Seven Hours on Sun-beds (I'm Not a Beach Person)

I finally was able to relax into the warmth that is Greece. I spent seven hours on sun-beds. Three at one bay and four at another. This is not normal for me. I’m not a beach person.

— Fran Houston

Sometimes, being a supportive friend means sitting with them through their darkest moments. And sometimes, it means sitting with them on a beach helping them relax. This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran on the Greek island of Poros. She was visiting a dear friend of ours, Laurel Seaborn, who is a captain and instructor on a women’s sailing programme based in Athens. You can read about Laurel’s amazing journey in this article for American Sailing.

Over the fourteen years we’ve been friends I’ve been Fran’s virtual travel buddy on a number of trips within the US and abroad. In 2018 she spent a month in Ajijic in Mexico. It was the longest she’d been away from home since the three months she spent touring Europe with her parents in 2013. The challenges of the 2013 trip are described in our book High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder. You can read about our adventures in Mexico here on our blog (part one | part two | part three | part four | part five) and in No One Is Too Far Away: Notes from a Transatlantic Friendship. Fran took her copy of No One Is Too Far Away to Greece, both as something to read while she was away and to remind herself how she spent her time during those weeks in Ajijic.

I hadn’t intended writing about her trip to Greece, but that day on the beach when Fran finally managed to relax struck me as worth exploring. That might sound odd. What’s difficult about relaxing on a beach in the Mediterranean? Weren’t there any more serious issues or problems to blog about? What about the preparation for the trip? The journey itself? There were challenges of that kind and I’ve written about those aspects of traveling before. But relaxation isn’t a given when you live with chronic mental and physical illness.

When you travel you bring yourself with you. Your body with its health issues. Your mind with its hangups and tendencies to overthink and catastrophise. The people in your life with their needs and demands, no matter that you’d stress even more if you were completely out of touch and didn’t know what was happening with them. Poros is picture postcard beautiful — some of the sunsets Fran shared with me took my breath away — but the most idyllic setting is no guarantee you can let go of your concerns and truly relax. Achieving that release, even for an afternoon, is noteworthy.

Fran had several days to herself while Laurel led a sailing class. For the first couple of days Fran seemed on edge. She was determined to visit some of the places on her “Things to Do While I’m in Greece” list but never quite managed to relax into the experience of being away. I must add that I’m in awe of Fran for exploring Poros and the nearby islands as extensively as she did. If I’d been there on my own I’d have spent my days in the first coffee bar I found — which is how I spend most of my free time when I’m at home! Fran explored on foot and took taxis and boats as though she’d lived there her entire life, although I know how scary she finds navigating unfamiliar places on her own.

On the second Thursday of her trip she messaged me quite early in the morning (8 am my time, 10 am in Greece). She was still at the apartment. I was in the office, an hour into my working day. The chat conversations that follow took place throughout that day. They’re reproduced here with only minor edits for clarity.

Fran: Slow morning.

Martin: I’m on my second coffee.

F: I haven’t had any yet.

M: Any gentle plans for today?

F: I’m having a hard time getting going. I’m going to Russian Bay. It’s cooler today. 72F with wind. Not sure what to pack.

M: Take your jacket, to keep the breeze out.

Fran had bought the jacket for this trip. It was light enough to pack easily into a bag or pocket, but substantial enough to keep out the wind.

F: My French braid came out shitty. Sigh. But I’m not doing it over. I think I’ve packed too much but I really don’t know what to bring so I packed my larger backpack. I’m dragging my feet today.

M: You’re still moving. And you have pretty feet!

It was clear Fran wasn’t feeling great, but she was determined to get out and explore.

F: Waiting for the taxi. I feel like I did on Tuesday. It’s cloudy and windy and cooler. I’m in a bad mood.

M: Right now, maybe, yeah. Don’t hang on to it too tightly. It will pass. Feel it. Claim it. Love it. Let it go.

On Tuesday she’d found it hard to focus on herself while also caring for the needs of others back in the US. I knew better than tell her to ignore or reject how she was feeling. Instead, I referenced one of our most commonly used mantras. As we describe in High Tide, Low Tide “It can be challenging to handle powerful emotions, especially when they seem to come out of nowhere. Rather than allowing our emotions free rein, or trying to deny them, we find it helps to accept what we feel, take whatever meaning we can from the experience, and then release our attachment to it so we can move on.” Fran didn’t acknowledge my suggestion but the next time I heard from her she was at the Russian Bay Beach Bar. From the photo she sent me, it looked deserted. Even a little severe.

F: It’s empty, and windy. I can walk to Love Bay. It’s kinda cold.

M: Looks like you have the place to yourself.

F: I need coffee.

M: Welcome to my world! Hope the coffee is good.

F: The coffee is good. Chairs are hard and uncomfortable.

I believed her about the weather and the chairs, but she was still seeing things through jaded eyes. She seemed keen to move on.

F: It’s a 13 minute walk to Love Bay. Taxi driver said 5 mins. I wish I had brought my Tylenol. Have a bit of a headache.

I decided to shift the conversation a little. I wasn’t feeling too great myself.

M: My tummy is easier than yesterday but still uncomfortable. I have the day off work tomorrow but I’ll not go into town. I’ll stay close to home.

Fran sent me a short audio clip of the waves breaking on the shore.

M: Wind and waves! Thank you!

F: No swimming for me! I will stay here a bit longer but will then go to Love Bay.

She sounded unsure whether to stay or go. It was something I recognise in myself. I tend to be restless when I’m on vacation. I’ll stop somewhere for a drink or something to eat, then look to move on to the next place on my list for the day.

F: Just had a wind gust with sand. May be time to go? I just started relaxing. Sigh. I’m such a poo-poo-er. It’s actually not too bad here.

M: Stay a little longer then?

F: Yeah. I’m in no rush. The only things I need to get home for are eating with [my friend] and my sunset dip.

M: If you are able to relax here, make the most of it.

It was the first indication Fran might be prepared to slow things down. A little while after, she sent me a photo of the view along the beach.

F: I’m so glad you’re here with me!

M: Forever and always.

F: I’ll stay here until 2 pm. When did I get here?

M: About two hours ago.

The next time I heard from Fran she was at Love Bay. She sent a photo of the bay and one of the drinks menu.

F: I will have a cappuccino, banana milkshake, ham cheese tomato sandwich, and some sort of drink. A Love Bay drink: rum, malibu, frangelico, banana, vanilla ice cream. 10 Euros.

M: Looks great.

F: I like Love Bay better than Russian Bay. It is less desolate. And at Love Bay they wait on you!

M: Haha well you’ve seen both now!

F: The chairs are much better quality too and there are pillows.

Another photo, looking up at the tree that shaded her beach chair.

F: When I look up, this is what I see. I like that I am under a tree.

M: This is our place now!

F: I think she brought me a margarita instead of what I ordered. Sigh.

M: If you tell the waitress you might get the margarita for free!

A photo of Fran’s drink on the table, with the water in the distance.

F: I don’t think I’ll cause a fuss about the drink.

M: It’s a beautiful location. I could write blogs there very happily.

F: I don’t suppose you’ll write a blog about our trip?

M: I hadn’t planned to. I’ll publish yours if you write one!

Fran sent me a short video of a boat on the water. People swimming. The waves lapped on the shore no great distance in front of her chair.

F: I think I’ll leave around 5 pm.

M: You’ve felt more able to relax here?

F: Well, both places have their perks but I like this one better. I’ve been on a sun-bed since 11.30 am! That’s a record. I’m not a beach bum.

M: Me neither!

Fran was finally letting go of her frustrations and low mood.

F: It’s kinda funny. I don’t want to leave. I’m waiting for my friend to get back to me about tonight. Not sure if I will have my sunset dip. It depends on when she wants to get together.

M: It’s nice that you have that feeling. Earlier this week you said you kept feeling you needed to be always moving on to the next place or thing.

F: Yes! I’m not in a rush to leave here. Maybe I’ll wait until she responds because then I’ll have a better idea of what my night will be like. If she doesn’t call I’ll leave between 5.40 and 6.10.

M: What’s the journey back like from here?

F: Taxi. 10 Euros for about ten minute ride.

Her friend messaged to say she couldn’t meet up that evening. I thought Fran might be disappointed but she wasn’t. It meant she had the rest of the day to herself. She sent me a link to the website of the Colona restaurant.

M: That looks amazing.

F: I will do my sunset dip. Then eat at Colona. Then hang out on the veranda. Then bed. Tomorrow I’ll put out the trash. Coffee from Colona. Hang out on the deck. Do some Athens research. Noon swim. Shower. Braid my hair. Welcome Laurel home!

M: You’ve made this day your own, Fran. I’m proud of you.

The next day, Fran moved gently through her various activities. It was late by the time Laurel returned, exhausted from her days on the water with her class. The following morning, I had a video call with them both on the veranda of Laurel’s apartment with its incredible view across the roofs of the town to the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. It was great to see Laurel again, to hear about her sailing trip, and to talk about the things Fran had done while she was away. I mentioned the blog I was writing about Fran relaxing on the beach. Laurel offered the wisdom that “You don’t have to do. You just have to be.” That is so valuable and true, but as I’ve shared here, not always as easy to achieve as it is to say.

I’m grateful to Laurel for the opportunity to visit her (virtual traveling is still traveling!) and look forward to Fran and I both returning in the future.

Over to You

Do you find it easy to switch off when you are on vacation, or do you discover you’ve brought your cares and stresses away with you? What tips do you have to help yourself relax, at home or away? Where do you feel most at ease? Fran and I would love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

If you fancy the idea of sailing in the Aegean, check out the Women’s Sailing Program for details.

 

Photo by Fran Houston, Poros, Greece.

 

Every Grey Hair Is a Badge: Fifteen Life Prompts by Holly Hatam

Every grey hair is a badge. Every wrinkle, a receipt for the life I’ve lived.

— Holly Hatam

This article was inspired by an Instagram post by best-selling children’s book author and illustrator, animator, and self-confessed daydreamer Holly Hatam. Her post challenges us to think about the lives we’ve lived and are living, from the perspective of our later selves. It’s a gentle challenge. As Holly notes, “[...] this isn’t a list of regrets.”

It’s a wish list.
A compass for the rest of my life.
Because I want to be 80 and say: I lived. Fully. Unapologetically.

The post closes with a “before it’s too late” invitation complete with fifteen prompts. “Write or draw the things you don’t want to leave unsaid, undone, or unclaimed and what you’ve been waiting to do, say, or finally make space for.” The prompts align with work I’ve done over the past year or so concerning end of life planning and my thoughts on reaching the age of sixty-four. I knew immediately that I’d take her up on the invitation. Thank you, Holly, for the post and for agreeing to me sharing my response. I hope you find it interesting.

What am I still waiting to say?

As a self-identifying writer and blogger (the t-shirt I’m wearing today proclaims EAT. SLEEP. BLOG. REPEAT.) this first question is both relevant and important. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to answer! In 2022 I explored my approach to blogging in Write without Fear, Edit without Mercy: Eight Questions for the Honest Blogger. Two of the questions concern factors that restrict what I might otherwise wish to explore. The first focuses on subjects I don’t feel qualified or experienced enough to write about.

There are topics I’d like to write about but haven’t yet found a way to approach them as I’d wish to. These include my perspective as a caring friend when someone I know has taken an overdose or harmed themself. I can’t imagine ever writing about abuse, addiction, rape, or trauma. Those are too far beyond my lived experience for me to do them justice.

Since then, I have in fact explored some of these topics. In 2024 I was invited to write an article about supporting a friend who’s survived rape or sexual abuse.

I’m grateful [for the opportunity] to write this post. My first thought was, I don’t know what I could say that would be of value to anyone. A moment’s reflection, however, reminded me that several of my friends are survivors of rape and sexual abuse. How do I know this? Because at some point they told me about it. More significantly, they allowed me into their lives, as they live through the consequences and impact of what happened.

The second obstacle is the fear of offending others.

I would like to be completely honest, open, and genuine in everything I do and write, but honesty means admitting I’m afraid people might not like what I’ve shared, and won’t like me as a result. Who I am — who I really am, with my insights, experience, and wisdom; but also my faults, failings, and hang-ups — is all I have to offer. There are things I’ve chosen not to write about because of that fear.

I continue to struggle with this, although I’ve tested my boundaries in the past year or so by writing about my atheism and certainty there’s no ultimate purpose or meaning to our lives, end of life planning, and my experience of friendship breakups. I was wary of being too open lest I upset or worried the people close to me, but those fears have proven unwarranted so far. I don’t have a specific list of Things I Still Want to Say but I’m encouraged to continue to write as honestly and genuinely as I can.

Who do I want to spend more time with?

I consider myself fortunate in the family and friends I have around me at this time in my life. There are a few people I could wish to spend more time with but I have things pretty well balanced. Perhaps the person I would like to spend more time with is — me.

What’s one thing I’d regret not doing?

I have an almost pathological aversion to regret. What does it even mean? We can’t go back and do things differently. I’m unconvinced we even have free will, in the sense of being able to choose to act other than we do. There are things I’ve done (and not done) which led to pain or disappointment for me and for others. I can — and sometimes do — feel bad about that. Regret, though? I genuinely don’t understand what “I wish I’d done differently” means.

Perhaps I can approach the question differently. What’s one thing you wanted to do but didn’t? Back in my university days I had friends who did a parachute jump for charity. I wasn’t invited but I imagine I’d have declined if they’d asked me. The idea stuck with me nonetheless, deferred until some unspecified time in the future. I dare say I could still do one if I wanted to, but the urge has passed. I’ve zip-wired from the Tyne Bridge twice for charity. That’s my adventurous spirit satisfied.

What have I put off because I thought I had more time?

This question suggests there are things I’ve wanted to do, that are now out of reach because of my age. I can’t think of any. That’s partly because I’ve always struggled with the idea of wanting things. As I wrote in Why Bucket Lists Don’t Work for Me “I’ve never known how to frame goals, targets, or ambitions, preferring to allow life’s path to unfold before me. That’s been true in my personal life and relationships, as well as my career and creative endeavours.” That’s not to say I’m complacent. There’s plenty to be figured out and put in place from an end of life planning perspective.

What’s still worth fighting for?

I find it hard to be positive about the future of humankind. From an evolutionary perspective we seem programmed to look after ourselves first, our tribe second, and everyone else last. This “us and them” mentality may have served the species in the past, but it leaves us unwilling — and perhaps unable — to set personal and tribal priorities aside to address global concerns. Most people I know are fair-minded, generous, and kind. Unfortunately, societies don’t vote in governments that are fair-minded, generous, and kind. They — which is to say we — vote in governments we believe will look after our provincial and immediate needs. That doesn’t mean equality, tolerance, and fair-mindedness aren’t worth fighting for. Indeed, they may be the only things worth fighting for.

What have I been avoiding that needs my attention?

There are a number of household maintenance tasks which I’ve put off over the years, to the point where some are becoming urgent. I’ll continue to avoid them, however, until the last possible moment. I’ll then be surprised at how relatively straightforward they were to address. I will learn nothing from this.

Who do I need to forgive, even if they’ll never say sorry?

I learned early on that grudges are far more trouble than they’re worth. When I was eight or nine years old I made a highly detailed pencil drawing of a deer on a large sheet of paper. I rolled it up carefully and took it into school to show my teacher, only to have a friend grab at it and tear the paper. I was furious at him for what he’d done. I vowed never ever ever to forgive him. My “never ever ever’ lasted maybe three days, before I realised hating him wasn’t worth the mental and emotional energy it took to maintain. All these years later, I feel the same. I can’t think of anyone I need to forgive, and new hurts don’t last very long.

What do I want someone to know, in case I never get the chance?

It’s tempting to run through a list of family and friends, telling them they’re loved in case they don’t know that already. There’s a deeper aspect to the question, though. What do we actually want other people to know about us? It’s a question I’ve explored previously in How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary.

I’d like people to know more than 10 percent of Marty but there has to be room for what can only be mourned. What’s lost is as important as what’s preserved. I’m recognising that legacy work is a creative process. I get to be selective, to shine a light on this and that, leaving other parts in the shadows. I see it as curating my life as one might curate an art exhibition or anthology. Not everything will make the final cut. I’d settle for 40 percent. (Ah, but which 40 percent?)

I’ve drafted my obituary since then and intend writing my own eulogy, but the question continues to tax me. It’s not as simple as saying “I love you” to various people. (Or even, as I did recently, “If you read this, I’m sorry. I will always be sorry.”) Curating one’s legacy is, arguably, the work of a lifetime. Maybe it’s enough to live genuinely, trusting that others will know and remember me as they need to.

I asked my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson what she thought of this prompt. She replied immediately on my behalf, “I want Aimee to know she’s a talented and beautiful young woman.” Both of which are true, of course!

What brings me joy that I haven’t made time for?

This isn’t easy for me to answer. I’ve never lived my life in search of joy or happiness, both of which seem fleeting and illusory to me. I’ve explored this several times, including a blog post from 2021 titled Connection, Creativity and Challenge: In Search of My First Best Destiny. “Travel doesn’t do it for me,” I wrote. “So what does? What gives my life meaning and purpose?” Referring back to a Brené Brown seminar Fran and I attended online in 2016, I gave my life values as CONNECTION, CHALLENGE, and CREATIVITY. Those remain valid for me today. I feel most connected, most challenged, most creative, in my friendships and in my writing.

I’m not sure about the “haven’t made time for” part of the question. There are only so many hours in the day, so many days in the year, so many years left in this lifetime, but I feel I’m making decent use of the time I have available to me. There will be a change within the next few years when I retire from full time employment, but I’ve yet to figure out how my life will look after that watershed event. There’ll be “more time” for me to do stuff, but I’m unsure what stuff that will be, or even what I’d like it to be. A colleague told me “You can’t spend all your time in coffee shops doing your writing.” We’ll see about that!

What fear has been holding me back the most?

I’m reminded of the Litany Against Fear in Frank Herber’s fantasy novel Dune.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

I’ve written elsewhere of my experience of subclinical anxiety. Anxiety isn’t easily dismissed by the kind of mental discipline the Litany advocates, but in any case we’re talking here about something more fundamental. I’ve already mentioned the fear of being misunderstood in relation to what I disclose in my writing. More visceral is the fear of being understood perfectly — and being rejected and hated for it. I’ve explored this creative dilemma in a post inspired by Donald Woods Winnicott’s assertion that “[a]rtists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide.” It’s not a naive fear in these days of online judgement, cancellation, and vilification. It’s one I continue to struggle with.

What is one truth I’ve been afraid to admit?

I’ve questioned myself, as most of us have at some time or another: Is this my life, then? Is this all there is? These questions are easy to dismiss in your teens, in your twenties, even in your thirties. There’s plenty of life ahead of you, or at least it seems that way. Plenty of time to take stock, and change direction if you want to. That’s less easy at sixty-four. An important part of what I’ve been working through in the past couple of years is the recognition that yes, this is my life. That doesn’t mean aspects of it can’t be challenged, developed, or changed, but recognition and acceptance come first. Once the truth of “what really is” has been faced, there is space for clarity. To quote again from Herbert’s Litany Against Fear, “Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

What did I love doing as a child?

I remember very little of my early childhood. A few isolated memories. Visiting Liverpool docks with my father when I was very young. (Do I remember it, or just know it happened from a photograph of the two of us together?) Sitting cross-legged in the playground with my future classmates on my first day at primary school. Winning the class anagram competition at the age of ten or eleven. Playing on the typewriters at my father’s office. Snippets. Moments. But what did I love doing? I remember playing with Lego, Meccano, and model zoo and farm animals. My father made me a wooden fort one Christmas. I had the Captain Scarlet Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle, a James Bond 007 attaché case, and a toy cowboy rifle. (The cowboy rifle was a disappointment. I wanted an assault rifle that fired hand grenades like my friend next door had.) But what did I love?

I spent a lot of time reading and looked forward to the return of the mobile library each week. I can still recall the excitement of climbing the steep stairs into the vehicle, the narrow gangway between the shelves, and the smell of the books. I wrote poetry. Nonsense stuff to begin with that documented the comedic exploits of my friends, shifting to intense and serious verse inspired by my adolescent devotion to several of my female teachers. A friend introduced me to the works of J. R. R. Tolkien. That sparked an interest and delight in his fantasy realm of Middle-earth that lasted many years. I taught myself the Elven runes and Tengwar script, which fed a life-long fascination with alternative and secret writing.

What would I do differently if no one was watching?

I’m not entirely sure what Holly means by this question. She may be hinting at the things we do solely because of social convention, or because we feel (or are told) we “should” do them. I’m not a big fan of the word should! I can’t think how I’d answer it in those terms so I’m going to cheat. (Echoes of James T. Kirk and the Kobayashi Maru training exercise, for any Trekkies out there!)

I’ll reword the prompt as What would I do differently if I was free of commitments and responsibilities? I’m thinking back to when I lived in London in the mid-eighties. I had a job and good friends but I was single and free of most societal and personal commitments and responsibilities. I spent my time creatively, which in those days focused on my journal and poetry, photography, and making cuddly toys, jewellery, and wooden clocks. I took walks. Explored the city on weekends. I wrote letters (real paper and pen letters) to my friends. I fell in love easily and unsuccessfully. I thought and felt a lot, and way too deeply. If I were to be released from my present commitments and responsibilities, I might fall back into some of those old habits, but I’ve grown and changed a lot in the past forty years. At least, I hope so.

What parts of my life feel like they’re on autopilot?

I’ve lived most of my life on autopilot. I’ve tended to coast along, allowing things to happen to me rather than acting on my needs, desires, and wants at the time. As I’ve recounted elsewhere, I once deflected an explicitly romantic advance from someone I liked very much with a kiss on the nose, so confident was I there’d be plenty of other opportunities for us to take things further. It was hesitation on a comedically epic scale and I still cringe at the memory. (Sorry, Jenny, although it may have been a lucky escape on your part!)

I still approach my life that way. It’s not that what happens to me isn’t important, more that what specifically happens (this rather than that, here rather than there) is less important than how I navigate and respond to it. It’s why I don’t have a bucket list. Traveling to distant places or ticking some adventure off a list isn’t going to contribute to my life’s meaning. What does make a difference is being present and focused on what’s actually happening to and around me.

What does “a life true to myself” really mean?

I’ve explored my approach to life in various articles. These include my response to John Strelecky’s 2020 bestseller The Cafe on the Edge of the World: A Story About the Meaning of Life. I found the book interesting for the questions it posed — Why are you here? Do you fear death? Are you fulfilled? — but lacklustre in the solutions it proposes. These centre on the search for a personal PFE (Purpose for Existing). That’s simply not something that works for me. As I wrote in my response to the book, “I no longer believe — if I ever truly did — in an ultimate Purpose for Existing for any of us. The very idea is absurd to me, in the sense of the absurdist philosophy of Albert Camus. [...] The universe exists, and we exist within it, devoid of [absolute] meaning or purpose.”

And yet, I endeavour to live my life with integrity. What does that mean to me? I’ve yet to find a clear answer. As I described a few years ago, “[f]acing up to where and who I am and deciding where I want to go next is the greatest challenge of all, and maybe it’s okay that I don’t have everything worked out yet.”

Over to You

I’m immensely grateful to Holly for the opportunity to take stock of my life at this point in time by answering her life prompts. Here they are again if you’d like to answer them for yourself. Please credit Holly Hatam if you do.

• What am I still waiting to say?
• Who do I want to spend more time with?
• What’s one thing I’d regret not doing?
• What have I put off because I thought I had more time?
• What’s still worth fighting for?
• What have I been avoiding that needs my attention?
• Who do I need to forgive, even if they’ll never say sorry?
• What do I want someone to know, in case I never get the chance?
• What brings me joy that I haven’t made time for?
• What fear has been holding me back the most?
• What is one truth I’ve been afraid to admit?
• What did I love doing as a child?
• What would I do differently if no one was watching?
• What parts of my life feel like they’re on autopilot?
• What does “a life true to myself” really mean?

Holly Hatam
www.hollyhatam.com

 

Photo by Jeff Sheldon at Unsplash.

 

Ouchies! When Little Things Hurt a Lot

TW: Mention of suicide and self-harm.

A thousand paper cuts given over a lifetime might be insignificant, but when none of them are allowed to heal, they fester into something awful.

― Darcy Coates, The Haunting of Leigh Harker

This blog post was inspired by a conversation with my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. Aimee’s had a significant knee injury for a while and wanted to update me on some additional painful, but relatively superficial, damage.

Forgot to tell you, I hurt my knee again today. It happened outside so it got all scraped. The scrapes are very sore! You know that tingly pain you get with grazes? It’s a different kind of pain than a broken bone pain or a bruise pain. And there’s that thing people say about smaller injuries being more painful ... I’m feeling like that’s pretty true!

I agreed, giving the example of how paper cuts can be agony despite not being serious in a medical sense. “Yes!” she replied. “That’s exactly the example I was going to use!” It was a fun to find ourselves on the same page. More than that, it gave me the idea for a new blog post about how things that appear relatively minor can nevertheless hurt a great deal.

When Little Things Hurt More than We Expect

It’s a truism that “little things hurt a lot.” In general, this is because our expectations don’t match reality. That paper cut looks superficial. It might not even be deep enough to bleed. And yet, it really hurts! What’s surprising isn’t the fact that a relatively minor injury can hurt so much. The edge of a sheet of paper can be razor sharp, and our fingertips are served by a great many nerve endings. What’s surprising is that we’re surprised every time it happens. The injury is only “small” because we focus on the external injury rather than its impact on us. This mismatch between how things are and how we imagine they are doesn’t only apply to paper cuts, grazes, and other minor injuries. Naive, ill-informed, or inappropriate expectations underlie much of the pain we experience in life.

If It Hurts It Hurts

Sometimes we do or say something that hurts another person in ways we neither intended nor anticipated. I forgot a close friend’s birthday this year. I’m not sure how it happened. I have a calendar reminder, and in previous years I’ve remembered to send a card or gift. I was surprised that I forgot this time, but what really caught me off guard was the depth of the hurt my friend felt at my unintentional omission.

At times like this I remind myself of a line by American comedian and actor Louis C.K. “When a person tells you that you hurt them, you don’t get to decide that you didn’t.” I wouldn’t have been hurt if my friend forgot my birthday, but that’s irrelevant. I listened as my friend described how much she was hurting, and some of the reasons why it hurt as much as it did. I apologised, but deep hurt can’t be healed so easily. Only change — my change — can do that. I’ve set additional reminders for next year.

When Big Things Hurt More than We Expect

The mismatch between anticipation and reality applies to big things too, and there are few things bigger than our search for meaning. What is my life for? Why am I here? What’s this all about? We’ve all asked ourselves these questions at some time. As most do, I come up short. Desperate for answers as we are, it hurts to realise that the universe has nothing to offer. There’s no absolute purpose and meaning to existence beyond those we make for ourselves. It’s the ultimate discrepancy in expectations; an existential crisis philosopher Albert Camus termed the Absurd. He was well aware how devastatingly painful this can be. His book The Myth of Sisyphus opens with the assertion that “There is only one really serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.” To be clear, Camus rejected both physical and intellectual suicide as responses to the Absurd. His challenge is to find healthy ways to accept the situation and live a meaningful life anyway.

Death is by no means a little thing and yet even when we can anticipate it — the passing of an elderly family member, for example — we’re shocked at how deeply the death of our loved one hits us. This is exacerbated by our reluctance to face death in advance. We don’t want to think about it until it happens. I’ve taken a few steps towards death education and end of life planning, a journey I’ve described in such posts as Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed and How Much Do You Want to Know about Me? Thoughts on Writing My Obituary. No amount of education and planning can insulate us from the pain of losing someone we love and care about. That’s not the point, nor would it be a healthy aim. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, but facing up to the reality of death and what it means gives us permission to feel its impact more fully and genuinely when the time comes.

We Feel Physical Pain in Our Own Way

Sensitivity to physical pain varies a great deal. The following is excerpted from Ouch! The different ways people experience pain by Christian Jarrett for the British Psychological Society.

The sensitivity and tolerance people show towards pain varies predictably according to several factors, including gender, ethnicity, personality and culture, all interacting, overlapping and playing out in the tissues and synapses of the body. Indeed, the topic of individual differences in pain is like a microcosm of science – it’s where biology, psychology and sociology all meet.

Two conditions involving an increased sensitivity to pain are hyperalgesia and allodynia. Hyperalgesia is where you feel an excessive amount of pain in situations that most people would find only moderately painful. Someone with allodynia feels pain in circumstances that wouldn’t normally hurt at all, such as the touch of clothes against your skin. With allodynia, the person’s nervous system misinterprets touch signals as pain. Medication can also affect a person’s sensitivity to pain. If you’re on analgesic medication for a long-term condition or illness, you’re likely to feel less pain from any new injury.

We Feel Emotional Pain in Our Own Way

As with physical pain, we all experience and respond to emotional challenges differently. What seems minor to one person might be extremely hurtful to someone else. Past injuries, trauma, or abuse are amongst the reasons someone might respond in ways that seem extreme or inappropriate if you’re unaware of what’s going on. Actions, words, topics, and situations might trigger flashbacks and emotional responses that seem out of character or disproportionate.

A clear example of the mismatch between physical and emotional pain is in the area of self-harm. I’ve witnessed situations in which someone has inflicted a physically significant, even dangerous, injury that was extremely painful, without any obvious emotional hurt involved. In contrast, I’ve known someone cause an injury that was almost trivial in physical terms, and yet feel intense emotional and mental pain at what they’d done.

I’ve written elsewhere about my response — or relative lack of response — to bereavement. “The death of a friend,” I wrote, “affected me far more than either my father’s death when I was eighteen or my mother’s, decades later.” Grief is grief, irrespective of who or what we’ve lost, or how profoundly it’s experienced.

There’s no hierarchy of grief and no loss is unworthy of being mourned. The death of a parent, child, partner, family member, friend, or animal companion, may all be deeply felt and deserve respect, caring support, and compassion. This is true whether we were bereaved by old age, accident, suicide, illness, conflict, crime, or any other circumstance.

I’ve witnessed how deeply the loss of a beloved pet can be, despite having no commensurate experience of my own. I’ve more experience of the pain that can accompany the ending of a close friendship. It’s another example of where reality can be out of step with what’s considered socially appropriate. We’re expected to feel pain after the breakup of a romantic relationship. There’s far less accommodation when a close friendship ends. It’s not supposed to tear us apart, yet so often it does.

And then, some people simply seem more sensitive than other to what’s going on around them. The following unattributed exchange captures this well.

Someone asked me, “What is your weakness?”
“I’m sensitive. Smallest things hurt me.
“What’s your strength?
“Little things make me happy, too.”

— Unknown

I began this post focused on the commonplace that “little things hurt a lot” but it’s brought me to the deeper awareness that we all feel things differently. That might seem no less trivial an observance. It’s nevertheless helpful and kind to remind ourselves of it from time to time, and not judge others for reacting to a given situation more — or less — than we imagine we would ourselves.

 

Photo by Diana Polekhina at Unsplash.

 

First Munchie / Last Rolo: Little (Chocolate) Things Mean a Lot

There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.

— Linda Grayson

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with my friend Sophie who offered me the first chocolate from the tube she’d just bought herself.

“Would you like a Munchie?”

“It’s not quite your last Rolo but thank you!”

For anyone too young to recognise the reference, I was thinking of a long-running and much-loved TV advertising campaign from the eighties with the tagline “Do you love anyone enough to give them your last Rolo?” The original animated adverts were followed by live action ads demonstrating the unfortunate consequences of keeping Rolos to yourself. My favourites feature this couple on a train and the elephant’s revenge. I told Sophie how I once bought a tube of Rolos with the sole purpose of sending the last one to a dear friend. I made a little gift box for it and everything. It was a fun exchange and I walked away grateful for the memories as well as the Munchie. It occurred to me afterwards that chocolate has played a small but important role in many of my friendships.

Another series of classic TV advertisements featured a James Bond–style figure who risked all manner of dangers to surreptitiously deliver a box of Cadburys Milk Tray chocolates, with the tagline “And all because the lady loves Milk Tray.” I once took a box of Milk Tray to a friend, and managed to do so without scaling castle walls, hanging from cable cars, or navigating shark-infested waters.

Cadbury’s Freddo bars are a favourite of one of my best friends, Aimee. According to one article (The History of Cadbury’s Freddo Price: From 10p to 35p) “[the price of] this seemingly simple chocolate bar has become a symbol of inflation for many.” That may be true, but the cost doesn’t put me off. She’s worth it!

I remember sending a bag of Hershey’s Hugs to a friend abroad. (Hugs feature Hershey’s milk chocolate “hugged” by a white cream coating.) It was an impromptu impulse but I’m glad I acted on it because the gift meant a lot to my friend. I’ll note that American chocolate is often perceived as inferior by people here in the UK, but I feel that’s grossly unfair. I haven’t tried Hershey Hugs, but I’m partial to their iconic Kisses.

One of my dearest friends is partial to Green & Black’s organic chocolate. I enjoy putting together a selection of their variously flavoured bars for her at Christmas. Another friend loves Cadburys Dairy Milk and I used to bring a small bar for her most times we met. It became a small but valued part of our get-togethers. It’s by such gestures and routines that friendships are cemented and reinforced.

That brings to mind a friend from university days. One Christmas she sent me a box of little gifts. I don’t remember the gifts, but I do remember that she packed the box out with dozens of mini packets of Rowntree’s Jelly Tots. I was eating them for months afterwards!

High on my list of friendship confectionery is the small square of chocolate Fran saved me from her transatlantic voyage on board RMS Queen Mary 2 in 2013. The chocolate was eaten a long time ago but I keep the Cunard branded wrapper in the Traveler’s Notebook that serves as my memory journal. That little wrapper means the world to me. It serves as a keepsake of our first meeting in person in Southampton, and a token of our fourteen year mutually supportive friendship. On another occasion, Fran gifted me a box of four hand-made chocolates from Chocolats Passion French chocolaterie in Portland, Maine. They were almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

I’ve used chocolate as the example here, but not everyone likes or can tolerate it. In the course of writing this post I’ve learned that one of my newer friends doesn’t eat chocolate. (It’s okay, Jo. If you can forgive my total lack of interest in football, I can forgive you not eating chocolate!) The confectionery itself isn’t the point. What matters is knowing a few of your friend’s likes and dislikes, the things they reach for when they want to treat themselves or deserve a little lift. Knowing, and remembering. It might be a voucher for their favorite coffee shop or store, a bath bomb or scented candle, a pack of colouring pens, or a notebook. Whatever it is, having someone pay attention to your preferences means a lot. As one friend said to me, “I will never forget this.”

If anyone’s interested, I’m easily pleased. Lindt’s Lindor truffles are probably at the top of my list but any chocolate is appreciated, the darker the better. Walnut Whips and Toblerone are great (my Dad’s favourites). Milky Bar. (Who else remembers the Milky Bar Kid TV adverts?) Chocolate covered coffee beans evoke fond memories of Caffè Nero who used to sell them in little red cardboard boxes. No Ferrero Rocher, please.

The Last Rolo

I bought Sophie a tube of Rolos to thank her for inspiring this blog post. She very kindly saved the last one for me.

“My last Rolo for my friend Marty”

Another chocolate-related friendship memory is born!

Over to You

Do you have a favourite chocolate or candy? Do you know your friend’s preferred treat? What TV adverts evoke warm memories for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Main photo by Brett Jordan at Unsplash.

 

Use Your Words: Exploring the Power of Narrative for World Suicide Prevention Day

TW: Mention of suicide and suicidal thinking.

Be brave enough to start a conversation that matters.

— Margaret Wheatley (Turning to One Another)

Established in 2003 by the International Association for Suicide Prevention, World Suicide Prevention Day (WSPD) is observed each year on September 10. The theme identified for 2024–2026 is “Changing the Narrative on Suicide”.

Changing the narrative on suicide is about transforming how we perceive this complex issue. It’s about shifting from a culture of silence and lack of understanding to one of openness, empathy, and support. Changing the narrative on suicide aims to inspire individuals, communities, organizations, and governments to engage in open and honest discussions about suicide and suicidal behaviour. By initiating these vital conversations, we can break down barriers, raise awareness, and create better cultures of understanding and support.

Last year in Beyond the Hotline I discussed a range of approaches to suicide prevention. I explored how modern technology, community initiatives, and policy change are vital if we are to develop more holistic strategies for saving lives. This year, I want to focus on the power of language to change the narrative on suicide. Our words are important. We can employ them in various ways to influence how suicidality is perceived and talked about. We can make a difference.

What’s Wrong With the Current Narrative?

The call to change the narrative on suicide implies the existing narrative is unhealthy. What is that narrative and why does it need to be changed? In their post for WSPD 2024, the UK suicide prevention charity Papyrus identified a number of key elements in the prevailing narrative on suicide. Misleading myths and stigmas make it harder for people to reach out for help. These include labelling people who have ended their life as “selfish” or “taking the easy way out.” Other myths include the idea that suicide can’t be prevented, or that asking someone if they’re thinking about suicide will put the idea in their head. As Papyrus put it, “These myths are not true and need to be dispelled to end the stigma.” They also highlighted the fact that suicide awareness and prevention are not obligatory in the [UK] school curriculum. In their words, “It is vital our young people know how to support themselves, keep themselves safe and look after one another.”

Inconsistent reporting and representation of suicide and suicidality also needs to be challenged. Treated sensitively, TV dramas, movies, news, and other media offer valuable opportunities to educate and inform. Explicit or sensationalised treatment, however, can reinforce unhealthy stereotypes. There’s some evidence it can even lead to an increase in suicide rates. According to one recent research study, “The association between suicide reporting in the media and [rates of] suicide appears to be particularly strong following coverage of a celebrity suicide, especially when the suicide method used by the celebrity is reported.” These concerns were highlighted in a 2023 article in Missouri Medicine which focused on how suicide is discussed on social media. The article concludes, ”As far as the authors are aware, there are no formally vetted guidelines created for social media. Guidelines can help ground conversations and lead professionals and creators to discuss suicide safely and more easily.”

Online and offline, inappropriate language reinforces the stigma that already surrounds suicide. The clearest example is the continued use of the term “committed suicide.” This implies suicide is a crime, despite it being decriminalised in the UK in 1961. The lack of a healthy shared vocabulary is highlighted by Papyrus. “Many people are not aware of how to talk safely about suicide. Words have the power to heal, but they also have the power to harm. It is important we speak about suicide sensitively to avoid adding to the stigma and shame that surrounds it, as this can lead those who are having suicidal thoughts to not reach out for the help they need.”

What Would a Healthy Narrative on Suicide Look Like?

A healthy narrative on suicide would be characterised as confident, open, honest, informed, non-judgemental, supportive, and engaged. It would respect the thoughts, feelings, and needs of those in such pain and distress that suicide seems like a viable option. Crucially, it would be underpinned by practical, accessible, and appropriately funded medical, psychiatric, and other support services. This may seem a long way off, but we all have a role to play in moving towards that goal. We can begin by asking ourselves how we think and feel about suicide. This is our personal narrative. We all have one, whether we’ve thought about it before or not. Consider asking yourself the following questions.

What comes to mind when someone mentions suicide?

What are you feeling right now, reading this blog post?

Are you open to talking about suicide? If it’s a difficult topic for you, why is that?

If you learned that someone you know lives with suicidal thoughts, how would you respond? Would it affect your relationship with them?

What do you think when you discover a famous artist or celebrity has taken their life? Does it change how you feel about them and their artistic legacy?

This exercise isn’t about self-criticism or judgement. It’s about being honest about your thoughts, feelings, and perspective on a topic that affects more people than you may realise. As I wrote in a post for WSPD 2023, if you imagine no one you know lives with suicidal thinking, you’re almost certainly wrong.

One in five people in the UK have suicidal thoughts and one in twenty will attempt suicide. Statistics such as these can be hard to grasp, but there will be people in your life — your friends, family, neighbours, and colleagues — with direct experience of suicidal thinking. You might not know who or how many, and it’s not a comfortable realisation, but it’s the simple truth. Many of my friends have had, or still have, thoughts of suicide. Some have made attempts to end their life. Others have not. I know this because it’s not a taboo subject for us and comes up in conversation whenever it needs to.

Exploring our personal narrative on suicide is a good start, but what comes next?

How Can I Contribute to a Healthy Narrative on Suicide?

The first thing we can do is pay attention to the language we use. UK charity Samaritans publish media guidelines for reporting suicide. Equivalent media guidelines are published by Papyrus. Although written for journalists and other professionals, they’re relevant to all of us. The authors of the previously mentioned Missouri Medicine article proposed eight “key strategies to encourage people to responsibly report and discuss suicide on social media.” In brief, these are as follows.

1. Include a content notice or trigger warning
2. Limit details
3. Take care with use of images
4. Take care with the use of language
5. Don’t sensationalise
6. Don’t assume you know why someone died by suicide
7. Monitor and curate comments that other people post
8. Provide messages of hope

I recommend reading the original article for more details. These guidelines are relevant to all of us who post and comment on social media, or any other public platform. Beyond paying more attention to how we talk about suicide, what else can we do?

Consider contributing to the narrative on suicide by sharing your story. This might include your experience of suicidal feelings, your thoughts on suicidality more generally, your experience supporting someone through suicidal thinking or attempts to take their life, or as a suicide survivor. Personal testament can be transformational, whether it’s shared publically or in private conversation and discussion with those we know. This is true generally, not solely with regard to suicide and suicidality. In the words of American inspirational speaker and author Iyanla Vanzant, “It’s important that we share our experiences with other people. Your story will heal you and your story will heal somebody else. When you tell your story, you free yourself and give other people permission to acknowledge their own story.”

This is something I’ve found to be true in my journey as a supportive friend to people whose challenges including mental illness, past trauma and abuse, self-harm, and suicidal thinking. I’ve learned so much from them and from the shared experiences of others. Through our books and this blog I offer my experiences in return in the hope they may inform and help others. As I’ve expressed it elsewhere:

SPEAK YOUR TRUTH. WHISPER IT. SCREAM IT. LIVE IT. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO MIGHT NEED TO HEAR WHAT ONLY YOU CAN SAY. THIS STUFF MATTERS. YOU MATTER.

Perhaps you have little personal experience, or don’t feel confident talking about it. You still have a role to play. Use whatever platforms you have to demonstrate that suicide is not a taboo subject. Follow mental health and suicide prevention accounts. Share other people’s words and posts that treat suicide and suicidality in healthy and positive ways. Challenge and report stigmatising, ignorant, or intolerant behaviour, online and offline.

Consider wearing badges or clothing with positive messages concerning mental health or suicide awareness. A number of organisation offer such merchandise, including Boys Get Sad Too, Live2lives, and To Wear Love On Her Arms. As I’ve written previously, wearing t-shirts is not enough on its own. It nevertheless demonstrates to those around you that you’re a safe person to approach or talk to about subjects which so often are considered taboo.

It’s important to acknowledge that not everyone feels able to share their experiences or engage openly in discussing such personal and sensitive topics. Respecting this is part of a healthy narrative too.

Talk About It If It Keeps You Here

I’ll close with a short but incredibly powerful video by Lauren Nicole Jankowski which was shared on Instagram by NSG (Never Stop Growing).

I met someone at a bar last night and he said the most profound thing I have ever heard. It hit me right in the chest. The conversation was about mental health and grief and how they go hand in hand. And I said I just feel like all my friends are annoyed with me because it’s all I talk about lately. I feel like I talk about my loss too much. And do you know what he said? He set his drink down and he looked at me and he said. “Talk about it if it keeps you here.”

I literally had goosebumps. I didn’t even know what to say back. How true and important is that statement? There’s no such thing as talking about mental health too much, talking about your struggles too much, talking about your loss and grief too much, if that is what’s keeping you here. If that is what is helping you heal. If that is what is getting you through the damn day. Talk about it. Talk about it so you stay.

Lauren captures perfectly the power of words, of talking about our pain, of sharing our story. And of holding space for others to do so, whether it’s someone we know well or someone we meet once in a bar. Make your words and spaces kind. You might give someone the hope to go on for one more day. You might just save a life.

 

Photo by Andreas Fickl on Unsplash.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (August 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

1. The Box on the Shelf: A Strategy for Handling Difficult Issues and Situations
2. Shhhhhhh! A Friend’s Guide to Secrets
3. Twelve Songs That Remind Me What Caring Is All About
4. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
5. I’m on My Way: Thoughts Inspired by Ed Sheeran’s “Castle on the Hill”
6. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man
7. Supportive Disengagement: How to Be There for Your Friend When They Need Space
8. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
9. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
10. You Feel like Someone I Knew a Long Time Ago — Why Are Friendship Breakups So Hard?

Our most visited pages were:

1. Contact Us
2. Our books
3. About Us
4. News and Appearances
5. Resources
6. Testimonials

 

Photo of St Thomas’ Newcastle by Martin Baker.

 

It's in the Post: A Tribute to the Perilous Act of Posting a Letter

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.

— Phyllis Theroux

This blog post was inspired by a recent video call with Fran while I was taking one of my lunchtime walks. As we passed the pub I noticed the postbox by the road was shrouded in black plastic. A printed notice declared it out of use. A little research suggests it’s part of Royal Mail’s “postboxes of the future” programme to upgrade the traditional red postboxes to support barcode scanning and handle small packages. Others in the region are being upgraded, including the box outside The Hungry Caterpillar post office in Dipton, Stanley. According to one report, “the news has been met with scepticism and sadness by villagers.”

I know how they feel. There’s a post office counter in the general store beside the pub and a postbox at our local supermarket, but I’ve used this one hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Seeing it taped up like that was a shock. It felt and still feels disrespectful. An insult to something that’s played a small but important part in my life for more than three decades.

I’ve written previously about my life-long love of letter writing but I want to focus here on the physical act of posting a letter. It’s often overlooked, but for me it’s always been one of the most meaningful parts of the process. I described it to Fran as “the ambience of mailboxes.” (We’ve been best friends since 2011 and I routinely shift into using American terms and pronunciation when we’re together.)

I’ve think I’ve always felt it. That unique combination of excitement, anticipation, fear, and commitment as I walk to the postbox, take the envelope from my bag or pocket, look at it one last time, and push it through the slot. I hold it between my fingers for a moment then let it fall inside. American writer and environmentalist Terry Tempest Williams has called it “the release of the letter to the mailbox.” It’s a watershed moment. A perilous act. The point of no return.

Who hasn’t felt that frisson as we step away from the postbox? Our words, our feelings, confessions, doubts, hopes, and dreams are sealed in there. It’s like taking a loved one to the rail station and leaving them on the platform to await their train. We’ve done our part. All we can do now is trust that our words will be delivered to their intended destination. And more, that they will be received and understood as we hope they will be.

How many times have I felt that? Too many to remember them all but a few come to me now. (One of the less obvious rewards of blogging is that I get to revisit past thoughts and experiences that might otherwise languish unrecalled.) The first was so long ago I’m unsure if it actually happened. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Did I write and post a love note to the girl I’d fancied since junior school? Or did the terrifying realisation I could do get the better of me? I still remember her name. I can’t quite recall her address but I know where it was. (Ironically, just across the road from the post office.) In any case, there was no reply. There never would have been.

Summer break from university brought ample opportunity to send letters of love and affection to the important people in my life. There were postboxes close to my childhood home but I’d take long evening walks to prolong the experience of sending my letters on their way. I’d then torture myself over the wisdom or otherwise of doing so. Did I say too much? Not enough? I’ve erred in both directions in my time. The agony of waiting for a reply is captured in one of my poems from those days.

So few words would despatch misapprehension,
End this love’s charade,
Or blow despair upon the wings of a kinder truth.

But tide and time have marked another day
And still no word
—not one—
Consoles me.

— from “Faithfully (unanswered)”

A few years later I spent six months on university placement at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. I have fond memories of writing to one of my very closest friends each week. I’d start at the weekend, gathering my thoughts and words together before copying them neatly into a letter or card. When the time felt right I’d walk to the postbox in the centre of town, savouring the moment and anticipating how my words might be received. I checked my mailbox in the nurses home each day for a reply.

I write fewer letters these days than I used to, but there are a great many memories associated with that classic red postbox by the pub. The letters and cards I sent every day to one friend through what turned out to be the final two years of her life. The letters I still send each week to my friend in Cornwall. The “Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?” card I sent a friend several years ago, months into our second breakup. Approaching the postbox, I felt the familiar mix of trepidation and inevitability. Was I right to suggest reconnection? Were my words appropriate? I might have changed my mind but knew I wouldn’t. I let the envelope slip from my fingers and stepped away. For right or wrong, I was committed. I knew there might be no response. (There was.)

It’s precious moments like this — memories like this — that are imperilled by the black plastic shrouding and the threat of a “postbox of the future.” The current box has been out of service in the past, most recently during the covid pandemic, but this feels different. Hopefully, the experience won’t be permanently tainted.

In the course of writing this piece I came across a wonderful blog called The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society, and this post in particular which discusses the origins of the hashtag #PostboxSaturday. It also includes a selection of postbox-related links and photos of postboxes from all over the UK. Do check it out and follow the The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society on Twitter/X, Facebook, and Instagram. The Society’s mission is “To inspire people to write handwritten letters to each other.” It’s a worthy aim.

I thought I’d close with a few quotations extolling the virtues of letter writing.

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox — are all acts of tenderness.

— Terry Tempest Williams

When you see a handwritten envelope addressed to you in your packet of mail when you get your mail out of the mailbox — when you see a personal letter waiting for you — it’s exciting. It touches you. You say “Oh, somebody really thought of me and didn’t just slap a mailing label across an envelope. Somebody wrote something to me.”

— Martha Williamson

I’ve always felt there is something sacred in a piece of paper that travels the earth from hand to hand, head to head, heart to heart.

— Robert Michael Pyle

Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.

— Lord Byron

I wrote you a love letter, and I sent it snail mail. Love is forever, and that’s about how long it’ll take to get to you.

— Jarod Kintz

That last one brings a wry smile, given the present state of the postal service. Posting a letter these days really is an act of faith!

Over to You

Are you someone who enjoys writing and receiving letters? Do you have a favourite postbox? Have you ever posted a letter and regretted it? Or doubted yourself only to be very glad you sent it? We’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Kutan Ural at Unsplash.