Hey,

I’m not one for clickbait, so let me say from the off — the newsletter continues!

Instead, something else is over. Something that feels kind of big and scary and cool and hopeful. I’ve called time on my sessions with my therapist. For now, with her, at least.

Starting therapy was, I think, the single most important act of my adult life. I’ve learned new things about myself, my relationships, and the ways I think and speak and act. I’ve come to understand the ways I take myself seriously and the ways I act unkindly towards myself. I’m working through a bunch of things that, I hope, will help me create a more peaceful and fruitful life.

Hey,

I’ve got an idea, right? It’s an article for a magazine. It’s personal, it’s about a few interconnecting threads that run through the tapestry of my self. I’ve had the idea for a while — it came to me quickly and naturally as I was reading the last edition of said magazine. I think it’s a good fit and I know I can write it well.

And I’m doing everything I can to not send the pitch. I’ve fiddled with it for a couple of weeks, traced the ridges of its bumpy surface, and always found a reason to close it down and distract myself elsewhere.

I can guess why I’m holding myself back — it’s vulnerable, it’s risky, it could end in rejection. And this isn’t just some freelance prospect who could be a new line of income but doesn’t mean much to me beyond that. A missed payday might hurt a bit, but a “No” to a deeply earnest representation of myself feels far bigger, sharper, than that.

Hey,

Sorry I didn’t write to you last week; I’ve been feeling terrible. Well, sometimes. I wrote about it last time I emailed and those symptoms have persisted. Sometimes it feels like it’s getting better, other times it’s back with a vengeance.

And… now I think I’m coming down with a cold.

It really sucks to be in this space and for it to still be happening. Three weeks of it now, which is unfamiliar territory for me. I’m rarely ill and I’m never ill for this long. It’s stopping me from living life — I’ve not been running for three weeks, I’ve had to skip out on things I wanted to do, I’m having to squeeze work into the healthy edges of my time and let other things fall away.

Hey,

So I’ve not been feeling wonderful for the last few weeks. Well, I don’t know. I’ve been alright a lot of the time, but I’ve had this hard to shake malady that keeps coming back. Sometimes it’s behind my eyes and it feels like my vision is half a second delayed and everything’s a bit too bright. Other times it’s a twisting knot in my stomach that sidelines me pretty strongly. Other times it’s a kind of aching in my face - like my sinuses have enflamed after a bunch of sneezing. It can also be a bit shakey and shivery, a bit headachey, a bit… off?

It’s been hard to put it into words because it changes quite often and sometimes seems to go away.

Basically, I keep feeling not so good and it’s been going on for three or four weeks, on and off. Because of its changing nature, I’ve been finding it hard to pin down exactly what the cause could be.

Hey,

I’m a coffee snob. There, I said it. I’ll own it. I’m one of those wankers that’ll grind beans at home and time how long I let the grounds bloom before adding more water.

Take me as I am, it’s all I can offer.

Being a coffee snob has done more than make me insufferable, though. It's helped me see and appreciate the craft in everyday items and experiences.

Hey,

It’s always there. Nagging, gnawing. Sometimes shouting as loud as it can in my ears and rattling my skull. Sometimes a weak whisper. Only every now and again is it gone completely.

I wake up to my alarm and prop myself up to try and stay awake, inevitably falling back asleep in an awkward position. An hour or so later, I wake up and blearily swipe around on my phone.

I go downstairs and make tea and heat up breakfast. I sit at my computer, eating and drinking, promising myself an easy start — checking Twitter or watching a YouTube video — before the workday begins.

Hey,

I have a habit that I love to beat myself up over. I tell myself I’m terrible for it. I always dive into the depths of it and find new ways to be appalled at myself.

I don’t reply to messages.

And here’s the really interesting wrinkle of it: I do it almost exclusively for people I really care about.

Hey,

Today is the last full day of my solo trip. I settled into it pretty nicely after those first few days of anxiousness, finding a routine that felt comfortable and comforting. I’ve done loads of things with a very clear intention of making myself feel good or looked after — whether that was bringing familiar comforts with me or moving my body regularly.

And it's the latter I want to talk about in a bit more detail. If you’ve been reading for a few editions, thank you! Plus, you’ll know that I’m getting back into running. Joy of joys, then, when I saw that Park Run had made its way over to Rotterdam!

If you don’t know about Park Run, it’s a free, volunteer-led, 5km event held every week across the UK (and some European nations, too). The event is super inclusive, accessible, and welcoming and I’ve — somehow — never done one before. I timed my first ever 5k back in Falmouth and absolutely dragged myself over the line in a shade under 30 minutes. Just before leaving for Rotterdam, I did the same in Leicestershire and managed a pretty identical time with a similar struggle.

Hey,

I am never alone. Like, genuinely, never. Maybe one or two days in a row at most. I’m with Bex basically every day, or I’m with family or friends or colivers (who are a mix of both).

But I am never on my own, solo, out in the world. Haven't been for 4+ years.

Hey,

Having is evidence of wanting.

My therapist shared this idea with me a couple of weeks ago. I'd been explaining how I felt a bit low on energy, how I felt like I could stay in bed all day but didn’t want to waste the day.

Then she told me this quote, talked about Carolyn Elliott’s Existential Kink, and set me off on a big old thought train.

Hey,

Searching the charity shop shelves, I finally found it. A simple black tie, just what I needed for my Grandpa’s funeral. It had taken me a few different visits to find one.

I stood at the till, the volunteer worked his way into the seat behind the plastic screen as I waited.

“Just this one please,” I smiled.

Hey,

Falmouth’s been good to me, so far.

I’m on the coast, so I get sea mist and cliffside walks.

There are beautiful running routes and traffic-free trails.

Hey,

To love is to relish the mundane.

I read this the other day in Tracksmith’s journal. The piece is ostensibly about running, but that line has been ringing in my ears since I read it and I think it extends far beyond running.

Romantic love is ablaze with passion… and it’s a comforting, familiar head resting on my chest each night when I fall asleep.

Hey,

Reading Half Marathon 2015: I (painfully and staggeringly) sprinted over the finish line, as it ticked over to 02:01:01.

That number gnaws at me.

It’s just so, so close. One minute and one second. If I ran each mile just 4.8 seconds faster, I would have a sub-two hour half marathon.

Hey,

I’ve been getting tattoos since I was 18, but it's ramped up a bit over the last couple of years. I’ve been building out a collection of brushwork British botanicals on my right arm.

During Lockdown 2, I took a daily walk through Higher Cemetery back in Exeter. It’s massive and full of beautiful planting and old trees. I’d watch the resident pair of Jays swoop low under branches and let squirrels take food out of my outstretched palm. Bucolic peace in unsettled times.

There's a ginkgo tree there. It stands out — yellow leaves in a sea of green — and the more I learned about ginkgos, the more I loved them. They’re considered ‘living fossils’, as one of the oldest living species in the world, and predate dinosaurs. And there it was, in that moment, reaching out and dropping leaves at my feet in my tiny sliver of the modern world. Magic.

Hey,

Full moon, storms in the Atlantic, big fat raindrops dressing the Juliet balcony.

By all rights, the sea should not have been so appealing. But, in all of its dark and choppy movement, it was. We were both feeling pretty depressed and knew a cold dip would bring a hard reset and help us try for a happier feeling again.

We stumbled across the rocky beach out to the high tide line. I’d learned that crossing this beach, with its rise-and-fall carpet of smoothed stones, can only be done slowly. When walking at my usual pace, I'd turn my ankle and end up stepping on the few sharp edges that lurk among the cherubim rocks. But when I slowed down, steadied myself, and took purposeful steps — picking out the biggest, flattest rocks — I could cross with relative ease.

Hey,

My Grandpa was a bookseller, specialising in British topographies and local interest.

Albert John Coombes — but never actually Albert, always John. AJC. He had a pretty difficult upbringing, not much money and a lot of hard graft. And then he built a family. He raised my mum to be the creative, kind, and curious person she is and then, before long, there I was. Here I am. Here he’s not.

He died on Sunday 12th. He’d been unwell for a while and he’d kind of been caught by aging. His body couldn’t do what it used to, which had been a lot. I remember him telling me how much he resented growing old, once. He hated that his body couldn’t do what it used to.

Hey,

In March, I’ll be picking up my whistle for the first time in 11 months.

Crikey, how time flies.

Refereeing is the one part of my life that I’ve struggled to keep with me as I move around the country and Europe.

Hey,

I’ve become pretty good at catching myself when I sway to the rhythm of the cult of productivity. I’ll clock when I’m itching and twitching about not working enough or maximising my time with opportunities and efficiencies. I know that that shit doesn’t serve me and it’s not a way of living that feels right or helpful or respectful.

But it comes up in other ways, that cult of productivity. Ways that I’m still learning to spot and address.

I’m in Madeira — have been for almost four weeks, will be for another two. I’ve done some nice stuff, seen some cool places, had a great time… and I have this regular, nagging voice in my head that says I should be out doing more, seeing more.

Hey,

A house by the Cornish coast really would be lovely. They’re out there—lots of them. I see them on Rightmove when I periodically check. A little terraced number in Pendeen, a pokey place in St Just...

A snug sense of home, a deep connection and thick roots in a community that extends beyond me in all directions. Regular haunts, familiar faces.

But then… a nomadic life continues to be lovely. It’s giving me so much.