Bottling up emotions and unsayable words can risk a build up of stress that leads to explosive conflicts, burnout, health problems and more. I’m interested in how we can take the same approach we would use with a shaken up fizzy bottle – unscrewing the lid slowly, carefully, and a little at a time.

There’s something uncomfortable about the idea of having to 'regulate’ myself in order to have a ‘good enough’ response to injustice, violence and instability.

Join me on a meander through considerations of sharing space and migration, gender roles, wealth and status, and how social change can begin with looking at things from different angles.

The concept of wellbeing has become ubiquitous and yet undervalued. When budgets tighten, wellbeing initiatives are often the first to go. The rationale is straightforward enough - in times of crisis, only the “essentials” survive. But what if we’ve misunderstood what is truly essential?

The same pitfalls I’ve seen in the field of participatory work over the last twenty years keep tripping us up in both new and familiar ways. I’ve seen some incredible examples of meaningful co-production. But there are sticky challenges to address in the planning and delivery of participatory services, and it’s important to address them.

I travelled a few hundred miles to one of the three cities I consider a ‘hometown’, to host a party marking a new chapter in my life. I’ve been thinking about how we can strike a balance between creating spaces that respect and accommodate people’s complex lives, depleted energy levels and access needs, and eliciting commitment and participation at a time when it seems like we need strong community more than ever.

The concept of ‘authenticity’ shows up just about everywhere. We might debate and denigrate the lack of real, raw and unfiltered versions of people showing up on social media platforms. We might see wall art and online posts (which may or may not be AI generated) encouraging us to just be ourselves. But what does being ‘ourselves’ mean, really?

I’ve spent a lot of time in the five years since being diagnosed with ADHD thinking about masking, and how I might consciously or unconsciously choose to modify my behaviour in order to be more socially acceptable. Lately, I’ve noticed a desire and a tendency to put less effort into this, though it feels risky and exposing to do so. At a certain point in the life of many neurodivergent people, especially those diagnosed later in life, the mask begins to slip, perhaps because we no longer have the capacity to spend energy on maintaining it, or because we choose to take it off. It’s interesting to look at how this is received in different contexts – the world is changing, and our understanding of different neurotypes is developing quickly, even though this feels like something that’s still in its infancy. In some situations, people are accepting of, and accustomed to unusual communication styles, movements, ways of thinking and requests for adjustments. In others, we might be judged more harshly (like the time someone on a training course told me that nobody will ever take me seriously if I continue to move my hands like that when I talk). Masking, or toning ourselves down in order to fit in or be ‘taken seriously’ is more about others’ comfort than the needs of the person wearing the mask. Sure, it might stem from a deep seated need to belong (or a less deep but equally crucial need to be employable). But holding back our need to manage our nervous systems and energy levels, admit that we’ve forgotten someone’s name, bow out of small talk, zone out or follow a mental tangent is largely about managing others’ comfort…

There are many ways in which neurotypical people might experience pressure to mask, adapt and suppress instinctive behaviours or needs in order to maintain a sense of social cohesion or ‘civility’.

During these last few years, I’ve also become increasingly aware of a link between this phenomenon and the idea of ‘white politeness’. Being ‘civilised’ was (and in so many ways, continues to be) a concept weaponised in colonialism, positioning white European societies as morally, intellectually and culturally superior to the global majority.

This weekend, I met a friend for lunch and a stroll through the park. As we shared our news, lamented the price of a coffee in a central London café and promised to meet for wholesome Sunday walks more often, I felt a familiar sense of being re-resourced by taking time to relax, reconnect and enjoy some time out in nature. This was briefly disrupted by unexpectedly passing a far-right rally in the park – suddenly, the two of us seemed significantly outnumbered by people who would likely wish harm on us and many others. We moved on and inevitably spent a long time discussing the state of the world and how we might respond to an increasing sense of division and uncertainty. I reflected on what helps me to keep things in perspective and feel safe when things feel scary and hopeless, and immediately thought of various communities that I’m part of, and the concepts of mutual support and safety in numbers. I also remembered some tools from trauma therapy, like Babette Rothschild’s oases, anchors and safe places, which are helpful in addressing feelings of overwhelm and detachment. Bringing the therapeutic concepts and the idea of community together, I’ve been considering community as a form of anchor, which might serve to keep us grounded and connected.

The word ‘resilience’ has become one of the ubiquitous buzzwords that has been favoured in fields from education, to workplace wellbeing, to psychology (in both pop and clinical forms) for quite some time. While I’m in favour of finding ways to pick ourselves back up when we’ve been knocked down – and occasionally even partial to a Kelly Clarkson karaoke moment – I find myself asking questions whenever the concept of resilience comes up. I might wonder whether it’s the most helpful word to use in the given context, and how it’s being understood. For example, I used to offer wellbeing support to a woman who had been through an extraordinary amount of adversity and trauma in her life. When I met her, she still faced some significant challenges, but the way she had turned things around and overcome massive obstacles was remarkable. Any time people heard her story, they would comment on how unusually resilient she was. There’s no denying the truth of that, but she internalised the message that she was ‘a resilient person’, and struggled to reconcile this with her experience on days when she felt overwhelmed and less able to cope.

‘I don’t know if we were meant to carry so much grief in one body… Yet, we are not alone’ (Alexandra/Ahlay Blakely)

-These are the lyrics of a song that I’ve sung with others at song circles, protests and other events where groups have assembled to process and express grief (alongside other emotions) and to share the experience of trying to make sense of things that feel big, scary and unfathomable. The song also contains a part that is essentially a tuneful wail, in a bid to reconnect us to the embodied, messy, loud and cathartic nature of expressing grief. Right now, I’m struck ‘I don’t know if we were meant to carry so much grief in one body… Yet, we are not alone’ (Alexandra/Ahlay Blakely)

-These are the lyrics of a song that I’ve sung with others at song circles, protests and other events where groups have assembled to process and express grief (alongside other emotions) and to share the experience of trying to make sense of things that feel big, scary and unfathomable. The song also contains a part that is essentially a tuneful wail, in a bid to reconnect us to the embodied, messy, loud and cathartic nature of expressing grief. Right now, I’m struck by the ways in which reclaiming ritual, authentic expression and communal grieving can be forms of resistance to the legacy of colonial, Victorian Britain, where emotional repression and sanitised grief processes became the only socially acceptable options.by the ways in which reclaiming ritual, authentic expression and communal grieving can be forms of resistance to the legacy of colonial, Victorian Britain, where emotional repression and sanitised grief processes became the only socially acceptable options.

I’ve recently been spending a lot of time in charity sector spaces where professionals are at their edges, resources are strained, and there are increasing divides between leadership and frontline staff who are being asked to stretch caseloads and boundaries to breaking point. Words and phrases like ‘burnout’, ‘dehumanising’ and ‘taken for granted’ abound in discussions with tired and disappointed helping professionals. The picture might look bleak for some right now, but there are still choices to be made and opportunities to take space to re-imagine how we can work together in a challenging socioeconomic climate to bring about more sustainable, meaningful change for service users and the workforce alike.