Through Different Eyes: How Our Nervous System Shapes Our Reality
What seems like an overreaction might be a nervous system doing its best to protect!
Same Room, Different Worlds
Two people.
One moment.
Entirely different experiences.
Have you ever been confused by how differently someone reacts to the same situation you just lived through?
One person shrugs it off. Another breaks down. You’re left wondering — how can it feel so different?
The answer isn’t in the moment itself, but in the lens we’re looking through — and that lens is shaped by the state of our nervous system.
The Nervous System as a Lens
The autonomic nervous system doesn’t just regulate heart rate or digestion — it shapes our entire perception of reality.
When we’re in a ventral vagal state (safe, connected, regulated), the world feels manageable. We can connect with others, think clearly, and respond rather than react.
But if we’re in a sympathetic state (fight/flight) or a dorsal vagal state (shutdown, collapse), everything is coloured by threat. A neutral face can feel hostile. A quiet pause can feel like rejection. Our body’s state becomes our story.
We don’t see things as they are — we see things as we are.
Survival Childhoods Without Obvious Trauma
Not all trauma is loud.
Sometimes it’s the silence that hurts.
You might have grown up in a home where your parents worked tirelessly to give you a better life — but were rarely emotionally available. Maybe you were loved, but not felt. Fed, but not seen.
These are survival environments, not neglectful in the traditional sense, but not consistently safe for emotional growth either.
- Homes where emotions were brushed off or shamed.
- Parents under chronic stress, doing their best but never fully present.
- Socioeconomic pressure where survival came before connection.
This shapes a child’s nervous system — not just their behaviour.
How Children Make Meaning
Children are brilliant at making sense of the world.
But when their caregivers are distracted, overworked, or emotionally unavailable, children don’t blame the adults — they blame themselves.
- “I’m too much.”
- “They’d stay if I were better.”
- “It’s safer to stay quiet.”
- “I can’t trust people to be there.”
These aren’t just thoughts — they become embodied beliefs, felt in the nervous system. And they colour every future interaction.
Same Situation, Different States
Let’s imagine a simple scenario:
Your boss gives you some constructive feedback.
If you’re in a ventral vagal state (safe and regulated), you might think:
“Okay, I can work on that. This is helpful.”
If you’re in a sympathetic state (anxious, hyper-alert):
“Oh no, I’ve messed up. What do they really think of me? Am I in trouble?”
If you’re in a dorsal vagal state (shut down, numb):
“What’s the point? I’m just not good enough. I should give up.”
Same words. Same moment. But three entirely different internal worlds.
We’re Not All Starting From the Same Place!
This is why judgment and comparison are so unhelpful.
One person may seem “resilient” while another is overwhelmed — not because one is stronger, but because their nervous systems are playing by different rules based on past experiences.
Some of us had the luxury of regulated caregivers.
Some of us grew up managing our own distress alone.
Regulation is not just a skill — it’s often a privilege we weren’t taught.
We’ve come to associate trauma with extremes: abuse, violence, disaster. But trauma is often more nuanced.
It’s the chronic absence of emotional safety.
It’s being told you’re lucky to have a roof over your head while your feelings go unseen.
It’s learning to hide your needs to avoid burdening already exhausted parents.
These subtleties shape our nervous system responses long before we can understand them — and they carry into adulthood in ways that can feel confusing and difficult to explain.
The Power of Awareness
When we begin to see our reactions through the lens of the nervous system, everything softens.
We can stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?”
And start asking, “What happened to my sense of safety?”
Questions to explore:
- What state am I in right now — safe, anxious, shut down?
- What is my body trying to protect me from?
- Is my response about this moment, or something deeper?
Compassion grows from understanding.
Healing begins with awareness.
In Closing - A Call for Compassion!
We are all walking around with invisible stories written by our nervous systems.
Next time someone reacts differently than you — or you feel frustrated with your own sensitivity — pause. Remember: we’re not all seeing the world through the same lens.
Be curious. Be kind. And above all, be gentle — especially with yourself.
Want to Explore More?
If this resonated with you, you might enjoy my free trauma-informed programs, nervous system workshops, and reflective tools for healing and connection.
Visit A Positive Start CIC
You’re not broken — your body just adapted to a world that wasn’t always safe.
And now, you get to relearn what safety feels.
Trauma-Informed Isn’t a Buzzword — It’s a Way of Being
“Trauma-informed” is everywhere these days — in policies, training packs, and job descriptions.
But too often, what’s being sold as trauma-informed is little more than a performance: polished language, token gestures, and box-ticking exercises that fail to go beneath the surface.
Let’s be clear.
Being trauma-informed isn’t something you complete. It’s something you live.
Being trauma-informed starts with recognising that trauma is not rare, and it’s not always visible.
It lives in nervous systems, in body language, in silence, in overcompensation, in withdrawal, in fire and in freeze.
And the people you meet — colleagues, clients, friends, family — are more likely than not carrying some form of it.
So what does it really mean to be trauma-informed?
A Truly Trauma-Informed Approach Involves:
1. Curiosity Over Judgement
Asking “What happened to you?” rather than “What’s wrong with you?”
Being trauma-informed means holding back assumptions, and leaning into gentle, compassionate curiosity.
2. Lived Experience as Expertise
It honours those who’ve been through it — not by reducing them to their trauma, but by recognising the insight, strength, and understanding they carry.
It doesn’t silence people with lived experience; it amplifies their voices and values their contribution.
3. Safety That’s Felt, Not Just Promised
Policies might say “you’re safe here,” but real trauma-informed spaces create a felt sense of safety — emotionally, psychologically, and relationally. That means consistency, consent, boundaries, and presence.
4. Power With, Not Power Over
True trauma-informed practice shares power. It moves away from hierarchy and dominance, and toward collaboration, transparency, and mutual respect.
5. Embodied Practice
It’s not just knowing the theory — it’s living the values. How you speak. How you listen. How you respond when someone struggles.
It’s knowing that regulation is contagious, and that calm, non-defensive presence is more healing than any clever words.
6. Systems Awareness
Trauma doesn’t happen in a vacuum. A trauma-informed approach understands the broader systems that contribute to distress — including poverty, racism, abuse, neglect, and exclusion — and works to challenge, not reinforce, those patterns.
Judgement is Not Safeguarding
Too often, safeguarding is used as a justification to pry, to exclude, to control.
But real safeguarding doesn’t come from suspicion — it comes from connection.
It comes from people who know what danger looks like because they’ve faced it — and have vowed to stop the cycle.
There is nothing trauma-informed about creating hoops for survivors to jump through.
There is nothing trauma-informed about reducing someone’s entire history to a checkbox.
There is nothing trauma-informed about speaking about people, rather than with them.
And let’s be honest — this invasive, sneaky-peeking, covert behaviour of “checking people out” behind the scenes?
It’s creepy.
It’s dishonest.
It’s not safe behaviour.
It mimics the very dynamics survivors are trying to recover from: power used without consent, trust violated without cause.
If your safeguarding practices feel more like surveillance than support, it’s time to stop and reflect:
Who are you really protecting — and at what cost?
Trauma-Informed Is a Culture, Not a Credential
It’s not a one-day training.
It’s not an accreditation.
It’s not buzzwords like “resilience” or “wellbeing” with no action behind them.
It’s a culture.
It’s a commitment to care.
It’s an ongoing practice of humility, presence, and responsibility.
Let’s Change the Script
If you truly want to be trauma-informed, don’t start with policies.
Start with people.
Start with humility.
Start by listening — really listening — to those who’ve lived through what you’re trying to prevent.
Because lived experience isn’t the problem.
It’s the missing piece.
I’ve spent a lifetime learning the hard way, so others don’t have to.
If you’re building safeguarding systems, training staff, or claiming to be trauma-informed — please don’t just use the language.
Live it.
Because what survivors need is not more judgment.
What we need is safety, dignity, and to finally be seen as whole.
#TraumaInformed
#LivedExperienceMatters
#TraumaInformedPractice
#ListenToSurvivors
#BeyondTheBuzzwords
#safeguardingwithintegrity
#powerwithnotpowerover
His Eyes Went Black!
Why survivors remember the eyes—and why it’s never just imagination
There’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I’d seen flashes of it before, but this time it was different - clearer. This time, it came with an eerie silence, a stillness that thickened the air around us.
An abusive ex-partner —initially charming, even magnetic—had started to spiral into rage. His energy had been ‘off’ from the moment he woke up but today as it happened, something clearly shifted in his face.
His eyes changed.
They went darker.
Cold.
Empty.
Black.
And then, everything slowed down.
It was Christmas dinner.
I was pouring his wine, trying to keep my hand steady, hoping—praying—that nothing would go wrong. But my nervous system was already in full alert. My hand betrayed me. A single drip of white wine slipped over the rim and began its descent, heading toward the gravy on his plate.
We both saw it.
Time shifted into slow motion.
The golden drop rolled through the air like it had all the time in the world.
I watched it - and him - his eyes—those black, hollow eyes—fixate on that drop.
And in that split-second of suspended time, we both knew:
When that drop touched his gravy, my life as I knew it would be over.
It didn’t matter that it was Christmas.
It didn’t matter that it was one drop. What mattered was control—and that I’d just lost it.
Later, he tried to end me.
He strangled me with full intent—no hesitation, no pause, no flicker of recognition.
It was like he was trying to extinguish something.
Not just me.
The light in my eyes.
And sometimes, I wonder:
What did he see in me, in that moment of terror?
Did he see my fear? My panic?
Did he notice the way my pupils widened, the way my breath caught, the silent begging that lived behind my stare?
Because I remember his eyes—black, empty, detached.
But his didn’t reflect. They absorbed nothing.
There was no sign of remorse, no connection to humanity.
Whatever he saw in my eyes didn’t reach him.
Nothing in him responded to my suffering—not as a person, not even as a witness to life.
And that, perhaps, is what makes it hardest to understand:
The absence.
The void.
The terrifying truth that some people can look into your eyes, see your soul in pain—and still feel nothing.
In moments of intense threat, the body prepares to survive. For the person being abused, everything can slow down. It’s not imagination—it’s biology. Time distortion is a trauma response. The brain enters a hyper-focused state to help assess danger.
At the same time, an abusive person in a rage enters a “fight” state. Their pupils dilate, making their eyes look darker—almost black. The muscles around their eyes tighten. The usual facial expressions disappear. The warmth drains.
And what’s left is something you can’t unsee.
That coldness? That darkness? That shift in the room?
It’s real.
In that moment, my nervous system didn’t just register anger. It registered threat, abandonment, dehumanisation. It wasn’t just his eyes that went black. It was his whole presence that vanished. It was the moment I saw, without illusion, the part of him that had no empathy —only power and control.
Whether you view it as spiritual, energetic, or purely psychological, it’s a rupture you feel deep in your body. That moment doesn’t leave easily—because your body needed you to remember.
It was the warning.
If you’ve ever experienced something like this—and later tried to explain it—chances are you were met with disbelief, dismissal, or even self-doubt.
But here’s the truth:
• You weren’t being dramatic.
• You weren’t exaggerating.
• You weren’t wrong.
You saw it. You felt it.
And your body understood what was happening—long before your mind could make sense of it.
What I saw that day—the blackness in his eyes, the slow drip of wine, the silent calculation of violence behind a Christmas dinner—was real. It was a moment etched into my nervous system. It was a turning point.
I survived that day. But more importantly, I stopped doubting what I saw - and I want you to stop doubting, too.
Many survivors describe their abuser’s eyes as going black or empty in moments of rage or violence. While there’s limited formal research specifically on this phrase, it connects deeply with:
Pupil Dilation and Threat States
- During intense emotion or arousal (including rage), the sympathetic nervous system activates, causing pupil dilation.
- This can make the eyes appear larger, darker, or almost black—especially in dim lighting.
- According to research in psychophysiology, dilated pupils are often perceived as threatening in others, especially when paired with facial expressions of anger or absence.
Reference: Bradley, M. M., Miccoli, L., Escrig, M. A., & Lang, P. J. (2008). The pupil as a measure of emotional arousal and autonomic activation.
2. Time Slowing Down: A Well-Known Trauma Response
Survivors often say time felt like it slowed during traumatic events. This isn’t imagined.
The Brain in Survival Mode
- The amygdala (the brain’s fear centre) becomes hyperactive in life-threatening moments.
- This increases the brain’s ability to record sensory information in great detail.
- Because of this over-processing, memories feel stretched or slowed, even though the actual time was short.
Reference: Stetson, C., Fiesta, M. P., & Eagleman, D. M. (2007). Does time really slow down during a frightening event?
3. Dissociation in the Abuser: A Detachment from Empathy
Many survivors describe their abuser’s face or eyes going cold—vacant, disconnected, gone. This is consistent with:
Psychopathic and Narcissistic Rage
- In moments of intense control or rage, some individuals enter a dissociative or depersonalised state where they lose connection to empathy and consequence.
- Research into antisocial traits, psychopathy, and trauma reenactment suggests these states are emotionally detached and hyper-focused on dominance—not connection.
Reference: Hare, R. D. (1993). Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us.
4. The Survivor’s Nervous System: Always One Step Ahead
The reason survivors remember the eyes, tone, or energy shift is because their body detects danger before their brain can rationalise it.
Neuroception (Polyvagal Theory)
- According to Dr. Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory, the body has a subconscious system called neuroception that constantly scans for safety or threat.
- When a subtle shift is detected (like a change in someone’s facial expression or tone), the body reacts instantly—often before the conscious mind catches up.
- This explains the freezing, time distortion, and visceral memory of something like “his eyes went black.”
Reference: Porges, S. W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, Self-regulation.
In Conclusion:
These experiences—eyes going black, time stretching, instinctively knowing you’re in danger—are real, measurable trauma responses. The body stores these moments vividly for one reason: to keep us alive.
You don’t have to prove what you saw.
The body knows.
And the science backs it up.
#TraumaInformed
#NervousSystemWisdom
#TraumaAwarenes
#SomaticHealing
#Psychoeducation
#TraumaResponse
#SurvivorSupport
#TraumaRecovery
#UnderstandingAbuse
#BodyKeepsTheScore
#BelieveSurvivors
#EmotionalSafety
#WhatSurvivorsKnow
#EyesThatGoBlack
#TraumaIsReal
#FromSurvivalToHealing
#SilentWarnings
#SurvivorTruth
#HealingIsPossible
Nurture is the difference
Nurture Makes the Difference: What I’ve Learned About Home, Safety, and Connection
I’ve always been able to feel the difference between a home that’s warm, welcoming and safe… and one that isn’t.
Some homes feel like a deep exhale.
Like you can take your shoes off, unclench your jaw, and finally rest. A place where the bricks and mortar have absorbed the love and laughter over the years.
Others feel cold. Unpredictable. You’re on edge. You don’t quite know why, but you can’t relax. Your nervous system is already bracing.
The difference isn’t just about lighting or furniture. It’s the energy of the space.
It’s the feeling of being wanted versus being tolerated.
Of being welcome… or unwelcome.
I never felt this difference in my own home.
Only in other people’s.
For years, my home was purely functional. A place to eat. To sleep. To get through the day.
If it was tidy, I felt vaguely satisfied. If it was messy, I felt unsettled. It was all very transactional.
Clean = okay. Messy = not okay.
But connection? Meaning? Comfort? That didn’t live there.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never been attached to ‘things’.
I used to find it curious — even strange — that people could feel connected to a chair their nan left them, or a box of their father’s records.
To me, they were just things. They didn’t speak to me.
I used to wonder what was missing in me. Why I couldn’t relate.
Over time — slowly, gently — I’ve realised something simple and true:
Everything is about nurture.
If you nurture something — give it your attention, time, energy and care — you feel something.
And when you feel something, you begin to connect. And it’s that connection that starts to create safety, warmth, and regulation.
Whether it’s a plant, a pet, a relationship, or a home — it’s the act of nurturing that transforms it.
And if you’ve never had a nurturing home — or haven’t known what one feels like — it can take time to build that for yourself.
But you can build it.
The science backs it up, too.
Research into childhood development and home environments shows that when our spaces are filled with emotional warmth, consistency, and care, we’re better able to regulate our emotions, build resilience, and feel secure in ourselves.
But you don’t need a study to tell you that.
You can feel it in your bones.
So many of us are conditioned to believe that happiness at home depends on how it looks — how big it is, how new the kitchen is, whether it’s detached or semi-detached.
Or we fill it with things — expensive furniture, perfectly styled décor, stuff we’ve been told makes a home —
but if there’s no connection, no care, no feeling of being safe in it, then it’s still just a house.
I spent years thinking that if I could just get my surroundings ‘right’, then I’d feel okay.
But the truth is, if the energy inside isn’t nurturing — if it’s cold, critical, rushed, or purely functional — no amount of cushions or paint will make it feel like home.
We don’t need more stuff to feel safe.
We need more nurture.
That’s what gives a home its heartbeat.
That’s what makes us feel held.
These days, I find myself more and more attuned to what brings a space to life.
I know now that a “home” is not a physical structure — it’s an emotional one.
And when we stop treating our spaces like transactions and start treating them like relationships, everything changes.
We don’t just clean up a room — we tend to it.
We don’t just throw away clutter — we clear space for new things to grow. And in doing that, we begin to nurture ourselves, too.
Sometimes, a room can be quiet, the people friendly, the lighting gentle — and yet, something inside you doesn’t settle. You feel on edge. Your breath is shallow. You’re scanning for something, even if you don’t know what.
This is the difference between being physically safe and your nervous system feeling unsafe.
Physical safety is objective. You’re not being harmed, yelled at, or threatened. The door isn’t slamming. No one is angry. Nothing dangerous is happening.
But your nervous system doesn’t always respond to the present moment — it responds to what it’s learned to fear, what it remembers, and what it senses below the surface.
It responds to:
- A slight shift in someone’s tone.
- The feeling of being watched or judged.
- A past trauma that gets triggered by something as small as a smell, posture, or phrase.
So even if the space is calm, your body might still feel like danger is near.
That’s dysregulation — when your nervous system is out of sync with the present moment because it’s still trying to protect you from the past.
This awareness changes everything — especially when we’re trying to support others. Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with them?”, we learn to ask, “What happened to them?”
Safety isn’t just about what’s visible.
It’s about whether our bodies believe we’re safe.
That’s why trauma-informed spaces focus not just on what they look like, but on what they feel like — to the nervous system.
Creating safety isn’t just about the cushions on the sofa or the smile at the door — it’s about cultivating an energy where bodies can breathe, drop their guard, and begin to trust that this moment is different.
And for those who like to know the science:
Environmental psychology has long explored how our surroundings affect our nervous systems and mental health. Research from institutions like Zero to Three and studies on attachment and home environments (e.g. Graham et al., 2015; Evans, 2003) show that homes rich in emotional warmth, predictability, and safety significantly support healthy regulation and wellbeing — especially for children, but also for adults trying to rewire from trauma. Nurturing spaces truly do help us thrive.
Masters of Illusion
Narcissists are masters of illusion. They construct a carefully curated #persona designed “to be seen to be one thing” — often charming, capable, or altruistic — while their real intentions are rooted in #manipulation, control, or self-preservation.
The danger lies in the #incongruence: what they say and how they present may appear polished and positive, but your nervous system often tells you something else is true.
This internal signal is called #neuroception — your body’s ability to detect safety or threat without conscious awareness. You might notice a subtle sense of unease around someone who smiles warmly or praises you. That discomfort isn’t paranoia — it’s #perception. The energy beneath their words doesn’t match, and your body knows it.
Narcissists are often deeply threatened by traits they lack or can’t control — such as your compassion, honesty, decency, competence, or emotional insight. Instead of valuing those qualities, they may #covertly shame or #undermine you for them. It’s not that you’re doing anything wrong — it’s that you’re doing something right, and they can’t tolerate it.
Rather than offering support or constructive feedback, a narcissist may subtly erode your confidence while appearing helpful or concerned. Over time, this kind of emotional gaslighting can distort your self-perception and make you question your worth, your instincts, and even your sanity.
What they say to your face and what they say behind your back are rarely the same. Make sure the people in your life speak well of you in the rooms you’re not in, as well as the ones you are.
The harsh truth? Narcissists are often not just tolerated — they are rewarded and maintained in leadership roles within certain organisations, especially where image, loyalty, and hierarchy are prioritised over relational safety, truth, and psychological integrity.
These environments can be deeply #unsafe for empathic, emotionally intelligent people who care about doing good work. If you’ve ever felt like you had to shrink to survive, your nervous system was likely responding to that very #incongruence.
Before applying for any role, investigate the culture of the organisation. Talk to people who’ve worked there. Pay attention to how staff relate to one another — not just how leaders speak about values, but whether those values are lived. A healthy workplace won’t require you to betray your instincts in order to belong.
#STAND
#Grooming
#NarcissisticAbuse
#ToxicWorkplace
#Gaslighting
#Incongruence
#EmotionalManipulation
#Neuroception
#TraumaInformed
#YourBodyKnows
#TrustYourInstincts
#PsychologicalSafety
#ProtectYourPeace
#EmpathsInTheWorkplace
#EnergyNeverLies
#IntegrityMatters
#AuthenticLeadership
#SpeakUpStandStrong
#KnowTheSigns
#RealOverPerfect
#CompassionIsStrength
#HiddenAbuse
#StandUpToShame
#SurvivorWisdom
#APositiveStart
#STANDStrong
#ParentsAsProtectors
Toxic Duality
‘Toxic duality’ - the harmful contradiction between the persona someone presents to your face (warm, supportive, complimentary) and the truth of their behaviour behind your back (critical, undermining, deceitful or dismissive).
This isn’t just about being two-faced—it’s about the emotional harm caused by the inconsistency. The kindness becomes manipulative when it’s not genuine.
You might also hear it described as:
• Passive aggression – hostility masked by superficial niceness
• Incongruence – a mismatch between words and true feelings
• Gaslighting-adjacent – because it can leave you questioning your perception (“Did I misread that interaction?”)
• Manipulative duplicity – when it’s strategic, not just insecure
Toxic duality is the emotional dissonance created when someone presents a friendly or supportive face while behaving in ways behind the scenes that contradict or betray that image—leaving others confused, doubting themselves, and destabilised.
But this isn’t just personal — it’s cultural.
Society has long rewarded performance over authenticity.
We’ve been told:
“Don’t wash your dirty linen in public.”
“Keep your cards close to your chest.”
“Trust no one.”
These shame-based messages taught generations to hide their truth, suppress their pain, and live in fear of betrayal. In this environment, genuine connection becomes rare, and everyone is on high alert — guarded, suspicious, and emotionally armoured.
This is why our framework is rooted in #TRUST:
🧠 Trigger recognition
💗 Reassurance
🧩 Understanding
🛡 Safety
🔍 Truth
It’s time to break the cycle — starting with awareness, and supported by community.
In our free online program we learn how to stand strong in clarity, boundaries, and emotional safety — for yourself and those you protect.
In STAND: Parents as Protectors, we call this harmful behaviour ‘the invisible seduction’ — the subtle manipulation that leaves you second-guessing yourself.
Here’s the hard truth:
Sometimes we fall into this pattern too — smiling when we don’t mean it, avoiding honesty, or saying what’s expected while feeling something else entirely.
STAND invites us to notice it in others — and in ourselves.
Calling it out takes courage.
Calling it out in ourselves takes integrity.
Learn how to spot it, name it, and protect your family from it.
Join our free online program and reclaim your clarity.
https://apositivestart.org.uk/stand-parents-as-protectors/
#TraumaInformed #ProtectOurChildren #STANDParentsAsProtectors #InvisibleSeduction #ToxicDuality #EmotionalSafety #BoundariesMatter #APositiveStartCIC
The Measure of Me
From the moment we are born, the measuring begins.
How quickly we walk.
How early we talk.
How much we weigh.
How well we behave.
There’s always a chart, a milestone, a checklist — a standard someone else has set. We are prodded, praised, or pushed based on how we match up. “On track,” they say. “Meeting expectations.” And just like that, we learn the rules of the game.
In school, the measuring stick only gets longer.
Scores. Grades. Reports. Rankings.
Who’s above average? Who’s behind? Who’s “gifted”? Who needs “intervention”?
Soon, it’s not just the adults measuring us — we begin to measure ourselves. And worse, we measure each other.
We learn to compare.
Smarter. Prettier. Stronger. Funnier.
More popular. More athletic. More “successful.”
And for every winner in this invisible race, there are many who quietly decide they’re not enough.
We leave school — but the measuring doesn’t leave us.
College. University. Work.
Degrees, job titles, salaries, likes, followers, promotions.
Everywhere we turn, it’s a scoreboard. Everyone striving to be seen. To be heard. To prove their worth.
We hustle. Perform. Achieve.
All the while hoping we’re finally “making it.”
But making it where, exactly? And according to who?
Here’s what I’ve come to understand:
When you choose to step away from the measuring — to opt out of the scoreboard life — things change.
When you stop caring what others think,
When you see that their judgments are often more about them than you,
When you accept yourself as you are,
Not “better than”
Not “less than”
But equal to every other human walking this earth —
Then the pressure lifts.
You can breathe.
You no longer need to prove, perform, or pretend.
You get to be.
You get to live a life measured not by numbers or opinions, but by meaning.
You know your own worth, and you don’t need anyone to validate it.
And if we’re going to talk about measuring, then let’s talk about what truly matters.
Because the real measure of any society isn’t how productive it is or how many people it celebrates at the top.
It’s how it treats its most vulnerable.
Children.
Elders.
Those who are grieving, healing, struggling, or simply different.
Those who have been silenced, overlooked, or forgotten.
If a society fails to make space for its most tender voices, it’s not a success — no matter how loud it cheers for progress.
At A Positive Start CIC, this is the heart of our work.
We’re not here to push more measuring sticks into people’s lives.
We’re here to offer something different.
We believe that learning, development, and growth should never come at the cost of compassion.
We believe in creating safe, person-centred spaces where being human is enough — where your lived experience is not only valid but valuable.
That’s why we created REAL CPD:
- Regulated – rooted in care, not control
- Ethical – prioritising integrity, not image
- Accessible – open to all, not reserved for the privileged
- Lived Experience Led – because truth is often found in the story, not the system
This is not about climbing ladders or chasing validation.
It’s about reconnecting with what matters most.
How we show up for ourselves.
How we impact each other.
How we hold space for healing in a world that so often rushes past it.
It’s not about being “the best.”
It’s about being real. Whole. Present. Enough.
When I let go of the external measuring — and embraced a deeper, quieter truth within myself — I discovered something powerful:
This is the measure of me.
And just maybe,
It’s the measure of us, too.
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.