How Sad the Song: An Atheist Ponders His Mortality

To the dumb question “Why me?” the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?

— Christopher Hitchens, Mortality

Death has been on my mind a good deal in the past year. I wrote two articles on end of life planning: Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed and How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary. I also explored how it feels to be in my sixties and took a look at how many years may be left to me. These are important topics and I enjoyed the challenge. But what of death itself? What do I think and feel about the fact that one day I’ll no longer be here? That’s what I want to address in this post.

The Stilling of the Pool

In an interview for The Guardian published in May 2011 (coincidentally the month Fran and I met) the late theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking expressed his views on the idea of an afterlife. “I regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail,” he said. “There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.” It’s a view very close to my own. I’m not afraid of the dark.

For me, death represents neither more nor less than cessation. The point beyond which the person ceases to be. My earliest experience of death was at the age of eighteen when my father died. He had been in and out of hospital for months. I remember walking from the ward one day certain I wouldn’t see him again. He died within days of that visit, I think, though my memory isn’t clear on that. I’m reminded of the opening lines of Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger (L’Étranger): “Aujourd’hui Maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.” The most common English translation is: “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.” I’m unsure how I felt at the time, but I do know there was no sense of my father continuing in any way. He was remembered, mourned, and missed by those of us who were still alive. But my father, Norman William Baker, wasn’t there any more. He wasn’t anywhere. He simply wasn’t.

Decades later, a close friend died. She was in her early forties, one year younger than me. Way too young, as they say. I felt shock and profound loss, but as with my father there was no sense of her still existing in any way. This certainty was so profound I couldn’t write, speak, or even think the words “my friend is dead.” The is in that sentence implied a continuity that to me was blatantly untrue. I couldn’t say my friend was dead because she wasn’t anything. It was the same years later when my mother died. My father, my mother, my friend aren’t off somewhere “being dead.” They no longer are. And when my time comes I won’t be somewhere being dead. I won’t be. No afterlife, thank you very much. No spirit world. No continuation. No meeting those who’ve gone before.

This idea of death as annihilation might seem terrifying but I don’t find it so. It does, however, beg the question: what exactly is annihilated? What ceases at the moment of death? What was there before death that no longer is? We use a range of words to convey the something that makes us what we are. Words like consciousness, personality, essence, spirit, or soul. None of them help very much. We use them to label something about a person — what makes us unique — but they say nothing about what that something is.

Many years ago I read Yatri’s Unknown Man: The Mysterious Birth of a New Species. One line from the book has remained with me. In response to the question “Who am I?” the author offers, “I appear to be the process of reading this book.” That was my introduction to the idea of life, my own included, being not stuff but process. Movement. Flow. Patterns.

Quantum Field Theory (QFT) posits everything as fluctuations in quantum fields. What we think of as an electron is a localised excitation in the electron field. A photon is a localised excitation in the electromagnetic field, and so on. I’m not a physicist by any means but this representation of reality as waves is comfortable to me. Comforting, even. Popular explanations of QFT invite us to imagine these localised excitations as ripples on a pond. We’ve all thrown stones into a pool of water at some point in our lives. We’ve watched the ripples fan out across the surface, interacting with others until they fade to stillness. No one ever asks “Where did the ripples go?” We understand they weren’t material objects. They were patterns in the surface of the water. The water is still there, its surface alive to the possibility of further ripples in the future.

Likewise, everything that is me, everything I mean when I think or speak of myself, everything others mean when they think or speak of me, is not stuff but process. Movement. Flow. Patterns. Death is not a thing in itself. It’s our label for the process by which the ripples of our life fade into stillness. Every thought. Every memory I hold dear at the point of death. The patterns of connection, interraction, friendship, and meaning. All of it. Where did my father go when he died? My mother? My friend? Where will I go? These questions are as meaningless as asking where the music goes when it’s no longer playing. That song we love so much, the melody that evokes feelings so visceral we’re transported back in time, aren’t objects we can point to. They are movement. They exist as long as the waves that carry them are flowing. And so it is with us.

Explicable Without the Hypothesis

This post is subtitled An Atheist Ponders His Mortality but so far I’ve said nothing about god or religion. I’m grateful to my friend Paul Saunders-Priem for reminding me that there’s no necessary connection between belief in an afterlife and belief in god. Most religions include the belief in some form of continuation beyond death but as he put it, “Just because someone believes in the afterlife doesn’t mean they are religious or believe in God. It is entirely possible that life after death is a physical thing.” That’s why I feel it’s important to be upfront about my atheism. I don’t believe in an afterlife and I don’t believe in god. The one informs the other.

To be clear, atheism isn’t an alternative belief system. It’s defined solely by the absence of belief in a god or gods. As American science writer and historian Michael Shermer puts it, “There is no atheist world view.” This might be hard to grasp, especially if you’re a person of faith. But we’re all atheists when it comes to other religions. If you’re a Christian you know what it means not to believe in Allah or Zeus. If you’re a follower of Islam you know what it means not to believe in Vishnu or Wotan. As English actor Ricky Gervais pointed out during an interview with Late Show host Stephen Colbert, the atheist simply denies the reality of one more god than the believer.

Atheists rarely claim to be absolutely certain of their position. British scientist and educator Richard Dawkins made this clear in his book Outgrowing God: A Beginner’s Guide to Atheism.

When people say they are atheists, they don’t mean they can prove that there are no gods. Strictly speaking, it’s impossible to prove that something does not exist. We don’t positively know there are no gods, just as we can’t prove that there are no fairies or pixies or elves or hobgoblins or leprechauns or pink unicorns.

Dawkins’ atheism is founded in the lack of compelling evidence to the contrary. In an interview with Mehdi Hassan he declared, “I’m an atheist in same way as I’m an aleprechaunist, an afairyist, and an apinkunicornist.” Challenged to say if he equated his lack of belief in god with his lack of belief in fairies and leprechauns, Dawkins replied “The evidence for both is equally poor.”

British-American author and journalist Christopher Hitchens made the equivalent point in a 2009 debate with American philosopher and Christian apologist William Lane Craig. The question being debated was “Does God Exist?”

Now it’s often said [...] that atheists think they can prove the nonexistence of God. This, in fact, very slightly but crucially misrepresents what we’ve always said. [...] We argue quite simply that there’s no plausible or convincing reason, certainly no evidential one, to believe that there is such an entity. And that all observable phenomena, including the cosmological one to which I’m coming, are explicable without the hypothesis.

My stance is far less scholarly and well-reasoned than those of Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens, but I agree with them on this. I find no personal, philosophical, or scientific need for there to be a god or gods, and am unconvinced by arguments to the contrary. I’m as certain there’s no god as I’m certain there’s no continuity of the self beyond death. Which is to say, utterly and completely certain.

The Facts of Death

Everyone knows about the facts of life — the basics of sex education concerning puberty, sexual activity, and reproduction. The facts of life are taught in our schools, whispered in the playgrounds, stumbled into online, and — ideally at least — shared by parents with their children. But what of the facts of death? Where and how are they taught?

What does it mean to die? What is it like, not merely to think or talk about death but to do it. Because that’s what “we’re all going to die” means. Every one of us will experience what it is to die. You. Me. Everyone. I’m reminded of an episode of the British TV drama series Sharpe, based on the Napoleonic War novels of Bernard Cornwell. A wounded Sergeant Major Harper is duped by the formidable Irish priest Father Curtis into marrying his long-time partner Ramona before he supposedly succumbs to his wounds.

Curtis: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Now, get up and kiss the bride.”

Harper: “I thought you said I was going to die, Father!”

Curtis: “Sure, we’re ALL going to die, Patrick.”

I’ve never witnessed the moment of a person’s death and have no direct experience on which to draw. The closest I’ve come are two short books by end of life educator and author Barbara Karnes: Gone From My Sight: The Dying Experience and The Eleventh Hour: A Caring Guide for the Hours to Minutes Before Death. They’re written for those who will die — which is to say all of us — as well as for those who will be present in the weeks, days, and hours before a loved one dies. The facts of death are presented with compassion but they’re nevertheless hard for someone like me who hitherto had never thought much about what dying involves. I’d naively likened a good death — one experienced without unmanaged pain, injury, or trauma — to falling asleep. Drawing on her many years of experience, Barbara Karnes makes it clear there’s a great deal more to the physical process of even a good death than that. It’s not all pretty, but it is all honest and real. It’s what I needed to hear and I commend her books to anyone wanting information on what happens when the body is close to death.

It’s difficult to express how it feels to have even this modicum of understanding. This is what my body will go through, what I will experience, at the end of my life. My final days and hours. My final breath. The final beat of this heart. It’s a strange feeling. Not scary exactly, but strange. Sad, perhaps.

Of course, an ending free from pain and illness is by no means guaranteed. How must it be to face death on those terms? I’ve yet to watch it, but the documentary series Take Me Out Feet First has been recommended to me. It describes and discusses Medical Aid in Dying (MAID), a program currently available in several U.S. states. MAID allows a terminally ill, mentally capable adult with a prognosis of six months or less to live to request a prescription for medication they can self-administer so as to die peacefully in their sleep. I’m conflicted on the merits of such programs, sometimes described as assisted dying or death with dignity. Readers may be aware that a change to the law in England and Wales — the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill — is currently making its way through the UK parliament. A separate assisted dying bill is being considered in Scotland. I may return to the topic in a future post. For now I will say that I fully support the right to end one’s life under certain circumstances, as I support the work of the hospice movement in managing end of life care. My concerns relate to the circumstances under which such provisions might be made available, the availability and funding of alternatives including hospice care, and the legal and medical safeguards. These are not theoretical or philosophical questions. They are questions about the very real and often not very nice facts concerning the ending of life.

There are many paths through life, each unique to the person walking it. But all paths lead to one inevitable destination. What options do I want to be available to my friends and loved ones when they get there? What options do I want to be available for me when my time comes?

It’s Only Life After All

Talking with family, friends, and colleagues has helped me understand more about my thoughts and feelings concerning the end of life, and appreciate there are few things more personal than how we approach the death of loved ones and prepare for our own. Fran shared two anonymous quotations with me which I want to include. The first is a reminder to live life purposefully, because we can never say when that final day will come.

One day, you are going to hug your last hug, kiss your last kiss and hear someone’s voice for the last time. But you never know when the last time will be, so live every day as if it were the last time you will be with the person you love.

It reminds me of this cover by British singer-songwriter Jasmine Thompson of the Meghan Trainor song “Like I’m Gonna Lose You.”

In the blink of an eye
Just a whisper of smoke
You could lose everything
The truth is, you never know.

Such reminders are welcome, because there will be a day that dawns without me in it. A final entry in the diaries I’ve kept since I was fourteen years old. Life will go on without me. That’s no easier a realisation for me than it was for Christopher Hitchens, here debating the question “Is there an afterlife?” with Sam Harris, David Wolpe, and Bradley Artson Shavit.

It will happen to all of us, that at some point you’ll get tapped on the shoulder and told, not just that the party’s over, but slightly worse: the party’s going on, but you have to leave. And it’s going on without you.

Fran pointed out to me that this is less of an argument for introverts who never felt comfortable at parties while they were alive! English comedian, writer, and actor Bob Mortimer expressed it in more homely terms. “I don’t feel scared about death, I just feel so frustrated and sad to think I won’t see how stories end. My children’s story. My wife’s. The football. All the stories going on in the world that you’re going to miss the end of.”

The second quotation Fran offered me speaks of legacy, the only sense in which it can be said we survive our death.

IF AN ARTIST FALLS IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU CAN NEVER DIE.

During a wonderful conversation about end of life planning that included favourite music tracks and photographs, my desire for either a pyramid entombment or a Viking long-ship burial, whether or not human ashes are a risk to wildlife (they are), and open casket viewings (no thank you), my friend Jen brought things back to centre with five words she knew I’d recognise: “It’s only life after all.” The reference is to the Indigo Girls’ 1989 song Closer to Fine.

I’m trying to tell you something ‘bout my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It’s only life after all.

The song reminds me that there’s no more (or less) meaning or purpose to my life than I choose there to be. As I’ve written elsewhere: life is not a lesson, though you can choose to see it as such. Life is not a trial, though you are free to live yours as though it were.

I’ll close with four words of mine from a long time ago. When my father died someone asked if I wanted to contribute to his eulogy. The only words I could find were “How sad the song.” I don’t remember if they were used or not. It doesn’t matter to me either way. But it may be that I understood more of what had just happened than I realised at the time.

 

Photo by Sasha Freemind at Unsplash.

 

What On Earth? The Art of Confusion and the Usefulness of Nonsense

A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.

— Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator

This post was inspired by a recent chat conversation with Fran. Apropos of nothing, she messaged me the following seven words.

Martin Camus cup straight out of HTLT

She’d found the entry in her calendar but couldn’t remember putting it there or what it signified. For several minutes, we tried to work it out. Fran thought the first three words might be a reminder to buy me a Albert Camus-related mug for my birthday. She knows I’m interested in the philosopher’s work, especially his doctrine of Absurdism. I have a Camus t-shirt and have blogged about him previously. Then again, Fran thinks of me as Marty not Martin, and why write cup instead of mug? HTLT refers to High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder but there’s no mention of Camus or philosophy in our book at all.

Something that is straight out of HTLT is the paradox of words and meaning. The following passage is excerpted from chapter 1 (“The Caring Friendship: Key Skills and Attitudes”).

When you think about it, it is amazing anyone manages to communicate anything meaningful at all. Each of us has our unique mix of thoughts and feelings, hopes, fears, joys, pains, plans, worries, and views about how the world works. We scarcely understand them ourselves, yet we hope to share them with someone who has their own mix to contend with. And the only tools we have are the sounds we can utter, and the marks we can make on paper or a computer screen. It is no wonder we struggle at times!

The question isn’t so much what do those seven words mean, but how do any of us convey meaning at all? Given the immensity of the challenge, the language we use matters. This is never more important than when discussing our lived experience. As a friend reminded me recently, certain words — for example survivor rather than victim in the case of people who have experienced rape, abuse, or trauma; or the appropriate diagnostic labels when discussing mental health — affect how we think about ourselves and relate to one another. There’s a great deal at stake. Communicating our experiences effectively can counter ignorance, stigma, and discrimination. The same friend shared with me a powerful quotation by Brené Brown: “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through, and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

Fran and I were aware of this responsibility when writing our book. The Introduction includes a section on perspective and language. In it we described key terms and outlined our approach to the language of illness and wellness. It’s something I think about a lot when I’m blogging. But if it’s so important to use language carefully and clearly, what about nonsense? What’s the value of apparently contradictory, ridiculous, or paradoxical language? Why was I so excited at Fran’s cryptic calendar entry?

I’ve always loved puns and wordplay. I still recall my delight as a teenager when I discovered the poetry of American humourist Ogden Nash. This classic remains a favourite:

The Termite

Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.

An even shorter pest-related poem sometimes incorrectly attributed to Nash, is “Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes” (also known as “Fleas”) by Strickland Gillilan. It’s undeniably silly but I love it.

Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes

Adam
Had ’em

In my teen years I wrote silly poems for and about my school friends, recounting our exploits, foibles, and love lives (or lack thereof). I wish I’d kept copies of them. I’m not a fan of all nonsense poetry, however. Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” from Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There leaves me cold. The opening lines will suffice.

Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

My distaste for Carroll’s wordplay is arguably because to me the poem is devoid of meaning. There’s no mystery, nothing to puzzle over or figure out. It’s not invitingly obscure, it’s a chaotic jumble of nonsense. More generally, I can’t abide what I’d describe as crass or contentless silliness. Slapstick comedy. Pantomime. A number of TV shows spring to mind, including Monty Python. Python’s humour might be “clever” but I could never engage.

In contrast, as a teenager I was greatly taken by the American poet and critic Ezra Pound. A collection of his poetry in the school library engaged me so much I neglected to return it when I left. As obscure — and arguably pretentious — as his writing can be, I felt there was profound wisdom and meaning there, if only it could be decoded.

Canto I

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.

As well as puns, intelligent silliness, and hidden meaning, I’ve always been fascinated by paradoxes and mind games. Amongst these I’d include Russell’s paradox (check out these videos by Up and Atom and Jeffrey Kaplan), infinite loop paradoxes (Tired Thinker), and Gödel’s incompleteness theorum (Veritassium and Numberphile). I’d also include Buddhist koans, although it’s not a topic I’m very familiar with. The following passage from 10 Buddhist koans, and why understanding them is pointless serves as a useful introduction.

Humans like to know what a sentence means. Sometimes we’ll go to great lengths to derive meaning from a group of words. More often than not, however, we’ll take the easiest possible route to understanding; the less neurologically taxing, the better. This opens the door to misunderstanding, yet it’s also how our brains are built. Spending time on sentences is the work of academics and poets, not commoners. Still, we all (hopefully) want to know what the other person is trying to convey. The koan is antithetical to such communication.

As in good politics and good philosophy, the koan was designed to inject “great doubt” into the adept’s mind. Koans are sometimes labelled “nonsensical,” though that misses the point. Logic is not the goal here. As renowned Sanbo Kyodan teacher, Philip Kapleau, writes, “the role of the koan is not to lead us to satori [enlightenment], but on the contrary to make us lose our way and drive us to despair.”

The article includes the familiar challenge, “Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?” Of the rest, this one resonates with me:

Question: Without speaking, without silence, how can you express the truth?

Response: I always remember springtime in southern China. The birds sing among innumerable kinds of fragrant flowers.

As the article’s author points out, “Reading [these koans] on the screen is purely for curiosity’s sake. [...] ‘sitting with them’ is the real utility, though thinking you’ve ‘got’ them defeats the purpose.”

There’s a similar crisis of contradiction in the Absurdism of French philosopher Albert Camus, whose name features in Fran’s calendar entry. To the extent that I understand his ideas they accord with my own. As I’ve written previously, “We have an innate need to find meaning and value in our lives, but according to Camus, the search is futile because the universe itself is purposeless, meaningless, irrational, and utterly indifferent to our existence. Camus describes this as the paradox of the Absurd.” The koan-like absurdity is expressed in the closing lines of The Myth of Sisyphus, in which Camus uses the ancient tale of Sisyphus to stand for the human condition. Fated for eternity to push a boulder up a mountain only to have it roll back down again, Sisyphus is nevertheless able to find peace.

The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I have those words on a t-shirt. I wear it to remind myself of the paradox of searching for meaning in a universe devoid of any.

I’ll close with an account of the image I selected for this blog post. The sculpture of the word “what” on its low plinth works as a visual pun for the first three words of this post’s title, “What on earth?” That would have been enough, but a little investigation led me further. Created by KHBT, the sculpture was part of London’s Culture Mile trail in 2020. It’s the first of a series of sculptures which together form a quotation from Virginia Woolf’s novel Jacob’s Room: “What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?”

The idea of following the word trail through the city echoes the way Fran and I attempted to make sense of her calendar entry, considering it one word at a time. We remain uncertain and perplexed. Likewise, the tourist is led not to an answer but to a question. The final scupture in the trail — the question mark — stands alone as an invitation to further exploration and adventure. There are no answers, the trail suggests, only more questions. This is something I’ve explored previously in The Future Will Be Confusing.

At this stage, I hope Fran and I never solve the mystery of her calendar entry. As I told her at the time, “No matter what the truth of this is, the fact that neither of us know what it means is even more exciting!”

 

Photo by Rhys Kentish at Unsplash.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (May 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. You Are Not Alone: Celebrating Community for Mental Health Awareness Week
5. The Dun Cow: A Few Thoughts on Friendship for Mental Health Awareness Week
6. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
7. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
8. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
9. Everything Is (Not Always) Possible: Managing Hope and Expectation With Chronic Illness
10. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man

Our most visited pages were:

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

 

Photo of Kingston Park Metro station by Martin Baker.

 

Little, Big: Making Us Happy, Making Us Wise

The things that make us happy make us wise.
— John Crowley, Little, Big

I’m living as large as I can in the little life that I have.
— Fran Houston

As many of my blog posts are, this one was inspired by a conversation with Fran. It was early afternoon for her, early evening for me. We began by catching each other up on what we’d been doing since we last spoke. Fran had been to the theatre the previous evening and was working on some family tasks. I’d been out for lunch, then to my favourite coffee shop. Talk turned to a dear friend of ours, Andrea, who had just returned to the States from a safari trip in Africa.

The three of us had kept in touch throughout her adventure, with Andi sharing frequent updates, photos and videos. Everything from close encounters with Colobus monkeys, baboons, lions, buffalo, and elephants, to the amazing scenery, food, accommodation, and people she loves so much. We’d followed her flights out and back in real time. I commented to Fran how humorously ironic it had felt to witness Andi’s plane land at JFK International Airport in New York after a fifteen hour flight from Nairobi, while I was sipping coffee in my local coffee shop. I love sharing in my friends’ adventures, but have no interest in emulating them. I live my life small these days and am happy doing so.

Fran knew what I meant. It’s something she feels herself. A key difference between us is that I’ve never had any compulsion to travel, whereas Fran has seen a lot of the world. She may not travel as much nowadays but in the fourteen years since we became friends, I’ve been her virtual travel buddy on any number of adventures. These include trips to The Bahamas, Panama, and Spain, as well as a three-month tour of central Europe in 2013. The challenges of the Europe trip are described in detail in our book High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder. Fran’s travel has been limited in recent years. I explored some of the reasons and implications in an open letter inspired by a photograph by Norwegian photographer Vidar Nordli-Mathisen.

There’s another way of reading the photograph. The person inside the house is you, sitting in the dark looking out at the bright potential of the world outside. The woman on the lake shore is also you, but the person you might have been if life had been otherwise. Healthy. Fit. Free from pain and fatigue. Capable of anything she dares to dream. For all your achievements and adventures I know there’ve been times when your life has felt small, less than, more constrained than it might have been had illness not visited you. It’s hard to mourn a life you never had the chance to live.

This is a topic we return to every now and again, as we each work to balance our hopes and aspirations, dreams and realities. Our mutual delight following along with Andi on her Africa adventure brought it home once more. Fran said her life seems smaller these days. She doesn’t want to do the things she used to want to do. It’s not just travel. Sports events and music venues hold less appeal than they used to. She’s always enjoyed hiking and joined The Maine Outdoor Activities Club (MOAC) last year. She’s made good friends and attended some of the social events and trips, but she’s come to recognise that she’s not the seasoned outdoor person she imagined she might be and dreamed of being. “I’m an introvert,” she told me. “Not an extrovert.”

As Fran spoke, I knew there were two sides to this realisation. Accepting her true nature, what she’s capable of and comfortable with, is important and valuable. (A recent MOAC trip brought this home — “I hate the cold!”) She all but relinquished the idea of attempting the Camino Francés, the ancient pilgrimage route that runs for 480 miles (770 kilometers) from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. It would have been a huge challenge on many levels, but letting go of the dream isn’t easy. It had given Fran a focus, something in the future to plan for and work towards. Writing of it last year she said “The fact that my name is in Camino Francés makes me want to walk it myself when I am ready. I shoot for the stars and whatever I do towards reaching my goal makes me better.” No less importantly, it gave her something bigger than herself to talk about with other people. A challenge worth sharing. The daily challenges of a life lived with multiple chronic and debilitating health conditions are no less worthy in my eyes, but not everyone sees things the same way.

I listened as Fran shared what she was thinking and feeling. I have no equivalent health issues or lived experience and it can be hard for me to relate to what my friends are going through. This sense of smallness, though, I understood. I’ve never felt the wanderlust that seems to grip almost everyone at some point in their lives. As I said to Fran, even if you’re unable or unlikely to travel round the world, you’re expected to want to. I never did. I once angered my then boss by refusing to take his place at a research conference in Cairo. He’d expected me to leap at the chance, grateful for the opportuntiy. Who turns down an all expenses paid trip to Egypt? I do, apparently.

Beyond my arguably pathological lack of ambition, my life is lived smaller now than it used to be. There are things I enjoyed previously that no longer engage my interest. I used to go into the city centre almost every Saturday. I went once last year. Twice the year before. I used to take myself to the coast to walk on the beach or along the promenade. I’ve been a couple of times since covid to meet with a friend or attend an event. Not once for the simple experience of being beside the sea. The pandemic goes some way to explain the change. Lockdown taught me I didn’t need to “go places and do things” in order to feel content, challenged, or satisfied. As I wrote recently in a post exploring my feelings about being sixty-four years old:

Is this an age thing? A depression thing? A something else thing? Perhaps. It seems to be where I am at the moment. Not necessarily for always, but for now. It’s not that I’ve lost interest in life, but I’ve come to realise a life lived well doesn’t depend on how much you do or how many places you visit. [...] For me at least, a good life can be lived small. It can be lived vicariously. It can be lived in and through the conversations and exchanges I have daily with friends, no matter where they are, how old they are, or how old I am.

Fran told me she values the anonymity of the city compared to island life where it’s impossible to step outside your home without being recognised or engaged in conversation. She can walk into the city centre from where she lives, knowing she’s unlikely to bump into anyone she knows. As always, there’s a flip side. It’s all to easy to feel transparent, invisible, as though you scarcely exist at all. I also live in the city but the impact of such anonymity is mitigated by the fact that almost all my friendships are lived online. I rarely feel disconnected, alone, or out of touch. Whether in my rocking chair at home, sitting at my favourite table in the coffee shop, or riding the Metro to the office, there is contact and company if I want or need it. Fran and I live our friendship entirely online. The three thousand miles that lie between us make that a necessity. But most of Fran’s other friends are local, her friendships lived face-to-face whenever possible. With few exceptions I meet friends in chat or on video calls.

Continuing our conversation, I reminded Fran that not being an “outdoorsy person” might mean relinquishing the Camino and not seeking to emulate MOAC friends who regularly go skiing, snowboarding, or on long distance hikes. It doesn’t mean she can’t try new things and enjoy such adventures as she feels comfortable with. To cite one example, she’s looking forward to a camping trip with a friend when the weather is warmer. Likewise, being an introvert doesn’t mean she can’t go out and meet up with friends and have adventures, then return home to recoup her energy and sense of self.

“The person who comes back from a twenty mile hike,” I told her, “isn’t better than the person who stayed at home and made a great pot of soup like you did yesterday.”

“Or lay on the couch and watched TV like today.” Fran replied.

“Exactly.”

We’d been talking for a while and I sensed our conversation coming to a natural close. “Oh,” Fran said. “Before you go, what did you think of me being an extra in a movie?” I was caught totally off guard. She’d copied me into an e-mail but I’d not spotted it. The movie is an independent film being shot later in the year. There’s no guarantee she’ll be selected, but I was amazed — and delighted — she’d put her name down.

“Wow, Fran! We’ve just spent twenty minutes talking about how we’re both living little lives, and then you tell me you’ve signed up to be a movie star!”

“An extra.”

“That’s every bit as good!”

It was the perfect ending our conversation. I knew immediately I wanted to blog about it. A couple of days later I mentioned it to another friend.

I’ve started another blog post. This one is about how living a full life doesn’t depend on being out doing big things all the time. It’s partly inspired by my friend who just got back from a safari trip to Kenya. It’s been great following along with her, but I have zero interest in emulating her adventures. It’s not that she’s wrong in wanting to do big things like that and I’m right in not wanting to. Just that people are different in what they want and need, and you don’t have to feel “small” because you’re happy sitting in coffee shops while your friends are visiting elephants and lions in their natural habitat!

Jen understood exactly what I meant. “I like the idea of doing what suits you,” she said. We talked about how we’re not always free to do the things we might want to. “Accepting your illness is challenging; especially when you had plans. Acceptance of your condition. I’ve come to grips with that one [recently]. It wasn’t easy.”

I agreed with her. Many of the difficulties people experience come down to acceptance or the lack of it. We have expectations and hopes about our lives and when those don’t happen we feel frustration, pain, and loss. “I don’t think acceptance is just saying ‘oh okay then’ and putting up with things,” I told her. “Acceptance can be ‘I hate this and want things to change.’ But unless we acknowledge (accept) how things actually are it’s hard to move forward. It sounds like that’s exactly the work you’ve been doing, and that is hero work.”

Jen told me, “I just want to be me. That’s my goal.” I think it’s a good goal. Perhaps the one true goal. “Who am I, really?” is the deepest question there is. As I was writing this post about living life “small” or “big” I was reminded of a book I read many years ago. John Crowley’s Little, Big: or, The Fairies’ Parliament is beyond my ability to summarise, but check it out if you love dense prose and sprawling fantasy. Two quotations from the book stand out as particularly relevant here. “The things that make us happy make us wise” is a powerful reminder that true wisdom is founded on self-knowledge. Introvert or extrovert, adventurer or armchair traveler, fine dining connoisseur or lover of home-made soup, the things that move and motivate us reflect who and what we are.

The second quotation states that “The further in you go, the bigger it gets.” Whovians might think of the Doctor’s tardis, but there’s more to it than that. Bringing our focus in towards the centre might lead to a life that seems smaller when viewed from the outside or in comparison to others. But there’s a richness in exploring the inner realm that’s revealed when we disconnect from distraction. Whatever brings you happiness, whether that be close encounters with elephants, homemade soup, camping with a friend, watching TV or YouTube disaster documentaries, blogging in coffee shops, doggy cuddles, bunny cuddles, kitty cuddles, hugs, video calls, or sharing music with friends, may your life be ever bigger, deeper, richer, and wiser the further in you go.

Or, as Fran put it with characteristic brevity, “I’m living as large as I can in the little life that I have.”

 

Photograph by Semen Machin at Unsplash.

 

The Man the Myth the Legend: A Few Thoughts On Turning Sixty-Four

I thought growing old would take longer.

— Unknown

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation in the office. Someone had celebrated their birthday and there followed a good deal of friendly banter as people shared their respective ages. I smiled, knowing I was easily the oldest in the room. I asked one of my colleagues how old she thought I was. She declined to guess but her surprise at learning I’d just turned sixty-four was immediate and genuine. I asked again how old she’d imagined I was. She hesitated, then offered fifty. (Thank you, Sophie, you made my day!)

This has happened before. On a Teams call in the first weeks of lockdown in 2020 a different colleague flatly refused to believe I was fifty-nine. They were so adamant I found myself counting it out on my fingers just to be sure.

In the office, the conversation turned to the inevitable question. How can I possibly look so much younger than my years? Sophie said I seemed to have a pretty relaxed lifestyle, which was a lovely thing to hear. I suggested that what she sees as relaxed, some might call small, or boring. I rarely go anywhere or do anything beyond work and blogging. Most of my excitement and adventure is gained vicariously from the lives and experiences of my friends. It’s also true that much of my apparent calm comes from ignoring things that really need my attention.

My lifestyle nevertheless suits me, and I’m glad it appears positive from the outside. I should add that my team mates suggested my youthful looks are better attributed to the fact I spend so much time in coffee shops, away from the damaging effects of sunlight. I could only agree!

The entire exchange took no more than five minutes, but it lifted my mood considerably. More fundamentally, it set me thinking about the whole “getting old” question. I was surprised to realise it’s a topic I’ve never explored, here on the blog or anywhere else.

Workplace and Retirement

I’m the oldest in my team at work, my boss included, and older than most people in senior roles. Aside from simply having worked there for a long time — I marked thirty years continuous service in 2023 — this reflects my lack of career progression and ambition. I was a team lead for years but am now content to play the elder statesman role with no managerial or leadership responsibilities. I was called “a legend” recently, with no obvious sense of irony. It’s a polite way of saying “you know stuff cos you’ve been here longer than anyone else!”

The flip side is that I can no longer ignore the prospect of retirement, despite protestations to the contrary from my colleagues. Tony’s “No way!” and Sophie’s “You can’t retire, I’ve only just met you!” are compelling, but realistically I have no more than two or three years left. The thought of retiring doesn’t make me feel old, but it’s an impending milestone that will mark the closing of one major phase of my life and the opening up of another. It’s something I need to pay more attention to, specifically with regards my pension provision and what I might want to do in my retirement.

Milestone Birthdays

Speaking of milestones, I’ve never been one to make much fuss about keynote birthdays. I did nothing special for my eighteenth. I turned twenty-one at university, celebrating the occasion with a quiet meal with my two closest friends. There was also a house party — the only adult birthday party I’ve had or wanted — but that was more my housemates’ idea than mine. Twenty-five, thirty, forty, all passed me by. I celebrated them at the time with friends and family, but they didn’t feel significant as such.

I remember visiting my mother in 2011 just after my fiftieth birthday. She’d decorated the hallway of the house with balloons and a banner celebrating my age. I appreciated the effort but couldn’t engage with the idea of it as a meaningful achievement. A fiftieth birthday is what happens when you’ve been alive that many years. It’s very much how I felt about my three decades of continuous service at work. Thirty years in essentially the same role didn’t feel that much of an achievement to me. As I wrote at the time, it felt like what happens when you never pushed yourself to find something better. The years pass and you’re still here.

Reaching sixty did feel significant. It’s still just a marker at the side of the road, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that sixty is quite a big number. It’s certain I’ve lived more of my life than there is left to me.

Health and Life Expectancy

I’ve never been what anyone would call fit, and I carry more weight these days than I’m happy with, but I have no specific health issues and I’m not on any medication. I enjoy a pint but I don’t drink excessively. I’ve never smoked or taken recreational drugs. My only significant health issue was a ten day hospitalisation in 1990 for abdominal pain and bleeding. I was on anti-inflammatory medication for a couple of years but I’ve had no major flare-ups since then. Aware of the potential risk of prostate cancer in men of my age, in 2021 I made my first doctor’s appointment in some thirty years. I was nervous about the tests but they came back negative.

My mother died at the age of ninety-two, but the men in my family don’t live so long. I’m unsure of my father’s age when he died in 1979 but I was only eighteen. His brother, my Uncle Jack, outlived him by no more than a few years.

The UK Office of National Statistics (ONS) estimates the average life expectancy for a man in my situation as eighty-five, with a one in four chance of reaching ninety-two, and a one in ten chance of reaching ninety-six. The BBC How Long Are You Going to Live? calculator suggests an average life expectancy of eighty-six (compared with eighty-nine for a woman of the same age). Another UK website suggests that for men my age currently in good health, three in four will live to eighty-six, half will live to ninety-two, and one in four will live to ninety-seven. The US-based Northwestern Mutual Lifespan Calculator includes medical and lifestyle factors including diet, exercise, smoking, and drinking habits. It estimates my life expectancy as eighty-nine.

Taking these estimates with the proverbial pinch of salt, I can hope to live to at least eighty-five (another twenty-one years of life), with late eighties or even ninety being not entirely unrealistic.

My Friends

I mentioned colleagues but what about my friends? Most of my current friends are younger than me. I have close friends in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. On any given day I might chat with friends three decades apart in age, with no difference in the nature of our conversations or friendships. I think that’s healthy. We each bring our individual ideas, view, and experiences to the table but we relate on the basis of who we are now rather than our relative longevity. I have friends little more than half my age who’ve experienced more of life — good, bad, adventure, challenge, achievement, and trauma — and learned more from it than I have or ever will. My life is immeasurably richer for knowing people whose lives span the generations.

Generational Stereotypes

Mention of generations brings me to generational stereotypes. According to one website “a generation is a group of people born in the same time period. They grow up in identical social and political conditions. Usually they have similar traits, preferences, and values.” The website lists the following generations.

• Lost Generation (1883 – 1900)
• Greatest Generation (1901 – 1927)
• Silent Generation (1928 – 1945)
• Baby Boomers (1946 – 1964)
• Generation X (1965 – 1980)
• Millennials (Gen Y) (1981 – 1995)
• Generation Z (1996 – 2009)
• Generation Alpha (2010 – present)

I was born in 1961, which labels me a Baby Boomer. You can read about the supposed characteristics of Baby Boomers here but I find such stereotypes about as useful and relevant to me as astrology (Pisces) or Myers-Briggs (INFJ). Which is to say, not at all.

How Old Is Old?

It’s nice that people can’t believe I’m as old as I say, but I actually am sixty-four. What does that mean? What does it feel like to be me at this particular point in my life? What’s it like to live in this sixty-four year old body? In — or with — this sixty-four year old mind? The first thing to say is that I don’t feel old. But that only dodges the question. What does old mean, anyway? What does it mean to be old? How old is old?

Sixty-four was the age chosen by Lennon and McCartney in the song sung originally by the Beatles. (I much prefer this cover version by the Mona Lisa Twins.) “Will you still need me,” they ask, “will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?” I’m still loved and fed, so I guess I’m not doing too badly.

What about my take on the matter? What does old mean to me? In my 2003 short story “And Men Myrtles” the principal character, William (Bill) Stokes, is repeatedly presented as an old man.

He turned away, as shocked as the boys at the desperate anger in his voice. They had taken him, no doubt, an old man kneeling in the dirt, for an easy target.

[...]

He felt himself being swept up into the darkness but he was afraid to open his eyes in case the crowd had noticed him sat there. In case she had noticed him sat there: an old man on a cemetery bench. Decrepit. Pathetic.

[...]

William was fifty-three years old, perhaps a dozen fewer than he appeared to casual observance.

Bill is eleven years younger than I am now but his demeanour — grumpy, flawed, and decrepit — is how I imagined someone in their mid-sixties might look. I wonder if I’d write it differently today.

How I Do Sixty-Four

If I come across as younger than my years, why is that? I wear my hair long. It’s turning grey but there’s still plenty of natural colour there. (I’ve nothing against people dying their hair at any age, but I won’t be reaching for the Grecian 2000 any time soon.) I wear t-shirts that boldly proclaim my favourite bands (RØRY and AMT) and love of writing. These are often matched with one of my BOYS GET SAD TOO hoodies. The hoodies are a way for me to keep the mental health message going, plus they remind me and others that yes, this boy gets sad too.

Does all this project “younger than sixty-four”? I don’t know. Maybe. I’m okay with that, but I’m not consciously trying to hide my age. I dress to feel comfortable, rather than to beguile onlookers.

Physically, I’m starting to “feel my age” as the saying goes. I take a short walk most days when I’m at home, but I walk much less than I used to. In the past I’d relish a twenty minute walk as part of my commute to and from the office. Now, I ride the extra stop on the train instead. I tell myself it’s because I carry a laptop now, but it’s more because the walk holds less appeal than it used to.

That lack of appeal carries into other things I used to do, such as taking myself into the city centre at the weekend, to the coast, or on other local adventures. These days I prefer spending my free time writing in my local coffee shop. I explored this last year in The Joy of Missing Out.

I ask myself this question [what shall I do this weekend] almost every week. The answer seldom varies: coffee and scribbles. It’s worth the time it takes to check in with myself, though. To make sure that writing for four or five hours at the coffee shop is how I want to spend my day, and not simply a routine I’ve fallen into. There are a few exceptions. [...] If you’re looking for me on a Saturday, though, it’s a safe bet I’ll be at Costa Coffee. It’s where almost all my blog posts are written, this one included.

Is this an age thing? A depression thing? A something else thing? Perhaps. It seems to be where I am at the moment. Not necessarily for always, but for now. It’s not that I’ve lost interest in life, but I’ve come to realise a life lived well doesn’t depend on how much you do or how many places you visit. Not for me, anyway.

Not everyone would agree, I know. News of friends and former workmates who have died or are very ill inspired one of my colleagues to focus on fitting more into their own life. Holidays. Trips. Experiences. As they told me, they don’t want to put things off ten years or even five, if they can do them now. I get what they mean, but it’s not how I see things. I’ve never had a bucket list and see no reason to start one now.

For me, a good life can be lived small. It can be lived vicariously. It can be lived in and through the conversations and exchanges I have daily with friends, no matter where they are, how old they are, or how old I am.

The Wisdom of the Aged

Having reached the ripe old age of sixty-four and the status of legend [!] I must surely have amassed a great deal of experience and wisdom. A little, perhaps. “A good life can be lived small” would be one. Another would be something along the lines of “there is no ultimate purpose or meaning, so find what joy you may in the years you have.” That one owes more than a little to the Absurdism of Albert Camus. It’s valid for me, nonetheless.

Beyond those, I’m not sure. What is wisdom to one person may be folly to someone else. Fran and I share our thoughts and experience regarding mental health and supportive friendships in our book and on our blog, but we recognise that what works for us might not be helpful or relevant for others. Our wisdom is offered not as a set of instructions to be followed but more like a menu from which people are welcome to select what resonates with them.

Looking Forward

I’m grateful to Sophie and my other colleagues for inspiring this exploration. I’ve written a lot more than I anticipated, and yet I’m scarcely any more aware of what it means to be sixty-four than I was at the beginning. I’m here. I’m me. What more is there? What more could there be?

As to the future? Well, I can reasonably expect between twenty and twenty-five more years of life. What, I wonder, will they contain? What new things are there for me to experience and learn? What new friends are there out there for me to meet? What joys, disappointments, happinesses, and sorrows?

They say only two things are certain in life: death and taxes. In my case there’s one more. I will retire within the next two or three years. Beyond the fact of that milestone, I have no specific expectations, goals, or ambitions. I’ve never been someone who looked ahead and made plans. The past twenty years — to put a rough number on it — have been amongst the richest and most rewarding of my life, and yet nothing about them was planned or even dreamt of in advance. May the next twenty plus years be as rich and unanticipated!

Death, of course, is certain. Recognising that we’re each moving into the later phase of our lives, Fran and I began thinking seriously about end of life planning last year. That might sound morbid but I’ve found it just the opposite. There’s a lot more to think through and put in place but it feels good to have made a start. For more information and ideas check out my blog posts End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed and Preparing to Write My Obituary.

And Finally

In the course of writing this blog post I came across several quotations on ageing or getting old. I changed the opening quote several times, each time for words which seemed more appropriate to my situation. Here are a few which didn’t quite make the grade, but which I love nonetheless. Thanks to Aimee for the first one.

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

— Joan Powers, Pooh’s Little Instruction Book

You still haven’t met all of the people who are going to love you.

— Unknown

Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely, in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting “Holy shit, what a ride!”

— Hunter S. Thompson

I thought growing old would take longer.

— Unknown

This word “anti-aging” has to be struck. I am pro-aging. I want to age with intelligence, and grace, and dignity, and verve, and energy. I don’t want to hide from it.

— Jamie Lee Curtis

Steve is not getting smarter as he gets older. He is just running out of stupid things to do.

— In Otter News

 

Over to You

In this post I’ve explored what being sixty-four means to me, and the idea of ageing in general. How do you feel about these topics? What does “getting old” mean to you? Do you dread older age or embrace its arrival? We’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Jeff Sheldon at Unsplash.

 

MHAW Q&A With Aimee Wilson of I'm NOT Disordered

I’m grateful to my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson for suggesting this collaboration for Mental Health Awareness Week 2025. We’ve each answered the same ten questions about different aspects of our blogging experience. Aimee’s answers are below. You can find mine on her blog I’m NOT Disordered.

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AIMEE’S ANSWERS

1. How do you handle time management and prioritisation when it comes to content creation?

Time management and prioritising is actually an area that I’m still – yes, even after well over twelve years! – learning how to manage, regulate, and cope with. I do find the need for balance sometimes when I find myself juggling creating multiple pieces of content at the same time and I realise that I need to balance working on the bits I’m enjoying the most as well as keeping an eye on the content which has more of an imminent deadline e.g. where it’s for an Awareness date or an anniversary etc.

2. What impact does blogging have on your mental health, emotional wellbeing, thoughts, and feelings?

Blogging has been truly lifesaving for me due to the number of beneficial impacts it has had on my mental health, my emotional wellbeing, my thoughts, and my feelings! For some time now, I’ve found writing to be a really therapeutic release of a lot of my pent-up thoughts and feelings and blogging has proven to not only encompass that quality, but also the ability to provide me with a safe means of processing difficult experiences.

3. How do you feel about receiving feedback, comments, and input from your readers? How do you handle negative feedback or responses?

When I first started to blog, I did so with the sole focus of the benefits it would have on myself and my loved ones; I paid very little mind/attention to the thought of complete strangers reading my content. So, when I began receiving feedback and comments from those people, I struggled to put it into my consideration in terms of content creation and balancing the thoughts of my posts affecting strangers with the benefits it could have for me own mental health recovery. Fortunately, in all my years of blogging, I’ve only received two negative comments, and I think a huge reason for this, has been that I massively stay clear of controversial topics and angles for content – I do this by typically weighing up the importance of expressing my opinion with the chance of it receiving negative comeback.

4. How much attention do you pay to your blog statistics? What do they mean to you?

A heck of a lot! I once got asked why I care so much about ‘the numbers’ and it was meant as a dig at the time by a very cocky girl whose own blog was more founded, but a lot less popular. I think that she – and any others with this question – forget that each ‘number’ is actually a person! A person who could benefit from my content. A person I have the opportunity to help. And I massively recognise that in this industry, the size of your following/audience, has one of the largest impacts on the opportunities e.g. collaborations and event invitations etc you can be offered as a Blogger or online influencer.

5. Where do you find inspiration, ideas, and motivation?

Literally everywhere! Typically, though, from everyday occurrences and life events. I think these are the most inspirational areas because they are often common ground for a lot of other people too e.g. so many others have had a birthday, or an argument with a professional! Having a quality that readers will appreciate, empathise with, or understand on a deeper level, can really contribute to the popularity and success of a piece of content.

6. What are your favourite moments and achievements in your blogging?

100% giving my speech at the National EMTA Conference for the Royal College of Emergency Medicine in earlier this year (February 2025)! It was the most recovery-defining moment and I’m certain I wouldn’t have been afforded it if I hadn’t made the original connection to the doctor who invited me, through blogging at an event she was hosting years ago.

7. What do you feel about blogging collaborations, guest posts, and events?

Absolutely love them! I honestly feel really honoured to be able to supply a platform for others to use as a bit of a soapbox too! To be able to provide someone with the opportunity to tell their story or to promote their organisation or campaign to literally millions of people across the world, is a very huge privilege. One which not many people can say that they are able to do.

8. How supported do you feel as a blogger? What kind of support do you find most helpful, and why?

In life on a whole, my greatest support has always – and likely will always be – my Mum! She’s the greatest person in my life, but if I were to focus solely on blogging, Martin is 100% my greatest support there. He’s literally the only person in my life who ‘gets it.’ The only person who can actually identify with me and with both the challenges and the wonderful moments I face on a daily basis in my blogging career.

9. If you could give one piece of advice to a budding blogger, what would it be?

Stay creative.

10. How has your blogging changed over the years, and how do you see it changing in the future?

The blogging industry is massively saturated now, when I created I’m NOT Disordered there were no well-known blogs written by a current psychiatric hospital inpatient (as I was then) so I almost immediately – and without a lot of thought or planning – found a niche. These days, it’s so much more difficult to find a footing in the industry and to find a quality that really differentiates you and your content from literally everyone else doing it! I only see that as becoming more and more challenging, but I believe that will attract more interesting, creative, and imaginative people to the industry – which could only be a good thing, really!

 

You Are Not Alone: Celebrating Community for Mental Health Awareness Week

Since 2001 the Mental Health Foundation has been leading Mental Health Awareness Week (MHAW) to focus on good mental health. Each May, people from every part of society take part. This year, MHAW will take place from 12 to 18 May 2025. The theme for 2025 is “Community.”

Being part of a safe, positive community is vital for our mental health and wellbeing. We thrive when we have strong connections with other people and supportive communities that remind us, we are not alone. Communities can provide a sense of belonging, safety, support in hard times, and give us a sense purpose.

That’s all well and good, but what if you don’t feel part of a community? What if you never have? What if you don’t want to? This came out in conversation with my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. Aimee blogs at I’m NOT Disordered and writes for Shake My Hand, the campaign she founded to empower survivors and reform professional responses to rape and abuse.

A: Did you see the MHAW theme this year? I tagged you. Did it give you any ideas?

M: Ah yes. Thank you. I saved it, but haven’t thought about it yet. How about you?

A: For Shake My Hand I’m going to do a piece on building a community amongst people with similar experiences.

M: That’s a great idea. I’ve rarely if ever felt that kind of sense of community. That could be something to explore in itself, I guess. I’ve written about it in the past, but I could probably find a new angle.

A: Is that a sad thing? It feels sad.

M: I’m not sure. Maybe, yeah. A bit.

It’s true that I’ve never truly felt part of any larger community or tribe. I’ve explored this previously in a number of blog posts, including Belonging (Longing to Be), Finding My Tribe, Tribe and Untribe (A Trip to the Pub), and Being a Man: Exploring My Gender Identity for International Men’s Day.

At different times in my life I’ve found myself at the edge of groups or communities in which I’d have loved to fully belong. The BE-in folk at university. The various friendship and social groupings when I lived and worked in London. The informal community of writers and poets who frequented the Literary Salon in Newcastle. The wider team of Mental Health First Aiders at work. In each case, I was qualified to be a member by virtue of connection with other members, interests, skills, or training. I almost never felt I was a fully signed up, card-carrying member, however. That’s no fault of the other members. My lack of belonging is on me, not them.

I’ve never been able to do the social thing. I’ve never known the criteria for membership or had access to the rules of engagement. On more than one occasion I’ve watched in awe as people do the social thing. I can’t do that. I sit quietly in the corner at parties, happy to have been invited but utterly unable to engage. I fare much better one-on-one, or in very small groups.

Aimee asked me if it was a sad thing. Sometimes, yes. I recall once, many years ago, sitting in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning. I felt utterly unconnected and alone. The network of friends I’d relied on to be there seemed to have fractured or disappeared. That was at least partly my fault. I hadn’t been good at keeping in touch. It took the death of a friend for me to recognise how much had changed, and how much needed to change if I wasn’t to remain unconnected.

I had no idea how to approach that. How to build new connections, meet people, make friends. It wasn’t easy. It required me to examine everything I thought I knew about other people, friendships, and connections. For too long I’d maintained an inner circle of close friends — and nothing and no one else. Unpacking that took a long time and considerable effort. I shared something of that journey in one of my early blog posts, Dissolving the Circle. I find it useful to reread now and again. It helps keep me on track.

Over the years, I’ve learned people differ in the kind of communities and networks that work for them. I discussed some of these differences in Spokesfriends and Insular Groups: What Kind of Support Network Do You Have? Big groups of mutual friends don’t work for me. I feel much more supported by a network of one-to-one friendships. My friends know one another but my connection with each is distinct and free to develop independently. Aimee captured this perfectly in the conversation that inspired this post.

A: I’m a community for you! We make our own little one.

M: Bless you! Yes we do!

A: A two-blogger-community! It totally works! I’d far rather have one amazing friend than a town of random people.

M: I couldn’t agree with you more!

As I sit writing this in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, it’s hard to express how different my situation is compared to that other Saturday morning years ago. I feel connected, supported, cared for, and loved. Four years ago, I captured something of this in Team Marty (Because No One Can Be Everything for Everyone). As I wrote there, “These are my people. My tribe. Team Marty. I couldn’t be who I am, do what I do, without them.”

It’s not an exclusive club. Membership varies from time to time. Existing friendships evolve and change. I make new friends these days without worrying if we’re perfectly compatible or will be in each other’s lives forever. One friend is able to forgive the fact I care nothing about sport and have never been to a soccer match. I can accept (just) that some of them don’t like cheese.

Someone I’d only recently got to know checked in with me after reading something I’d put on social media. Her “Just seen your Facebook post, hope you’re okay” meant the world to me. This is my kind of community. Occasionally there are disconnects. Friendships take a pause or end. Sometimes they begin again. Situations and needs change. Caring endures. As a dear friend reminded me after a lengthy period of disconnect that neither of us fully understands, “There’s no reason for us not to be able to support each other as friends.”

Over to You

What does the word community mean to you? What communities do you identify with? In what ways do you feel supported, cared for, and validated? What kind of support network works for you? We’d love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Rathish Gandhi at Unsplash.

 

The Dun Cow: A Few Thoughts on Friendship for Mental Health Awareness Week

Seven years ago today a friend and I walked into a pub. That might sound like the opening line to a joke but it’s not — although it was a great night with plenty of laughter. I count that evening as a turning point for me in many ways. An important step in my personal and mental health journey.

At the time, I was learning to open up, engaging with like-minded people and organisations locally after having focused for a long time on services and folk local to Fran, three thousand miles away across the Atlantic in Maine.

I made a new friend that evening. We’ve had our ups and downs but I’m happy and proud to call her my friend today. And the friend I walked into the pub with? Oh, we’re strong. With her, I’ve learned so much. About friendship. About mental health. About myself. I’m very proud of us too. And Fran. What can I say? I’ve never known a friendship like ours.

We don’t always know which steps are going to prove the most important in our lives. But sometimes it’s possible to look back and think. Yes. That one was.

 

Everything Is (Not Always) Possible: Managing Hope and Expectation With Chronic Illness

Don’t tell people they can do the impossible. Tell people that they can do the possible that they think is impossible.

— Denis Waitley

This post was inspired by something I saw recently on social media concerning illness and expectations. The author recalled someone they knew years ago who’d completed a major endurance feat despite living with significant physical disabilities. Their achievement had reinforced in the author the commonplace expectation that “anything is possible” if you’re sufficiently motivated, no matter your situation or circumstances. They were ill-prepared for the reality. Life is often far more restrictive and restricted, especially for someone with energy-limiting conditions. They highlighted the lack of help and guidance for people with chronic health conditions who grieve the life they never get to live.

The post had been shared by Facebook accounts focusing on conditions including chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS/ME) and fibromyalgia, attracting a lot of comments from people who understood the scenario only too well. I passed the link to Fran, knowing it would resonate with her too. Her response was immediate and telling. “That’s probably why I won’t end up doing the Camino.”

Also known as the French Way, the Camino Francés is the most popular of the routes of the Way of St. James, the ancient pilgrimage route through France and Spain. It runs for 480 miles (770 kilometers) from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France to Santiago de Compostela. Fran has friends who’ve completed the Camino, which typically takes at least four weeks. Since she first mentioned it to me a year ago, we’ve talked about how and when she might attempt the walk, either in full or in part.

It’s not something to be rushed into and would take a lot of preparation. Physically, for sure, but also mentally and emotionally. Her reply suggested to me that she might have let go of the idea. This post isn’t about the Camino Francés as such. She may yet decide to, in which case we will have another adventure to prepare for and share. Rather, it’s about understanding what it means to live with long-term life limiting illness. It’s about understanding what that social media post represented for its author, for Fran, and for anyone who finds themself in a similar situation.

There are several aspects of this which are worth addressing separately

Grieving the life you won’t get to live

The post’s author spoke of wishing they knew “how the fuck to grieve the life you won’t get to live.” Grief and mourning are words Fran and I use frequently when discussing her life situation. The following is excerpted from a recent blog post exploring just these themes: Looking Out: An Open Letter to My Best Friend.

There’s another way of reading the photograph. The person inside the house is you, sitting in the dark looking out at the bright potential of the world outside. The woman on the lake shore is also you, but the person you might have been if life had been otherwise. Healthy. Fit. Free from pain and fatigue. Capable of anything she dares to dream. For all your achievements and adventures I know there’ve been times when your life has felt small, less than, more constrained than it might have been had illness not visited you. It’s hard to mourn a life you never had the chance to live.

Both of us have been exploring the broader aspects of grief, mourning, loss, and acceptance for some time. I shared some of this last year in posts including Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed and How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary. While those articles focus on navigating the passing of loved ones and preparation for our own eventual death, these are themes which are relevant to any kind of loss, absence, or lack. In addition to locally organised Die Well Death Education classes and Death Café sessions run by an experienced end of life doula, Fran has been attending a grief group. She finds the insights, wisdom, and support offered by these various gatherings extremely helpful in navigating the challenges of her life as well as preparing for its eventual, and natural, ending.

Grief in the context of mental health features in a quotation by American author and professor Adam Grant. “Mental health,” he wrote, “is not about being happy all the time. It’s about learning to handle the full range of emotions. It’s normal to feel grief after loss, anger at injustice, and fear in danger. Resilience lies in putting our feelings in perspective instead of letting them define us.”

“Anything is possible”

The assertion that “anything is possible” will be familiar, no matter our health or other life situation. In one form or another, we’ve heard it our entire lives. “You can be anything you want to be.” “Don’t let anyone or anything hold you back.” “You can do anything if you believe in yourself.” It’s so common a message that it slips beneath the radar of rationality. Masquerading as optimism and empowerment, it nevertheless defines the phenomenon of of toxic positivity, with a heavy dose of ableism into the bargain. Buy into it and you’re setting yourself up for a lifetime of frustration and disappointment.

Anything is not, in fact, possible

The reality, of course, is that our lives and possibilities are not unbounded. Anything is not, in fact, possible. On one level, of course, we know this. We don’t imagine it means we can fly unaided, or leap tall buildings in a single bound. The toxicity of the message is precisely that we know it doesn’t mean all things that are, literally, impossible. The toxicity lies in the contrary implication that things which are possible for any, or many, or most, are possible for all.

The post’s author knew someone who had completed a major feat of endurance, so they could certainly overcome lesser obstacles in their own life. On average, some 700 to 800 climbers reach the summit of Mount Everest every year, an increasing number with little previous experience. Perhaps Fran should ditch the Camino and go for Everest instead. After all, anything is possible, including the $40,000 to $60,000 it would likely cost. (Everest veteran Alan Arnette sets this in context: “What does it cost to climb Mount Everest? As I’ve said for years, the short answer is a car.”)

Recognising she will never summit Everest is not a huge disappointment to Fran. Acknowledging that “lesser” challenges might prove beyond her is harder to accept. This is the point the post’s author was making. Living with disability and illness, in particular energy-limiting conditions such as chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS/ME) and fibromyalgia, means accepting that things most of society regards as easy or trivial, require significant effort and determination. This is expressed powerfully in the lyrics of the song Small Victories by English singer-songwriter Roxanne Emery, performing as RØRY.

Stuck in this bed, fucking depressed all the time
Haven’t cleaned my teeth, haven’t washed these sheets in a while
I got good friends, but I can’t call them ‘cause those texts I’ve been ignoring
Wasting my youth inside this room
But I’m still standing somehow

Some people climbed Mount Everest today, and made history
While I was still asleep
Well, I got myself dressed today
Small victories
Small victories

I had that song in mind when I replied to Fran.

F: That’s probably why I won’t end up doing the Camino.

M: Maybe we each define our own camino. Maybe that’s what it’s really about.

We didn’t pursue the conversation further on that occasion, but it’s an ongoing reality for Fran, affecting many different aims, aspirations, and challenges. As I write, Fran is preparing to go away for the weekend with the Maine Outdoor Adventure Club (MOAC). It’s not the first time she’s been on MOAC trips or activities, but each time is a challenge on all levels; physical, mental, emotional, energy, planning, and scheduling. She wonders if she is up to it. If she will fit in. If she will enjoy it. Many of these questions and uncertainties are founded in the restrictions of a life lived with illness. She doubts herself at such times, but she is going nonetheless. That’s the kind of courage that I admire in Fran and many other friends who likewise know the restrictions of illness and disabiltiy, yet commit to living as full and rich a life as is, in fact, possible. Ahead of the trip Fran sent me a passage she’d found online.

Hard truth:

If you wait until you feel ‘better’ to start living, you might be waiting forever.

Go live your life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain.

Because healing doesn’t always come before the experience.

Sometimes, the experience is what heals you.

I’ve been unable to trace the source of the quotation, but it’s very relevant.

Help and guidance

The post’s author wished they could find “a good book” that would help them navigate the challenges and disappointments of a life lived with illness. While each person’s needs are different, there are in fact many sources of information, help, and hope available. I’ve gathered a few resources here in the hope they may be of interest and value.

International Awareness Day for Chronic Immunological and Neurological Diseases (CIND)

May 12 has been designated as the International Awareness Day for Chronic Immunological and Neurological Diseases (CIND) since 1992. The CIND illnesses include Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), Fibromyalgia (FM), Gulf War Syndrome (GWS) and Multiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS). You can find further information on these conditions and more on the May 12th website, Wikipedia, and on Facebook.

Also on Facebook, Tom Kindlon’s ME CFS & related page is a good resource, with links to his content on other social media platforms.

Roxanne Emery (RØRY)

Roxanne Emery is very open about the trauma and challenges she’s lived through and those she continues to live with. Through her music, interviews, and the content she creates with her husband Richard Pink, Roxanne offers a powerful message of realism, hope, growth, and achievement. Not anything is possible, but so much is possible.

They have published two books on living with ADHD: DIRTY LAUNDRY: Why adults with ADHD are so ashamed and what we can do to help and SMALL TALK: 10 ADHD lies and how to stop believing them.

You can find them on Facebook (RØRY | ADHD_love), Tiktok, Instagram, and other platforms.

Over to You

In this post I’ve shared my thoughts concerning life lived with chronic illness, especially conditions which are energy limiting. If this resonates for you, whether you live with such conditions yourself or care for someone who does, we would love to hear your thoughts, ideas, and experiences. What helps you or the person you care about? How do you or they handle the reality that not everything is possible? Do you have any other resources you’d like to share? Please comment below or find us via our contact page.

 

Photo by Chang Ye at Unsplash.

 

Come Along with a CSA Survivor to a Smear Planning Appointment: a Vlog by Aimee Wilson

Trigger / content warning: mention of child sexual abuse and rape

This post is inspired by a recent video blog by my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. The twelve minute video is titled “Come along with a CSA survivor to a smear planning appointment with Northumbria NHS Gynae.” As well as showcasing the video itself, I want to share my response to it and why I feel this is such an important topic.

What’s it About?

Here’s what the vlog is about in Aimee’s own words.

Being a CSA [child sexual abuse] survivor, I have had to meet with Gynae to discuss having my smear test under a general anaesthetic. I filmed this vlog to provide advice and empathy to other survivors and to bring insight to those who judge people for struggling with this procedure. Don’t judge a person’s journey when you haven’t walked in their shoes!

It’s characteristic of Aimee to share her lived experience in the hope it might inform and help other people. To note, the video covers Aimee’s appointment to discuss options for her upcoming cervical screening, not the screening itself.

The vlog is available in full on YouTube and in five parts on Instagram (part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5). Note that the first thirty seconds are silent.

What’s a Smear Test?

For anyone unfamiliar with the procedure or the terminology, the following description of cervical screening (smear tests) is taken from the NHS website.

Cervical screening, which used to be called smear test, is a test to check the health of the cervix and help prevent cervical cancer. It’s offered [in the UK] to women and people with a cervix aged 25 to 64.

The website includes further detailed information about what cervical screening is, why it’s important, when someone will be invited for a screening test, how to book a test, what happens at the screening appointment, the results, and further help and support.

What Did I Think of the Video?

I was part way through watching Aimee’s vlog when she messaged me to ask how my day was going.

A: Are you home yet?

M: Just on my way now. I’m listening to your YouTube. About your gynae appointment.

A: Oooooo thank you!!

M: Aimee, it’s one of the best, most important things you’ve ever done. And that’s saying a lot!

A: Wowwww thank you so so so much! That’s such an incredible comment! Can I screenshot it and post? I’ll tag you obviously.

M: Yes of course!

True to her word, Aimee shared my comment shortly afterwards, saying that it had made her day. That’s a lovely thing to hear, but I was only saying what I believe to be true.

Why Is it So Important?

But why is this such an important topic? I posted the following comment Aimee’s video on YouTube.

This is such a great thing to do, and I know it will be of value to so many people. People in similar situations as yourself, but also people like me who have no first hand experience but want to understand and know how to support friends and loved ones. Thank you.

I know little about what it means to have survived rape or sexual abuse. The little I do know is thanks to people like Aimee who have trusted me sufficiently to share what they’ve lived through and how their lives have been impacted. That’s the most I can claim by way of experience, but at Aimee’s suggestion last year I wrote an article about being there for a friend who’s survived rape or sexual abuse. Aimee’s vlog adds considerably to my understanding.

What Does Aimee Talk About in her Video?

Aimee opens with a brief introduction and trigger / content warning. She explains the background to her situation including her past experience of sexual abuse and rape. This appointment is to meet with the gynae team at her local hospital to discuss her next cervical screening. As Aimee describes, she finds things like this very difficult. Her first cervical screening was conducted under general anaesthetic. “So this time I’m just going to discuss the idea of doing it in the same way.”

She makes clear her reasons for making the video. “I thought I would bring you guys along with me because I know it’s something that I’m not alone in, and I just wanted to show that there are options. And for anyone who doesn’t understand the issue I just want to show how difficult it can be and provide some insight into it.”

Aimee talks about her preparations for the appointment. She’s waiting for a taxi to arrive, which she booked to make sure she gets there in plenty of time, and to offset the anxiety and nervousness she knew she’d be feeling on the day.

“So a tip for people who might go through something like this [would be] consider your transport and think about anything that could come up before your appointment, and budget time so you’re not so stressed.”

Ironically, her taxi is late, so she’s worried she might not make her appointment in time. She rings ahead to let the hospital know she might be late.

The video continues with Aimee back home after the appointment. She describes how well it went, and how lovely all the staff were with her. The plan they agreed is for Aimee to try with sedation first, on the understanding that if that doesn’t work for her they will move straight away to a general anaesthetic.

“So I’ve got a plan I’m happy with. I’m glad that they listened to me, that I didn’t have to go into detail about my reasons, just sort of roughly explained [...] I felt very validated and supported for the appointment. So I like to think that other people could be treated that way as well. If you’re watching this [...] please think about your options and don’t be afraid to speak to professionals and to voice what you think would be helpful for you.”

Before she closes, Aimee talks about how there’s a lot of information and messaging on social media about how important cervical screenings are “and how people who don’t have theirs are sort of taking a risk and it’s not a wise decision.” She points out that no matter how well-meaning, this kind of messaging can come across as disrespectful and deaf to the needs of people such as her, for whom such procedures can be extremely traumatic. “That’s why it’s so important,” Aimee says, “to speak up and explain to someone and provide them with insight as to why someone might find a smear difficult.”

Aimee points out that it’s not only cervical screenings which can be difficult for her and other survivors of abuse, rape, and sexual assault. Other gynaecological procedures and examinations can be no less difficult. She closes by saying she intends to rest “and practice some self-soothing and some distraction with Netflix and stuff like that.”

My Key Takeaways

Everyone who watches Aimee’s video will get something different from it, depending on their level of understanding and personal experience. Here are a few of my key takeaways.

Plan ahead to reduce anxiety and stress as much as possible. This includes arranging transport, making sure you know where the appointment is to be held, and allowing plenty of time to get there.

Try not to stress if things go wrong on the day. “Don’t be afraid to ring if you are running late or if something comes up.”

Be clear about what you want from the appointment, but also be open to alternatives. Aimee wanted her scan to be done under general anaesthetic like last time, but agreed to try sedation first.

Plan for what you’ll do and how you might feel after the appointment, acknowledging that it’s a major thing you just did. Include options for self-care if you can.

Aimee didn’t mention this, but I’d suggesting having one or two trusted friends or family members on hand in case you find you need someone to talk to, or to offer support.

The biggest takeaway for me is what a huge difference it makes when someone’s experience and needs are treated with care and respect. Aimee was listened to and wasn’t put under pressure to explain or justify herself or her needs.

I’m immensely proud of my friend for making this video and for sharing so openly about such a sensitive and difficult topic. I’m sure it will be of help to many.

Aimee, thank you!

Further Reading and Resources

I’m NOT Disordered Help Directory

NHS Cervical Screening Information

Rape Crisis Tyneside and Northumberland Cervical Screening Information

Cervical Screening Information: Support for People Who Feel Anxious About Attending

The Impact of Trauma and Cervical Screening (Somerset and Avon Rape and Sexual Abuse)

About Aimee Wilson

You can find Aimee Wilson at her blog I’m NOT Disordered, on Instagram, and on Twitter/X.

Photos by Aimee Wilson.