The Cost of Care: Reflections on Holding a Community Space
There’s a kind of support that doesn’t always look like “help” — not at first glance.
It happens in a small room, a circle of chairs, a soft conversation. It’s a steady presence, a grounding exercise, a moment where someone breathes a little easier. No fanfare. No waiting lists. No clinical forms. Just human connection.
This is the heart of A Positive Start CIC.
Our work is trauma-informed, person-centred, and holistic. It brings together nervous system education, body awareness, gentle language, lived experience, and creativity. But because it doesn’t come in a medicalised package — it is often overlooked, misunderstood, or quietly dismissed.
Holistic support is too often framed as “soft,” “alternative,” or “nice-to-have.” For some, it seems “less than” — not because of the outcomes, but because of how unfamiliar it feels. It doesn’t follow the same protocols or wear the same badges. It’s not top-down. It’s not commissioned. And that seems to make people uncomfortable.
And instead of asking why it makes them uncomfortable, people often retreat behind familiar narratives:
- “It’s not real therapy”
- “It’s a bit woo-woo”
- “Where’s the clinical evidence?”
This reflexive discomfort says more about our societal conditioning than it does about the work itself.
There’s a quiet hierarchy in the world of care — a kind of unspoken snobbishness. If you’re not commissioned by government or embedded in an institution, you’re seen as fringe. Even within the third sector, where collaboration should thrive, independent projects like ours can feel left out of the circle — excluded from inclusion.
It’s an irony that cuts deep: the same systems that tell people “you matter” often exclude those doing the grassroots work to prove it.
And what’s the cost of that?
We see it in the core beliefs people carry into our sessions:
- “I’m not good enough”
- “I don’t belong”
- “I’m not worth investing in”
The systems mirror the very wounds we’re trying to heal.
In grassroots spaces like ours, people pour everything they are into their work. This isn’t a 9-to-5. It’s heart-led graft — long hours, unpaid evenings, and the quiet work of holding others in their most vulnerable moments.
And because it’s done with love, it can be easy to overlook the cost.
A recent joyful collaboration brought that into sharp focus for me. It’s been creative, uncomplicated, ego-free — just honest, easy communication with a shared mission. The kind of project where everyone brings what they can without hierarchy, without games. The work itself felt light, fun, and deeply connected.
As the project nears its end, I’ve felt an unexpected sense of sadness — a kind of loss. Because the truth is: this kind of working relationship shouldn’t feel novel. But it did.
That feeling — that ache — told me what had been missing.
At A Positive Start CIC, we still offer:
- A free initial assessment for all
- Eight fully funded sessions for those most in need ( when funding is available)
- “Pay what you can” counselling starting from £5 a session
- Free CBT, trauma support, and group workshops
We offer a safe haven — a moment to step outside the anxiety-stricken world that demands so much from us.
A place to exhale. To be met as you are. To feel what needs to be felt — safely, without judgement — and in a space where the care is real, present, and can be felt.
But we are not government-funded. We are not NHS-backed. We are not a tick-box service.
We are real people doing real work — and like many others in our position, we are sustained not by structure, but by passion, perseverance, and personal sacrifice.
Recently, I put out a quiet invitation — a request for small contributions to help sustain this work. The ask was modest, just £5 per session. Some responded with generosity. Others chose to step away. Those who did respond — their support helps keep the doors open for others who truly can’t afford it. I’m deeply grateful for them — not just for the donation, but for the trust, respect, and mutual care it represents.
And again, this isn’t about blame. I know times are hard. But the response revealed something else: a discomfort with the idea that emotional support has value. That healing should be worth something — even if it’s just appreciation, reciprocity, or the price of a coffee.
The expectation that healing be free — always and indefinitely — reveals how invisible this work has become. And how easy it is to take it for granted.
People often don’t know what they have until it’s gone. That’s not a threat — it’s just human nature.
But as someone who has poured my time, energy, and finances into creating something meaningful — I feel a responsibility to speak this truth, even gently: If we do not value community-rooted care, it will disappear.
And we will be left with longer waiting lists, clinical burnout, and people falling through the cracks that projects like ours once caught.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting not just on the work, but on myself — on who I am, and who I choose to be. I stand for compassion, justice, and kindness — but also for boundaries. The kind that protect us from being drained by those who only see benefit as a one-way exchange.
It’s true: survival can be selfish. But healing is a choice. Consciousness is a choice. Living in alignment with the principles we offer to others is a choice. And part of that is recognising what we’re willing to accept — and what we no longer will.
It’s easy to deflect discomfort. To frame gentle truth as blame. But growth asks more of us. It asks for reflection, for congruence, and for responsibility.
We all like to imagine we’re not the one acting from entitlement or dysregulation. But healing spaces — real ones — ask us to look closer, not look away.
After all, Community Interest — the clue is in the title. It’s about care. It’s about belonging. It’s about recognising our shared responsibility to nurture the spaces that hold us.
A Closing Thought
This post is not about blame. It’s about clarity.
I still believe in the power of community. I believe in people. And I believe in creating spaces that welcome the whole human — not just the diagnosis.
But I also believe this work deserves to be seen, supported, and sustained.
If you believe that too, you’re already part of the solution.
If spaces like ours have ever held you — or someone you love — please help hold them too.
Because without community support, these spaces quietly disappear.
And what they take with them can’t always be replaced.
The Power of Being Underestimated
The Power of Being Underestimated: Walking the Road Less Travelled
My dad would often joke - “If there are two options, you always choose the wrong one first.”
Maybe he was right. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong – just different.
From the early days, when I was considered “furthest from the labour market,” to now, as I work alongside a growing community of people around the world, creating lasting change through trauma-informed support, I have always been drawn to the road less travelled – the one with more questions than answers, more brambles than smooth pavement, but also more freedom to create, connect, and challenge the status quo.
There’s a moment in every changemaker’s journey – a fork in the road – where the path you’ve been walking suddenly splits. One side is wide and well-trodden, packed with people moving in steady, predictable lines. The other is quieter, a little overgrown, with no clear signs or guarantees.
Most people choose the crowded path. It’s familiar, accepted, safe. They move together, reassured by the numbers around them, confident that the road ahead has been mapped out by those who came before.
But some of us – the ones who see the world a little differently, who carry stories that can’t be neatly folded into the expected narrative – find ourselves drawn to the quieter trail.
It’s not an easy choice. The first few steps can feel like a free fall, untethered from the comforting weight of the familiar. Doubts cling like brambles, and the whisper of past voices can echo in the silence: “Who are you to choose this path?” “What makes you think you’re different?”
But then, something shifts. The trees part, and you see the light breaking through the branches. You start to notice the wild, beautiful things growing along this untamed trail – ideas, connections, and possibilities that couldn’t survive in the trampled soil of the mainstream.
Connecting with like minded people, reminds me that there is a growing tribe of unconventional thinkers who see the value in difference, who celebrate the outliers and the changemakers. They are the ones who light my path when the weight of dismissal becomes too heavy, reminding me that we are not alone.
So, if you’ve ever felt the quiet sting of being underestimated – if you’ve been told, subtly or otherwise, that your voice is too raw, your approach too unconventional – take heart. There is power in being misunderstood. There is strength in being dismissed. And there is profound impact in being the one who keeps creating, connecting, and believing when the world looks the other way.
Because in the end, it’s the underestimated, the trailblazers who change the world.
Take the Road Less Travelled – Join STAND
Choosing to STAND is not the easy path. It asks you to break cycles, confront uncomfortable truths, and reclaim your voice in a world that too often dismisses those who speak from lived experience.
But that’s exactly why it matters.
If you’re ready to walk the path less travelled, to stand for what you believe in, and to make a lasting impact, I invite you to join me for the STAND: Parents as Protectors program.
It’s not just a course. It’s a movement – a call to those who refuse to be silenced or side-lined, who believe that prevention is possible, and who are ready to make a difference.
Take the first step. Join us.
Register Your Interest -
STAND for Prevention.
STAND for Change.
STAND together.
https://apositivestart.org.uk/stand-parents-as-protectors/
Lost and Found – Memory, Love, and the Body’s Hidden Stories
May 14th holds a unique weight in my heart, a day stitched together with the threads of loss and love, echoes of the past that still ripple through my present.
In 1977, at just seven years old, I stepped into a new life in Zambia, eyes wide with wonder and a heart full of adventure. Our family’s belongings followed us, packed into the belly of a Dan-Air cargo flight. But on this day, that Boeing 707 never reached its destination. It crashed near Lusaka, just shy of its final approach, at 7:17, killing six crew members and a passenger – seven lives lost.
Among the scattered memories on that fateful flight was my cherished Katycopy doll. I never spoke of the loss, even as a child. It felt wrong to mourn a doll when families were mourning their loved ones. But years later, when my son, with a heart full of love and the intuition only a child can have, surprised me with a Katycopy doll he’d found on eBay, the emotional wave that hit me was staggering. I ached for days. The doll, just a thing to the world, held a weight my body had never quite let go of – the unspoken grief of a little girl who never got to say goodbye to a piece of her childhood.
The body truly keeps the score, storing these emotional imprints long after the conscious mind has moved on.
Oddly enough, this date would come to hold even more significance. It’s the day I chose to marry my husband – a choice made with an open heart and no awareness of the shadow that already clung to it. Years later, a stranger told me the number 7 held significance for me. I dismissed it at the time, insisting 4 was my lucky number. But when I looked back, I realised the uncanny web of 7s that had quietly threaded itself through my life.
I was 7 when we moved to Zambia. The plane that carried our possessions was a Boeing 707. It crashed in 1977, at 7:17, and I believe it claimed 7 lives. And on this very day, years later, I chose to marry the love of my life, beginning a partnership that has only deepened with time.
And then there’s my grandad, Dennis. He passed away on this date, too – a kind, steady presence in my early life, whose quiet strength still echoes in my heart. He taught me the power of quiet bravery that comes from standing firm in who you are. I carry that with me, a quiet pulse beneath the noise of life, a reminder that love, in all its forms, truly endures.
Through all the losses, love has remained my constant. My husband and I married with full hearts, and over the years, our bond has only strengthened, weathering the storms life inevitably brings. He remains my anchor, my safe harbour in a world of shifting tides.
So, on this day, I remember those who left too soon – the pieces of myself I have lost and found, and the love that continues to anchor me.
If you have something you cherish today, hold it a little closer. If there’s someone you love, tell them – again, and again, and again.
Trauma Informed Communication in Healthcare: Why It’s Not Optional
Why Trauma-Informed Communication in Healthcare Isn’t Optional
As a trauma-informed counsellor, I’ve seen firsthand the devastating impact of poorly delivered medical news. I once worked with a client who had a profound fear of dying. Every time they visited their oncologist, they would call me in floods of tears, barely able to breathe, let alone speak.
I remember arriving at their home one day to find them on the floor, struggling to catch their breath, their face streaked with fresh tears. A nosebleed had started from the sheer intensity of their distress. It took hours of grounding, breathing exercises, and gentle reassurance to calm their nervous system – to bring them back to a place where they felt safe enough to simply exist in their own body.
This wasn’t a one-off reaction. It happened every time they received difficult news, or even just a routine letter from the NHS. The stress of each appointment, each unopened envelope, felt like another small death – a repeated trauma that chipped away at their sense of hope and stability.
For the healthcare professional, it might be the hundredth time they’ve delivered a particular diagnosis, but for the patient, it’s often the first time they’re hearing life-altering news. That initial conversation sets the tone for their entire journey through treatment and recovery.
Poorly delivered news can:
• Trigger a fight, flight, freeze, or fawn response, making it difficult for patients to absorb critical information.
• Create a sense of hopelessness that can directly impact their immune system and overall health.
• Isolate them emotionally, making them less likely to reach out for support.
• Lead to physical symptoms of distress, like panic attacks, nosebleeds, or even heart palpitations.
Trauma-Informed Communication is Essential -
All professionals should be trauma-informed, regardless of how long they’ve been delivering difficult news. This isn’t just a ‘nice to have’ – it’s essential for the well-being of patients and their families. Words matter. Tone matters. The way we frame a conversation matters.
What Could This Look Like in Practice?
Imagine if, instead of a cold, clinical approach, the conversation began with:
“I have some challenging news to share, and I want you to know that we’re here to support you every step of the way. This might feel overwhelming, and that’s okay. We’ll work through this together.”
It’s not just face-to-face conversations that matter. I’ve had clients tell me they can’t even bear to open their NHS letters, knowing they might contain words like “cancer,” “terminal,” or “palliative care” – words that have the power to trigger a cascade of fear and despair.
Small Changes, Big Impact:
• Reframing “We regret to inform you…” as “We’d like to talk through some findings with you…”
• Choosing words that invite a sense of collaboration and hope, rather than delivering a blunt, one-way verdict.
• Including a simple, supportive line like “Please reach out if you’d like to discuss this further – we’re here to help.”
We can’t change the reality of a difficult diagnosis, but we can change how that reality is delivered. By choosing our words with care, we can reduce unnecessary suffering, empower patients, and support their capacity to cope and heal.
A Final Thought – The Human Side of Healing -
In the end, we are all more than our diagnoses. We are humans with rich histories, fears, hopes, and dreams. The way we talk to each other – especially in the hardest moments – should reflect that.
#RIPAlison
The Power of Words: How Language Shapes Safety and Connection
While working as a counsellor in a school, I came across a fire drill memo that left a lasting impression. It included strict, bolded instructions:
“You MUST remain SILENT at All TIMES”.
The forcefulness of this language struck me immediately. It felt more about control than safety, and I wondered how this might land for children, particularly those who had experienced trauma.
When we think about fire drills, the goal is clear – to ensure everyone can move quickly and safely to a secure area. But the way this memo was worded, with its emphasis on “MUST” and “SILENCE”, seemed more likely to provoke anxiety than calm.
This Language Can Be Triggering because:
• “MUST” feels rigid and controlling. For someone who has experienced coercion or a lack of autonomy, this word can trigger deep, instinctive resistance or fear.
• “SILENCE” under pressure can feel impossible, especially for children. In a moment of stress, they might whisper to a friend for reassurance, cry, or call out in fear – all perfectly human responses. Demanding silence in these moments can amplify feelings of shame or failure.
• It creates a power imbalance, focusing on compliance over cooperation, which can be particularly distressing for those who have felt powerless or unheard in the past.
A Trauma-Informed alternative chooses connection Over control
Instead of demanding silence, we might say:
“Please move quietly and calmly to the designated safe area. Your safety is our priority.”
Why This Approach Works:
• It encourages calm, rather than compliance through fear.
• It respects the natural, instinctive responses of children, reducing unnecessary pressure.
• It frames the drill as a shared effort toward safety, reinforcing trust and cooperation.
In the STAND: Parents as Protectors program, we talk about the power of language and its ability to shape how children perceive themselves and the world around them. Trauma-informed communication is about more than just choosing the right words – it’s about creating a culture of respect, safety, and connection.
Why it Matters:
• Safety and Belonging – Children who feel safe and respected are more likely to communicate openly and trust the adults around them.
• Empowerment, Not Compliance – When we choose language that respects autonomy, we teach children that their voices matter. This is a powerful protective factor against coercion and manipulation.
• Resilience and Self-Worth – Words that uplift and empower build resilience, helping children recover from adversity and grow into confident, self-assured adults.
This small but significant difference in tone is about more than just fire drills. It’s about how we choose to communicate in all aspects of life – as parents, teachers, and caregivers. Trauma-informed language builds trust, reduces anxiety, and fosters a sense of belonging. It respects autonomy, values choice, and prioritises connection over control.
If we want children to feel safe, valued, and heard, our words must reflect that intention.
When we use trauma-informed language, we empower children to respond with confidence, rather than fear. We invite them to act with intention, knowing they are respected and valued, even in moments of stress.
Join our STAND: Parents As Protectors program starting soon
Passion and Purpose
There’s a profound difference between simply doing a job and pouring yourself into something that truly speaks to your heart. When your work is driven by purpose, the hours pass unnoticed. You find yourself lost in the flow of creation – writing, thinking, building – crafting something you believe will make a difference.
For me, this is the heartbeat of A Positive Start CIC. It’s not just a project or a career – it’s a calling born from my own journey of survival and recovery. At one point, I was considered ‘furthest from the labour market’ – exhausted, overwhelmed, and unsure of my future. But from that place of darkness, I found my ‘why.’
I began to research trauma to make sense of my own experiences, to understand how deeply it shapes us, and to break the cycle for my own children. What started as a personal quest for understanding became a mission to help others – to reach the parents who, like me, wanted to do better for their children but didn’t know where to start.
Today, my work is deeply personal. It’s about helping parents protect their children, help adults heal from trauma, and find their voices. It’s about creating resources that empower others, driven by the belief that even one person finding safety or support makes all the effort worthwhile.
Purpose-driven work has its own energy. It pulls you forward, ignites your imagination, and fills you with a deep sense of accomplishment. It’s like breathing fresh air after feeling stifled for too long – a relief, a release, a return to what truly matters.
In contrast, the grind of a job that feels disconnected from your heart is a very different experience. Your body feels tense, your mind dulls, and every small task can feel like a mountain to climb. Motivation drains quickly, and you begin to distance yourself just to cope. You disconnect, not just from the work, but from yourself, until you feel like a shadow of who you once were.
The difference is in the connection – the feeling that what you’re doing matters, that it has purpose, that it aligns with who you truly are. One path leaves you enriched, inspired, and ready to keep going, even without immediate rewards. The other can leave you depleted, struggling to find meaning in the effort you expend.
As Viktor Frankl once said, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how’.” Finding your ‘why’ changes everything. It transforms work into something deeply fulfilling – a legacy you’re proud to leave behind.
So, if you ever find yourself struggling to find the energy to keep going, perhaps it’s not your work ethic that’s the problem, but the work itself. Real purpose breathes life into every hour you invest, reminding you that what you do matters.
#PassionAndPurpose
#HealingJourney
#HeartWork
#TraumaRecovery
#CommunityInterest
#protection #prevention
#breakingthecycle
Choosing Connection
Choosing Connection in a World of Criticism
“The true measure of leadership is not in how much authority we hold, but in how much safety we create.”
“The energy we bring to the world is a reflection of what we worship – possessions or people, appearances or authenticity, fear or love.”
“Cancel culture trades complexity for condemnation — but healing demands we hold space for the full, messy, beautiful reality of being human.”
In the way of our Reconnect & Regulate classes, a Reflection Invitation
Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say
Why Language Matters in Healing
Words don’t just land in our minds, they land in our bodies. For those of us who’ve lived through trauma, language can be a trigger or a balm. Words hold weight, tone, and intention, and when they’re used carelessly, they can feel like little paper cuts to the nervous system.
I’ve learned to listen not just to what’s being said, but how it feels.
Take the word ‘rules’, for example. I recently heard it in a group setting: “We have some rules.” I felt it instantly. Harsh. Authoritarian. Controlling. Not wrong, necessarily, but rigid. Unyielding. Like a door slammed shut. Now, compare it to ‘guidelines.’ It feels different, doesn’t it? More flexible. More human. More open to context and care.
This is the kind of subtle shift that matters.
As someone who works with people in recovery, I notice these things constantly. Words like not allowed which is rife in schools, don’t just instruct—they restrict. They carry the same energy as punishment or exile. They can feel like rejection or shame, especially when the context is unnecessary, like in a fast-food store: “You are not allowed to change the items on the set menu.” Why not? I’m paying. I’m a person. I matter. Choice matters.
Or the signs in schools: “You are not allowed to run.” “Do not step on the grass.” These aren't simply boundaries. They’re commands that often come without compassion.
It’s not that boundaries are bad—it’s how we phrase them that makes all the difference. Try:
- “Please walk here, as it can get busy.”
- “Let’s give the grass time to grow.”
See how those feel? The message is still clear—but it invites cooperation instead of compliance. It recognises the person behind the behaviour.
This sensitivity to language isn’t a luxury—it’s essential in trauma-informed spaces. That’s why I’m now offering talks, training, and consultation as a Trauma-Informed Language Advisor. I help organisations, schools, and services examine the feeling behind the words—so their communication can regulate rather than dysregulate.
Because what we say matters. And how we say it matters even more.
For people who have experienced complex trauma, saying what they really feel isn't just difficult - it can feel dangerous. Many have learned to survive by pleasing others, avoiding conflict, or responding out of obligation and guilt. The patterns are protective, not pathological - but they can lead to chronic stress, emotional suppression and even physical illness.
When we create environments of safety and awareness - where expression is gently encouraged and differences are welcomed - something shifts. People begin to feel seen. They begin to speak. And with that, their health improves - not just emotionally, but physically too.
This matters not just for individuals, but for all of us. Because when people feel safe enough to be honest, we build communities rooted in compassion, not fear.
There is something deeply respectful about being direct and kind. Straight lines feel safe. After trauma, many people lose their ability to ask for what they need clearly. They test the water, hint, or tiptoe around the truth - not because they're being manipulative, but because they've learned that speaking directly can lead to rejection, punishment or harm.
But when we're on the receiving end of that kind of communication, it can feel confusing or even incongruent - like somethings being hidden. And if we don't understand the roots, it's easy to misread it as dishonest or controlling. That's why in trauma informed spaces, we value both what's said and how it's said. We encourage directness - but with care. Kindness doesn't mean avoidance. Clarity doesn't require cruelty. When we model this balance, we show others it's possible to speak truthfully without losing connection. That's what safety looks like in action.
Truth, Congruence, and the Impact of Language
This work isn’t about walking on eggshells. It’s not about denying reality or sugar-coating truth. It’s about congruence—aligning what we say with how we want to relate to others.
Take the phrase “You’re not allowed.” Technically, yes, we ‘can’ step on the grass. We ‘can’ change an item on a menu. We ‘can’ speak loudly if we choose to. So when we hear “not allowed,” what we’re often bumping up against isn’t reality—it’s a demand for compliance.
And that’s where the discomfort lives—not in the boundary, but in the way it’s imposed.
This work is not about sanitising language until it’s bland. It’s about recognising that words have tone, energy, and consequence. In trauma-informed spaces, language either builds bridges—or builds walls.
Some might say, “Get over yourself with your hurty-words—I’ll say whatever I want.” And that’s their right. But isn’t it ironic? That some who dismiss others' discomfort with words feel deeply uncomfortable being asked to consider their own impact?
Congruence is about truth—but it’s also about compassion. It’s about saying what’s real 'and' holding space for how it lands. You can tell the truth 'and' do it kindly. You can hold a boundary 'without' a verbal slap.
Because ultimately, trauma-informed language isn’t about censorship.
It’s about connection.
Let’s shift the conversation. One word at a time.
If you’d like support in creating trauma-informed materials or want me to speak with your team, please get in touch.
Straight lines feel safe. Directness doesn't have to be harsh - and kindness doesn't mean avoiding the truth.
When we speak clearly and with care, we build trust. That's what safety sounds like". - Deborah J Crozier
Healing Belongs To Everyone
“There is no greater expert on your healing than you.”
So when did healing become a product?
I’ve been reflecting lately on the amount of gatekeeping that happens in the world of healing.
Take tapping, for example — a simple, natural tool. No one owns it. No one invented the act of tapping on their body or calming themselves with rhythm. It’s free. It’s intuitive. It belongs to everyone.
And yet, I see fear-based messaging creeping in — warnings that it’s “unsafe” to use without certain certificates or affiliations. That it’s somehow dangerous to support people unless you’re signed up to the right organisation. That survivors of trauma need protecting from tools they themselves choose to use.
As a survivor of complex trauma — including a life-threatening domestic violence attack — I can tell you this:
The hurt is already in us.
What heals is compassion.
What helps is presence.
What’s harmful? Being tiptoed around. Being silenced. Being told that our lived experience isn’t valid unless it’s been “approved.”
That’s not trauma-informed.
That’s control. That’s ego-driven elitism.
Being trauma-informed isn’t just about what you say — it’s how you show up. It’s about recognising when you are dysregulated, and not passing that onto others. Trying to control people, or deciding what’s right for them without consent, is a sign of dysregulation — not professionalism.
A trauma-informed approach is grounded in safety, choice, and collaboration. Not fear. Not superiority. Not control.
When I collaborate with others, it has to be for the right reasons. I’m not interested in labels, status, or hierarchy — I care about ideas, and the purpose behind them. I support and uplift people who, like I once did, haven’t felt heard, haven’t felt worthy, haven’t been valued. Alignment matters. Integrity runs through us like a thread. Is it heart-led? Is it purposeful, fair, kind? Does it help people? If so — let’s do it for those reasons. That’s why our organisation exists. And for those who look down on us, or who don’t speak well of us in rooms we’re not in because who we are or are not affiliated with — that’s their journey to understand, not ours.
I’ve had organisations reject my work — including my book When I’m Gone, which charts my survival, collapse, and healing — simply because it wasn’t “approved” by the right authority. As if surviving something isn’t enough. As if I have to pay someone who wasn’t there, who knows nothing about me, for it to be of value.
We need to stop pretending people’s wellbeing depends on subscriptions and affiliations.
We need to stop treating healing like a product.
We need to stop assuming people can’t be trusted to know what’s right for themselves.
Because here’s the truth:
All humans are made up of energy.
So healing energy — like breath, like love, like water — belongs to everyone and no one.
Let’s start acting like it.
And just to be clear — this doesn’t mean I believe all support should be free. Healing itself is innate, but the space-holding, the time, the guidance, the listening — that’s a sacred offering. I charge for my time as a counsellor and consultant when appropriate, because like many others, I need to sustain the work I do. But I will never gatekeep healing tools or lived experience. I will always believe that people are the experts of their own journey.
“We don’t heal in sanitised silence. We heal in truth, in presence, in connection.”
So, When Did Healing Become a Product?
It’s a question that sits heavy with me lately. When did compassion and care become things we had to buy? When did healing become a branded product—certified, monetised, and locked behind paywalls?
The truth is, this shift has been happening for over a century. In the UK, healthcare was once offered freely through voluntary hospitals, funded by charitable donations and delivered by doctors who gave their time without charge. In 1921, hospitals in cities like Bristol began charging patients for beds and treatment—a direct response to financial pressures, not a measure of value. Then in 1948, the NHS was born, offering hope: health care, free at the point of need. But within just a few years, even that model began to crack under financial strain, reintroducing prescription charges and fees for certain services.
So the idea of healing as a transaction isn’t new. But that doesn’t make it right.
Especially when it comes to lived experience and emotional support. Healing from trauma is not a product. Energy belongs to all of us. Tools like tapping, breathing, grounding—they are part of our birthright as human beings. Kindness, presence, empathy—none of these require a subscription.
All this disapproving, measuring, and gatekeeping only reinforces the very core wounds many of us carry—that we’re not good enough. But here’s the truth: you are good enough, exactly as you are.
When someone tells you your healing doesn’t count unless it’s approved or accredited by them, what they’re really saying is: your lived experience isn’t enough. As if surviving trauma wasn’t hard enough, now we must also purchase permission to speak about it?
No.
Remembering Edna
Edna -
Who sang through her sorrow and loved through her pain.
You taught me more about strength, softness, and spirit than words could ever capture.
Thank you for trusting me with your truth. This is for you.
I met Edna in an unusual way—though for her, it was everyday life. I’d just become neighbours with her son, who asked me to accompany him to visit his mum in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. We met in the canteen. Edna had been an inpatient for 13 weeks by then. She was pale, frail, and withdrawn, though I was told she’d come a long way from where she’d been.
It was an odd first meeting, some might say, but for me, it felt honest. This was her life—and in that honesty, something in me recognised her. She was kind and gentle. Timid, I’d say. A little spaced out. And yet we hit it off immediately. That day marked the beginning of a friendship I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I think I recognised Edna’s pain because I’d been battling the devil myself, long before I ever met her. Not the horned figure from fairy tales, but the slow, creeping shadow that steals your voice, your joy, your worth. That kind of pain knows how to find itself in others. And maybe that’s why we clicked instantly—two souls who didn’t need words to understand each other’s wounds. There was a quiet truth between us from the beginning, and that truth became the thread that wove our friendship together.
Edna had struggled with her nerves for as long as she could remember. Much of her childhood had been spent in hospital beds. She spoke of horrific treatments—being tied down so she wouldn’t scratch her weeping skin. Her body had carried the weight of both physical and emotional pain from early on.
She was in her early 60s when I met her. Bright blue eyes, like summer skies, that somehow still smiled even when she was sad.
In later years she was diagnosed with manic depression, and then bipolar. There were highs—bursts of energy after each stay in hospital. She’d redecorate the house, book long holidays to her beloved Majorca, and sing karaoke like a queen. Tammy Wynette had nothing on her. She was a force of nature in those moments—alive and buzzing with a zest that lit up a room.
One memory that still brings tears to my eyes is the day I visited Edna after she’d come out of hospital following our first meeting, this time with my young children in tow. She’d asked if I would bring them to meet her, and the moment we stepped through the door, she beamed with joy.
“I’m your Grandma Edna,” she said without hesitation, kneeling down with open arms. “Would you like a boiled egg with soldiers and a glass of cold milk?” ‘Grandmas fixed-ed eggs’ - my young children called it’
It was such a simple gesture, but one of profound warmth. The children adored her instantly. What she didn’t know then was what we had been through—the darkness of domestic violence, the fear, the isolation. But somehow, in her presence, there was no judgment, no suspicion, no barriers. Just love.
Her kindness cut through me like a ray of sunlight through heavy clouds. Genuine kindness like that is felt in the heart—but its echo rings on in the soul. I will love her forever for the love and compassion I felt in that moment. The acceptance she gave us, without a single word of explanation, was a balm to wounds I hadn’t even known how to name. Acceptance is such a powerful emotion, and in her warmth, we found a space where we could simply be.
But as summer turned to autumn, so too would Edna begin to fall.
She’d stop singing. Smoke more. Eat less. Her sparkle would fade. And as winter approached—and with it, the anniversary of her daughter’s death—Edna would collapse under the weight of grief and darkness. She saw it coming every year. She’d paint white crucifixes on the walls, as if to ward off what she knew was inevitable. And then she’d disappear beneath the covers, trembling, curled up like a child, too afraid to speak, to eat, to move. She told me she was hiding from the devil.
I was young then, almost 30, full of hope but powerless to stop the descent. I visited daily, desperate to help. But the black cloud came each year without fail.
I’d observed just four years of this cycle, but her Son told me it had been happening since he was just a young boy - every year for as long as he could remember. The doctors recommended a lobotomy. It was the late ’90s. I was horrified. I begged them not to go through with it. But my opinion didn’t matter. It was her families decision and they didn’t know what to do other than take the advice of her doctor.
The lobotomy took away the lows. But it also took away the highs.
And it took away the sparkle from her eyes. They turned a dull grey. She never sang again.
Less than a year later, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given two months to live.
I moved in to care for her. I slept on the sofa opposite her bed. She was too weak to do much, so we made a list together—of all the little things she’d never done but still wanted to try:
1. Visit the Coronation Street studios—I pushed her wheelchair as she marvelled at the sights.
2. Drink a bottle of Budweiser—what a night that was.
3. Watch Titanic—we cried through an entire box of tissues.
4. Reconnect with her sister—thankfully, they made peace.
5. Own a brand-new TV—she’d only ever had secondhand things, thanks to a husband who drank and gambled away their money.
On the day she died, I held her hand.
She spoke softly, narrating her journey, saying she was walking through the valley of death. “He’s here,” she said, her grip tightening, “the devil’s eyes are red.” I knew she’d been haunted by him all her life. But this time, she told him no. She wasn’t going with him.
She wept as she described seeing her daughter, holding a beautiful baby girl. She could see her parents. And as sunlight streamed through the window, we whispered our goodbyes.
I felt her spirit leave her body—it circled me gently before the room stilled. And then the grief hit like a train.
My friend was gone.
And I had never felt so alone.
Some spirits never leave us. Edna’s light still flickers, in memory and in love.
A Tribute to a Gentle Soul Written with Love by a Friend