Miserable Places: My Welsh Nightmare

I’m not sad anymore, I’m just tired of this place
The weight of the world would be okay
If it would pick a shoulder to lean on
So I could stand up straight

— The Wonder Years, “My Last Semester”

This post was inspired by an impromptu conversation in a pub. One rainy morning in July I found myself talking at the bar of the Wateredge Inn with a guy called John. You can read about our meeting in One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy: Two Strangers Discuss the Absurd in an Ambleside Pub.

I mentioned it was one of my happy places and that I’ve blogged about it previously. [...] John commented that as I’d written about happy places I could write about miserable places too.

It’s taken me this long to think of anywhere I’d refer to in those terms. I tend not to dwell on things that didn’t work out for me, still less on where I was at the time. I kept coming back to the topic, though. Where’s somewhere I’d never want to revisit? Where do I struggle to talk or even think about? There are places I have no reason to revisit, but that’s not what John meant. That’s just moving on. Where have you been that’s painful to remember?

Finally, one place came to me. I’ve suppressed the memories so well that I don’t remember precisely where it was. Somewhere in Wales. Don’t get me wrong. Wales is a great place. I still have the little booklet of words and photos I put together after a class trip to Conway Castle. Family holidays in Llandudno. A youth club week in Corris, Machynlleth when I was sixteen or seventeen. The decrepid farmhouse my friend’s parents rented, venue for numerous retreat weekends in the eighties and a key character in my unpublished short story “Away From Home.” Two of my favourite books are set in Wales. The Owl Service by Alan Garner, and Susan Cooper’s The Grey King, part of the Dark Is Rising sequence. Good memories of good places.

The place I’m thinking of — and trying not to think about too deeply — wasn’t a good place for me at all. It was, I think, 1987. I’d moved to Newcastle upon Tyne at the start of the year and was settling into my new life in the north of England after three years in London. New places. New people. Two of my closest friends lived in Burnage, on the outskirts of Manchester. Mike, Margaret (Maggie), and their young son David. None of us had much money so when the opportunity arose for a inexpensive week away together in Wales we jumped at the chance. They’d secured the accommodation and I’d arrange the transport. The price for a week’s car rental at one of the mainstream companies I’d used previously seemed prohibitive, but I found a rental company in Gateshead that offered what seemed like a bargain deal.

Our plans in place, I picked up the car and drove the three hours or so to Burnage to collect Mike, Maggie, and David. The car was pretty full with luggage and provisions but before long we set off for Wales in hope of a fun week away. We arrived at the cottage a few hours later. We unloaded the car, put the kettle on, and settled in for the evening. My room had bunk beds, I recall. I chose the lower bunk.

Next day, we drove to the nearest city. I don’t recall where it was or what we did, apart from our visit to a particularly dreadful café. The place was full but we secured a table and waited to be served. David was hungry and Maggie proceeded to feed him. It didn’t take long for a waitress to come over and tell her she couldn’t breastfeed at the table. There was a toilet if she wanted to do so in there. We left immediately and with all the drama such treatment deserved. I wrote to the café after the trip to complain but nothing came of it.

On our way back to the cottage, the car broke down. That was bad enough, but these things happen. The nightmare began when I phoned the car hire company. It turned out one of the reasons the rental had been so cheap was the utter lack of support or rescue provision. I was told to get the car to the nearest garage and arrange for it to be repaired. Other than that, we were on our own. Somehow, we made it back to the cottage using public transport.

And then we got sick. I can’t recall what it was exactly. A stomach bug of some kind. Things were going downhill fast. There we were, at the start of a week away from home. Three adults and one young child, poorly, without transport or much money, in the middle of Wales, with days at least before we’d have the car again. Phone calls were made. Maggie’s father drove down from Manchester to rescue them. I had to stay to pick up the rental car when it had been repaired.

The rest of that week is a blur. I was really poorly. High temperature. Throwing up. A fever, maybe. I spent most of the time in my bunk, feeling alone and very sorry for myself. On the Friday I made the difficult bus journey back to the town where we’d left the car. It took me ages to find the garage. My keynote memory of the entire episode is of walking up and down the main street trying to locate the garage, asking people who seemed determined to prolong my misery by misdirecting me. Eventually, I found the place. The car was parked outside but I was too late. The garage was closed for the weekend. The Bank Holiday weekend. There was nothing to do but to return to the cottage and spend the next three days curled up in my misery.

I was somewhat recovered by the Tuesday morning. I collected the car and drove it home. I tried to secure a discount from the rental company for the lack of breakdown or recovery support, but to no avail. Needless to say, it’s the last time I’ve ever used a cut-price rental company.

Note to self and to you, dear reader: always read the small print.

I’m aware that my week in Wales doesn’t rate particularly high on the trauma scale. My car broke down. I got sick. A holiday was ruined. As another friend might have put it, “No one died and no one caught fire.” It was, nevertheless, one of the most stressful and traumatic experiences of my life to that point. Aside from the stress itself, I felt I’d let my friends down on what was supposed to have been a much-needed and well-deserved holiday. I know they weren’t happy, but it’s a testament to our friendship that they never once held it against me.

Another “miserable place” comes to mind. Another holiday. Another rental car. A single-track country road in Cumbria where, facing an impatient tractor driver coming in the opposite direction, I reversed my car into a stone wall, denting the wheel arch and wrecking the tyre. I spent an hour or more fitting the spare space saver wheel, and the rest of the week driving at or below fifty miles an hour. As awful as that experience was, it pales in comparison to my week in Wales.

I’m grateful to John for suggesting I explore some of my “miserable places” but I doubt I’ll do so again. This was hard enough. Hard mentally, in that it happened a long time ago and I’m vague on the details. But hard emotionally too. I really have pushed these memories down deep. Everything will be recorded in my diary for that year, but I’ve chosen not to refer to it to fill in the gaps or recover more than my reluctant memory will recall. Some chapters are best left unread.

I haven’t heard from Mike and Maggie in a long time. We drifted apart over the years as friends sometimes do. If by any chance they’re reading this, I hope they were less traumatised than I was by that week we — almost — spent together.

Over to You

Do you have “miserable places” you never want to revisit and can scarcely think about? How do you handle the memories if they come up for you, as they do for me from time to time? If you can share about them, I’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Navid Abedi at Unsplash. The moment I saw Navid’s photograph I knew it was right for this piece. It captures perfectly the isolation, helplessness, and hopelessness I felt that day in Wales as I tried unsuccessfully to collect the rental car after it had been repaired.

 

"Yes! Exactly!" When You and Your Friend Are on the Same Page

The inspiration for this post was a recent chat conversation with my friend Jen. In the space of an hour, I twice said something to which she replied “Yeah. Exactly.” That simple validation meant a lot because it confirmed we were on the same page. Thinking about it afterwards, it struck me how important this kind of validation can be.

It’s particularly helpful when the experience or situation being shared isn’t common to both people involved. That’s often the case when I’m talking with someone I don’t know, or if we’re discussing their mental or physical health, suicidality or self-harm, trauma, rape, or abuse. I’ve written elsewhere how I approach such situations.

• How to Give Mental Health Help and Advice to People You Don’t Know
• How Are You, Really? Eight Things I’ve Learned About Suicidality and Self-Harm
• I Believe You. It wasn’t Your Fault. You Are not Alone. Being There for a Friend Who’s Survived Rape or Sexual Abuse
• Are You Okay Talking About This? Trust and Boundaries in Caring Friendships.

In this post I want to share a few ideas to keep you and the person you’re talking to on the same page, no matter what you’re discussing.

I’m Thinking That ...

It can be difficult to know what to say when you have no equivalent experiences to draw upon. It’s tempting to respond with “I understand” or “I get what you mean” — but do you, really? Comments such as these can come across as condescending, especially if your friend is aware of your lack of corresponding experience. It’s better to acknowledge that your understanding is, at best, partial. In such situations, I might begin an exploratory sentence with “I’m thinking that ...”

Imagine a friend tells you they’ve been sleeping poorly. Without further information, it might not be obvious how much this is affecting them. Chronic insomnia can be far more serious than is appreciated by those of us whose idea of a bad night’s sleep is taking longer than usual to drop off. It can affect almost every aspect of a person’s life, mentally and physically. Unless you’re certain your friend’s insomnia is temporary or has a simple explanation, don’t assume you understand what they’re dealing with.

Rather than leap in with potential fixes (sentences that begin “Have you tried ...” are never a good idea), attempted solidarity (“I’ve not been sleeping very well either.”), or trite commiserations (“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be awful.”) I might respond more tentatively, taking into account what I know about insomnia in general and my friend’s situation in particular.

“I’m thinking that makes everything you’re dealing with harder.”

A response like this lets my friend know I’m aware how devastating insomnia can be, without making assumptions about how serious it is for them. Rather than derail the conversation, I invite my friend to clarify my thinking, or go into more detail if they want to.

Did That Make Sense?

Another useful technique is to ask if what you’ve just said makes sense to your friend. You’re not telling them how things are. You’re sharing your perspective and inviting them to say if you’re on the right track. It’s equally useful when you’re talking about what’s going on for you and want to check your friend follows what you’re saying. You’re not necessarily asking if they agree with you, just if they understand what you said. If so, you can take things forward, confident you’re on the same page. If not, you have the opportunity to rephrase or reframe what you were saying. I tend to use it more in chat than in face-to-face conversation, especially if I’ve expressed something at length, or feel I might have strayed off track.

Yes! Exactly!

It feels great to have your thoughts and feelings validated, but it’s not an end point in itself. Think of those “Yes! Exactly!” or “That makes perfect sense to me!” moments as waypoints on your journey towards even greater understanding. No matter how many affirmations you receive, you can never fully understand what your friend is experiencing. As hard as it may be to hear, it’s not their responsibility to educate you. As I’ve written elsewhere with respect to mental health, “[w]hatever your friend’s situation, approach educating yourself about it as a privileged insight into something you may never fully understand.” The same applies to physical health and other significant life experiences, including trauma, abuse, self-harm, and suicidality. Take the time to inform yourself.

It would be remiss of me not to mention those delightful times when you and your friend come out with almost exactly the same thing at the same time. It’s a fabulous feeling and one that happens regularly with several of my friends. (Louise and Aimee, I’m thinking of you in particular!) At such times it’s hard to resist the sensation that we’re actually one mind in two bodies!

Errrrrm. No.

Remember that neither of you is psychic and it’s okay to not be perfectly attuned at all times. Checking in with each other is an opportunity to adjust your perspectives where necessary. Receiving an “Errrm, no, that’s not what I meant” or an “Actually no, I don’t understand what you just said” doesn’t imply a failure in communication. In fact, it’s a success, because you’ve learned something about yourselves and your mutual level of understanding.

Aimee and I have a running joke which began a couple of years ago. Neither of us can recall what we were discussing at the time, but we both remember me pausing to ask if Aimee understood what I was saying.

“Know what I mean?”

“— I thought I did!”

You maybe had to be there, but it still makes us laugh, and is a great reminder that not being on the same page can be fun too!

 

Photo by Benjamin Wedemeyer at Unsplash.

 

So What If You Don't Have a Workplace? WMHD Is for You Too

Organised by the World Federation for Mental Health, World Mental Health Day (WMHD) is celebrated each year on October 10. As it was last year, the theme for 2025 is “It is time to prioritize mental health in the workplace.” Last October I shared my experience of healthy and unhealthy work environments in Do More of What You’re Good At and Keep Good People Close: What I’ve Learned about Prioritising Mental Health in the Workplace. Elsewhere, I’ve written on the value of teamwork and workplace recognition, and described working with colleagues and senior leaders to achieve accreditation under the Time to Change Employer Pledge Scheme.

It’s hard to overstate the importance of a supportive workplace. But what if you’re not in a workplace right now? What if your days don’t fit neatly into a nine-to-five schedule, with face-to-face team meetings, water cooler moments, and lunch breaks in the staff canteen? Maybe you’re self-employed or work in a sector that involves a lot of travelling or working on your own. Maybe you work from home, are between jobs, retired, or long-term unemployed, medically or otherwise unable to work. If that’s your reality you might wonder where you fit into this WMHD conversation.

Mental Health Outside the Workplace

Mental health challenges can affect any of us, regardless of our employment situation. Employers aren’t necessarily great at supporting their employees, but many do make an effort. Those support structures and procedures aren’t available to you if you’re outside the workplace environment for any reason. The responsibility for your mental health and wellbeing falls much more on your own shoulders. You may also face specific challenges which don’t generally apply to people in a more traditional workplace setting.

Maybe you’re self-employed, handling the challenges of running a business. This may include the responsibility of employing, managing, and supporting employees of your own. Maybe you’re a freelance worker navigating the insecurities of living from one contract to the next. Maybe you’re a homeworking parent balancing the competing demands of work, home, and childcare. Maybe you’re a salesperson, driver, carer, or other worker who spends a lot of time working on your own or away your office or team environment.

Maybe you’re newly retired, adjusting to this new phase of your life, without the support structures you had when you were in work. Maybe you’re disabled or chronically ill, and have to manage your condition or symptoms on top of life’s other challenges. Maybe you’re a job-seeker dealing with financial worries, stress, disappointment, self-doubt, and the stigma (including self-stigma) of unemployment.

Whatever your situation, it’s important to remember that your experiences and needs are valid. They, and you, deserve respect, care, and support.

What Support Do Workplaces Provide?

Every workplace is different, but when I talk about mental health in the workplace I’m referring to policies and structures that exist to support employees, either formally or informally. They include:

• A sense of routine and structure
• Social interaction with colleagues
• Performance recognition and feedback
• A sense of identity or purpose
• Access to internal or external employee support

Outside the workplace, many or all of these supports may be missing. Without them, you may need a different kind of support system.

Caring for Your Mental Health Outside the Workplace

How can you replicate the positive aspects of the workplace if you don’t have that formal structure in your life? People respond differently to structure but personally I like know what’s coming up in my day-to-day life. Consider using a paper calendar or app to keep track of what you need to do and when. Even a basic routine can help ground us, serving as a template into which we can fit appointments and other activities. Remember to allow room for yourself too. Be creative. A friend recently showed me the physical time-tracking tool she uses to keep herself on target.

Workplace assessments can be tedious but they provide feedback, reminding us of our value and helping keep us on track. Outside of the workplace, it’s easy to lose sight of our value. Make a point of checking in with yourself every now and again to acknowledge your achievements and monitor your progress towards whatever goals motivate you. Remember that success is a personal thing and not everything is to be measured against the criteria society sets up for us. I’ve written about this previously in For the Win! Celebrate Your Successes in Your Own Way. Your value isn’t defined by your productivity or job title. You are not “less than” for being outside the traditional workplace environment, whether that’s by choice or necessity.

If you’re not currently employed, or are employed in a non-traditional working setup, one of the most valuable things you can do for your mental health is to recognise and foster the supportive connections you have already. Whether it’s a friend or family member, therapist, or social network, connection is healthy in and of itself. There’s no one approach that works for everyone. I’ve written about different types of support system previously in such posts as Spokesfriends and Insular Groups: What Kind of Support Network Do You Have? and You Are Not Alone: Celebrating Community.

There’s a wealth of information and support available, online and locally, much of it free to access. Research charity websites relevant to your situation, community mental health hubs, and online and local peer support groups. If you’re unsure what’s available, ask your doctor for recommendations or a referral.

WMHD Really Must Be for Everyone

World Mental Health Day 2025 is focused on mental health in the workplace. It’s an important topic, but we need to broaden the conversation. What does workplace mental health mean in a world where not everyone has or wants a traditional workplace? Your day may not begin and end with a commute to the office. Your week or month may not begin or end with a paycheck. Nevertheless, your mental health and your needs are important.

This World Mental Health Day, let’s commit to making space for all kinds of work and all kinds of lives.

 

Photo by Chris Montgomery at Unsplash.

 

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

Our most visited pages were:

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

 

Photo of Pyracantha (Firethorn) berries by Martin Baker.

 

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.