When we lost Teddy in October ‘25. A friend made me a pendant necklace with a green stone in it to remind me of the baby we lost.

I’ve worn it almost every day since.

I’m now making more of them for people who want to stay connected to their loved ones and move forward through their grief.

At the time I was searching for an item that could somehow represent and symbolise my grief. It’s not that I necessarily wanted to immortalise Teddy. My experience of grief was that I wanted to mourn deeply, to move through and to let go. Whilst I knew the scar would never leave the tree, I wanted to grow around it.

I wanted to remember Teddy as a star in the sky and just as importantly for me, I wanted to stay connected to what I’d vowed to myself through that journey. The lessons learned and the line in the sand that this loss created in my life. There was me before and me after. I always want to be reminded of that.

Googling “Jewellery for Grief” - I couldn’t find anything I wanted. There wasn’t anything elegant or subtle. None of it felt “me” nor did any of it chime with my experience of loss. Nothing connected to me.

Then Marni made me this.

This necklace keeps Teddy’s memory close to me, I stay connected to that time in my life and have a visual reminder and symbol for everything I learned along the way.

For me this lesson was about gratitude. Losing Teddy made me reconnect to all that I had around me, before I was always looking forwards, always worried about what I didn’t have. Losing Teddy grounded me to rock bottom, took me deeply to the present and made me realise all the love I already have, that I have everything I need. That’s the lesson of my grief. Every time I touch this pendant, I remember that.

One day I’ll lose someone else close to me and when I do, I’ll add another stone to the pendant. Another mark, another star in the sky. It’s a piece of jewellery that will grow with me.

Marking moments of grief, loss and endings.

This necklace has literally been under my nose and when I came back from a restful month in France, I started wearing it every day again. I posted about it online. 10 people asked me for one. I’ve had 4 more made and sold 3 of them. All handmade to order with different stones for different memories.

A seed that I didn’t know I’d planted has sprouted and now I’m nurturing it. Giving it a little bit of water. Some air.

For the first time in a while I’m excited about something “business” related. How an object like this can create a meaningful impact for someone. How it can literally be touching. And I can see something. I can see a vision. Different pieces, different collections all for different chapters and moments in our lives.

• The grief collection.

• The parent collection.

• The sold a business collection.

• The divorce collection.

Jewellery for chapters, pieces that help you cross thresholds.

I need to get something made for becoming a dad. I want a dad necklace, or a dad ring. I’m thinking a gold pendant with a diamond in it. Why don’t men ever buy diamonds?

And that feeling is here. I daren’t speak to it too loudly because it’s so fragile, I don’t want to blow it away. Any founder knows this feeling. When you create something and someone values it for the first time. When an idea becomes real before your eyes. It’s real life magic. A person connecting to you and you to them over the internet, exchanging their hard earned money for something you brought to life. It’s special. It’s the best kind of dopamine hit. Much more so when it matters like this.

The first 4 necklaces are in production. The next steps are to create a brand name, website and to see if more people might connect with this product and idea.

That’s the next step. Let’s see if this seed might sprout a little higher.

Cheers,
James x

I feel restless, with an itch to move, driven by a nagging feeling that I don’t belong where I am.

I’ve felt this before, many times. I know many do, yet some of us bury this itch until the part of you desperate to come out gives up and dies. I can’t do this.

I felt it first at 18/19. I lived at home, in Stoke, but I got the itch. I began to feel like I didn’t belong. I was restless to flee.

From then on, I didn’t stay anywhere for long; Sheffield, Newcastle and London. I was not too bothered about where I was at that point in my life. These were flats to sleep in. Places to be and work from. The place didn’t matter because I was on the path I needed to be - these were all stops along the way.

Landing in London, I felt part of something. I actually felt like I belonged there, possibly for the first time in my life. The city was so full and deep I felt like I could explore it forever. The startup scene was an eclection of geeks, weirdos, pirates, suits and geniuses that somehow I fit into. In building a mental health business, I created my own tribe that sat comfortably within all of that.

Yet the itch grew in me again. The pull to leave, the ache to move. I heard it in my mind and in my body. My head told me about the money I’d need to belong in London. My body told me how tired I was of the sirens and the condensation on the inside of the windows in my flat.

The startup scene that had once been so fun and enlivening began to feel heartless again - social change wrapped up in pitch decks. I wanted to change the world and in the end I felt like I just built a tiny little cog that continued to make the world spin round, when I’d have preferred to halt it altogether.

The search began again, Lisbon(?) Brighton (?) Staffordshire (?) back to London (?)

Staffordshire it was, home, back to the place I grew up. The one I left because I didn’t fit in. Here again, as an adult this time, as a new person.

I’ve tried, lord I’ve tried, tried to hard to fit. Built communities, a newspaper, met everyone, started run clubs. Yet the nagging feeling inside has never left. The ache that I feel from this lack. The longing to belong. If not here, where?

I don’t feel it every day. I enjoy my life. I love my family. I love the friends I have. But I always have the ache in the pit of my stomach. The wonderings in my mind of where else I could be,

I feel a stranger, an outsider - not a native, not a neighbour. I look around the streets in the coffee shops and see nobody that looks like me, mainly retirees out for tea and cake. When I do find the creative and entrepreneurial community I crave on the industrial estates - there isn’t the same values alignment. I’m the odd one out because I don’t actually care about business. I want to talk about art, soul and story.

I can’t just flee or act on impulse this time. It’s not that simple now. Even though I have felt this ache for a while, I haven’t acted on it. I live with it. The confusion and uncertainty is heavy, it’s in my head, on my mind. Where do I belong? Where do I want to live? What community can I be part of? If not here, where? If not there, where? Who am I? Who am I? Will I ever fit in? Is this even about place? Or is this about me?

These questions weigh on me, weigh in me. A long ache I feel every day that I’ve felt for years.

I wonder if some of it might be resistance. Resistance to being on my own. To being different, weird. A desire to be like everyone else that aches on me and stops me living freely in whatever way I want. I’m writing about this already, working through this. I already know this. Just be a curly wurly James.

And then the practicalities of work, commutes, work opportunities, house prices and childcare.

All of this leaves me in a bind. Trapped in my own web of confusion about where to be. It leaves me locked in the middle.

People tell me this is being an adult. This is being a parent. This is compromise. You can’t have it all. This is just life mate.

Yet I am searching for a different way of being and I can’t rest until I find it. I don’t believe this, that life is all sacrifice and compromise. I don’t believe I have to trade, I’ve always believed that I can have it all. It’s this itch that has always driven me.

I’ve been searching for something. Something that isn’t a massive mortgage and the rat race. Something that isn’t stressing about child care. That isn’t booking in to see your mates 6 weeks in advance. A life that isn’t calendar invites and working late on the laptop on the sofa. A life where friends pop in. Where plans don’t always need to be made. One where we eat often together, with others. A life where there’s nature and creative energy. Where hustle and inner peace can find a way to coexist.

I want it all. I don’t want a compromise. People tell me life is sacrifice, perhaps I need to let go.

Perhaps I can’t have chickens in the garden and a creative community around the corner. Perhaps I can’t have fame and riches and an early night on the sofa watching Tour de France with Sarah. Perhaps I need to grow up, let it go.

But I won’t. Because I have this dream for an extraordinary wholesome life.

This probably isn’t about the place I’m in. It probably never has been or never was. I imagine this is all about me. About me finding home in myself first. Accepting who I am and being that version of me everyday and when I do that, I’m sure everything else will follow.

I’m not there yet, truthfully you could put me anywhere and I’d feel conflicted, I’d take myself with me and still be writing this newsletter.

I’m getting closer. Closer to being me every day. No doubt when I’m there, when I feel at home within. I’ll find it outside too.

Cheers,

James x

But really, I’m a curly wurly

Sometimes I feel that I’m so curly that I’m not even a wurly. I’m a squishy squidgy pigdy thing that isn’t even a shape. It’s just a thing. A blob. Not even a blob. A shape you can’t define or explain.

However, I’m fantastic at turning myself into a straight line.

In fact I’m fantastic at becoming any shape anyone or any thing needs me to be.

I’ll straighten myself up and bend myself around to squeeze into whatever box I need to.

I was brilliant at this at school. That was so easy. Laughable how easy it was. Just remember a few answers to questions and write them all down again to get top marks.

Sometimes I actually liked the shapes I was bending myself into. They fit nice and snug. The shapes in Maths I enjoyed, and in English and French.

Other times I snapped myself about just to fit in.

Like when we were all going out at 19 and every lad in Stoke wore polo shirts with logos on. I bought them too. I hate polo shirts, but everyone else wore them so I did it to fit in.

Many times I tried so hard to uncurly my wurly but I couldn’t. My wurlyness just popped out. Like when I went to Uni, but dropped out after 2 years to start a rubbish tech startup. There were only 9 hours of lectures a week, what else was I supposed to do? All you had to do was read books and write about them.

Other times I straightened myself out so much each day until I forgot I was curly after all. That hurt. Pretending to be a tech startup CEO did that to me.

Recently. I’ve been trying to find a shape to fit into. I’ve been looking for a hole to walk into where I fit all perfect and snug. I’ve been trying to put myself into a box. I can’t find the right one.

There’s no curly wurly shaped hole for me :(

Founders are often kind of curly but so many of them have the straight edges and serious faces about BUSINESS and MONEY and serious important stuff that I find BORING.

There are lots of curls and squiggles in the founder box that I like, but it still doesn’t always feel like the right shape for me.

Writers are weirdos too. But so many of them are reclusive and live in solitude and are strange observers of the world, living in cracks in the pavement. I’m not that curly am I? That shape doesn’t feel quite right either.

I’m a Dad and a Husband and a Son and a Friend. I’m all those shapes too. Sometimes when I’m packing the car to go out with Sarah and Xander and I’m making sure it’s all organised in the right way I think; “yeah this is what a Dad should do, I’m doing it right!”

Then other times when I couldn’t care less about the price of petrol or the MPG and that drill I bought is gathering dust in the pantry and the shed at the bottom of the garden should have been painted years ago, I think; “that particular shape of Dad isn’t right for me”

The man box is rubbish. I like football but the other lads don’t even let me in the football box because I don’t get aboslutely battered when watching England and I don’t talk waffle or hot air about Football. I try and talk about the economics behind Football and how it’s interesting that it’s the most popular sport in the world but it’s revenue falls way behind the less popular American Football (which is why American businessmen are buying Premier League clubs). Nobody else finds that bit as interesting as whether Kane is better than Rooney (he isn’t, but if we win the World Cup he will be).

All these boxes aren’t quite right for me. I don’t fit in any of them!!

And I can’t bend any more. I won’t bend any more. You know what, I don’t even want to be in a box at all.

I just want to be really curly. Really frizzy. I just want to be whatever mad shape I am. I don’t want to change it to fit into boxes.

Why am I trying to squidge my curly wurlyness into the shape of a pentagram or a 15 sided circular triangle? Why would I want to be a square????!!!!!!

I must stop doing this. Now.

I must begin being a proper serious curly wurly.

That must begin today.

Each day I’ll ask myself.

What would a curly wurly do?

Wait, what would a curly wurly actually do?!

James x

This mountain is my mirror, I’ve seen my reflection:

• I’m more afraid of myself than I am of failure

• I’m actually afraid of “being weird”

• I’m more powerful when I don’t think

• I’m a Dad, that’s my priority.

It’s different here. Life revolves around the mountain and the massif. In my previous post, when I wrote from Annecy; life revolves around the Lake. I felt calm and serene.

Here, I feel challenged, provoked, tired. Perhaps the more experienced parents were waiting for the reality of a roadtrip with an 8 month old baby to hit.

I love this place though. I love mountains. This view from our balcony of Mont Blanc is spectacular. The mountain dominates the sky line. It looms over you, intimidating. The mountain here dominates you. It’s magnetic.

A proper proper mountain like this pulses. As if it’s breathing. A deep slow long breath.

I find the enormity of the mountain scary and inspiring. There’s a real power in it. You can feel it, and see it. So many edges, peaks, depth, a glacier. This mountain can kill you if it wants to.

Last time I was here touring it, it opened me up and made me see that I didn’t believe in myself. Yet after 5 days and 110 miles, it showed me how strong I was.

The mountain does speak to me if I let it. If I stare at it long enough and listen.

I imagine it making a sound; a deep ominous gong. Like an “Ommmmmm”. I feel that very deep in the pit of my stomach. That’s what the mountain says to me.

And then if I listen. If I let it speak. Like it might in a Disney film if it were to open its big gargantuan mouth. It says to me “you’re more powerful than you think” I hear that as “you’re powerful, when you don’t think.”

I feel the power in the mountain because I feel that power in me too. The mountain scares me because I’m scared of my own power. I wrote last time that I’ve made the intention that when I return from this trip I’ll be myself every day.

I’m scared of that. That’s the truth. I’m scared of myself. Sounds crazy to say at 35. I feel like I shouldn’t be saying stuff like this now, I should have it all nailed down. I should have myself nailed down.

But it’s true. I’m scared of myself. Scared of my own power. Scared of who I am. Who I truly am. Or who I’m becoming. I’m more scared of what I may become than I am of failure. I actually think most people are more scared of who they might become than they are of staying the same. Change, the loss that comes with it and the unknown outcomes is the scariest bit.

We’re more afraid to meet ourselves than we are to stay stuck in the “gray promise of sameness”. I know I am.

I’m still not sure what I’m afraid of. Being weird is one I think. Being weird and having no mates because I’m so unconventional. Being seen as crazy or an oddball. Not being a straight line. Not fitting in a box. Being a circle not a square. Being misunderstood.

Sitting in front of the mountain each night makes me realise this truth inside me more.

Sitting in front of this mountain I can’t help but surrender. It’s so powerful you can’t beat it. You can’t hide your truth from this immensity. I’m afraid of change. I’m afraid of changing. I’m afraid of who or what I may become.

Coming to Chamonix with Xander has made me fully surrender to becoming a dad. I can’t hide from this truth either. I’ve not been anywhere near the mountain really. No trails. No summits. No cable cars. Flat walks in the valley that haven’t even come close to scratching my itch to climb. I’ve come to a place I adore and I’ve done nothing that I adore whilst here. My own desires to climb or do whatever I want have been seconded by nap time and weaning.

I’m a dad and Xander comes first. Always. That doesn’t mean I won’t have my own hobbies, passion etc - but my priorities have undeniably shifted. I can’t hide from that. I see it so clearly with Mont Blanc as my backdrop.

Now, the mountain is stormy and rainy. Full of thunder and lightning.

I see this mountain clearly. I see myself clearly too.

James x

We’re away for a month.

I said I wouldn’t work. Or write. Or do anything that isn’t being completely present and connected with my family and this place.

But the feeling I have here, I have to share.

I want to bottle this up and to share a piece of it.

I feel total and utter peace and tranquility. I’m contented and fulfilled.

I’m watching my 7 month son unfold before my eyes with the backdrop of mountains and lake.

He’s watching birds fly across the water. He’s shouting at the waves gently lapping to the shore.

And I’m totally here for it. Totally calm, present and attentive. In a way that I find hard to ever attain.

I’m not on holiday. I’m not travelling. This container is a break into a new world and this place is my haven.

I want to share this feeling because it’s so opposed to the ones I left England with.

As we packed the car to leave I was full of stress, fear and anxiety. I was working hard up to this point, earning my keep and Xander was sleeping badly.

My mind was full of rain and clouds. I wasn’t there. I was elsewhere. I was in my head. I kept leaving the fridge door open.

A 5 minute body scan meditation wouldn’t do. A walk around the block in the fresh air did nothing. My mind was full.

After a 3 day road-trip to the Alps, I feel totally different. Calm, clear, present.

It’s a reminder that how I feel now is actually how I want to feel. It’s how I’m meant to feel. It’s how we’re actually wired to feel.

It’s possible. It’s actually possible to feel like this for a sustained period of time.

I know I’m in the holiday romance and the good fortune of a month off. Still, I’m reminded that this state exists.

This blue sky. This silvery lake water. These mountains. They exist in me.

This place is heaven on earth.

It’s mystical and magical. Full of fairytale towns that surround the Lake - natures ultimate playground.

There’s something about a dip in a lake compared to the sea. The water is thicker, more viscous and not salty. The feeling of being cleansed is heightened. You are surrounded, not by an open horizon, but by mountains rising up high. In a bowl. As if it was made just for you.

I feel awed here. The lake, the mountains and the trees have carved their way into my bones.

This is all in the postcard of caring for a 7 month old every day. 3 meals a day. Weaning. Food on the floor. Naps. Bottle. Sterilising. Getting him down. Packing the car. Unpacking the car. Nappy change. Wet wipes. Need more nappies. Forgot the sun umbrella.

The rhetoric about parenting I was feeding off at home is all based on scarcity and lack. Being a parent is SO hard. No it’s not. Our lives are hard or tiresome, or unfulfilling. Therefore parenting feels very hard. Being a parent is actually the easiest thing in the world. Babies are perfect. We just mostly live in an environment or state that clouds this true reality. I know I can’t live on holiday permanently, but I’m reminded that it is possible to feel more like this. To be a parent more like this.

With this space I’ve afforded myself, I feel an ease. An inner nature. A knowing. I don’t need an instagram reel to tell me how to be a parent or put my child to sleep. This is in me. This is tiring, but it’s not hard. It’s my nature.

I said to myself that when I return from this trip I’ll be myself every day.

I don’t even know what that means. Or how that manifests, or why I’m sharing that here now, but that’s my intention.

I’m done playing other people’s games and constantly changing uniforms. No more roles or characters. This trip is a circuit breaker for me. On return. I’m James. Me.

I can feel this change occurring. I’m returning to the mountains and the lakes inside of me. They run deep and they soar high.

This tale is a reminder to me and to anyone reading that whatever the weather your mind is in.

You can always find the stillness you seek.

James

P.s I’ll respond in July, but may write again here before then

• Create opportunities in Stoke & Staffordshire

• Create jobs

• Promote creativity and entrepreneurship

• Create wealth

• Increase Stoke-on-Trent’s reputation nationally and internationally

• Foster a shared purpose and sense of community

• Stoke to be a leading example of community, sustainability and creativity

Closing a Chapter

Three years on and I’m reflecting on how far I’ve come and how impactful I may or may not have been.

This reflection and critique, is part of me closing a chapter. This is something I’m becoming more and more comfortable about - starting and then ending. My stretch is to learn to detach and then let go. To not hold all my hopes on a rocket reaching the moon - being happy just seeing the stars.

I decided to use my friend Claude to help me critically review my work on Mission Stoke and rank my efforts. Before I do, here’s my “Mission Stoke” portfolio:

• The Knot - independent news outlet with 3,000+ weekly readers, 115 paid supporters. (Founded)

• Peter Coates MSc Entrepreneurship - Masters course ran from 2023 - 2025. 100 students, ~65% now running own business, ~4 received seed funding. (Co-created course and delivered)

• Made in Stoke - community for global “Stokies” to give back to Stoke and platform for philanthropy. (Re-branded and led for 12 months)

• Forget-me-Knot FC - football club for Bereaved Dads in North Staffordshire (part of founding team)

There’s an objectivity in this robotic view of my work in this space. One I can’t hide from. It’s true I can’t yet tangibly measure any economic impact. Forget-me-Knot FC certainly is beyond the brief, I wasn’t expecting that.

Lesson 1: Grieve before you go again

In truth, when I began this work I was rather lost. Grieving a previous identity, mission, community and place. A mission in Stoke was both a comfort blanket and a distraction. A new relationship I could throw myself into. On reflection, I’d have done the deep dark grieving into nothingness before throwing myself two-footed into regional development and place-making - that’s the lesson for me and I think the lesson for other founders. Don’t go from one thing into the next. Take the time to stop and really let go - then let your next passage emerge organically. Don’t be too afraid of the dark.

Lesson 2: This was really really hard

My other reflection on this mission is how hard it has been. I found changing the narrative around mental health much easier to be honest. The community I was part of (London) was much more receptive and the ability to build a business and mission around that initial concept of perception change and mental health gym’s was much easier.

Creating change around a Place that is so full of stories, history and deeply entrenched views and identities has been much harder. Especially when needing to find money to make the mission sustainable - there is much less of that frothy “startup” capital here to take risks and give people a chance. Add in powerful macro-economic factors too and you’ve got a real job on your hands.

Lesson 3: Don’t rescue. Listen and accept.

I may also have missed the brief a little. Being so full of anxiety at the start of this mission I was really trying to rescue this place and rescue myself in it. Intentionally, I really wanted to give this area some positivity. This worked and was very well received. Yet truthfully, inside me was a desire to rescue and to create change immediately. I literally wanted Stoke to regenerate in 2 years and become more like a place such as Sheffield overnight.

However, the brief here actually needed to be more about acceptance than about change. If I were to really listen to the cries of the people here, it’s not that they need someone to tell them how great this place really is. They don’t need persuading. They need to be listened to. I’m a well-off guy who moved back from London - I want this area to get a few more coffee shops and independent eateries so I can work remotely from here, commute to London and meet more people like me. Yet, the real truth is that the majority of people here are worried about their day to day life - energy prices, job opportunities, money, housing and health. If I wanted to do a better job in my aim to regenerate this area, I’d have been more patient and focused on really listening to the mood and emotion of the majority.

Instead, I created a platform for advocacy where a smaller number of people could feel proud to be from this area and create momentum in a conversation around change. It’s still done well, but there’s a lesson for me that sometimes the most powerful thing you can do to change something, is to accept it.

I tried very hard to change Stoke and Staffordshire. Actually, I’d have been better off working harder to accept it, and then more change will come.

What I did do

On a personal level, I need to get better at celebrating what I have achieved, as opposed to lingering on what I have not. I’ve created a platform to launch businesses. Taught and mentored entrepreneurs. Created a philanthropy platform. Built an independent media company and fostered more pride in this place. As my father-in-law Nick said to me, it’s more than most will do in a lifetime.

There’s the intangible stuff too. 50,000 LinkedIn followers know that I’m from Stoke. I’ve been in loads of national press about Stoke. I’ve been a personal advocate for this place. I helped start a run club here, helped send some invites out for a feature film about Stoke. Culture change isn’t always visible - it’s gritty and behind the scenes. It’s conversations on social media, it’s challenging people’s views in person. It’s underground, behind the scenes - it happens in pubs and coffee shops or at home.

Personal reflection

One thing I find hard about new chapters is feeling that I’m letting people down. Especially in this area, the feeling like I’m giving up on people (like everyone else does). I have to live with this. I have to live with myself actually - that I am someone who runs really hot, and then cold, someone who changes lots of lanes.

Perhaps the ultimate lesson for me is that just as I’ve learned to truly accept this area for what it is, and expect no more. I must do that for myself too. Accept that I’m really good at whipping up a movement and taking something from zero to one.

Just like with Stoke’s development, I believe it’s in this acceptance of myself that growth will really come.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Cheers,

James

P.s if you’ve been following my work in Stoke/Staffs then I’ll be sharing an exciting update/announcement next week

Last night that number was 32.

The oldest message is from a month ago. I like this person.

Some of these messages are from family. Some from friends. Some from people I used to work with. Some live in the UK, some outside of it. Many are in groups I’m part of.

I could be responding to these messages right now. I could be talking to these people right now, but I can’t get there. I don’t have the energy.

I’d love to speak to any of these 16 people in person. If they knocked on my door right now I’d let them in and put the kettle on, or go for a walk.

Yet I can’t bring myself to pick up my phone, click on that green little icon, crane my neck and type away. I can’t bring myself to read their message, to let it land, to feel with them or think about what to say and give them the response they deserve.

That sounds crazy doesn’t it? Given one of the messages is from an Aunty asking for a trail running vest I said I’d lend her. The other a message from a close mate asking how my family are. But the thought of responding, the thought of going into that ream of unread messages makes my chest go tight. I just don’t have the energy for it. I can’t be bothered.

The thought of responding feels heavy. As soon as I open the app and look at the messages I “should” respond to I feel flat. The love I might feel for many of the people in this list evaporates into a task that needs to get done.

I hear people talk about whatsapp now like it’s email, saying things like “I just need to get through some whatsapps” or “ugh I’ve got so many people I need to reply to”

Aren’t we talking about our friends here?

I hate that friendships and relationships are being reduced to tasks to be completed on a frenzied whatsapp feed. I hate that whatsapp itself is now a place of clutter and confusion. Work, personal, family and community all blend into one.

And I hate that I’m here finding writing about this problem far easier than picking up my phone and replying to people I would call friends.

The honest truth is I just don’t want to. I barely want to be on my phone any more and I don’t think many people do. I think this instant messaging culture is vacuous. It’s reducing relationships and friendships to a chain of text, a series of voicenotes or messages marked as unread. I would never treat anyone I know in person like I do on whatsapp.

If someone spoke to me in person I wouldn’t stare them blankly in the face, ignore them for a month and then apologise for not responding because I’m busy.

It’s because the medium is ultimately a lie. I’m not available. Right now I’m barely available at all. So when someone messages me on whatsapp the communication from the very start is false. I’m not available - this conversation should not even be happening probably.

Instead, a bank of guilt and social pressure is built up upon me. Pressure that I don’t really want right now, but pressure that I’m implicitly available to.

People tell me it’s fine. Nobody expects an immediate response these days. Everyone leaves stuff unread. It’s fine. Everyone gets it.

That to me is even crazier, what are we all doing then? If it’s ok to not respond to each other for weeks, are we even mates?

I know that the deeper question that sits underneath unread messages on whatsapp is about friendships and relationships. Where does a relationship start and where does it end? Do friendships end at all now?

If a relationship now exists purely on whatsapp, what is that relationship now? Is an online friendship a friendship at all?

I know that everyone, absolutely everyone have people on whatsapp that they reply to in an instant. Me included. Yet everyone I know leave some messages for weeks. This isn’t about whatsapp, it’s about modern friendship when we have technology that enables us to keep in touch 24/7 for a lifetime.

I’m not sure all friendships and all relationships are meant to last a lifetime, but we now have technlogy that allows us to be “open and connected” forever. Technology, social media and instant messaging platforms should facilitate friendship, relationships and communities - not replace them, not be the only entry point to them.

I have no answers. No solutions. No hacks. I just have 16 unread whatsapp messages that I’ll feel bad about until I find the time and energy to reply. After I respond I’ll have 23 more unreads and the cycle will continue.

All I know, and I’m very certain about this. This is not sustainable. This is not friendship and I don’t think this is healthy for relationships. We really need to reflect on what friendships and relationships look like now in a world where we can be constantly connected. I don’t think this will be easy, it’ll feel personal and painful to everyone in different ways.

Something has to change for me. I don’t like this way of connecting with people. I have 16 unread whatsapps, but I don’t see 16 friends in person in a month. This is upside down. This is not right.

Our use of technology or social media is a mirror into what you are experiencing in your life. For me I’m asking myself who my mates are right now? As I become a dad. I’m asking myself who’s in my life and who’s in my family’s life? Who will know my son?

I’m asking myself too. What are my boundaries? Do I want my whatsapp available for work so that the founders who pay me to support them are sitting alongside the family whatsapp group? I’m not sure.

And who do I have energy for? And who has energy for me? Whatsapp is a painful mirror to this, I’m probably avoiding that. On top of the truth that with a 6 month old bay I barely get 30 minutes to myself every day and I don’t want to spend that time neck craned patting away on whatsapp.

I know this is becoming universal and I’m certain this isn’t a sustainable way to create meaningful relationships and friendships over a lifetime. I have no answers just some questions for us all;

• If, like me, you have many unread whatsapp messages on a constant basis. Is this working for you?

• Is this how you want to relate to your friends?

• What does the state of your unread messages on whatsapp tell you about your friendships and who your friends are?

As I said, all personal questions, possibly uncomfortable truths. Yet I think we all need to ask them. I know I can’t go on with my 16 unread whatsapps.

Cheers,
James x

p.s if you are one of my unread whatsapp messages, I will get back to you - I’m just not sure when.

You say “goo” and I say “How was your day then?” You say “gah” and I say “Really? Did you enjoy it?”

We talk, not typical conversations. A series of “goos” “gahs” and “ehs”. You reach for my face. You scream “ahhhh” when I turn away. You always smile first thing in the morning when we open the blinds.

You’re in my bones now. When we wrestle, you lie on my chest and I say “are you gonna get me?” “you’re not gonna get me”. You’ve already got me. I’m yours.

When I look up from that spot, your face is my whole world. It’s only when I see you from a distance, in your high chair or in someone else’s arms that I remember how tiny you still are.

There’s never been any doubt, but perhaps on some level there was. There is now no doubt that you are here. You’re in my life, forever. That thought settles me now, whereas perhaps it frightened me before. Is this it? Yes, this really is it. Yes, you really are here. “You enjoyed your brocolli last night didn’t you? It’s nice isn’t it. Mummy and Daddy like brocolli too.”

I thought I’d want to share you all the time. I thought being a dad would become my new thing. I thought maybe, I’ll become a dad-fluencer. Maybe, maybe being a dad will give me a new professional purpose.

You have given me a new purpose, but not a professional one. Not one for social media. I’m yours, all yours. This isn’t for everyone else.

I share so many of my thoughts and ideas with others that I want you just for me. I don’t want to bare my journey as a dad all the time. I want privacy, I want intimacy, I want what we have in our four walls to be special - just for us. I thought I might think deeply about my role as a dad. I might read books and write about fatherhood. But I don’t want to, I don’t want to think about being a dad and turn it into a job online. I want my job with you as a dad in the real world.

Because here’s the truth. I’m already noticing the moments when I’m not fully present with you. When I drift off thinking about work. I don’t like it. I don’t hate it, i’m kind enough to myself to let it go, but I don’t like it. I don’t want you, or our family to become my work. You’re my life. I don’t need to read books to tell me how to be a dad. I already know how to be one, it’s in me. When I am totally present with you - nothing has ever felt more natural to me in all my life. For once, just once - I don’t need to think. For someone who lives in their head, I can’t tell you how much of a pleasure this is. How real this feels.

All of these feelings that come up are enough for me for a lifetime. The complexity, the strain, the guilt, the presence, the helplessness, the lack of control. I didn’t know what to do when you had that cough last week, I wish I could tell you just to blow your nose. I wish I could blow it for you.

Your growth dictates our life. Everything about you is new and everything about our life right now is new. Sarah, who I now refer to 60% of the time as “Mummy” is ordering new baby grows every 5 minutes, she’s googling “allergic reactions to Aubergine” and I’m assembling new furniture or baby products at 9.30pm every night.

Your growth is explosive and our life is exploding with you in it. Every morning is like that scene in Harry Potter in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault at Gringotts. Toys, books, nappies, wet wipes, milk, bottles, food exploding and multiplying everywhere and everywhere until you can’t see the floor. We tidy it up again and again and again, for you to put that little red cup in your mouth and throw it on the floor again and again and again.

It’s all new. New furniture. New routines. New teeth. Blink and we miss it. We miss you.

And we are obsessed with you. We’re all obsessed with you. I’m obsessed with your breath. How you breathe. Breath itself. It’s as if you are a living embodiment of life itself. Do you take the breath in? Or are you given the breath by the world? You’re giving me answers to questions I didn’t know I had and giving me even more questions to answer.

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I want to be more like you and less like me. You make me want to be a child again, a baby. I love seeing the world through your eyes. I never noticed the tiny flower buds on that bush at the bottom of the garden. I never looked up and saw the bare branches of that tree against the blue sky. I never stopped for long enough to listen to the wind chime and watch the birds in the sky. “Gah” “Yes, that is a birdy”

Your eyes might just be the greatest gift, to hold you up to the world and be your platform - to let you look out from our body. And to gaze in them, as deep as I can to let you know how loved you are. To see the ocean in those eyes. The waves of possibility and of imagination, of who you are and who you might be. There is so much depth in those eyes.

I have to constantly give myself permission to be here. To be with you. I have to constantly remind myself that work isn’t the only way to be a dad, even though it feels like a really big one. The hunger to provide in me is real. I want to make money. For you, for us, for our life and I’m owning this urge within me. It feels real and true. Yet I also have the growing desire to be as physically present with you as I can and this is a conflict. I might be only the second man in my whole family tree who really has the privilege and option to be a very present dad. So I try and tear myself away from my desk when I know i’m done. Even though I’m scared to stop, I never regret finishing early to be with you.

Only now, possibly for the first time have I taken a moment to stop and let you sink further into me. 3 months ago I said that you were on my skin. Now you’re in my bones.

6 months of you and I’m only just realising that I have a lifetime of you.

Cheers,
Dad x

For a while now, I’ve been saying “I’m at 30% of my potential”

For a while now, I’ve felt this tug on my heart, these whisperings in my soul.

Something unsaid. Something unfinished. Some part of me dormant, in the shadows - desperate to come out.

I haven’t ignored this voice. I’ve just not known what to say back.

This longing in me has remained, this urge unexplained. I’ve felt it, day after day - in the back of my mind. In my cluttered thoughts. In my head at night as I close my eyes.

In my dreams, I wonder, where could I go? What could I do?

And yet, when I wake. When I walk the streets for a morning walk, or make a morning coffee. Whilst I’m full of the warm glow of contentment and comfort, I feel something missing. I know in my heart there is some emptiness in me and in my life.

Aliveness, spark, fear, fire, risk. I’m at 30%. I’ve been here for a while.

I’m in the wrong lane and I can’t quite get out. There’s too much traffic coming through and I can’t pull aside. My indicator has been on for a while. I’m driving too close to that car in front, I’m impatient to get out of this lane. But I don’t know how.

These lanes manifest for me day to day in my work. My work in Stoke and Staffordshire on regional development through the creation of the MSc Entrepreneurship course and starting a local media outlet is no longer the right lane for me and hasn’t been for a while. It’s the slow lane, in fact if I don’t get off it soon I’ll end up on the M56 to Warrington. As much as I wish it could be different and I could find the community, energy and progression I want that feeds my soul. It is not in this lane. When I stay in this lane, I do not feel alive.

My work with founders as a coach, advisor and mentor is rewarding. I find satisfaction in helping others and being a confidante, guide and counsel. This comes easily and naturally to me. I see a world here; a career, a business of James. Find your niche, hone it, scale it. Build a 7 figure coaching practice. I could stay in this lane and here I am for now. I’m on the motorway.

It’s the middle lane though. You know, the one you’re not actually meant to be in for that long. You’re either overtaking, or getting out of the way to be overtaken. And you’re not supposed to hog it. Either get in the slow lane, or get in the fast lane. Pick one.

It’s comfortable in the middle lane. You have to be watchful of course. There’s still traffic. Freelance work is feast and famine. It comes, it goes. As much as I enjoy this work and the flexibility that comes with it. My soul feels as conflicted as ever here. Constantly flirting with the dreams of others. Being a bit-part player in someone else’s drama. I drop in and out of everyone else’s theatre. Never in my own. I love the founders I work with and want to keep working with them all, but I know in my heart that being in this lane forever will not fulfil me.

So here I am again, ready for another lane. Another transition, another change in direction. Perhaps I need to stop the car and get on a motorbike? Or drive to the airport and get on a plane? I know in my heart there’s something else out there for me. A new mission, a new purpose, a new way of being. I sense it burgeoning in me. Wanting to come out.

For a long time, I have wanted me to go more deeply into the world of men, masculinity and men’s mental health. In my mind this is probably the most “me” thing of all. Yet I’ve never procrastinated more on anything in all my life. I know rationally that this lane, makes the most sense for me. Something leads me to this space all the time. A voice whispers in my chest to write Jack The Lad. Write a book for men. But then all I hear is quiet and emptiness. I don’t know where else to go. I’m fearful of accelerating into another lane, only to be let down again - only to have to change lanes again.

I get the feeling that there is more in this space for me than I have allowed myself to explore or to share and for the first time in a long time I do feel some fear. Which I know, is a good thing. Perhaps there are feelings to explore around fatherhood and edges for me to find as a man that scare me. Perhaps I need to go toe-to-toe with Andrew Tate and the manosphere bro’s.

Perhaps for now this is all I need to know. Or to feel. Some fear. Some trepidation. To know that changing lanes is a good thing, is the right move to be making. Not to worry too much about exactly what lane I’ll be going into. Or whether it’ll be a new road entirely. It might be enough just to follow some curiosity of the soul, to listen to that inner voice. To notice some of that fear I’ve written about before and step ever so slightly more into it. Stop trying to predict exactly what’s in the next lane or where it goes.

The truest thing I have shared today is that part of my fear about moving into a new lane is to be let down again. To fail again. This requires another blog post, because there’s a story I have that says everything I touch fails, everything I touch sparks like a match but never a bonfire. Maybe this is true. Maybe I’m a fire-starter and nothing more. Maybe accepting this about myself will allow me to flourish more. Maybe I just haven’t found the right fuel.

I’m changing lanes, again. This time I’m not kidding myself that it’s the only lane I’ll ever be in. The more I learn of myself and my nature. I’m starting to believe that I’ll be changing lanes all my life.

Cheers,
James x

I see so much fear. I see it all the time. I feel it in me. I see it in others.

Fear is like the grim reaper, he comes in the night wearing that black cloak and chokes you up. Paralyses you.

Fear likes to come dressed up as money. Fear loves money. Money is the perfect conduit for fear to breed and dig its thorny claws into you.

Fear comes in many forms. Fear of failure. Fear of who you might become (success). Fear of rejection. Fear of the unknown. Fear of letting go. Fear of abandonment. Fear of not being needed. Fear of past trauma. Fear of going backwards.

Whatever flavour the fear is in, it’s a double glazed window that stops you walking forward into the world that’s waiting for you. You can see through it, but you can’t walk through - you keep bumping into that same fear again and again. Worse still, your mind becomes the window which you look out into the world of what you could be doing. Fear is the looking glass stopping you stepping forward.

My fears usually centre around money, conflating money to worth. Therefore being afraid of being worthless. I also love to be afraid of the unknown and enjoy spending my time controlling as much as I can to avoid the unavoidable unknown of life itself. I resist being alone too, with a deep fear of loneliness - despite consistently proving to myself that when I’m comfortable “on my own” - I feel more connected than ever.

It’s hard to fully smash through your fears and remove them forever. What’s more realistic is the practice of consistently facing them. In this sense being fearless is not having no fear at all, it’s your willingness to face fear head on.

It’s the most simple inquiry in the world, but simply asking yourself what you are afraid is powerful. What are you afraid of?

Right now I’m afraid of sitting in my office alone for 8 hours and writing a book. I’m afraid it won’t work. I’m afraid I’ll fail. I’m afraid I’ll waste my time. I’m afraid I’ll be a total failure.

I could have many therapy sessions about all of these things, but I’ve found that only gets you so far. It’s better to do some version of your own exposure therapy. Take managed risks that encourage you to face your fears.

For me this might be, spend one full day writing my book. Say no to all paid work for that day and spend a full day on it. I’m sure this will go well. Then next, it’ll be to do it again. Do it for two days. These risks at your edges encourage you to expand and grow, into your fear.

Money is a good one. If your fears centre around money. Losing it, not having it, never having it. Then my invitation to you is to spend it or try a period where you have less of it. Whatever fear money is harbouring for you, will quickly come to the fore and you can face it by using money as the conduit. Obviously don’t do anything stupid (this isn’t financial advice) but if you’re worried about never having money (when you actually have a decent amount in the bank), buy something for yourself that celebrates how far you’ve come. I’m certain when you do this, you’ll open up space to generate even more money in the future.

Fear is always holding us back. Keeping us safe, both from harm, but also from risk. Listening to some of this is healthy. It stops you spending your life savings on bitcoin. But lots of your fear is stopping you from walking forward into the life that you can actually see for yourself - the life behind the looking glass.

I believe facing our fears isn’t something we do once, or once and for all. It’s something we do daily, consistently and marginally. Until one day we’ve moved the looking glass so close to the life we want that we are actually there, living it, with no fear. That starts today. It could be a LinkedIn post. It could be a conversation. It’s a managed risk. It’s a task that makes you squirm, a bit. Something that makes your heart race just a little bit.

For example, for me, right now, I feel excited writing this blog post in this form. Where I’m being a little bit more forthright in saying what I think and telling people what to do. I feel excited, as if I might be growing a bit here, expanding into a fear, into an edge. I’ve been afraid of being “worthless” of “not making anything of myself” so it feels scary to write on an ethereal topic with no attachment to the outcome. Yet that was the prompt I gave to myself this week; “Write with abandon” Write without fear.

Fear is holding you back and it always will. Yet we all have a chance to catch it. To notice it steal into our lives and put us in our own glass box. We can notice those moments we bump our head into the looking glass of our lives where fear is holding us back. Then, we can choose to face fear. Take a risk, knock on the glass, walk around it. Take an action that puts us in contact with our fear - like a game, an experiment.

Do this and fear doesn’t necessarily evaporate, but we move through it.

Actually, we move with it.

Fear will always remain, but we don’t remain the same.

James

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You become someone you never thought you’d be.

When you change, you betray who you once were. You go from one version of you to another. If the change is dramatic, then the sense of betrayal is dramatic.

This will show up in your relationships, the decisions you can or can’t make and the way you live your life.

I experienced this in my early twenties when I decided to go out less and drink less alcohol. I very quickly began betraying the person I once was, and the personality that I was. I betrayed my mates who were my drinking buddies. All of a sudden I wasn’t doing that with them, I betrayed them. I betrayed myself. 2 years prior if I’d have known that I’d have taken off these clothes, I’d have been outraged. This is who I am!

I betrayed myself and others when I sold Sanctus. 5 years earlier I’d say things like “I’ll NEVER sell out” and I fully meant it. Years later, I battled with the new desire burgeoning in me to sell the company and move onto a new mission. I resisted this change in me for many years and caused myself a lot of pain and heartache.

If you are growing then there will naturally be things that you did that you can no longer do. Maybe you used to see that mate all the time, but now, you’re busy working on something you care about and they’re in the same job they hate. You’re into hiking and yoga now, you don’t like Rugby that much any more. This change is a betrayal to them and if you keep pretending you haven’t changed, you’re betraying this new version of you too.

You’re now becoming the kind of person who does things that you believed you never would. You took a first class flight and it felt good. You bought an expensive house. You’re not from money, you’re betraying who you are and where you are from. You’re a different person now, you’ve forgotten your roots.

I see the pain this causes. I see the conflict in you when you are changing, betraying a former version of you. There’s conflict. One foot in the past, one foot in the future and you are trapped, twisted in betrayal - holding onto loyalty that is no longer serving you, and truly you have already let go of. You’ve already changed.

Then, by not fully stepping into who you are becoming, you’re actually betraying yourself because you are still pretending to be who you once were. You’re trapped.

This pain can be alleviated by simply acknowledging the fact that you are changing and being witnessed in that change. This is what often happens in coaching sessions. I might simply acknowledge to someone - “you’ve changed.” Not in the judgemental tone that might exist in your head. It’s not loaded. It’s simple. It’s true. You have changed. You are different now to then. This witnessing and acknowledgement allows people to walk over a threshold. They take a breath and sigh; “I’ve changed” Now you are more able to deal with the consequences of this change.

Maybe you stop feeling so bad about not gong out with that mate as much. Maybe you say to them,”I’m just not into that stuff any more mate” and let yourselves both be a bit sad about that. Maybe you communicate better with your team, or your customers and explain why circumstances have changed. Maybe you sit in your childhood bedroom at your parents house just for 5 minutes and think about how far you’ve come. You take ownership of the change and alleviate the sense of betrayal. By shining a light on it, it fades.

In a broader sense, in a company or in a team - by highlighting the change and owning any sense of betrayal then you allow this sigh of relief to be a collective exhale. From here you can move on, or the people feeling betrayed, maybe team members or customers might decide to leave and move on - opening up space for more.

You might think betrayal is a “bit deep”, I don’t think so. I don’t believe you can change at all without a sense of betrayal, I just don’t think we like to admit it. If you are growing a lot, you’ll cross multiple thresholds like this and there may be many layers of betrayal that you need to work through and shake off over time.

You cannot evolve without betraying the past. Own your betrayal and your path to growth will be smoother with less resistance. Avoid it and you’ll constantly feel conflicted and will be plagued with decisions that you get stuck in and struggle to make. If you fall into consistent patterns of inability to move forward or make decisions, it’s probably because you haven’t taken ownership of the fact that you have changed and committed to the forward facing version of you. You are still negotiating your sense of betrayal and you are actually betraying yourself more each day by not saying yes to the change that is out there waiting for you.

Don’t let betrayal hold you back. Own it. Cross your threshold and choose who you are becoming, don’t just be loyal to who you once were.

James

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Many of these I made to myself, and then to the world.

In not seeing them through I’ve lost confidence in myself. I’ve broken my own trust. Now, it’s time to forgive myself and follow through on what I said I’d do.

That’s how I’m going to regain my confidence. By keeping the promises I make to myself.

I said I would put the world’s first mental health gym on the high street. I promised myself, and the world, that I’d do that.

I didn’t.

I built something great, but it wasn’t what I promised. We did not fulfill the mission we said we would.

I said I would publish Jack The Lad, Bridget Jones’s Diary for Men.

That’s still in draft.

I said I would create an independent newspaper for Stoke and Staffordshire.

That’s not finished.

By not following through with what I said I’d do, my confidence has been chipped at. This process began in COVID when I was reduced to a small square on a computer screen and lost all my power. I felt small and invisible. Too much time confined, too much time to think.

Then exiting Sanctus, whilst on paper everything looked swell, internally it wasn’t for me. “The optics look good” as a friend said to me. Yet, I’ve been filled with regret around what I did and did not achieve.

Leaving London, moving to an area where being creative and entrepreneurial is met with more resistance. This has been another challenge to my confidence.

Then, losing a baby was the final passage that last year took me to rock bottom. Despite feeling totally out of control, I also somehow felt like I’d failed again.

All of these things have waned my confidence. Now, I’m coming out of the other side.

My inability to keep the promises I made has chipped at my confidence. If I’m totally honest, I have lost some respect for myself.

It’s not just about the outcomes, I know we can’t control those all the time. It’s that I know deep down I haven’t worked as hard as I could to bring these visions to the world. I know that on some level I gave up, or procrastinated or just didn’t keep going.

It’s those moments of staying in bed that little bit longer, or that important task or conversation that kept getting put off or the other bits of “easy” work that constantly get prioritised over the hard impactful stuff.

It’s in these moments that I have broken promises to myself and in showing up this way consistently over a number of years now, my confidence has declined along with it.

There are things I wanted to do, pieces of work that I said I would share with the world. And because I haven’t done them, or more importantly, put in the work to make them real. I can’t take myself as seriously. I can look myself in the mirror, but if I stare for a long time I’m disappointed and frustrated at what I see when I look deep into my own eyes.

This is the high level of accountability and challenge that I need to see in the mirror and it’s only now that I can look.

I have been kind to myself, I have been compassionate. This isn’t me beating myself black and blue. These are the standards I want to hold myself to, so that I can realise the potential that I know I have inside.

I am not avoiding this hard edge of accountability that is rising up inside me. This voice that says “James, you know you can do better than this.”

Having Xander has brought this to the fore.

I can’t be the dad who says “I had an idea for a fiction book once”

[sharp intake of breath] “Be careful starting a business son, I did it and it’s hard, are you sure?”

Or, the dad that rolls his eyes when he sees someone doing well, “probably came from money”. A sceptic, a cynic. No, that won’t be me.

There are a few very important things to me that I said I’d do and I haven’t. I can forgive myself for that and I am compassionate towards my younger self, But I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing anything about them now I’ve looked hard in the mirror.

The word confidence stems from the Latin word “confidentia”, which means “full trust” The way I see this, confidence is a trust in yourself and trust in life.

I have felt this level of trust and confidence before. I’ve walked tall and steady. It’s a confidence that isn’t frail with bravado. It’s quiet, deep and needs nothing else.

Trust is a currency, a bank account that goes up and down. I’ve been taking too much out and not putting enough back in. I’m ready to invest again.

I want to keep those promises I made to myself. Then, I can look myself dead in the eyes in the mirror and know I did what I said I would, no matter what the outcome.

I’ve got unfinished business. It’s time to get to work.

Cheers,

James x

I’d love to hear from you if this resonates. Reply privately over email or respond in the comments.

What promises haven’t you kept?

Can you forgive yourself?

What’s your unfinished business?

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The last 90 days have been the most violently transformative period of my life. I’ve loved it, but I won’t claim to have loved every single second. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that this experience has nothing to do with Xander, he’s perfect, it’s all to do with me.

I think we’re probably supposed to start counting down in months now, not weeks, but I’ll stay in weeks for as long as I can. Holding onto them like I’m holding onto those baby-grows he’s already too big for.

I’ve come down from the high I was on. I’m swimming deep into the normality of bottles, nappies, night feeds and witching hour.

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It’s the daily wrestle of how to get him down, the moment by moment conundrum of working out what a 3 month old baby needs.

I feel a little bit more able to allow myself to have some harder feelings about all this. After losing a baby I didn’t feel like I could dare begrudge any part of this process. As if any criticism of my current experience of parenthood was sacrilege towards the baby we lost.

3 months in and I can admit. It’s amazing, but let’s be real, it isn’t all amazing.

The same words are bandied about by new parents; “hard” “tired” “tough”. Yet these words are unhelpful to prospective parents or those alongside you. They’re not colourful enough.

The tiredness, at times, is overwhelming. It consumes you and gets into your bones. Affecting everything you see and do.

I find that it’s more than being tired. It’s being depleted. Being weary. I notice I’m not just physically tired. I’m overwhelmed by the constant not knowing what to do, or how to navigate this radically new stage of my life. This constant newness is exhausting.

The “hardness” is a constant fight with the uncertainty and fragility of a baby who you love very much.

I know that when I find myself dropping my shoulders and saying to others that “it’s hard” - I’m 1) doing this weird thing that British parents do where we compete and wallow in how tough it all is. 2) I’m actually saying (but not saying) “I’m finding this hard and I need help”

The “toughness” is all of it. How such a small being can now dictate your whole solar system. It’s not just the baby that’s “tough”. It’s the bickering you now have with your partner. It’s the sink full of dishes. It’s the untidy house. It’s how it used to be you, you two - two fairly well rounded and self-sustaining individuals. Now it’s you three and he’s slap bang in the middle.

And, it’s “hard” because all of these feelings begin bubbling up inside you. Feelings that you only have a moment at 3am to deal with. Anger. Frustration. Boredom. And Love. Deep deep love that comes from a pit in your stomach you didn’t even know existed. So you’re left wondering, how deep does this well go?

Who am I now? Who am I if I love this person this much?

I said before that I could tell I was discovering unexplored parts of me. That, is so true. I feel as if there is a whole world of love, care and parenting in me that I’m still to venture into.

It’s hard, but this level of change is hard. You don’t just breeze up a mountain.

The final thing I’m learning after 3 months is that none of this really has anything to do with Xander. He’s absolutely perfect. As, I believe, are all babies.

This. Whatever this experience of parenting is. Is absolutely all to do with me. My response. My relationship to him and to my new life as a parent. He is perfect. He is innocent. He is a baby. I’m the complex, broken adult filled with a lifetime of conditioning that’s been hard wired into me.

Of course, babies are different. When I say they are perfect. I mean, they just are. They are pure being. Therefore, all I can do is respond, relate and try, try my best to make conscious choices that aren’t based on some limiting belief or frustration.

This level of change and transformation on a personal level is violent. I mean that word. I’ve personally never felt this level of change in my life. The closest I came was founding a business. There is a reason people make analogies between babies and business (the business is your baby). There’s a vicious amount of change coming through you that is unstoppable. This change permeates your practical day-to-day life and your identity. It’s cellular. There is no escape from a full, violent transformation of you and your whole life.

I can feel it in me. I am becoming someone totally new.

When I wake in the morning. I don’t just think about my work. I don’t just think about me (which honestly, I’ve spent my life doing). I think about what I need to do for Xander and Sarah.

And the truth is, I don’t always want to think like that. This new part of me is absolutely pummelling the old me. The old me is reeling, ouch. Old me is wondering when he’s going to play Padel again?

You’re not playing Padel for a while buddy, you’re a dad now. Deal with it.

When people say “it’s hard”. They’re not just talking about being tired, they are talking about a total identity shift. A violent, beautiful transformation. A hurricane of change. Now, that’s hard. A lot harder than disrupted sleep.

I’ll check back in at the 6 month mark. Which somehow feels like half way. I don’t know why.

Cheers,

James x

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It’s the beginning of the calendar year, but when I look around me, when I feel my own tiredness and my own energy. I don’t feel the “new year, new me vibes” yet. Far from it.

This is not new year in the way we are sold it. Go for a walk and look at the naked trees and ask them if it’s new year? They’ll laugh their branches off at you. Of course it’s not the new year yet! It’s absolutely freezing.

My year starts properly in February. When we come out of the depths of winter and can turn towards Spring.

January is one big doorway we are all walking through. One foot is across the threshold but the rest of your body hasn’t made it across yet. You’re in transition. From 2025 to 2026.

I’ve taken this approach to new year for the last few years and it’s helped me a lot to quell any new year anxiety. That feeling that grows over the Christmas period in the unknown of it all where I’d start feeling anxious about my new year goals. I’d start ruminating over how I was going to be really successful in the new year, all the things I’d do. I noticed I was never doing this goal setting or reflecting from a place of fun and creativity, it was always fear-fuelled planning with a Jan 1st deadline. Pointless.

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I like creating new year intentions, goals and resolutions. I have made them. Crucially, they are still in draft. I’m not locking them in until February 1st. I’m going to keep letting January confuse me, let myself arrive into 2026 some more and then, only then, will I stride head first into 2026.

Until then, I’ll use January to remember what I do, who I am and notice what old patterns from last year are still with me. What do I want to leave behind in 2026? What’s not coming through the doorway with me? And, I’ll use January to really listen to and observe what’s emerging for me - what seeds have been planted? If I look beneath the frozen earth, which ones are sprouting? Once I’m through the doorway, where do I want to go?

If you’ve landed in January and you feel lethargic. If you feel the January blues. If you “just hate January” or the “weather gets you down”. I’d reframe your expectations. Don’t resist Winter. Perhaps this isn’t your new year yet either, maybe you need to hunker down a little longer. Come out of your cave properly in Feb and start your new year then, with me.

Happy New Year.

James x

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I love winter.

I love the darkness, the mist, the low light, bare trees, frost, death and return of the light.

I love Christmas in the UK because I feel like it’s one of the only shared traditions we have.

The commerciality of it sugarcoats the true meaning; a sea of Amazon parcels glosses over what it actually is.

But the Christmas spirit lives, families come together, people are kinder, happier and we all focus on connection.

On a spiritual level, Christmas hijacks the winter solstice, the event that (IMO) holds all the meaning.

It’s this event and this timing which is why I love Christmas and why I believe it’s a powerful time of year for everyone.

The light continues to fade to its lowest ebb and then on the morning of the winter solstice - the light begins its return until it reaches its peak on the summer solstice in June.

After a calendar year of work, love and strife. The winter solstice marks the dying of the light. The bitter end. And then, the shy beginnings of something new.

I love this opportunity to wave goodbye to the year. Whilst also taking a peak at a new turning of the sun too. Wondering what 2026 will behold for me?

The cold, the mist or the frost wraps me in this state. Holding me down in this reflective, sometimes melancholy place of wondering and reflection.

The entire Christmas period and especially the pickle jar between Xmas and NY is a bardo. A space between death and rebirth.

I experience it like a long corridor. Nowhere. No time. No place. It’s a limbic space where you’re suspended, floating between worlds. It’s a threshold to linger in.

It’s easy to resist this space. Avoid it with the busyness of plans and planning ahead. Retaining the same energetic state that we’ll embody for Q1, 2, 3 and 4. Yet to do this. To stay on this same frequency is to reject the invitation of Christmas and turn away from its low hum that can lull us towards the fruitful unknown.

If we can let go. If we can truly stop. We can enter this bardo. We can let ourselves metaphorically die and be reborn again in caesars January.

This doesn’t mean no plans, or no planning. But it does mean saying yes to an energetic reset. A nervous system massage of mince pies, cosy fires and family walks.

It’s quite fashionable now to tell people that Christmas can be hard. A difficult time. When I was in the depths of grief last Christmas I certainly didn’t feel jolly. Yet even with a gaping hole in my heart I let the flux of Xmas time rub its wintery balm on my soul. Even if you hate your family, or you resent how much sugar you’ll inject into your veins - you can still let go into the great unknown for a spiritual reset from Xmas eve until Jan 2nd.

I’ll be reading A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I always read something festive. I’ll be reading Following Aslan and this book on Santa as a Saint, Shaman, Symbol as well to connect to this period on a deeper level.

I’ll do some journaling. Possibly filling in the Year Compass. I’ll light a fire and stare at it. We’ll have NYE with friends and ask some expansive questions over dinner. I’ll go on many, too many walks and watch the weather - looking at the bare naked trees as they give me clues about what’s next. I’ll keep my eye out for Robins. I’ll take a good look at the Christmas tree and smell it’s pines. I’ll watch the fireworks go bang on NYE. These aren’t just things to do over Christmas. Each one is a ritual, a moment, a symbol. If you let it be or connect to it so.

I’ll try and try I will to stay present with family, be there - feet on the floor. Connect. I’ll fail constantly and try again over and over and that’s the best we can do.

“Show me someone enlightened”

“Show me someone enlightened with their family”

And now to let go into the bardo and misty passage of time that will float me to January.

One tip to fully let go into this time of year is to absolutely do everything you can to round out the year. Demolish the to do list. Have that work drink. Squeeze this year to the pulp. When there’s nothing left, it’s easier to let go. Notice your resistance, notice if you’re a little scared to truly switch off. Feel the fear and step into the mist.

Now, I can feel the ghost of Christmas calling me. I’m entering my bardo.

I’ll see you on the other side.

Merry Christmas and thanks for being a reader this year.
James x

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We welcomed Xander into the world on 21/10 at 11.09pm.

It was a new moon and one of the busiest nights of the year at the hospital. So busy, they nearly had to close the doors.

There’s too much to say.

How I’ve become a Dad, but I already was one to Teddy. How after losing a baby there are feelings of guilt that occasionally darken this experience.

The birth. The most magical, primitive, primal experience I’ve ever been part of. Front row seats at the most incredible natural moment on earth. The spellbinding love I feel and felt for Sarah in that moment.

Then holding Xander in my arms, hearing his fleshy cry. Knowing my whole life changed in that instant. Feeling like a totally different person.

I could write on all of this. On the purpose I’ve felt ever since. On how our house now feels totally different. How baby clothes cover the radiators. How all the baby kit costs £179. How there’s such a culture of fear and fear-mongering in parenting and the healthcare system.

There’s too much to say.

And yet, there’s so much undiscovered and unexplored too. I feel a deep love, commitment and responsibility. My connection and relationship with Xander is still forming. In my heart I feel the sprouting seeds of a love that is unbridled, I feel him soaking into my skin, but there’s still much more to go.

There’s a world opening up in me that it’s too early to speak to. I’m at the edge of a new map and I can’t quite say yet all the ways in which this new passage of life will change me.

I just know it already has.

The concoction of emotions is crazy. Everything from deep gratitude to severe exhaustion. The chaos is wild. Going from black sludge in a nappy to the most beautiful cuddles on your chest. Watching grandparents fall in love and go daft, knowing that when we shut the door to say goodbye to visitors he’ll scream the house down and we wonder when we’ll sleep again?

There’s too much to say.

What I can say with certainty is that I have changed. New achievement unlocked. Dad mode: On. Something went ping in my head the moment he came safely out. A switch flicked.

For the first 3 weeks I was on an absolute high, pure adrenaline. I was charging around the house carrying a moses basket, breast pump and nappy caddy all under one arm, draped in muslin cloths, taking two stairs at a time.

I felt alive with direction and purpose. I loved the newness of everything.

Now, 6 weeks in and reality is beginning to sink in. He’s not going anywhere. There is no end to this race. I can rush to get us to bed as early as possible, but it doesn’t matter, because we’ll be doing this every night now in some form for many years.

There’s too much to say.

But, it is sinking in.

We were really ready for this to happen, losing a baby was like the ultimate cruelty - giving us a taste of what we wanted, but taking it away from us. The flip side for our relationship with Xander is that our hearts were ready and the doors of gratitude were wide open. We feel so lucky to just have a healthy, happy baby. Everything else is fine. Like Grandma says, no parent ever died from tiredness.

The whole journey so far for me has been one big lean into acceptance. Embracing it all. I know that I could make our experience of parenthood very hard by resisting what this really is. If I long for the times I slept 8 hours, went to the gym, played Padel and meditated every day I’m going to make life really painful for myself. I’m not clinging on to my old life. I’m living in a new one. That doesn’t mean I want to forget and forego who I was and what I enjoyed doing. It’s just that this is so new, so intensely different that to survive and appreciate it I have to fully fully accept all that this is. Everything from poonami’s when you don’t want them, to him waking up 5 mins after we’ve put him down at 3 in the morning. Those “hard” bits are the ticket into the stadium, where you get to witness a new life unfold.

The bad bits are so easy to describe; “tired”, “hard”, “no time for yourself” - the good bits are so good you need to be a poet to put it all into words. Mesmerising.

My intention for parenting and fatherhood is simple; “no moaning”. We lost a baby and I refuse to moan about having one. It can be hard. I can be tired. Our relationship can be strained. Holidays may never be the same again. We can feel anger, sadness, frustration, burnout - whatever we want on the emotions wheel. But I won’t moan about this. I won’t moan about the greatest gift on earth.

If I feel myself wanting to moan. To resist the situation. To blame him. To zone out. I take a breath and look at him. I look at this beautiful, precious, fragile, helpless baby that can’t yet meet his own needs. Who is completely reliant on us. I look at him, take a breath and remember how grateful I am to even be here and that we actually wanted this. We chose this. So get on with it, pick him up and give him the cuddle he needs to feel safe.

I’m pretty certain my views, feelings and objectives about everything in my life are about to change. Like I said, I’m a different James.

The world already looks different. I never appreciated how that stretch of Meaford Road on the walk we always do, doesn’t have a pavement. I never thought about how rank our old kettle was. I never appreciated what the schools might be like in Stone. I never thought; “how many days a week will I want to work when Xander is 2?”

It’s a new me. A new world. A new life.

Welcome Xander.

Cheers,
James x

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By James Routledge

And it’s the day Sarah turns 40 weeks pregnant. Due date. We’re expecting a baby boy.

It’s also the end of Baby Loss Awareness week and we spent last night remember all the babies lost too soon at a service near us.

I feel as though we’re sitting in the waiting room. Waiting for our names to be called.

“You can become parents now. Next.”

It’s too lazy to describe this last year as weird. There’s too much to say. Everything from how arbitrary due dates seem to be all the way to going to a 15 week scan and getting post-mortem results at the same time.

Too much to say, it feels like a book or a film.

Grieving Teddy, whilst also creating space within for all the feelings surrounding a new pregnancy. Sometimes it’s felt like it needs to be a choice, one or the other. As if there isn’t enough emotional bandwith for both experiences at once, we’ve had to stretch. Stretch a lot.

“Another baby” that became the key phrase for me to feel like I was respecting both journey’s. Not a replacement. Not the one we always wanted. Another baby.

“Is this your first?” That question always stings, even if sometimes we just say “yeah” to avoid a long conversation in the queue at the post office - the answer is always “no, we lost our first” muttered inside.

We’ve had to protect and close off at times, there’s only so much emotional energy you can expend, especially in the queue at the post office.

Grief and new life all in a year. All in one body. All through Sarah, with me as a constant witness.

All year I’ve felt like I’ve been holding something back. Holding something in.

Every piece of work. Every newsletter. Every LinkedIn post. Every meeting.

I’ve been there. I’ve been true. Yet I’ve been withholding a huge part of my life. A huge part of me. A massive weight being carried around all of the time.

Under the surface all I’ve really wanted to talk about is babies. Losing babies. Making babies. Having babies. How we got pregnant again quickly, unexpectedly. As if it might be a miracle. I’ve felt it in my writing, my writing has been OK, but I’ve been holding myself back - lacking love, lacking real feeling because I’ve had to hold that down. I’ve not dared to share. For once in my life I couldn’t handle more public vulnerability. I’ve craved more privacy. Cherishing this new journey just for me, just for us. Keeping him close and hoping, praying, dreaming.

I’ve been living this year holding my breath. No full exhales.

Now, I’m ready. So ready to breathe out.

So ready to meet the baby boy who’s there. Just there inside that bump. I can feel him.

I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. The experience of losing a baby makes this all even clearer. Super sharp. I can see it all. Because when we lost Teddy I became a Dad, but not quite. I fully saw what I wanted my life to look like and who I wanted to become, I had it in my hands for a moment. Then it was gone. Like a feather.

And now. Today. All we can do is wait. “Baby will come, when baby is ready”

Waiting to rewrite our story. Hoping to have a positive birth experience. Hoping for what we truly want to arrive.

Still there’s doubt. Plenty of doubt. Doubt that something bad could happen again. That we’ll be another statistic. We live with that now. That scar from past experience that will always mark us. In impossible situations , it always make us think; “yeah but what if?”

Marked by our grief we walked into Stoke Minster last night for a service on Baby Loss Awareness week. Lighting a candle in the wave of light, on our due date.

Bizarre and twisted and weird. Beautiful. Kind. Life has never felt so rich and full and murky. Life has never felt so real.

I imagine this fear or doubt will never go away. Our scars might fade but they always remain. Instead we practice facing that fear every day. Consciously, with awareness stepping into the great unknown.

And whilst the tears roll as we watch the candles flicker, somehow I do believe that this whole experience has made my life far richer.

I truly hope my next newsletter is about our baby boy.

Cheers,
James x

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Earlier this year, my monthly income was zero. I felt shit. I felt not good enough. I was equating the amount of income landing in my bank account each month to my self-worth.

I was viewing money as finite. A resource that would run out. I was in scarcity. Not enough to go around. Fear.

I could have felt differently. I could have been… all good! I could have felt light. I could have smiled and thought “this is a reset”. I could have accepted that it was an era, a chapter of change in my life. It was. I see that now, but at the time the way I was relating to money in my life was heavy, really heavy.

My relationship with money was draining me. Draining my energy. Making me feel small, holding me down.

I leant into it. Noticed how I was relating to money and made the conscious decision to change this relationship.

I had some cash sitting in a business bank account. I’d been keeping it there. Keeping it “safe”. So I took it out of the business account, I freed up the flow. I actually spent the money I had. The energy moves. The money flows. I stopped keeping money there “just in case”.

We got the bathroom done. We spent £12,000 on it. We made an investment, even when I wasn’t earning a lot. We had less money in the savings as a result. But we let the money flow out, we let it move. Making that investment in our home, felt good. I love our new bathroom and don’t miss that money at all. It’s gone now and a new bathroom has appeared. That’s way better.

When I was getting bills I was feeling tight. I was feeling constricted. I was taking a sharp intake of breath. Huuuhhhh, “I need to pay out more” But what about the reframe? The more tax you’re paying, the more money you’re making. You’re making a contribution to society. Being a good citizen. Isn’t that a good thing? Spending money was feeling like a loss, rather than an exhange.

It’s not about the bill or the invoice you need to pay. It’s about your response to it. That’s what’s revealing. Money has energy to it. How’s money making you feel?

Money isn’t the end, it’s the means. How we relate to it is what matters.

Resistance vs Flow

I was feeling a lot of resistance towards money in my life. I was feeling constricted, scarce. Now I’m leaning into flow more. Letting money move in and out.

I’m trying to be more generous. Because that’s who I want to be. If I become more generous with my money. Will money be more generous with me?

The other day I gave ~£150 to 3 different charities (generous to others). I spent £300 at M&S on new clothes (generous to myself).

I bought some fresh veg and whilst the self check out beeped I smiled and thought; “I sold my skills to pay the shop its suppliers for growing this veg.” Exchange. It’s pretty laughable when you think what money actually is. When you really think about the value exchange that’s happening in your bank account, it’s disarming and shows money for what it really is. Energy, value, commerce. Not your self-worth.

This isn’t about money. This is about me. This is about you.

I see this all the time in founders I work with, and myself too.

You build a great business with decent revenue, but your relationship with money is still scarce. You’re still stressing over every penny. Every transaction is stressed over. Every pound is scrutinised. You’re still paying yourself like a teenager. No investments into your life. It’s all locked up in your business.

I had the same with Sanctus, then I freed myself and sold some shares and I felt lighter. But even then I felt scarce, feeling like the money I had made was finite. As if it was all I’d ever make, I left that lump sum sitting in my bank account going stale for 18 months. That money decision was made by a child counting his pennies in his savings jar.

Prompts and Reflections

Some great prompts to reflect on:

• What is your relationship is with money at the moment?

• What does money actually mean to you?

• What value and meaning are you placing on money in your life?

• If you get a bill how do you feel?

• Go through all your transactions and look at them. Is this you? Is this your life?

• When was the last time you bought something for you? Made an investment in you?

• Do you have a pile of savings sitting there, going stale like a pile of dusty coins? Are you scared this will be the only money you ever have?

Money is energy. It’s value. Exchanging, flowing back and forth. How you relate to money says a lot about you and your life.

I’m learning to be more free with money. Less tight. Less constricted. I’m trusting that more money will flow in, and out.

And if it doesn’t… I’m learning to be more free, more light. Money does not define me.

That’s only a good thing.

Cheers,
James x

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p.s I’m looking for ~5 people to join me as “early birds” - you’d get my newsletters in raw unedited form before anyone else and have the chance to provide feedback, edits and build on the themes. I’d incorporate your feedback into my final post and credit you. I think this could be fun if 1) you like my writing, 2) you like writing, 3) you like editing, 4) you like the “deep stuff” and creative process. Respond to this email if you’re interested. I’d put you in a whatsapp group and send first draft newsletters to you for feedback, chat and builds.

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I’ve worked for myself for 15 years.

How often have I actually benefitted from the luxury of managing my own time?

I’ve expensed a few coffees. A few meals. A few work trips. Yet, how much time freedom have I actually enjoyed?

Not loads. Freedom to work on what I want with who I want. Definitely that. But, my time? Not much at all. I’ve travelled and worked remotely, but no matter where I’ve been or what I’ve been working on, I’ve always had typical 9-5 conditioning around my time.

Even though I’ve had loads of independence and autonomy over my time, I’ve always forced myself to work the same hours as everyone else I know, or a lot more.

If I have ever gone for a run in the middle of the day, or taken a Friday afternoon off or had a lie in. It’s not long until I’ve chastised myself for it. Beating myself up with the belief that I’ll never be successful like this.

This year I’ve been coaching and consulting - working a really flexible schedule. Still, I’ve chained myself to my desk from 9-5, or longer. Just like I should.

Breaking the cycle. Experiencing Flow

In the last month, I’ve stopped doing this. I’ve broken the pattern. I realised I’ve been forcing myself into a conditioned working pattern for no reason. I’ve been forcing myself to hum at a high pitched frequency. When really, I want to be on another wavelength.

By forcing myself to work the typical 9-5, or 8-6 - I’ve been disrupting my own flow, to fit into another box designed by someone else. I’ve been putting on my own golden handcuffs. I’ve been chaining myself to my desk. In this sense, freedom is a choice - and I’ve been choosing to fit the handcuffs.

However, in the last few weeks I’ve more naturally followed my own flow. I’ve taken a slow morning and started my working day at 10 or 10.30. Some days I’ve not even done that much. Last night I finished at 4pm and made a celery and potato soup.

The other day I went for a 1 hour walk at 3pm, it was wild.

I’ve been in tune with how and when I want to work.

It’s working.

The weirdest thing is, it’s working. Connections are coming my way. Opportunities seem to be finding me. All when I’m not doing a lot. When I do work, I’m present, connected, grounded. I’m not in a rush. The founders I’m working with are getting a lot of value from my work. I believe it helps that I’m on a different frequency, it’s what they pay me for.

I know why “it’s working”. It’s because I’m aligned. I’m in alignment and I’m on the frequency I want to be on. I’m humming. I’m the walking equivalent of “ommmmmm”. Calm.

I’m feeling the benefit. I’m experiencing flow. One of the many benefits of an entrepreneurial career is flexibility around my time. So if I’m not feeling that benefit, then I’m not experiencing the joy of this work. I may as well get a proper job.

Feeling the benefit is important, because it puts me in touch with why I do this work, with the soul and essence of why do this, why bother? When I enjoy my day, because I’ve been on my schedule. It makes me want to do more. There’s momentum. There’s flow.

So many times I see people start businesses because they want freedom. Instead they chain themselves tighter and tighter to their desk. They take themselves further and further away from the very reason they went on this journey in the first place. They disrupt their own flow and block themselves.

I’d been placing myself in a mental prison, honestly I’ve done it for most of my career so far. I work on “different” things, but I still mould myself to how everyone else works or how it “should be done”.

Whatever the benefit is of an entrepreneurial or creative life to you, you have to live it and experience it now, not later.

For me one of the great benefits is the opportunity to work on and be on a different frequency. Starting at 10am after a mindful morning and not getting in my head about it, not thinking “i’m not working hard enough” - trusting that there’s a different way for me. This is important to me. This is part of my “why”

I’m getting up when I want and I’m starting to work when I want.

I’m not just “in flow” - I’m experiencing it.

What’s the benefit for you? What’s your creative life?

Experience it, now. Not later.

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That story became my ego.

I’m not letting that happen again.

It’s late 2015. I’m living in an abandoned 3 story townhouse in West Hampstead.

I’m working for Doug as an “investor” and I’ve had 4 flat whites at Ozone coffee in Old Street.

I had 5 or 6 frenzied meetings with startup founders that day. It was dark and rainy outside.

Going down the escalator to the underground of the Northern Line, I had a panic attack.

For weeks and months these episodes kept happening. In the end I wrote about them. Talked about them. Started a whole a business about them. About mental health.

I made links and analysed my experience. Sharing themes that resonated with others. This felt amazing. Healing. Cathartic. I told this story a thousand times.

‘I was wearing a mask. I wasn’t opening up. I never grieved my last company. I was lost. In an existential crisis.’

10 years on. And the other day I had two strong coffees.

I nearly had a panic attack.

I had to calm myself down and make sure my feet hit the floor.

Could it be, that on that day going down to the underground ten years ago, I’d actually just had too much coffee?

Could it be that I spun a story out of something to give me purpose, energy, direction?

Could I have turned that story into a blog post encouraging startup founders to ditch caffeine?

Was it about my mental health after all? Or did I just drink too much coffee that day? What would have happened if I only had one?

That story became my identity. I developed that moment into a narrative, into a persona.

I see it more clearly now. It was a story. Not me. The story was true. It was real. That’s why it resonated so strongly. I was being honest, vulnerable and authentic.

But from that moment, in the years that followed. I became attached. I became the story.

This time, I’m not doing that again. I’m not my feelings. I’m not what happens in my life. I’m me, not my life experiences. I can tell stories, share the feelings, recount the experience. But I am not them. I am me.

This feels important. And I see it in many others too. How stories, thoughts or emotions become so fixed in their mind that they become that story. They think themselves into a person, rather than being a person. They base their identity on who they think they are, rather than who they actually are in the world.

This to me. Is ego. Mind-constructed thoughts that wrap around you to become a persona. Ego isn’t ambition, or money, or status. Whilst ego often wants those things. They get unfairly labelled. Ego, to me, is “who you think you are” it’s you defining you by an image and catalogue of thoughts in your mind. This way, you stay fixed, you become rigid. Because your persona is so fixed in your mind based on the stories you’ve been telling yourself and others over the years, there’s little room for growth. There’s no expansion. There’s you and your ego moving through the world wrapped in a bubble of you.

My mental health story created an ego for me. I used it for good. But actually I created a fragile ego that was based on story. Ironically my ego was centred around my identity as someone “open about mental health” - still though, it was an ego - another mask for me to wear. In the end this ego actually limited my world and my possibilities, because I was armoured against what was possible. My world actually became closed, not open. To have no ego is to be free, open and limitless. To have an ego is the opposite.

This happens all the time. We see it in many people, especially founders and creative people. Especially when the world wants their ego, when they get asked to do keynotes or go on panels. Their ego becomes reinforced, more fixed, stronger and stronger.

I’m not doing this again. No stories. No personas. No fixed identities.

I’m staying fluid and I hope, more real, more me.

I wonder where I’d be if I’d just had a peppermint tea that day?

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I’m working 1:1 with Founders and Founding Teams as a thought partner, founder coach and brand builder. Coaching, facilitating, mentoring, advising - high level on the business and going deep on storytelling and brand. I’m currently working with 9 founders/teams and have space for 1 more before I hold fire. Book a chat here.