or a five-year plan (though for some of us they can offer something we are searching for). Sometimes the most important thing is simply creating enough space to hear your own answers.

Feeling lost can be frightening because we assume we're moving away from ourselves. Yet sometimes we're moving towards ourselves. Sometimes the confusion arrives because an old story is loosening its grip. Sometimes uncertainty is what it feels like before something truer emerges.

The challenge is not to solve yourself too quickly. The challenge is to stay curious long enough to discover who you're becoming.

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If you're feeling anxious, disconnected or uncertain, explore the resources at If Lost Start Here. From our Guide to Life and wellbeing journal to one-to-one coaching and community, everything we create is designed to help you find your grounding when life feels a little off course.

Finding the Work You Were Intended to Do

You can spend years building a life that looks successful from the outside while quietly wondering why it no longer quite fits on the inside.

Not in a dramatic, burn-it-all-down kind of way. More subtle than that. More like noticing you feel strangely flat after doing work you once loved. Or finding yourself restless in moments that should feel satisfying. Or realising that the thing you keep thinking about — the thing you dismiss as impractical, indulgent, impossible, too late, too risky — keeps returning anyway.

Maybe it arrives while you’re washing dishes. Or driving home from work. Or lying awake at 3am trying to mentally organise your entire future. Maybe it appears as envy when you see somebody else making the kind of work they were clearly meant to make. Maybe it shows up as grief. Maybe it simply sounds like a very quiet voice saying: “There must be something more true than this.”

This week on A Thought I Kept, I spoke to Natalie Lue about people pleasing, creativity, identity, perfectionism, and what it means to finally stop fighting the thing calling for your attention.

The thought Natalie brought to the conversation was this:

“Do the work that you were intended to do, and your money worries will cease.”

What fascinated me about our conversation wasn’t really the money part. It was the word intended.

Because I think many of us secretly wonder this, especially in midlife or moments of change: What am I actually meant to be doing with my life?

And beneath that question often sits another one we rarely say out loud: What if I already know?

Natalie spoke beautifully about spending years trying to make a version of work continue because she had already invested so much into it. The effort. The loyalty. The identity. The expectation. She talked about how easy it is to become attached not just to a career or role, but to being the kind of person who keeps going, who makes things work, who doesn’t let people down.

I recognised so much of that.

Particularly the idea that if we are competent, thoughtful, caring people, we often mistake endurance for alignment. We think the discomfort means we should simply try harder. Be more disciplined. More grateful. More resilient. We tighten our grip instead of asking whether the thing itself still fits who we are becoming.

And because many of us have been rewarded our entire lives for achievement, reliability, or self-sacrifice, changing direction can feel almost morally wrong. Like we are abandoning something. Wasting potential. Failing.

But what if changing is not failure?

What if a version of your life can be deeply meaningful and still not be yours forever?

One of the most moving parts of the conversation was hearing Natalie speak about creativity. About art. About the thing that had quietly kept calling to her for years while she continued showing up for everything and everyone else first. She described the strange habit many of us have of postponing the thing we most long for until we’ve finally “sorted everything else out.”

The problem is, there is always something else to sort out.

Another responsibility. Another deadline. Another financial worry. Another person to care for. Another reason why now is not the right time.

And yet the longing remains.

I think this is partly why conversations about calling can feel so emotionally loaded. Because they are rarely just about work. They are about permission. About self-trust. About whether we believe our desires matter. About whether we are allowed to evolve beyond the version of ourselves that once kept us safe.

For many people — particularly women — there is also a deep fear that choosing ourselves will disappoint other people. That if we stop being useful in the ways we always have been, we might lose love, approval, belonging, identity.

So we stay in roles, routines, relationships, or versions of ourselves that no longer fully fit because at least they are familiar.

We tell ourselves we are being practical.

Sometimes we are simply frightened.

And to be clear, this isn’t really an argument for dramatic reinvention. I don’t think most people need to quit their jobs, move countries, or become entirely different people to feel more alive. Often the shifts begin much more quietly than that.

Taking the class.

Starting the project.

Making space for rest.

Writing the thing.

Applying for the role.

Letting yourself want what you want without immediately dismissing it.

Allowing the possibility that the thing you keep returning to might matter for a reason.

I also think there is something deeply reassuring in realising that we do not have to become entirely new people to move forward. So much of modern wellbeing culture still quietly suggests that confidence, healing, or success require a total transformation of the self. But what if the goal is not to become somebody else at all?

What if it is simply to become more honest about who you already are?

Throughout our conversation, Natalie returned again and again to the idea that we are allowed to change. Allowed to evolve. Allowed to outgrow old identities without those identities becoming mistakes.

That feels important to me.

Because I meet so many people through coaching and through this work who are exhausted from trying to force certainty before they allow themselves movement. They want guarantees before they begin. They want to know the outcome before they trust the instinct.

But perhaps self-trust is not certainty.

Perhaps self-trust is simply being willing to listen when something inside you keeps whispering: this matters.

Even if you don’t yet know exactly why.

If this resonates, you might enjoy listening to my full conversation with Natalie Lue on A Thought I Kept, where we explore people pleasing, creativity, identity, self-trust, and what it means to let yourself change.

And if you are sitting with questions about direction, confidence, emotional overwhelm, or the sense that something in your life no longer fits, you can also explore our coaching sessions. Sometimes it helps simply to have space to hear yourself think again.

How Japanese Spirituality Can Help Us Feel Less Lost

The park was the same one Hiroko Yoda had walked through countless times before. Same paths. Same trees. Same shrine tucked quietly amongst the landscape. But after her mother died, she could barely see any of it. She describes walking with her head down, shuffling through the park and back home again, where she would cry. Then repeat it the next day. And the next. Until one day she looked up.

She noticed the birds first. Then the maple trees. The shifting light through the leaves. A shrine she must have passed hundreds of times before. And in that moment, something changed. Not because her grief disappeared or because she suddenly understood everything about life or death or spirituality, but because she no longer felt entirely alone inside the world.

I haven’t stopped thinking about that since we recorded our conversation for A Thought I Kept.

Partly because I think many of us know what it is to move through life with our heads down. To become so overwhelmed by grief, anxiety, burnout, uncertainty or simply the sheer weight of being human that the world narrows around us. Our lives become logistical. Functional. We focus on getting through the day, answering messages, making dinner, remembering appointments. We stop noticing what is around us because we are working so hard to hold ourselves together within it.

And yet so much of what Hiroko shared in our conversation was about exactly that: noticing.

Noticing what remains. Noticing what connects us. Noticing the things that quietly hold us when we feel lost.

Her book, Eight Million Ways to Happiness, explores Japanese spirituality not as a rigid belief system but as something lived alongside everyday life. Something woven into nature, rituals, food, language, grief, playfulness and community. In Japanese spirituality, kami — spiritual presences — exist not just in shrines or sacred spaces, but in trees, rivers, mountains, words, objects and everyday acts of care.

I think what struck me most was how different this felt from the way spirituality is often discussed in wellbeing spaces. So much modern wellbeing culture seems obsessed with certainty. Morning routines that promise transformation. Manifesting practices that suggest we can think ourselves into a better life. The pressure to optimise, improve, transcend.

But Hiroko kept returning to something much softer and more spacious than that.

The Japanese idea of hanshin hangi — half belief, half doubt. The permission to remain somewhere in the grey zone. To not fully know. To allow uncertainty to exist without rushing to resolve it.

Honestly, it felt like a relief.

Because I suspect many of us already live there, whether we admit it or not.

We carry objects that mean more to us than they logically should. We talk to people we’ve lost. We feel calmer by the sea. We light candles. We keep rituals we cannot entirely explain. We sense that some places hold energy. We wonder whether there might be more to life than what we can immediately see or prove.

And then, often, we dismiss ourselves. We tell ourselves we’re being silly. Irrational. Dramatic.

What I loved about Hiroko’s perspective was that it made space for both curiosity and scepticism. Both wonder and uncertainty. Both grief and joy.

At one point in the conversation she talks about eating a banana at breakfast and saying itadakimasu beforehand — “I humbly receive.” And suddenly the banana stops being just a banana. It becomes the people who grew it, transported it, stocked it, bought it. It becomes weather and soil and labour and unseen connection.

That stayed with me because I think many of us are searching for meaning whilst overlooking the small moments where meaning already exists.

Noticing can become a kind of spiritual practice.

Making coffee in the morning. Opening the curtains. Walking the dog. Watering plants. Speaking kindly. Taking the long route home. Sitting quietly before the rest of the house wakes up.

Not because these things solve our lives, but because they return us to relationship with them.

And perhaps that matters especially when we feel lost.

Often when we feel uncertain, we assume we need dramatic change. A new version of ourselves. A breakthrough. A complete reinvention. But sometimes what we actually need is a gentler way of relating to where we already are.

Hiroko spoke beautifully about how Japanese spirituality allows opposites to coexist. Joy and sadness. Gratitude and anger. Light and darkness. She talked about how grief changed shape over time, how writing about her mother softened certain memories and complicated others, how healing was not neat or linear but layered.

I think there’s comfort in that too.

Because many people arrive at wellbeing feeling as though they are failing at it. Failing at being positive enough, resilient enough, healed enough, grateful enough. But perhaps wellbeing is not about eliminating darkness or uncertainty. Perhaps it is about learning how to stay connected to ourselves and the world around us whilst those things exist.

To look up occasionally, even when life feels heavy.

To notice the shrine amongst the trees.

To let a cup of coffee become a moment of connection rather than simply fuel.

To allow for half belief and half doubt.

If this resonates with you, you might enjoy my conversation with Hiroko Yoda on A Thought I Kept. We talk about grief, spirituality, uncertainty, belonging, rituals and the unseen threads that connect us to each other and the world around us.

And if you’re navigating your own season of uncertainty or emotional overwhelm, you can also explore coaching and support through If Lost Start Here. Not to fix yourself or become someone new, but simply to have somewhere to think things through more honestly and openly.

If Lost, Start Here: Our Book Is Here

Ten years ago, we were sitting on a living room floor. Two friends, babies crawling around us, talking about all the ways we felt a bit… lost. Untethered. Overwhelmed.

And more than anything, we were talking about how hard it was to know where to start to just feel better. Not because there weren’t options. Because there were too many.

Everything we turned to—books, advice, tools—often left us feeling worse than we anticipated. Like we were somehow getting it wrong before we’d even begun. And there was a version of life we were meant to be living, and we were slightly off-track from it.

So we started asking different questions.

What do people actually need when they feel like this?
What helps when you’re tired, or overwhelmed, or uncertain?
What still counts when life doesn’t look like the version wellbeing advice assumes?

That was the beginning of If Lost, Start Here. And now, our book.

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What This Book Is (And Isn’t)

This isn’t a book that asks you to overhaul your life. It’s not built on the idea that there’s a better version of you waiting on the other side of a perfect routine.

It’s more a guide for when you don’t know where to begin. A place to come back to when things feel off, or unclear, or just a bit flat.

It’s grounded in research, but it doesn’t feel like work. It’s designed to be easy to pick up, easy to move through, and importantly easy to make yours.

There’s no point in this book where you should feel like you’re failing at it. Instead, it’s about exploring.

Exploring yourself, yes, but also exploring your life. The world around you. The things that bring you back into it.

Because one of the things we kept coming back to was this: So much of wellbeing focuses on going inward.
But what about everything that happens when we go outward too?

A Guide to You And the World Around You

This book moves through ten different wellbeing pathways. Some will feel familiar like connection, creativity and nature. Others might feel like something you’ve lost touch with, or haven’t quite found your way into yet.

And that’s kind of the point.

We hear this a lot from people: “I’ve never really thought about my life this way before.”

About play, for example. Or awe. Or having a creative practice as an adult that isn’t tied to being “good” at something.

Each pathway is there as a way in. Not something to master. But something to try. Something to notice. And something to come back to when you need it.

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You Don’t Have to Do It All (Or Do It Properly)

One of our favourite things about this book is that it doesn’t need you to use it in a particular way.

You can dip in and out. You can follow it month by month. You can skip around entirely and follow whatever catches your attention.

If you’re someone who likes to think things through, you might spend longer with the essays and reflections. If you’re more of a doer, you might go straight to the activities and try things out in your day-to-day life. If you’ve got very little energy, you might just read a page and leave it there.

All of it counts. It’s much more of a “choose your own way through” than a step-by-step plan.

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Built for Real Life (Not Ideal Life)

A lot of this started with a very practical question:

What does wellbeing look like when you’re too exhausted, too uncertain and too overwhelmed to do alll the things.

We started looking at each area of wellbeing not as something you either do or don’t do but as something that exists on a spectrum.

So instead of:

“Go for a walk in nature.”

It might be:

“Can you look out of the window?”

Instead of:

“Build a strong social life.”

It might be:

“Who feels like an easier person to text today?”

We found research that backed up the fact that even very small moments still matter. That they still count. That they can still shift how we feel in meaningful ways.

And more than anything, we wanted to build something that worked with people’s lives as they actually are. Not as they think they should be.

A Different Way to Think About Wellbeing

There’s a lot of pressure in this space now. To get it right. To do more. To optimise. And it can quietly turn wellbeing into another thing on the list.

We wanted this book to sit slightly outside of that. To say: there isn’t one right way to well.

For some people, it might be running, wild swimming, green juices. For others, it might be going to a museum, painting at the kitchen table, watching live music, or finding small ways to be part of the world again.

This is about finding your way. Not following someone else’s.

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Something You Can Come Back To

Over the years, this became something we used ourselves.

When things felt off, we’d come back to it. Run through the pathways. Notice what had slipped. What we needed more of. Not in a critical way—more like a check-in.

“Oh, I haven’t so much as touched my toes this year. Maybe mind-body could use a bit of attention.”

It’s that kind of relationship we hope this book becomes. Something you return to. Something that helps you find your footing again.

If You’re Not Sure Where to Start

That’s okay. That’s exactly where this begins.

Also available on Not on the High Street and Amazon.

How to Trust That Things Will Be OK (Even When You Feel Lost)

You arrive a little more tired than you expected, the kind of tired that isn’t just about the journey but about everything you’ve been carrying before you even set off.

The train was delayed, the coffee wasn’t great, and there’s already a message waiting for you from home asking something that requires more of you than you feel you have to give. You hold your bag a little tighter as you step off, aware of that familiar hum underneath it all — the one that says you’re doing your best, and still wondering if it’s enough.

And then, slowly, something begins to shift.

You’re welcomed in, properly welcomed in, with a warmth that doesn’t ask anything of you in return. There’s a cup of tea placed into your hands, a chair that feels like it was waiting for you, and a sense — rare, and difficult to create on demand — that you don’t have to perform or explain or improve anything about yourself in this moment.

You have arrived.

This is the kind of space described in my recent conversation with Tanya Lynch on A Thought I Kept, but more than that, it’s the kind of space many of us are quietly searching for in our everyday lives, especially when we find ourselves feeling lost without quite knowing how we got there. Because feeling lost doesn’t often look dramatic. It tends to look like carrying on, showing up, doing what needs to be done while holding a question in the background about whether this is how things are meant to feel.

When Life Doesn’t Look Like You Thought It Would

Tanya’s work, through journaling, retreats, and bibliotherapy, is rooted in something both simple and surprisingly hard to practice, which is the idea that everything is welcome.

Not just the parts of life that feel resolved or hopeful or easy to share, but also the uncertainty, the heartbreak, the restlessness, and the moments where you don’t know what comes next or how you’re meant to move through them. These are the parts we’re often encouraged to fix or move past, and yet they are also the parts that tend to shape us most.

There is a phrase she returns to, one that you may have heard so many times it risks losing its meaning:

Every cloud has a silver lining.

It can feel too neat for the complexity of real life, too polished for the moments when things are genuinely hard, but the origins of the phrase tell a different story. It dates back to the 17th century, from a line by John Milton in Comus, where he describes a dark cloud revealing a silver edge when caught by light.

It wasn’t written as advice or reassurance, but as an observation, a moment of noticing that even within something heavy, there might be something else present at the same time. And perhaps that is where this idea becomes more useful to us, not as a way of reframing everything into something positive, but as an invitation to look a little more closely at what is already there.

Learning to Stay With the Hard Parts

One of the things that stayed with me most from this conversation is the way Tanya speaks about challenge, not as something to avoid or move quickly beyond, but as something that is woven into the shape of a life. There isn’t a single moment where everything resolves or becomes easier, and there isn’t a version of life that is made up only of blue skies and straightforward narratives. Instead, there are multiple moments, some expansive, some difficult, some that ask more of us than we feel ready to give, and all of them becoming part of the story we are living.

Over time, something begins to build alongside that, and it is not certainty or control but a quieter kind of trust. Not the kind that insists everything will work out exactly as we hope, but the kind that recognises we have moved through difficult things before and found our way, even when it didn’t feel possible at the time.

What It Means to Feel Held

So much of what Tanya creates through her retreats is about this idea of being held, and it’s something that feels increasingly important in a world that often asks us to keep going without pausing to notice how we actually are. Being held doesn’t mean being fixed or guided towards a better version of yourself, and it doesn’t come with a list of things to do or ways to improve. It is something quieter than that, an experience of being seen without needing to justify yourself, of being able to arrive as you are without editing or softening the edges of what you’re feeling.

It’s the difference between being asked what you need to do next and being given the space to sit with where you already are. And while retreats can offer a more intentional version of that experience, the question it opens up feels relevant far beyond those spaces.

Where in your life do you feel held, and where might you need a little more of that than you currently have?

A Way to Begin Again, Gently

If you are in a moment that feels uncertain right now, this isn’t about finding a solution or creating a plan, and it doesn’t ask you to turn everything around or see things differently straight away.

It might begin somewhere much smaller.

The next time you find yourself caught in the noise of everything you’re holding, the questions, the pressure to figure things out, the sense that you should know what comes next, you might step outside if you can and allow yourself a moment to look up rather than down. Not in a symbolic or forced way, but simply to notice what is there.

Clouds moving, light catching edges, space opening up in ways you hadn’t registered before.

This is not about convincing yourself that things are better than they are, but about allowing for the possibility that more than one thing can be true at the same time, that alongside what feels difficult, there may also be something else present that you hadn’t yet seen.

A Thought to Keep

Every cloud has a silver lining may not be something you believe all of the time, and it may not be something you want to hold onto in every moment, but it can sit gently in the background as a question rather than a conclusion.

What else might be here that I haven’t noticed yet?

If you’d like to spend more time with this idea, you can listen to the full episode of A Thought I Kept with Tanya Lynch, where we explore what it means to trust that things will be OK without needing to force that belief.

And if you are finding that you need more support in understanding what you’re feeling or where you are, you can explore our private coaching at If Lost Start Here, where we make space for all of it, not just the parts that are easy to explain.

Sometimes, finding your way doesn’t begin with knowing what to do next, but with allowing yourself to arrive exactly where you are.

Grief Disco

Perfect For

Grief Disco is for anyone living with loss and looking for a different kind of space to hold it. It’s for people who don’t always have the words, who feel isolated in their grief, or who want to be around others who understand without needing everything explained. It’s for the heartbroken and the hopeful, for people who want somewhere gentle, human and a little unexpected to go with what they’re carrying.

You do not need to be good at dancing. You do not need to be ready to talk. You do not need to arrive in any particular state. You just need permission to come as you are.

Why You’ll Love It

Grief Disco offers something many grieving people are missing: a place to feel less alone without being forced into conversation or expected to “do grief” the right way. Through music, movement and a sense of shared understanding, it creates room for sadness, joy, memory, release and connection to exist together.

This isn’t about dancing to forget. It’s about dancing to remember, to honour and to reconnect. For some people that might look like tears on a dance floor. For others, it might be a small exhale, a moment of laughter, or the relief of being in a room where no one needs grief explained to them.

What Makes It Special

So much of grief can feel isolating. People don’t know what to say, or they say nothing. We can start to feel cut off from ourselves, from our bodies and from other people. What Grief Disco understands is that grief does not only live in words. It lives in the body too.

That’s what makes this space so powerful. It offers people a way to process loss through movement, music and presence, rather than through talking alone. There is no pressure to perform, no expectation to be upbeat and no fixed script for how you should feel. Everything is an invitation.

Grief Disco also holds something many of us forget is possible: that joy and grief can coexist. That a person can cry and dance at the same time. That love, memory, heartbreak and laughter can all be in the room together. In that sense, it doesn’t just offer support for grief. It offers a more human way of being with it.

The If Lost Take

There is something quietly radical about creating a place where grief is allowed to move.

So many of us are more familiar with the language of coping than the experience of actually feeling. We know how to keep going, keep functioning, keep answering “fine” when we are anything but. Grief Disco interrupts that. It offers something softer and, for many people, more freeing: a chance to let grief be alive in the body, not just managed in the mind.

What we love most is that this doesn’t turn grief into a problem to solve. It doesn’t rush people towards silver linings or ask them to package their pain into something neat and shareable. Instead, it makes room for what is true. Sometimes that truth is sorrow. Sometimes it is love. Sometimes it is a song that opens something you didn’t realise you were still carrying.

And sometimes healing looks less like fixing and more like finding a room where you can be fully human again.

Founders Story | Co-founded by Georgina Jones and Leah Davies

Grief Disco was born from lived experience of loss and a belief that grieving people deserve spaces that feel connecting, warm and real. Co-founders Georgina and Leah created it as a response to the loneliness that grief can bring and to the sense that many of the places available to grieving people do not always make room for the body, for joy or for community. Their approach is shaped by the understanding that no one should have to grieve alone, and that music and movement can help us find our way back to ourselves and each other.

Founder’s Go-To Wellbeing Advice

“Look for the love.

Look for the tiny moments of joy that are still here, even in the hardest seasons. Keep a playlist that helps shift your energy. Let music help you move what words can’t always reach.

And remember that grief is not something to fix or get over. It is something to feel, and you don’t have to feel it alone.”

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Some Practical Details

Grief Disco is a space where people can come together around grief through music, movement and optional sharing. Some events happen in person and there are also online grief discos for people who would rather join from home. The atmosphere is invitational rather than intense: you can dance, sit, cry, talk, stay quiet, turn your camera off or simply witness. There are also small ritual elements, such as dedications and moments to remember the person or people you are dancing for.

If you are grieving and looking for support, this may be one of those rare places that helps not by asking you to explain your loss, but by giving you somewhere to bring it.

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Grief Disco

Various locations. Follow on social media and sign up for their newsletter for future dates.

Website | Instagram | YouTube

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Feeling Lost, Disconnected, Overwhelmed, or Lonely? Here’s How to Find Your Way Back to Yourself

Life can feel heavy when you’re navigating overwhelm, loneliness, or a sense of disconnection. Maybe you feel stuck in routines that don’t nourish you, struggling to find clarity, or simply wondering what’s missing. Instead of trying to force yourself into generic self-care routines, what if you could create a wellbeing practice that fits you? That’s where our Wellbeing Prescriptions come in.

Inspired by social prescribing, our approach blends Culture Therapy, carefully chosen places from our Guide to Life, and an understanding of what you actually need. Most importantly, it starts with how you feel right now. This personalised approach helps you feel grounded, connected, and emotionally well on your own terms.

What is Wellbeing?

Wellbeing isn’t just about ticking off a to-do list of meditation, journaling, and yoga. It’s about finding what genuinely supports you—mentally, emotionally, and socially.

At its core, wellbeing is about:

• Emotional health – Learning to navigate your emotions with self-compassion rather than resistance

• Mental balance – Managing stress, uncertainty, and change with more ease

• Connection – Feeling supported by people, places, and experiences that align with who you are

But here’s the key: wellbeing is personal. What works for someone else may not be what you need. That’s why our approach is bespoke.

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How We Create Your Bespoke Wellbeing Prescription

Your wellbeing prescription is built around you, using three core elements:

1. We Start with How You Feel

Before prescribing anything, we begin with your reality today. Are you feeling:

• Lost? Unsure where to go next or what’s missing?

• Disconnected? Feeling detached from yourself or others?

• Overwhelmed? Struggling to manage stress, burnout, or emotions?

• Lonely? Longing for deeper relationships or more meaningful experiences?

These sessions first help you understand what’s happening beneath the surface—so we can tailor your wellbeing prescription to what will truly help.

2. We Look at What You Need

Everyone’s wellbeing needs are different. Some of us need more space, others need more connection. Some need creativity, others need calm.

Through our framework, we uncover what’s missing or what you’re craving right now—whether it’s:

• Rest – Slowing down, prioritising sleep, and reducing stress

• Clarity – Finding direction and making sense of where you are

• Purpose – Reconnecting with what feels meaningful to you

• Play – Bringing more joy, creativity, and fun into your life

• Connection – Strengthening relationships or finding community

3. We Curate a Wellbeing Prescription Just for You

Once we understand how you feel and what you need, we create a bespoke wellbeing prescription that may include:

Culture Therapy – A handpicked selection of books, podcasts, and creative resources designed to support your emotional wellbeing.

Places from our Guide to Life – Beautiful, thoughtfully designed spaces that foster connection, creativity, and mental wellness. Whether it’s an awe-inspiring museum, a community garden, or a cosy bookshop, we recommend places that help you feel at home in the world.

Practical Tools & Practice – Small, actionable steps that fit into your life, including journaling prompts, breathwork exercises, creative rituals, or moments of connection.

One-on-One Support – If needed, we offer coaching sessions to explore emotional resilience, purpose, and how to build a wellbeing practice that feels true to you.

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Why This Works for Anyone Feeling Lost, Lonely, or Overwhelmed

• It’s personalised to you – Instead of generic self-care tips, you get a wellbeing prescription that meets you where you are.

• It helps you navigate uncertainty – Using curiosity and self-acceptance, it guides you toward what feels good for you.

• It’s practical and flexible – No rigid self-care routines—just real-life wellbeing that evolves with you.

• It connects you to the world around you – Through culture, creativity, and inspiring places, you gain experiences that nourish rather than deplete you.

• It transforms your relationship with emotions – Instead of seeing emotions as something to ‘fix,’ you learn how to work with them.

The Day You Realise You’ve Been Living With Your Eyes Closed

We tend to think confidence arrives fully formed. A clear decision. A bold move. A moment where everything clicks into place. But often it begins with something far less impressive.

It begins with discomfort that doesn’t quite have a name. A low hum of restlessness that follows you through meetings, through conversations, through evenings on the sofa. You might not be able to point to anything that’s broken. You might even feel slightly ungrateful for questioning it. And yet the question lingers.

Am I actually choosing this?

That was the pivot in my conversation with Erica Moore, founder of speciality tea brand eteaket on the podcast this week. Not a dramatic exit. Not a grand reinvention. Just a quiet noticing that she had been progressing through a life she hadn’t consciously shaped. She had been capable, competent, successful but not fully awake.

There’s something unsettling about realising you’ve been living slightly on autopilot. It can feel like you’ve missed something. Like you should have known sooner. But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.

I think sometimes we simply reach a point where the life that once fitted us begins to feel tight around the edges. We outgrow ways of coping. We outgrow expectations we once accepted without question. And because the outside world still sees us as “fine,” it can be hard to admit the internal shift.

This is often where people arrive here. Not because they want to become someone new. But because they want to feel more like themselves. And that’s a different thing entirely.

In the episode of the podcast, we talked about tea as a container — a small moment in the day where you can pause without having to justify it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. How rare it is to have moments that aren’t productive, reactive, or outward-facing. How easy it is to move from task to task without ever checking whether the direction still feels right.

When you’re feeling lost, the instinct can be to find a bigger answer. A plan. A strategy. A reinvention.

But sometimes what’s needed is smaller. A little more space. A little more honesty. A little more willingness to sit with what’s true before deciding what to do about it.

Uncertainty doesn’t always mean something is wrong. It can mean something inside you is ready to be heard.

And the steadiness I come back to — in my own life and in coaching conversations — is this: you do not need to dismantle who you are in order to move forward. You do not need to be more disciplined, more confident, more impressive. You need to feel safe enough to notice.

When you allow yourself to notice what feels heavy, what feels enlivening, what feels misaligned, you begin to orient yourself again. Not through force. Through awareness. The work is not becoming someone else. It’s coming back to yourself, gently and repeatedly, until your choices begin to reflect who you actually are.

That’s not dramatic. It won’t make a good headline. But it does create a steadier life. And if you’re in that space right now — questioning quietly, searching for clarity, wanting change but not chaos — you are not behind. You are not broken. You may simply be opening your eyes.

You can listen to the full conversation with Erica on A Thought I Kept wherever you get your podcasts, and sit with the idea a little longer.

If you’re in a season of questioning or change and would value support as you find your way forward, our coaching sessions offer space for clarity, self-trust, and meaningful direction — at your pace.

You Don’t Have to Change Who You Are to Move Forward

Sometimes the feeling of being lost doesn’t announce itself loudly. It slips in quietly, disguised as self-doubt or restlessness. You find yourself wondering why the things that seem to work for everyone else don’t quite stick for you. Why your energy rises and falls. Why you can be so capable one week and so uncertain the next. Why the common advice about confidence or consistency feels faintly misaligned, as though it were written for someone else.

Many of the people who arrive here are not looking to reinvent themselves. They are looking for steadier ground. They are tired of trying to fix what might not be broken.

In a recent episode of A Thought I Kept, I spoke to writer and ADHD coach Gabrielle Treanor about a thought that had quietly reshaped her life: “I get to be here.”

When she said it, it wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t triumphant. It was calm. Considered. Almost surprised.

Gabrielle was diagnosed with ADHD in her late forties. For years she had assumed that her fluctuating motivation, her sensitivity, her tendency to procrastinate meant she simply wasn’t disciplined enough. She had tried to follow the prescribed routes to wellbeing — the routines, the systems, the ways of doing things “properly.” When she couldn’t sustain them, she thought the fault lay with her.

What changed was not her personality, but her understanding. Her brain worked differently. The expectations she had internalised were not neutral; they were shaped by a culture that prizes steadiness, productivity and linear progress. Realising this did not give her a new identity so much as a new understanding. A new willingness to stop apologising for the way she was wired.

I get to be here.

It is such a simple sentence, but it carries weight. It suggests that your presence is not conditional on becoming more efficient, more certain, more contained. It does not demand that you take centre stage; it simply reminds you that you belong in the room.

Many of us have been taught to make ourselves smaller in order to move through the world more smoothly. To temper our sensitivity. To soften our opinions. To be grateful for what we have and not ask for more. Even the language of wellbeing can subtly reinforce this shrinking — as though if we could only master the right practice, wake earlier, focus harder, meditate longer, we would finally become the sort of person who functions without friction.

But what if friction is not evidence of failure? What if it is simply information?

Gabrielle’s approach to wellbeing is rooted in experimentation rather than compliance. Instead of asking, “Why can’t I stick to this?” she asks, “What might work for me right now?” The difference is small but profound. It shifts the emphasis from self-criticism to curiosity. It acknowledges that we are not static creatures. Our energy shifts. Our capacity changes. The practices that nourish us in one season may not suit us in another.

For those of us who feel overwhelmed by self-improvement culture, this can be a relief. It allows us to step out of the exhausting cycle of starting and stopping, trying and failing, promising and abandoning. It invites us to pay attention to who we actually are, rather than who we think we ought to be.

If you are feeling unsure of your direction, it may not be because you lack ambition or courage. It may be because you have been trying to travel using someone else’s map.

To say “I get to be here” is to begin from your own coordinates. It does not solve everything. It does not remove uncertainty. But it offers a place to stand. From there, you can notice what feels steady and what does not. You can experiment gently. You can allow for inconsistency without interpreting it as collapse.

This is not an argument against change. Growth still happens. We still learn, adjust, stretch. But growth that begins from self-rejection rarely feels sustainable. Growth that begins from recognition — from a quiet acknowledgement of your temperament, your history, your rhythms — tends to be kinder.

If you are questioning whether the usual wellbeing advice works for you, that questioning may be wisdom rather than resistance. If you are tired of feeling behind, it may be because you have been measuring yourself against a timeline that was never yours.

You get to be here. As you are. With the brain you have, the experiences you carry, the particular mix of steadiness and fluctuation that makes you you.

If you’d like to hear the full conversation with Gabrielle, you can listen to the episode of A Thought I Kept where we explore this idea in more depth — including what it means to discover ADHD in midlife and how experimentation can replace striving.

And if you’re feeling especially untethered, our coaching sessions are here to help you explore these questions at your own pace.

There is no rush to become someone else. Sometimes the first step forward is allowing yourself to be exactly who you are.

What to Do When Life Falls Apart and You Feel Lost

There are moments in life when the ground gives way without your consent.

You didn’t choose the ending. You didn’t plan the disruption. A relationship ends because someone else makes a decision. A parent dies. A health diagnosis lands. A job disappears. And suddenly you are standing outside the life you built, holding pieces that no longer fit together.

In my recent conversation with Ray Martin on A Thought I Kept, what struck me most wasn’t the romance of fourteen years of travel. It was the year that came before it. In a single stretch of time he lost his marriage, his business partnership, and his father The identity he had constructed — successful businessman, husband, son— fractured all at once.

He didn’t wake up one morning and decide to reinvent himself. Life pushed him out.

And that is often how it happens.

When something unexpected pulls the rug from under us, the first instinct is to restore what was. To fix. To replace. To rush toward a new beginning so we don’t have to sit in the in-between. Ray became fascinated by this middle space — what William Bridges calls the neutral zone The place where the old life has ended but the new one hasn’t fully formed. From the outside, nothing looks dramatic. Inside, everything is shifting.

If you are in that space, it can feel disorienting. You might not recognise yourself. The roles that once organised your days no longer apply. The confidence that came from knowing who you were can wobble. You may feel lost not because you are indecisive, but because the map you were using is no longer valid.

Ray’s core thought — the one he kept — is living in surrender

Not surrender as defeat. Not resignation. But surrender as a different way of orienting when control has already slipped from your hands.

He began to pay attention to where his energy went. After visiting an elephant sanctuary and an orphanage, he couldn’t stop thinking about them. Instead of dismissing that tug as sentimental, he followed it. That eventually led him to train for and run a marathon to raise money, something he had never imagined doing before

What I take from that is not “run a marathon.” It is this: when life has already dismantled your plans, perhaps you can afford to listen more closely to what quietly draws you.

Unexpected endings often strip us back to something more elemental. Ray speaks openly about how, earlier in life, he overrode his instincts in order to stay in character After everything fell apart, he found he could no longer ignore those nudges. He began treating life as a series of experiments rather than a fixed destination

There is something gentle in that framing. If you have been kicked out of the life you built, the pressure to “get it right” next time can be immense. An experiment carries less weight. It allows you to try, to notice, to adjust.

Another shift that came for him was around feeling. He moved from living primarily in his head to allowing himself to express emotion more freely. That matters when we are navigating grief, anxiety, or overwhelm. Emotional states are not permanent addresses. They are places we pass through. Letting yourself feel does not mean you will be swallowed by it. Often it means the feeling can move.

He also rethought the idea of “ties.” Work, relationships, community, home. The issue, he suggests, isn’t being tied to something. It’s being unconsciously tied When life tears away a tie without your permission, there can be freedom hidden inside the shock. Not the freedom you would have chosen, but the freedom to ask: what do I now choose, consciously?

Later in the conversation, Ray talks about calculating how many days he might have left — around 5,700 at this stage Not as a dramatic countdown, but as orientation. If time is finite, what is worth fighting? What can be softened? What is no longer necessary?

When the unexpected happens, we often look for certainty. For guarantees. For a clear five-step plan. What Ray’s story offers instead is steadier and perhaps more honest. You may not get certainty. But you can cultivate attention. You can notice what feels alive, even faintly. You can allow the neutral zone to do its quiet work inside you.

Being lost is not always a failure of planning. Sometimes it is the inevitable consequence of loving, committing, building — and then losing.

If you find yourself outside the life you built, perhaps the question is not immediately “What should I do next?” Perhaps it is “What is drawing me, even now?”

You can listen to the full conversation with Ray on A Thought I Kept:

And if you are in the middle of your own unexpected transition, our coaching sessions at If Lost Start Here offers a place to think, feel, and find your footing again without pressure to rush toward a new identity.

You are allowed to be in between. You are allowed to listen before you leap.

When the Story You’re Living No Longer Feels Like Yours

You might be standing in the kitchen, making packed lunches. Nothing dramatic is happening. No argument. No crisis. Just the familiar rhythm of the morning — coffee cooling on the side, toast popping up, your phone lighting up with emails you already feel behind on.

You might catch yourself thinking, I’m good at this. At holding things together. At anticipating what everyone else might need. At getting through the day without making too much noise. And then, almost immediately, another thought follows: But I don’t remember choosing this version of myself.

It’s not that you dislike your life. You’re capable, loved, respected. From the outside, things look fine. But there’s a growing sense that you’re performing a role you’ve learned very well — one shaped by expectation, responsibility, and what once felt necessary — rather than living from a place that feels true to you now.

When you try to put words to it, they’re hard to find. You don’t want to sound ungrateful. You don’t want to blow things up. You just know that something about the story you’re carrying feels outdated, like clothing that once fit perfectly but now restricts your movement in small, tiring ways.

This is often how it begins. Not with a bold decision or a clear turning point, but with a quiet noticing. A moment where the life you’re living feels slightly misaligned with the person you’re becoming. Where the way you’re seen — dependable, easy-going, capable — no longer matches how you feel on the inside.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since my recent conversation on A Thought I Kept with Hilary Salzman. We talked about storytelling, voice, and self-trust — not as something polished or performative, but as something deeply everyday. The stories we absorb, repeat, and live inside, often without realising we’re doing it.

Hilary shared a thought that has stayed with her for years: if you don’t tell your story, someone else will. It isn’t a warning or a call to action. It’s more like a lens — a way of noticing what happens when we stop authoring our own lives and allow habit, expectation, or other people’s assumptions to fill in the gaps.

Most of us aren’t consciously choosing to live someone else’s story. It happens gradually. We adapt. We respond. We take on roles that make us legible and useful. We learn how to be good — good at work, good in relationships, good at coping. And for a long time, those stories can be protective. They help us belong. They help us get through.

But protection can quietly turn into distance. From ourselves. From our feelings. From the sense of aliveness that comes from knowing why we’re doing what we’re doing.

In the conversation, Hilary spoke about the discomfort that arises when the way the world sees you no longer matches how you see yourself. That mismatch can show up as anxiety, restlessness, or a low-level dissatisfaction that’s hard to explain. You might feel unsettled or unsure, even though nothing is obviously “wrong”.

What stays with me is how rarely this is about needing a better plan or a more confident version of yourself. More often, it’s about noticing. Becoming curious about the stories you’re living inside. Asking gentle questions, not to fix or optimise, but to understand.

Whose expectations am I carrying here?
What version of myself am I maintaining?
What would it mean to tell this story in my own words?

We live in a culture that treats uncertainty as something to overcome — as though clarity must arrive quickly, and confidence comes from having answers. But what if uncertainty is simply information? A sign that something is shifting. A signal that the story you’ve been living has reached its limits.

Hilary talked about how clarity often doesn’t arrive as an answer, but as a feeling in the body — a sense of constriction or ease. A quiet knowing that something no longer fits. And noticing this doesn’t require dramatic change or brave declarations. It can begin by allowing yourself to feel what’s already there, without rushing to make sense of it.

This is where self-trust comes in — not as confidence or self-belief in the motivational sense, but as a willingness to stay present with your own experience. To let your emotions inform you rather than embarrass you. To trust that discomfort isn’t a personal failure, but a reasonable response to living inside a story that’s outgrown its usefulness.

Many people arrive at If Lost Start Here feeling overwhelmed, behind, or unsure why familiar wellbeing advice isn’t helping. Often, that’s because what’s needed isn’t another strategy, but orientation. A way of standing still long enough to feel where you are, and what might be asking for attention.

Living your own story doesn’t mean having a perfectly articulated narrative. It doesn’t require sharing everything or knowing exactly who you are becoming. It’s less about broadcasting and more about authorship — about being able to come back to yourself and say, this is who I am, for now. This is what matters. This is what I’m no longer willing to override.

The stories we tell ourselves shape our nervous systems, our relationships, our sense of belonging. When those stories are borrowed, inherited, or outdated, it makes sense that we feel unsettled. And when we begin to gently reclaim them — not by rewriting our lives overnight, but by listening more closely — something steadies.

You don’t need to force a new story into existence. You don’t need to perform authenticity or prove your voice. Sometimes it’s enough to notice the gap. To recognise the feeling of misalignment without judging it. To stay curious about what’s trying to emerge.

If this resonates, you might want to listen to the full conversation with Hilary on A Thought I Kept. It’s a thoughtful exploration of voice, identity, and what it means to feel more at home in your own life.

And if you’re in a season of questioning — unsure, overwhelmed, or quietly ready for something to shift — there’s support here too. Not to fix you, but to help you find your footing, in your own time, and in your own words.

You’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to question the story you’re in. And you’re allowed to take your time deciding what comes next.

When No One Is Coming to Save You: Finding Self-Trust in Midlife

Sometimes feeling lost doesn’t look as dramatic as we think it might.

Rather it looks like getting through the day, doing what needs to be done, being relied on — and still having a sense that you’re not quite where you thought you’d be. Or that life feels oddly paused, even though everything is moving. You might not be unhappy, exactly. Just a little unheld. A little disconnected from yourself.

I notice this often when I talk to women in midlife. There’s competence there. So much experience. Caring for everyone and everything. And underneath it all, a feeling that something is meant to shift but absolutely no clear sense of how or when.

That feeling came up strongly for me in a recent conversation on A Thought I Kept with Edwina Jenner. As we talked, Edwina shared an idea that had stopped her in her tracks because it named something she hadn’t realised she was carrying.

The sense that, quietly, she had been waiting.

Waiting for things to feel easier. Waiting for confidence to arrive. Waiting for someone — or something — to step in and make life feel more manageable, more certain, more settled.

When she finally noticed that belief, it wasn’t crushing. It was clarifying.

Because alongside it came another realisation: no one else was coming to save her. She already had more agency than she’d been giving herself credit for.

Many of us arrive here having spent years responding to what’s needed — children, work, relationships, family, emotional labour. We learn to be capable. Reliable. Adaptable. And somewhere along the way, it can become easy to lose touch with our own pull. Not what’s expected of us, but what matters now.

Waiting can feel sensible. Responsible. Even kind. We tell ourselves we’ll come back to ourselves when things calm down. When there’s more space. When we feel more confident. When life gives us a clearer signal. But often, that signal never arrives.

Instead, what we notice are small signs of disconnection. Putting off caring for our bodies because we’re tired. Dismissing creative ideas because they feel indulgent. Ignoring rest, curiosity, or desire because other things seem more important.

In the conversation, Edwina spoke about strength, not as something performative or punishing, but as something built slowly, through attention and consistency. She talked about learning to trust herself again by doing what she said she would do. By listening to what pulled her, even when it felt uncomfortable. By recognising that motivation comes and goes, but self-trust is built through action.

What struck me most was how impactful this actually was.

Believing that no one is coming to save you doesn’t have to mean doing everything alone. It doesn’t mean hardening yourself or becoming self-sufficient at all costs. It can mean releasing an expectation that has unconsciously kept you waiting and turning back toward yourself instead.

There can be a kind of relief in that. Relief in realising you don’t need to become someone else to move forward. You don’t need a dramatic overhaul or a better version of yourself. You need permission to take yourself seriously. To listen more closely to what your body, your energy, and your inner life are already telling you.

When self-trust begins to rebuild, it rarely announces itself loudly. It shows up in small decisions. In boundaries that feel steadier. In caring for your body not as a project, but as a relationship. In choosing what supports you, even when it doesn’t look impressive from the outside.

If you’re feeling lost right now, it might not be because you’re “behind” or “broken”. It might be because you’re between ways of being. No longer able to live on autopilot, but not yet clear about what comes next.

That in-between can feel uncomfortable. But it’s also where attention returns. Where curiosity starts to replace pressure. Where you begin to notice that you already know more than you think.

At If Lost Start Here, we don’t believe that confidence or wellbeing come from fixing yourself or forcing change. They come from reconnecting — slowly and openly — with what matters to you now. From trusting that the things pulling at you are worth listening to.

If this resonates, you might like to listen to the full conversation with Edwina on A Thought I Kept.

And if midlife feels like a threshold you’re standing in — unsure, but ready for something to change — we’ve created a great resource to support that moment.

You can download our free midlife resource here.

Struggling With Comparison? Rethinking Confidence and Self-Trust

This is how it might go. You’re scrolling, or reading, or listening to a podcast, and you notice a flicker of feeling when someone else shares good news. A promotion. A book deal. A confident post about work they love. You’re pleased for them — genuinely — and yet something tightens. A question forms that you don’t quite want to look at too closely.

What does this mean about me?

Moments like this don’t usually come with drama. They’re small, everyday, easy to brush past. But they can linger. And over time, they shape how we see ourselves, how we show up at work, and how much space we allow ourselves to take.

This week on A Thought I Kept, I spoke to Nicky Denson-Elliott, and she brought a thought that disrupted that familiar inner pattern:

In order for me to win, no one else has to lose.

It’s one of those ideas that seems obvious when you first hear it and then quietly radical the longer you sit with it.

Because so much of our inner landscape has been shaped by the opposite belief. That success is scarce. That confidence belongs to certain people, not others. That if someone else steps forward, there’s less room for us. These ideas don’t usually announce themselves as beliefs. They show up as feelings: comparison, jealousy, self-doubt, hesitation.

Nicky spoke about how deeply this conditioning runs, especially for women. How it can shape our relationship with money, confidence, and visibility. How it influences the way we price our work — often not based on its value, but on what feels safe. How it quietly sets women against one another, even when connection and solidarity are what we most want.

What’s important here is that none of this is a personal flaw. These are not thoughts we invented. They’re learned. Reinforced. Picked up over time in workplaces, families, schools, media, and culture. When they surface, they can feel intensely personal but they rarely originate there.

And when life already feels full or uncertain, carrying these inherited ideas can make everything heavier. You might notice it in how hard you are on yourself. In the way you second-guess decisions. In the tension you feel around confidence — wanting it, distrusting it, worrying what it might cost.

One of the most grounding parts of the conversation with Nicky was her refusal to replace one set of rules with another. There was no invitation to be bolder, louder, or more confident in a performative sense. Instead, she talked about noticing. About recognising when a familiar reaction appears and asking, with curiosity rather than judgment: Is this actually mine?

That question alone can create a shift.

Because when we start to see that some of our thoughts are inherited rather than chosen, we don’t have to wrestle with them in the same way. We don’t have to argue ourselves out of feeling jealous or small or unsure. We can simply recognise the pattern, and loosen our grip.

This matters not just for our inner world, but for how we move through everyday life. Especially work. Especially relationships with other women. Especially moments where confidence feels like something other people have access to, and we’re still figuring it out.

Letting go of the myth of competition doesn’t mean pretending everything is fair or easy. It doesn’t mean denying ambition or discomfort. But it does open up a different orientation — one where someone else’s success doesn’t automatically diminish our own, and where confidence can be something we grow into, rather than something we perform.

For many of us, this kind of rethinking doesn’t arrive as a neat turning point. It shows up gradually. In small pauses. In moments where we choose not to rush to judgment — of ourselves or others. In the realisation that uncertainty doesn’t mean we’re failing; it often means we’re paying attention.

If you’ve been questioning old ideas about success, money, confidence, or what it means to be doing “well” in life, you’re not behind. You may simply be noticing that the old maps don’t quite match the terrain anymore.

Nicky’s thought offers a steadier way of orienting. It reminds us that life isn’t a zero-sum game. That generosity — toward ourselves and others — isn’t naïve, but grounding. And that self-trust doesn’t come from fixing or perfecting ourselves, but from recognising which beliefs were never designed to support us in the first place.

You don’t need to know what comes next. You don’t need to replace every thought at once. Sometimes it’s enough to notice which ideas make life feel smaller, and to wonder — without urgency — what it might be like to set one of them down.

If this resonates, listen to the full conversation with Nicky on A Thought I Kept.

And if you need help exploring some of the feelings you have around comparison — jealousy, self-doubt, hesitation — or what confidence even means to you, explore our emotions coaching sessions.

Feeling Stuck Until You’re “More Confident”? Curiosity Might Be a Better Place to Start

“I’ll do this when I feel more confident.”

We tell ourselves we’ll speak up, make the change, apply for the role, take ourselves seriously, or move forward once confidence arrives. Once we feel braver, clearer, more certain about who we are and what we want.

But confidence has a habit of staying just out of reach.

Not because there’s something wrong with us, but because confidence is rarely the starting point we imagine it to be. For most people, confidence grows through experience, not before it. The problem is that waiting to feel confident can keep us stuck, circling the same questions, postponing decisions, and quietly reinforcing the idea that we need to become someone else before we’re allowed to act.

This is where curiosity offers a different way in.

Curiosity doesn’t ask you to believe in yourself. It doesn’t require certainty or bravery. It simply invites you to explore. What would happen if you tried this? What might you notice if you took one small step, not to prove anything, but to learn?

When you approach change with curiosity, the stakes are lower. You’re not asking yourself to succeed; you’re allowing yourself to gather information. A conversation becomes an experiment rather than a test. A new direction becomes something you’re exploring rather than committing to forever.

This shift matters because it changes how we relate to ourselves. Instead of measuring every move against an imagined ideal, curiosity keeps us in contact with our actual experience. Each step, however small, offers insight rather than judgement. Over time, that insight builds self-trust — and confidence follows.

Many people who want to feel more confident are really looking for something deeper: a sense that they can trust themselves, that they’re allowed to make choices without constant second-guessing, that they don’t need to have it all worked out in advance. Curiosity supports that kind of confidence because it stays close to what’s real. It helps you learn what fits, what doesn’t, and what feels meaningful in your own life.

If you’re feeling stuck, unsure, or waiting for confidence before you move forward, curiosity can be a more accessible starting point. It allows movement without demanding certainty. It gives you permission to begin where you are, rather than where you think you should be.

If confidence, decision-making, or feeling stuck are recurring patterns for you, coaching can be a supportive space to explore them more deeply. Coaching isn’t about fixing you or telling you what to do; it’s about understanding what’s going on beneath the surface and finding ways to move forward that feel steady, realistic, and impactful.

You don’t need to wait until you feel confident. You can start by getting curious.

How to Handle Your Emotions When You’re Feeling Lost or Overwhelmed

There’s a moment many of us might recognise.

You’re trying to make a decision, move something forward, or simply get through the day — and your emotions feel louder than you’d like them to be. Anxiety edges in. Frustration bubbles up. Self-doubt has an opinion. And suddenly it feels harder to think clearly, trust yourself, or know what the next step might be.

When that happens, it’s easy to conclude that the problem is your emotions. That you’re feeling too much, or handling things badly. That if you could just calm down, be more confident, or stop overthinking, everything would be easier.

But what if the issue isn’t having emotions — it’s that most of us were never taught how to handle them well?

This question sat at the heart of a recent conversation on our podcast A Thought I Kept, with Isabelle Fielding. Isabelle works with individuals and organisations navigating change and uncertainty, and her work is grounded in a simple but often overlooked idea: emotions are part of being human, and learning how to relate to them is a skill — not a personality trait.

One of the key ideas Isabelle shared was this: Where there’s pain, there’s purpose. Not pain as something to glorify or push through, but pain as a signal. An indication that something matters, that a value is being touched, that attention is needed.

For many people who arrive here feeling lost, this is already a reframe. Because when emotions feel uncomfortable, our instinct is often to control them, deny them, or move away from them as quickly as possible. We tell ourselves we shouldn’t feel this way. We judge the feeling. We add a second layer — frustration, shame, self-criticism — on top of the original emotion.

Very quickly, things escalate.

Isabelle spoke about how emotions often stack like this. You feel anger, then feel ashamed of feeling angry. You feel anxious, then criticise yourself for being anxious again. Before long, it’s hard to know what you’re actually feeling — just that it’s too much.

Handling emotions better doesn’t mean stopping that first feeling from arising. It means learning how not to pile everything else on top.

In the conversation, Isabelle used an image that makes this easier to picture. Imagine being in the sea, trying to hold a beach ball underwater. It takes constant effort. Your arms ache. And eventually, no matter how determined you are, the ball bursts back to the surface — often catching you off guard. That’s what it can be like when we try to suppress or ignore our emotions. They don’t disappear; they resurface later, often louder and harder to manage.

A more sustainable approach is to let the ball float.

To allow emotions to be present without pushing them away — but also without letting them take over. Isabelle described this as learning to carry emotions lightly, rather than holding them right in front of your face. They’re there, but they don’t get to drive every decision.

This is where handling emotions becomes less about control and more about relationship.

Instead of asking, How do I get rid of this feeling? we might ask, Can I notice this without being overwhelmed by it?

Instead of assuming emotions make us unreliable, we can start to see them as information — not instructions.

Anxiety might be signalling uncertainty that needs time. Frustration might be pointing to a boundary or a mismatch. Self-doubt often appears where we care deeply about doing something well. None of these emotions tell us exactly what to do next but they can help us understand what’s going on inside us.

For people feeling lost, this can be grounding. Because it means you don’t have to wait until you feel calm, confident, or certain before you’re allowed to move forward. You don’t need to change who you are to begin handling things better.

Another important distinction Isabelle made was between experiencing an emotion and becoming it. Feeling anxious is not the same as being an anxious person. Feeling unsure doesn’t mean you can’t be trusted. Emotions are states — they come and go — even when they feel sticky or familiar.

Learning to handle emotions better often starts with noticing this difference.

It might mean pausing long enough to name what you’re feeling, without immediately reacting or analysing it. It might mean recognising when a second emotion — shame, irritation, self-judgment — has joined the first. It might mean allowing yourself to feel something without demanding that it resolve straight away.

This isn’t about emotional mastery. It’s about emotional steadiness.

At If Lost Start Here, we often talk about finding your footing rather than finding answers. About orientation rather than certainty. Learning to handle your emotions is part of how to navigate life. Not because emotions give you a perfect map, but because they help you stay connected to yourself as you move through change.

You may still feel unsure. You may still feel conflicted or overwhelmed at times. But handling emotions better doesn’t mean eliminating those experiences — it means being less knocked off course by them.

And that can make a real difference when you’re trying to move forward gently, in your own way.

If you’d like to explore this further, the full conversation with Isabelle Fielding is now available on our podcast A Thought I Kept.

And if you’re feeling lost or unsure and want support in understanding and handling your emotions, explore our coaching sessions.

The Thoughts That Stayed When the Year Felt Hard

Some years are easy to summarise.

They arrive with neat headlines: “the year everything changed”, “the year it all came together”, “the year of big decisions".

And then there are the other years. The ones that feel harder to pin down.

This has been one of those years for many of us.

A year where you might not have clear answers. Where you feel more tired than triumphant. Where you’re still carrying questions about work, identity, relationships, or simply how to feel okay in the everyday.

When we started the podcast A Thought I Kept, we weren’t looking for big breakthroughs or polished wisdom. We asked a much simpler question:

What’s the thought that stayed with you — when everything else fell away?

As the year draws to a close, those are the thoughts we keep returning to. Not because they fixed everything, but because they helped us navigate life just that little bit better.

Here are some of the ideas that stayed — especially when the year felt heavy, overwhelming, or uncertain.

When Thinking Harder Wasn’t the Answer

One of the strongest threads running through this year’s conversations was the idea that clarity doesn’t always come from effort.

In our conversation with Katie Driver, we talked about how thinking clearly often begins with paying attention, not pushing for solutions. That sometimes the most helpful question isn’t “What should I do next?” but “What am I noticing right now?”

For anyone ending the year feeling mentally overloaded, this idea might help you create space for, rather than force, clarity.

That might look like fewer inputs. Quieter mornings. Walking without headphones. Letting your thoughts arrive without interrogating them.

When life feels hard, this kind of attention can be grounding — a way to feel less lost without needing a map.

Listen to the episode with Katie Driver on A Thought I Kept.

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Learning to Trust Yourself Again (Slowly)

Another thought that stayed came up in conversations about self-trust.

Not the confident, decisive version of self-trust we often imagine — but a quieter kind. The kind that grows when you stop overriding yourself.

Several guests spoke about moments where they realised they had been ignoring their own signals for years: exhaustion, resentment, numbness, restlessness. And how wellbeing didn’t begin with adding more practices, but with listening.

If this year left you feeling unsure of yourself, this matters.

Self-trust isn’t rebuilt by grand declarations. It’s rebuilt in small acts:

• pausing before saying yes

• noticing what drains you

• letting your feelings be information, not obstacles

That idea alone — my feelings are trying to tell me something — was one many of us kept.

Explore episodes on emotions, attention and self-trust wherever you listen to A Thought I Kept.

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Overwhelm Isn’t a Personal Failure

Overwhelm came up again and again this year. Not as something to eliminate, but as something to understand.

In conversations about work, creativity and leadership, guests reflected on how overwhelm is often a signal that our systems — not our selves — need adjusting.

If you’re ending the year feeling overwhelmed, anxious or behind, this thought matters:

Overwhelm isn’t proof you’re failing. It’s information that’s pointing to too much noise, too many expectations, too little rest, or too little support. And noticing that is already a form of progress.

This is especially important at the end of the year, when reflection can quietly turn into self-criticism. These conversations reminded us that kindness — toward ourselves — is not a soft option. It’s a stabilising one.

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You Don’t Need to Fix the Year to Learn From It

One of the most reassuring ideas to come out of the podcast this year was this:

You don’t need to tidy the year up to take something meaningful forward.

You can let it be unfinished.

Many guests spoke about learning through living, not through tidy conclusions. About carrying insights forward even when situations hadn’t resolved.

For anyone feeling lost or disconnected right now, that’s an invitation to stop forcing meaning — and trust that some understanding unfolds later.

Sometimes the thought you keep doesn’t explain everything.

It simply keeps you company.

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Keeping these Thoughts Close

As we reached the end of the year, we realised something else: these ideas are easy to forget when life gets loud again.

That’s why we gathered the thoughts that stayed into a printable poster designed by Amanda — a way to live with them, not just read them once. Something to glance at on a difficult day. Something to remind you that you’re not alone in these questions.

You can shop the printable poster here — a collection of thoughts kept from the first year of A Thought I Kept.

And if any of these reflections resonated, we’d love for you to explore more.

Listen to A Thought I Kept — conversations about wellbeing, emotions, work, identity and self-trust, because when the year feels hard, sometimes the most helpful thing isn’t a plan — it’s a thought worth keeping.

Feeling Held in a World That Keeps Asking for More

There’s a particular kind of overwhelm that doesn’t come from doing too much — but from holding too much.

Holding work.

Holding family life.

Holding emotions, expectations, plans, worries.

Holding it all together, often quietly.

It’s something that came up again and again in my recent conversation with Lauren Barber on the podcast A Thought I Kept. We didn’t set out to talk about overwhelm directly, but as we spoke, it became clear that this sense of being unheld — of carrying more than feels sustainable — sits beneath so many of the feelings people describe as stress, burnout, anxiety, or simply feeling lost.

What does it mean to feel held?

When we talk about being held, we often imagine something external: support from others, community, care, someone stepping in. And that matters — deeply. But Lauren spoke beautifully about another layer of holding too: the ways we hold ourselves when life keeps asking for more than we feel we have to give.

In the episode, she shared how anxiety has been a long-term companion for her — not always loud or dramatic, but often living quietly in the body. In the gut. In the mornings. In the constant background hum of hypervigilance. That feeling of being alert even when things are technically “fine”.

What struck me was how she described mistrusting good feelings. How, when you’ve spent a long time braced for difficulty, calm can feel unfamiliar — even unsafe. Ease doesn’t always land as relief; sometimes it lands as something to be suspicious of.

Many of us recognise this, especially when we’re overwhelmed. We might know what would help — rest, space, gentleness, support — and still struggle to let ourselves receive it.

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Overwhelm isn’t always about doing too much

One of the ideas that stayed with me from this conversation is that overwhelm isn’t always about volume. Sometimes it’s about imbalance.

We’re holding a lot — but not being held in return.

Lauren talked about motherhood as a clear example of this. There are things in life that drain us simply because they have to be done. Meals, logistics, care, responsibility. We don’t always have the option to step away from them. And in those moments, the question isn’t “how do I escape this?” but “how do I support myself within it?”

Lauren spoke about counterbalancing — about finding small, everyday ways to bring nourishment back in. Not as a fix to the problem we can’t yet get to, but as a quiet form of care.

Putting music on while making breakfast.

Going for a walk, even when it’s inconvenient.

Wearing a favourite pair of earrings on an ordinary day.

These aren’t grand gestures. But they matter. Because they help the body feel a little safer. A little less alone. A little more held.

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The quiet cost of never being held

So many people we speak to at If Lost Start Here tell us they feel disconnected — from themselves, from their energy, from what they want. Often, that disconnection isn’t because they don’t care, or don’t know. It’s because they’ve been holding so much, for so long, without anywhere to rest.

When you’re constantly in that state, your nervous system doesn’t get the message that it’s okay to soften. Even moments of rest can feel uncomfortable. Even joy can feel fragile.

Lauren shared how somatic practices — working with the body, not just the mind — have helped her rebuild a sense of safety from the inside out. Not by forcing calm, but by meeting what’s there with compassion. By learning, slowly, that feelings move. That sensations pass. That being held can be something you practise, not something you wait for.

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Feeling held as a practice, not a destination

One of the most grounding ideas from this episode is that feeling held isn’t a one-time experience. It’s not something you achieve and then move on from. It’s a rhythm. A return.

It shows up in how you treat yourself when you’re tired.

In how you respond to anxiety rather than fighting it.

In whether you allow yourself small moments of care without earning them first.

This feels especially important at times of year when everything speeds up — when expectations multiply and space shrinks. When we’re told to reflect, plan, connect, celebrate, and keep going, all at once.

In those moments, being held might look less like changing everything and more like asking a quieter question: “What would help me feel supported right now?”

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Work, energy, and being held

At the heart of Lauren’s story is a thought she’s carried since her early twenties: “Life is too short to do work that you do not enjoy.”

Lauren spoke about learning to notice when her work drains her energy — when she feels flat, depleted, disconnected. And how those sensations have become signals rather than something to push through.

For many people, changing work isn’t immediately possible. But even then, the episode offers a gentler invitation: to notice where energy is leaking, and where it might be replenished. To bring more of what you need into your days, even when the structure stays the same.

Feeling held, in this sense, is about staying connected to yourself — even in imperfect conditions.

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A gentle invitation

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, unheld, or quietly disconnected right now, you’re not failing. You’re responding to a world that often asks for more than it gives back.

My hope is that this conversation with Lauren offers a pause. A moment of recognition. Perhaps even a small sense of being held — enough to help you take the next gentle step.

Listen to the full episode of A Thought I Kept: How We Learn to Feel Held with Lauren Barber — available on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

And if you’d like more thoughtful reflections, tools, and ideas for everyday life, especially for those moments when you feel lost or overwhelmed, join our mailing list. You don’t have to hold everything alone.

The Thought That Changed How I End the Year

Every year around this time, I feel a quiet tension building.

It’s not just the pressure to finish things, though that’s part of it — the projects left undone, the goals half-met. It’s something deeper. A low-grade noise, humming underneath the productivity tools and Pinterest-perfect vision boards.

That voice that says:

“You should be reflecting.”

“You should be setting goals.”

“You should be figuring out how to make next year better.”

And often, if I’m honest, I try to oblige. I sit down with the journal. I make the lists. I try to “get clear.”

But I don’t always feel clear. I just feel… tired.

So this year, I’m trying something different. Something softer.

And it started with one sentence from a conversation I had with coach and facilitator Katie Driver:

“The mind works best in the presence of a question.”

It landed so gently, I almost missed it. But the more I sat with it, the more it felt like a key — not just to better thinking, but to a better ending.

What if clarity doesn’t come from pushing — but from asking?

Katie’s work centers around helping people think for themselves — particularly those who feel like their minds are “buffering” or stuck in mental noise loops. In our episode of A Thought I Kept, she talks about the value of attention, the importance of quiet, and what can shift when we stop trying to force insight, and start trusting the questions.

As someone who has historically tried to think my way to control — to logic, list-make, or out-journal the overwhelm — this idea felt like an exhale. What if I didn’t need the answer yet? What if I didn’t need a 12-step plan? What if I just needed the right question?

So I tried one.

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The question that helped me end the year differently

On a particularly messy-feeling day, I sat down with this:

What would make this a good ending — for me?

Not a successful one. Not a productive one. Not an impressive one.

A good one. For the person I actually am.

And quietly, without fanfare, an answer rose:

Letting go of something I never really wanted.

Finishing one small thing I care about.

Taking a walk in silence, no headphones.

Choosing presence over performance.

Not exactly a 10-point strategic vision. But honest.

True. Grounded. And — perhaps most importantly — doable.

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Another question I’ve come to love:

“What do I need right now?”

It’s one Katie shared in the episode, and I’ve returned to it often.

When the list is long. When my brain feels foggy. When I’m tempted to sink into distraction instead of meeting myself gently.

Sometimes the answer is small — a cup of tea, a stretch, a text to someone I love. Sometimes it’s “nothing right now.” But just asking reminds me I have needs, and they’re worth listening to.

In a season that often prioritizes output — what did you accomplish, what are you planning next — this simple question helps me reorient inward. To listen. To care. To remember that ending well isn’t always about tying everything up. Sometimes it’s about releasing what no longer fits.

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A better ending is possible. But it starts with presence, not pressure.

So if you’re feeling behind or burnt out or like your brain is caught in a loop —

If you’re wondering how to reset without overhauling everything —

Here’s what I learned:

You don’t need to fix it all.

You don’t need to reinvent yourself.

You don’t even need to reflect perfectly.

You just need one honest, open question.

And a little space to answer it.

Listen to the episode: What to Do When You Can’t Think Straight with Katie Driver

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And if you need the space to think then explore our online and in-person coaching sessions. You can still book for the end of this year, or get a session in your calender for the start of 2026.