Black History Month and Coercive Control in the Curriculum

Somehow, we’re well into October already. Autumn always brings the passage of time into sharp focus for me, and never more so than in this year, when so much and yet so little seems to have happened. We’ve had far more time to reflect and ruminate on global events, politics and injustices this year. October is Black History Month – something that my colleagues in a Black-led grassroots organisation welcome with caution. It’s an important step in the right direction to have a month of centring people, events and perspectives that have been wilfully erased from historical narratives. And yet, a month of focus on Black experiences before re-opening history books written by the “winners” may seem like cold comfort at a time when traumatic news of racist violence continues to abound. I find myself thinking and feeling deeply about this, though I’ll never experience that trauma first-hand.  

The vision of my coaching and consultancy work is to contribute to communities that facilitate wholehearted communication, mutuality, safety and creativity. I write and speak often about social justice issues because I cannot see a way for us to fully live according to these values and practices while systemic oppression prevails. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the context of education. While we humans are equipped with the potential to live together in ways that value our equal worth, nurture skills and talents and promote positive wellbeing, in reality this requires supportive structures and systems, practice (or learning by doing) and the tools to think critically and reflectively.  

And as we moved into Black History Month, while the modern iteration of the civil rights movement continued to fight, the U.K government launched an attack on the sort of education that will equip young people to think critically about what is included and excluded from the stories they are told by way of ‘historical fact’. While this guidance does at least ban the teaching of racist material, it does likewise for what it considers to be illegal or ‘extremist’ movements, in which it counts Extinction Rebellion, and some of this summer’s Black Lives Matter protests. Preventing schools from teaching narratives not written by the winners is a thinly veiled backlash to calls for ‘de-colonising the curriculum’.  

I’m part of the generation whose school years happened to coincide with Section 28, the legislation that banned educators from “promoting homosexuality” (for that, read “mentioning any form of queerness at all, unless explicitly condemning it”). It was revoked right around the time I finished high school. As a person who took a long time to make sense of my queer identity, I can only imagine how different things might have been for me if my education had been explicitly inclusive of all genders and sexualities, and if I'd been taught about the LGBTQI people before me who’d fought for their rights.  

The history of civil rights movements cannot be taught in a political vacuum. It would be difficult to teach Black history in this place and time without being somewhat critical of the political, philosophical, religious and (pseudo)scientific beliefs and practices that led to, for example, the transatlantic slave trade. Even those who may privately yearn for the ‘good old days’ of Empire and eugenics would not get away with explicitly voicing these views in a mainstream education setting. There is a consensus that it is acceptable to be critical of injustices that happened in the past, given that we are encouraged to hold a belief that we have made so much progress since then that nothing like this could ever happen again. But, without cultural criticism, analytical skills and the introduction of a range of philosophical concepts, how will we know whether we’re collectively sleepwalking into further atrocities? What are our young people expected to make of acts of violence against specific groups of people that are taking place right now? And who will be held to account for ensuring that the curriculum doesn’t implicitly or explicitly centre the voices of some learners over others? It’s hard for me - someone who was privileged enough to be raised and educated with more than my fair share of critical and rebellious tendencies - to see this as anything other than a cynical attempt at censorship. This is something that totalitarian regimes do, and they don’t usually do it all overnight. It’s a slow creep of human rights being eroded that always includes banning criticism of the current political system.  

I spent several years training professionals in how to teach Relationships, Sexual Health and Parenting (RSHP) Education to young people. We in Scotland moved from a tired, old curriculum that essentially encouraged victim-blaming and an over-simplistic view of consent, to a somewhat improved version that taught about moving beyond narrow gender roles, about enthusiastic consent and how to ensure you’re not engaging in coercive control (something that had recently been defined in law as a form of abuse). How ironic, then, that this latest warning to teachers in England should fall under the banner of Relationships, Sex and Health Education (RSHE), when the guidance itself seems to be a great example of coercive control. 

Having a background in youth work, I’ve always been heartened by informal education as a way to teach young people to critically engage with the world around them, especially the media and key cultural influences of the day. I’ll continue to advocate for holistic, well-funded youth provision that supports young people to have their voices heard, to build relationships of trust with adults and to learn to make sense of the world. Of course, the youth work sector has faced savage funding cuts under the current UK government too. And yet, just this week at work, I was reminded of the power of young people talking passionately about their lived experiences. I heard young, Black people speaking with clarity, rage and a wisdom that they shouldn’t have had to develop at their age. These young people, like so many others, give me hope for the future... but we can’t leave it to them to rescue the rest of us, especially since they didn’t get us into this mess in the first place. Someone needs to take responsibility for teaching history from the bottom, for inspiring the younger generations with stories of struggles for freedom that were won, no matter how small. And if this is really to be prevented in formal education settings until the current administration is finished, let’s take to social media, to community organising and to the streets to teach, learn and raise voices together. 

How we care for ourselves is political

The concept of self-care may bring to mind images of inspirational quotes typed in a flowing font, aimed at over-stretched, harassed working mums who desperately need and deserve to ‘take some me time’ and wash their troubles away in a fragrant bubble bath, chased by either a superfood smoothie or a ‘cheeky’ glass of wine. If I sound a little cynical here, I’ll admit that I am a little, and I’ll outline why. Rest assured, I am a lover of baths, smoothies, wine, relaxation and relief from the often-gendered work of caring for others. It is absolutely not my intention to shame those who practice specific ways of looking after themselves or the professionals who support them. I do want to unpack notions of self-care, emotional literacy and wellness, because I believe it’s in all of our interests to examine the industry built around them, the practices and products we’re sold and the voices that are centred or silenced. As Skunk Anansie proclaimed in the nineties (to the delight of my teenage self), “Yes, it’s f*cking political, everything’s political!”  

“Who is self-care for?” 

As mentioned, the most obvious and prolific presentation of self-care content often tends to invoke either soft, fluffy or expansive, spiritual imagery. Often, this is coded or read as “feminine”. I’ve spoken to numerous people who note that men, boys and masculine-identified folks can feel excluded from the message that looking after their bodies (exercise and protein shakes notwithstanding) and their emotional health is important. This can further exacerbate toxic masculinity stereotypes that are so harmful to boys and men, who so often come to harm as a result of pressure to keep their feelings to themselves. We are starting to see change, as a new generation of young people are taught that their emotions are valid, but the work of chipping away at the small stuff (which makes up the big stuff) continues. Here’s to more gender-neutral content AND permission for us all to like what we like, be it “fluffy” or otherwise. 

What else comes to mind when we think of typical self-care? Next on my list is money. In a world where there’s money to be made from everything, good health may be sold to the highest bidder (and I say this as someone who charges for my wellbeing related services, though always with an eye on balancing the value of my work with my ethics). People who are financially struggling tend not to have much disposable income for wellness products and programmes, or time to themselves. So, what could self-care look like for those who don’t fit the financial mould? Well, the big picture is tackling poverty at its root cause. But back here ‘on the ground’, it can be about promotion and permission of solid boundaries to avoid burnout, quick and cheap wins (grounding techniques you can use on the bus, while boiling the kettle or walking the dog) and more subsidised places in therapy.  

Who else do we picture when we think about self-care? Typically in the west, we may think of yoga classes run and attended by flexible white women, or mostly white, middle aged “spiritual seekers” attending packed conferences run by charismatic, inspirational leaders claiming to have all the answers. Clearly, these are sweeping generalisations, but the world of marketing is built on “ideal client” profiles that spell out the age, ethnicity, occupation and income of the people on the receiving end of advertising.  

“We need to talk about cultural appropriation”  

Deep breath – it’s a sticky subject, but all the more reason to lift the lid on it. The concept of taking aspects of a marginalised culture out of their original context and consuming or recreating them for fun, profit or wellbeing is not a new one. It’s not my story to tell as a white person, nor my right to define where the line between cultural appreciation and appropriation is (if indeed there is a neat line, which I suspect there isn’t). Let me be clear - I’m absolutely not saying it’s wrong to practice yoga if we’re not of Indian origin, or to learn meditation practices from ancient traditions other than our own. But I believe that it’s crucial to listen to the people with a claim to stake in specific practices, whose voices and incomes have so often been swept to the side in favour of a booming industry selling sacred symbols, medicines and practices to those of us who can see their value but know little of their history. Practising in awareness is and self-reflection is key (and for me, that goes hand in hand with self-care). So, I’m advocating for all of us who use or practice other cultures’ traditions to do our homework first (resource list below). 

“Spiritual bypassing and toxic positivity” 

If you’ve been going through a painful experience and sought solace in a community or content that suggests that all your troubles would be cured if only you had a positive attitude, the right diet or enough meditation, you may well know how dismissive and lonely an experience it can be. Humans often need to feel in control of our own destinies. Staring down the prospect of bad experiences and, ultimately, death, regardless of our best efforts can be a very scary experience. So, at times, we’d rather believe that if we smile more, take our supplements and attempt to avoid all known carcinogens, we’ll be just fine. I know that not all wellbeing and spiritual practitioners take this to its logical extreme (i.e. “all your suffering is your own fault”) - in general, we’re all just doing our best to survive and thrive. And there is a grain of truth in many of the encouragements to practice “mind over matter” or to foster a sense of perspective. But where reflection and the development of emotional regulation start to morph into “good vibes only” and “you just need to practice more gratitude”, we’re in the realm of toxic positivity and spiritual bypassing. Building a practice of noticing and honouring our physical and emotional cues in order to take better care of ourselves cannot and must not exclude uncomfortable emotions. Much like the aforementioned pressure on boys and men to suppress vulnerability, the discounting and banning of less socially acceptable feelings from any environment can be deadly. Our work here is to learn how to recognise, regulate and process. Sometimes emotional work is quite the opposite of sunshine and joy, and that’s ok. I will add an important caveat here, however – in a safe enough space for doing personal work, all emotions are welcome, but they are not forced out. We don’t get prizes for having the biggest breakthrough or the most dramatic catharsis. I’ve seen (and experienced) some truly transformative moments that have been loud, ugly and even a little scary… and I’ve seen people re-traumatised by well-meaning practitioners who lacked an awareness of how to spot signs that the Autonomic Nervous System is in overdrive and needs to be calmed, not pushed over the edge in order to get a gratifying “big finish” to a session. So, my suggestion here is to notice and work against internalising messages that imply that your feelings are unacceptable, and to check out the credentials of any practitioners you work with to ensure they have an understanding of trauma and psychological safety. 

“Emotional literacy as a radical act, and how it can protect us” 

Getting to know ourselves to the point of fine detail is a political and protective act in a number of ways. Let me give you an example… I remember learning what it means when the base of my skull sort of vibrates – for me, it’s an early warning sign that my nervous system has perceived a threat. It happens most in specific situations when I feel a conflict or a rejection may be imminent, but occasionally, I feel this sensation in a situation where the danger is more significant. This reaction takes place before my conscious mind has had a chance to catch up, so it’s a good barometer that says “hold on, let’s take stock – is this situation dangerous?” That knowledge has been really useful ever since. Another example – recently, I did some work with a group of young musicians who work in a genre I’ve never really connected with. When we first worked together, my initial response to the style of the music felt odd to me – a slight tensing of the muscles; perhaps out of defensiveness, or even disgust. I liked the young men and appreciated their art and their talent, so why was my body reacting like this? Thinking about it, I realised I’ve always considered this genre and the culture it comes from to be homophobic, and as a queer person, that makes me wary. While I stand by my condemnation of bigotry in any cultural context, I was surprised at myself. So many cultures and traditions have (I believe) been tainted by ultra conservative attitudes towards gender and sexual orientation, but I’m not sure I’d have been so quick to completely write them off, especially since these cultural contexts often necessitate and are home to incredible activists leading the struggle for change. It was my physical reaction and desire to interrogate its meaning that alerted me to the need to unpack and challenge my over-generalised assumptions. These signs and signals of something needing attention can also be crucial in protecting us from abuse and others’ narcissism. This is not to say that it’s incumbent on us as potential victims/survivors to stop it from happening, but I’m pretty sure we could all benefit from seeing the signs and connecting with our internal warnings.  

“And speaking of narcissists…”  

Listening to this slightly sensationalist account of a charismatic personal development “guru” whose extreme retreat courses saw several participants die on his watch, I thought about how two areas I have a special interest in are often rife with narcissistic process – namely, the performance and wellness industries. People in states of vulnerability who are seeking connection, escape, expression or fulfilment can offer rich pickings to a person intent on gaining power, wealth or notoriety at any expense. I think back to ‘artistically tempered’ artistic directors I encountered as a budding musician, and to coming across charismatic leaders of successful wellbeing companies and movements whose followers hung on their every word, even (or especially) when they were making impossible claims. While it’s true that a certain amount of passion, artistic flair and charm can be an asset to those who wish to share their craft and the tools that have worked for them, there is a line between this and more problematic narcissism that is often crossed in the pursuit of guru-like status. In Transactional Analysis terms, this state of mind says ‘I’m OK, you’re not OK’. I have the answers and you must listen to them without question. I lead and you follow. My pursuit of happiness is more important than yours, and you are a step on my ladder to the top. It is precisely the emotional literacy, curiosity and honouring of warning signs that can help to guard against being misled or mistreated by those who are in this position. And in an industry that people often seek out during their most vulnerable moments, we must demand ethics and regulation. It is the responsibility of those making claims to have life-changing products and resources to back them up with some kind of evidence and reference. If it sounds too good to be true, it may well be. I’m a big believer in seeking out practitioners who appear secure in their skills and knowledge base, yet are happy to acknowledge their humanity, their vulnerability and their capacity to get it wrong, learn and grow. I encourage us all to look for these qualities.  

Now, go out there and take radical, political and compassionate care of yourself!  

If you are worried about any of the issues mentioned in this post, please see the resource list below for (UK based) support & advice lines, or contact me. 

Resource List: 

The Guilty Feminist podcast episode 216, ‘Wellness’: https://guiltyfeminist.com/episode/?episode=271 

‘Guru’ podcast (Wondery): https://wondery.com/shows/guru/ 

Unblocking White Supremacy and Fragility in the Wellness Industry - Maryam Ajayi: https://medium.com/@maryam.ajayi/https-medium-com-maryam-ajayi-unblocking-white-supremacy-and-fragility-in-the-wellness-industry-b7f312e33179 

Cultural appropriation in the wellness industry – Lilidonia Lawrence: https://byp-network.com/news/267021 

What is Spiritual Bypassing? Avoiding life and other dangerous games: https://www.insightstate.com/spirituality/spiritual-bypassing/ 

What is Toxic Positivity? Why It's OK not to be OK right now – Brittany Wong: https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/what-is-toxic-positivity-coronavirus_l_5f04bca0c5b67a80bbff7cd3?guccounter=1&guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly9jb25zZW50LnlhaG9vLmNvbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAIr5dlvYWdYLD45MxFwivtZKH5CAp9XePI0eecea-VCN8rXPqd6EWIKhAggZL04kxcPiz1hwlNRwMNtoujc1FBUT_8A_S-mMtny04gH9dWL5GnnwXcs8vMigJEyOKMJRzaCkLS9U-4Wq93CP7nCVEGLXlyO4O57n02Drpo8GjprF 

Narcissism: How to Find Strength to Survive and Prosper After Narcissistic Abuse. Disarm the Narcissist, Take Control of Your Life and Learn How to Recover from a Toxic Relationship – Dr Keith Sam (Audiobook): https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/Narcissism-Audiobook/B086CBLJMK?msclkid=9431245897b119dc18ea7b17cd1e9eff&source_code=M2M30DFT1Bk12807021801O6 

How to improve emotional intelligence: 10 tips for increasing self-awareness – Six Seconds: https://www.6seconds.org/2018/02/27/emotional-intelligence-tips-awareness/ 

Useful contacts from Mind, the mental health charity: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/ 

Transactional Analysis online course – I'm OK, you’re OK: how to develop your attitude: https://ta-course.com/im-ok-youre-ok/ 

The Psychology of Voice

Or ‘The Courage to be Heard and Understood’.

When I talk about ‘the psychology of voice’, people may hope or expect to learn tactics for being heard, understood and ‘taken seriously’, based on studies that show which pitch, accent, body language or tone audiences best respond to. I believe there may be value in taking time to consider how we may be coming across when we communicate, but I do not offer tips and tools that promise to endow you with an air of authority, confidence or persuasiveness. My passion lies in wholehearted, authentic communication. I’m a Performance Psychology practitioner – I specialise in voice and communication, trauma recovery, relationship and a body psychology approach to wellbeing. 

When I think of ‘voice’, I think about being heard, speaking out against things we find unacceptable, advocating for ourselves or others, performing or presenting in front of an audience, and vocal technique (be it for speaking or singing). Things that can get in the way of any and all of these include the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, the messages we received from our parents or caregivers, how we are feeling physically and how safe we feel in the environment in which we are attempting to be heard. It’s impossible to truly separate the mental, emotional and physical aspects of voice. This is one of the reasons I’m so fascinated by it. The voice is the interface between the internal and external worlds*. A thought is an internal process, but when we decide to speak that thought, express that emotion, it exists outside of our body. Can you think of a time when you wanted to cry but made the decision to try fighting back the tears? Felt that ‘lump in the throat’ feeling as you attempted to swallow your feelings because it didn’t feel safe or socially acceptable to let them out? This is an example of how our emotions, vocal apparatus and communication interact with each other.  

How safe we feel and our self-talk has an impact on what comes out of our mouth and how. Before I understood the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of this, I experienced it first-hand. As a teenager, I was training in classical singing. Though I was a born performer with a flair for the dramatic, I suffered terribly with performance anxiety (a term I was not familiar with at the time – back then, we just called it ‘nerves’ and were encouraged to ‘toughen up’). The more formal the environment, the more nervous I became. My breathing became erratic and my voice shook fearfully. On a number of occasions, I auditioned for roles that allowed me to show a more playful, exuberant side. I remember Directors expressing shock at the sudden transformation – meanwhile, I thought ‘this is how I really sound!’  

Years later, disaster struck. A perfect vocal storm, involving a bad bout of bronchitis, a load of unprocessed trauma and a lack of rest, led to me completely losing my voice. A combination of surgery, vocal rehabilitation, breath work and Performance Psychology support helped me to find it again. A key aspect of this was the building of solid therapeutic relationships. I had to trust the people coaching me through this recovery with some of the things most precious to me: my emotions, stories and voice. This is something I hold in mind as a coach – I remember how vulnerable I felt and how important it was to be treated with care. 

As I learned about what was stopping me from expressing myself fully, the first lesson was about ‘body armour’. We tense and brace our bodies when we feel threatened, and often, we don’t let that tension go. Fear had me tied in knots, so tense that I struggled to express myself. To use our voices clearly, we need the support of our diaphragm and core muscles, and a steady flow of breath. The tension we carry in our neck, jaw, throat, chest and shoulders when we are stressed, anxious, scared or under pressure can seriously inhibit this.  

I went on to explore the ‘unsaid’. What were the things I did not feel safe enough to say? What messages had I received as I grew up about the acceptability of particular emotions? What did I tell myself when I felt those emotions and how did my body respond? Making sense of what was going on under the surface yielded surprising results, and the improvements in my communication were tangible.  

I re-built my performing experience from scratch – starting with audiences of people with whom I had built relationships of trust and moving on from there. Vocally, I am still more sensitive than I once was to physical, emotional or environmental changes, but this is often as much of a gift as it is a curse. My voice lets me know what I need, and perfectly communicates how I am feeling.  

What I experienced, and what I went on to learn in years of training is that being heard and understood requires the courage to be vulnerable. This courage can come partly from trust – both in yourself and the people around you. But sometimes, there won’t be a ‘safe person’ in the room with you at a time when you need to use your voice to speak up. There are ways to boost feelings of internal safety – though the specifics are different for everyone, I suggest starting with breathing ‘in your belly’ (i.e. using your diaphragm), grounding your feet and consciously releasing tension from your shoulders, neck and jaw. Communicating wholeheartedly, honestly and boldly is a skill you can keep developing: ‘speak your truth, even if your voice shakes’.  

For support with any of the issues mentioned here, please contact me. If you have concerns about your vocal health, talk to your GP first.  

*See ‘The Singer’s Psyche’ - research by Dr. Denise Borland for more on the psychology of voice.

Psychological safety

In recent times, the term ‘psychological safety’ seems to have become something of a buzzword. Outside the therapeutic circles I tend to move in, I’ve also heard people talk about it in relation to team meetings, political disagreements on social media platforms and other situations involving groups of people. And I must say, I am pleased to hear terms like this used in popular discourse (as long as they’re meant genuinely).  

Safety is a concept that can’t have been far from anyone’s mind lately. This may be a more practical, rather than emotional form of safety – assessing the risk of a trip to the local shop during lockdown, asking ourselves ‘should I self-isolate?' when we perceive the slightest tickle in our throats, weighing up the pros and cons of meeting a friend in the park for a socially distanced catch up. These decisions might weigh heavily on the psyche for some of us. Our perception of safety, or lack thereof, is psychological. Material risks may not be directly altered by the power of our minds – they exist regardless of our acknowledgement. But our individual relationships to managing risks have a bearing on how we go on to interact with them. At the risk of shaming different approaches to dealing with Covid-19, it’s an interesting study in our different approaches to safety. From those who were furious about joggers continuing their exercise regime in public because they assessed the risk to be critical, to those who flat out denied that anything out of the ordinary was taking place and that the virus is ‘just a flu’, perception informs behaviour, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever before seen an example of this scale where our choices could so profoundly affect the lives of others.  

When I talk about psychological safety, I’m not just referring to the mental risk assessments we all regularly carry out, but they’re a crucial part of the picture. For me, psychological safety is about creating an environment where people feel emotionally safe enough* to allow themselves to be vulnerable and to be seen and heard as they truly are. The term appears in the therapy and coaching worlds because they are about self-reflection, making sense of things that have hurt us and allowing ourselves to be witnessed in a state of vulnerability. In order to feel safe enough to do this work, we need to be able to trust the person or people we’re sharing with. Our mental risk assessment might involve asking questions like ‘will they keep my story confidential?’, ‘do they have my best interests at heart?’ and ‘are they reliable?’ As someone who is trusted with the gift of other people’s stories, emotions and thoughts, I take the responsibility of building a safe enough environment for my clients very seriously. This influences the physical environments I work in, how I set up and contract at the beginning of a relationship with a client, how I organise my time in order to be consistently available and how I respond to clients in session. Occasionally, things go wrong in a client-coach relationship – with enough rapport, trust and safety built up, we can move past any misunderstandings and use them as a powerful learning process.  

This way of thinking has influenced how I am outside of my professional practice. I tend to be acutely aware of how psychologically safe a given situation feels, and will adjust my choices accordingly. I should also add that I am a naturally risk-averse person. Or perhaps it’s less ‘natural’ and more learned. I grew up in a family that had endured an unusual amount of tragedy by the time I came along. My life, health and safety were upheld as the most precious commodity – not to be squandered by doing dangerous things. Of course, there were times in my youth when I rebelled against this as hard as I possibly could. But the tendency to shy away from risk remains. It’s something I work to override when I perceive a risk to be worth taking.  

And so, as we cautiously creep out of our homes after three months of relative isolation, my risk assessment process threatens to go into overdrive. While large gatherings are not yet permitted in London, there will soon come a time when I need to use the city’s notoriously busy public transport system. The question of trust appears in this context as I consider whether those running services will prepare adequately to manage risks, whether I can trust my fellow commuters to take necessary precautions and whether the ‘powers that be’ are offering sensible guidance (I’ll let you guess my take on that last question). And hopefully, before too long, it will be safe to congregate in larger groups again. I imagine that, in our first forays into a wider social life, many of us will experience feelings of elation, relief and a new appreciation for experiences we may have previously taken for granted. But I also expect there to be anxiety and awkwardness for those of us who tend towards a more cautious relationship with risk. How can we reach a place where we feel able to trust not only the people closest to us, but the people we share cultural and physical space with? How do we build psychological safety on a grander scale? This question feels especially pertinent in the current climate of oppression being brought fully into the light, civil unrest and resistance. And it’s one that I do not claim to have an answer to, but we can start with a moment of self-reflection. We can ask ourselves questions like ‘what makes me feel safe and why?’, ‘how do I react when I feel threatened?’ and ‘how do I react when my view of the world is challenged?’. An honest examination of these questions may yield some hard truths. It can be helpful to discuss these with someone we feel psychologically safe with. I believe that getting to know what makes us feel safe and why we feel, think and act the way we do is at least the first step towards collective safety and from there, on to healing the deep rifts in our societies. 

*I refer to ‘safe enough’ or ‘safer spaces’, rather than ‘safe spaces’ because we can only take steps that contribute to another person’s sense of safety. We can’t create it for them. If someone has a deep internal sense of being unsafe due to trauma, we can mitigate by building enough trust and a secure enough environment for them to begin working on this. It’s neither transparent, nor realistic to claim that “you will feel safe here”. 

"Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes"

 So much of my work is about voice, from singing and performing, to having the confidence to speak up for self and others, and speaking your truth to power. This is a moment in time when the power of collective voice is being felt around the world. 

It has been a momentous and traumatic few weeks. At a time when so many people continue to deal with the effects of a pandemic, it seems that each passing hour now brings news of more racism, police brutality and denial of human rights. These are by no means new issues, but we are living through a historic moment of heightening tension and resistance that I hope will be the catalyst for lasting change. 

I hold the privilege of living a life free from fear of racist violence, abuse and discrimination. I am acutely aware of how the pain and anger I experience as I watch from a distance is a fraction of what I’d be feeling if the violence and oppression being brought sharply into focus was being aimed at ‘people like me’. I can choose to switch off, step back and spend time considering how to be a good ally. When there are structures in place that have systematically oppressed a group that you are part of, switching off may not seem like a possibility.  

Being in some version of lockdown at a significant political moment like this gives those of us with white privilege the gift of time to learn, think, support and recharge. The ‘recharge’ element of supporting social change is important because we are in this for the long haul. There will be backlash. There will be steps forward and back. It will require courage to keep pressing forward, raising our voices and demanding change. It will take an enormous amount of energy, though the more we share the load, the less draining it stands to be. Those of us who are not directly affected by a particular form of inequality can help by taking some of the load of challenging, sharing/amplifying and putting pressure on those in power, in order to let the people who are directly dealing with this trauma rest. I feel it’s crucial that we don’t turn away from the discomfort... even though growing can really hurt and so much of what we’re seeing is horrific to watch, it must be acknowledged. But to keep that stamina up and look after our mental health, we all need to take time to recharge. We all deserve support and good health. And the struggle needs us to be in good health and good voice. For me, recharging means taking breaks from social media, news, protests and petitions to do things that energise or soothe me - from singing or breathing to taking baths and watching escapist series. It also means connecting with like-minded people, in order to feel sane, seen and heard. It involves being gentle with myself if I’ve ‘got it wrong’, while still committing to do better.

I’d also like to acknowledge that it’s Pride month. The struggles against racism and homophobia/biphobia/transphobia are inextricably linked. In the U.K, transgender people are facing very vocal discrimination, and their existence is being denied by those with positions of huge power. Again, I have privilege here as a cisgender, queer woman. I believe it was a cynical move for JK Rowling to take space away from the demands for an end to oppression by speaking out against another marginalised group (many of whom are doubly discriminated against due to ethnicity and trans identity). Much of my work over the years has been about supporting transgender young people to feel accepted, able to speak up and be seen. These are basic human needs and I will stand up against anything that threatens them in any way I can.  

I am aware of how many words I have used here – partly as a way to process my own feelings and partly because there is so much to discuss. I want to avoid taking any more space away from people whose voices need to be amplified louder than mine. In the end, it comes down to a plea for us to educate ourselves, be courageous enough to speak out against injustice even if our voices shake, and to stay safe and well.  

Resources and ways to support:  

Ways to support BLM https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/ 

Ways to support BLM UK https://blmuk.carrd.co/ 

Free therapy for Black people https://www.blackmindsmatteruk.com/ 

Opinion piece on black trans rights https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/when-black-lives-matter-black-trans-people-must-be-freed-ncna1228316 

Round up of BLM reading, resources & Black owned businesses https://thefword.org.uk/2020/06/the-f-words-suggested-list-of-blm-reading-and-resources/ 

Charity for trans children & young people https://mermaidsuk.org.uk/ 

LGBT campaigning charity https://www.stonewall.org.uk/

Collective Psyche, Myth and Ritual

(Content warning: suicide, Holocaust) 

It’s a well-rehearsed argument that humans are hard wired for connection. Ultimately, we are pack animals who historically relied upon safety in numbers. Much has been made already of the possible mental and emotional impacts of existing in a state of relative social isolation during this pandemic. And while it can sometimes be weird, frustrating and exhausting to engage in a barrage of video calls and online chats, those of us who have the luxury of being able to do so may manage to stave off the worst effects of being locked down away from our social networks. As well as being pack animals, we’re meaning-making beings, and when things don’t make sense, it impacts us. So, what sense can we collectively make of who we feel we are in the midst of a crisis? 

 I’ve alluded before to the collectivism that there can be in a global situation like Covid-19, even in our separateness and our different levels of comfort and privilege. Around the UK, there have been acts of kindness and solidarity springing up to replace (for now) the old norms of politely ignoring each other. Rainbows on windows and ‘low skilled workers’ becoming ‘key workers’: symbols and narratives agreed upon collectively. Throughout human history, stories around the campfire, told to warn of the consequences of actions, to create and stay connected to a shared identity and to honour ancestors, grew into religion and ideology. Our unique human ability to think conceptually helped us to collectively imagine – to strengthen our safety in numbers by imagining stories, symbols, tribal identities and rules. This would establish an insider/outsider structure – once myths, symbols and rules were in place, there were consequences for stepping outside of them. Being ousted from your group would, at one time, have meant certain death – this is not necessarily true in the modern world, though the deaths of those who have taken their own lives after being shamed on social media platforms might suggest otherwise.  

We have come a long way in material terms since all our stories were told around campfires (I’m still very partial to a campfire story). And yet, we still participate in collective meaning making as we yell into a curated online bubble and pin our colours to the mast, be they rainbow flag, Union Jack, stars and stripes, Saltire, anarchy symbol... I shout loudly about the causes I care about, and while I do my best to build bridges and find our common humanity, I admit that it’s tough at times. Especially when those I disagree with appear to be invested in stripping people unlike themselves of their rights and their humanity. I’m sure they feel the same way about me. Each of us has decided that the other is on the wrong side of the tribal rules. 

What scares me right now is the use of myths, symbols and stories intended to create a collective narrative for the personal gain of those who are promoting them. This is propaganda. The Nazis used an incredibly slick, powerful campaign of oratory and visuals to convince the poor and disillusioned that putting and keeping them in power, and scapegoating Jews (along with Romany people, LGBT people and other groups) would be in their best interests. Referencing the Holocaust as a warning about sleepwalking into dangerous political action is nothing new. Yet, the VE Day celebrations that took place recently on the streets of England didn’t speak to me of quietly contemplating how the world became so broken that millions of lives were lost to a fight against fascism, or of considering how we can make the ‘never again’ story a reality. Instead, it spoke to me of a need for togetherness, shared identity and hope gone wrong. An attempt to celebrate the myth of a nation, built on empire, priding itself on stoicism, stiff upper lip and standing up to the ‘bad guys’. But when we break out the bunting to celebrate those purported shared values and do the conga while thousands die alone, and carers are sent into perilous situations, I feel we may have lost sight of this national concern for social justice and speaking truth to power, if indeed we ever had it.  

What I take from all of this is that it is time to start creating new narratives. These stories need not be dictated by those who have power and guard it jealously. This requires some form of coming together to ask what kind of society we want to be. What are the needs of our collective psyche? When it comes down to it, we all need the same fundamentals. Belonging is a significant part of that picture, though belonging that exists at the expense of the rights of an ‘other’ cannot be healthy for the psyche of either the ‘in’ our ‘out’ group. We all need those bottom lines of food and shelter, safety and security (a la Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs). Needing to protect our own resources can lead us to believe that the existence and behaviour of others is a threat to our safety, especially in times of scarcity. I suppose that’s the next building block for ‘othering’ and drawing lines in the sand. But assuming that there’s enough food, shelter and security to go round (which there is, it’s just that some people have a lot more of it than others), our next needs in line are social. Some of the powerful people who would have us believe that a national myth of heroic stoicism is more important than our common humanity or safety seem to be abundant in resources and pretty starved of real love and belonging. So, while they may (rightly or wrongly) have been given the job of steering this ship through a storm and ensuring our survival, I hope that we don’t also let them steer us into believing jingoistic national myths. Or, if I’m now dealing in lost causes, that the rest of us will find our collective voice and use it powerfully.

I’m curious about what rituals may be created and what will endure beyond this crisis. I’ve spoken with people a lot recently about the importance of ritual, be it the first coffee of the morning, the lighting of commemorative candles, the lunch time jog, daily meditation or coming together with friends (virtually or otherwise) to connect and blow off some steam. The rituals we choose both demonstrate and shape the stories we tell ourselves. They say things like ‘it’s important to remember those gone before us’, ‘mental and physical health are important’ or ‘in this time of chaos, there are some things I can predict and control, and that makes me feel safe’. For me, intention is important here. It doesn’t really matter whether the ritual is a prayer or a double shot espresso – it’s the meaning that we ascribe to it that gives it significance. So, if we’re up for the challenge of creating new shared stories and rituals, how might that look? Could the VE Day conga lines be replaced with action that really stands up for the little guy? Don’t get me wrong, one of my favourite things is coming together with people to celebrate – to dance up a storm, to sing together, to let go, be silly and be human. This is a bit like my annual pilgrimage and I’m missing this summer’s cancelled festival season already. But much like the importance of the meaning we ascribe to rituals, context is key too. Coming together in defiance of something scary and unjust is a remarkable human trait... though a virus isn’t to be stood up to as if it were some kind of terrorist, so in this case, best to stay at home. It’s hard not to be able to gather in the way we’ve evolved to, but it will happen again before too long. I look forward to being able to come together to connect, analyse, plan and celebrate. In the meantime, we’ve been offered a chance to reflect on who and how we collectively want to be.  

For support around self-care and building helpful rituals during a chaotic time, contact me. If you’re experiencing mental health crisis, contact The Samaritans or your GP. 

Celebrating Neurodiversity

Being diagnosed with ADHD well into adulthood is a fascinating experience and one I’m glad I had. My understanding of what ADHD is has changed a lot over the years. I was vaguely aware of the concept during my school career - it was something ‘naughty boys’ had and manifested in an inability to sit still, disruptive behaviour in class and bad grades. This didn’t apply very neatly to me, so it didn’t occur to anyone as a possibility, as far as I’m aware. I was easily distracted and chatty (a word I’m sure was used exclusively to describe girls), but not ‘badly behaved’. I was brilliant when I put my mind to it, if I do say so myself! The issue seemed to be whether or not I wanted to put my mind to it. I did well at school and university, except in anything too mathematical, but I learned to do well by the seat of my pants. To use creativity and caffeine to pull me through year after year of slightly left-field essays finished at 4am. To sound like I’d read a book after skimming through it on the bus. I eventually learned better study skills and time management capabilities but it was an adrenaline-filled journey getting to the stage of ‘reasonably sensible adult’. 

During my MSc, my main area of study looked at how young people educated outside of mainstream school due to ‘social, emotional and behavioural difficulties’ self-identified. More specifically, how young men and young women* internalised different messages about their struggles. Most of these young people had ADHD. Safe to say, at this point I had no idea how close to home my studies were. I was then of the belief that ADHD diagnostic criteria were far too blunt an instrument, that it was over-diagnosed and that we were pathologising children for not fitting into an education system that was not designed to meet all learners’ needs.  I still believe there’s some truth in that last point, but learning more about ADHD as a neurological difference in the years leading up to my diagnosis made my views on the rest a little more nuanced. 

It feels more positive, here in 2020, to be discussing Neurodiversity as a term to describe, for example, ADHD, Autism Spectrum Disorders and Dyslexia. The word is celebratory, with ‘diversity’ seen as something to be achieved and delighted in. An acknowledgement of all the different ways that brains can work and that this contributes to the many different skills and traits that make up a well-rounded society. Of course, they are still described as ‘disorders’ and still, in many cases require treatment, be it medical or psycho-educational. I’ve been reframing the language of ‘disorder’ for myself by looking at some of the traits and tendencies that can present challenges, and how they so often seem to have a ‘mirror’ trait that is an advantage (like the struggle to think clearly through a task in ordered steps, vs. the creative thinking that gave me the edge in those 4am essays). Still, a society that, just like the school system I remember, is not designed with Neurodiversity in mind can be an exhausting place to navigate.

I have found that body work, be it singing and humming, breath work, yoga or more active forms of meditation are hugely helpful in terms of bringing me back to focus and clearing my busy head. I’d previously put times when I was especially distractable, fidgety or struggling to regulate my emotions down to other causes - did I have anxiety? Was this unprocessed trauma? This is by no means black and white - having a diagnosis doesn’t mean that every road leads back to ADHD. And while it’s true that feeling anxious, stressed, over-tired or otherwise ‘out of whack’ is likely to exacerbate symptoms, I hadn’t realised that there was an underlying cause. But even before I knew the terminology or the layperson neurobiology, I knew what resources worked well for me. Although at first, I struggled to settle into a routine with using them, the more I did it, the more progress I saw. Training as a practitioner gave me even more opportunities to sing, breathe and get in touch with my body. This time of crisis that we’re living through really intensifies the challenges we already face, meaning that it’s more important than ever to stay on top of self-care and connect with our bodies, as well as to stay out of shame when we have a less ‘functional’ day.

A relatively high percentage of the people I’ve worked with over the years have been Neurodiverse in some way. This, along with my own experience, has led me to get really interested in finding out what links and overlapping traits might exist between, for example, ADHD, trauma and attachment (watch this space!). Academic interest aside, it’s been a privilege to be on this adventure together - using my skills and clients’ expertise in their own lives combined to figure out what works best for each amazingly unique person.

*I was quite unaware of the concept of non-binary gender identities at this point! 

Beyond the silver linings

It’s almost four months into the Covid-19 crisis and, in the UK, we’re four weeks into lockdown. At this point, I feel things edging past the initial stages of fear, moments of optimism and finding creative and comforting ways to amuse ourselves and nest. A month of lockdown means that a ‘new normal’ is emerging, along with questions about what habits, rituals, skills and emotions will be carried into the post-pandemic world.

Having written previously about a need to find space for the hopes and fears, joys and despairs present in our current situation, I have now seen first-hand examples of all of these. Things that I will never forget because they were so bleak and impossibly sad, and things I won’t forget because they were perfect examples of how we’ve evolved to seek connection and cooperation, to create and adapt. I wonder how this will be preserved in both my own and our collective memory. What will stick? What will we look back on in disbelief? What will be filtered out for denying our established world view?

As we experience a collective trauma, I’m struck by the different ways that we all attempt to make sense of insane situations. This attempt is a go-to trauma response: ‘if I can just find the bigger meaning, I can move on’. In a world-changing event reminding us that we can’t escape from our biological nature, there isn’t always a neat box or an accessible ‘why’ to help us process the trauma. I stand by my determination for this crisis to lead to a collective re-think of how we want to organise society; and yet, this feels a bit glib in the face of the stark reality of the loss, grief, fear and isolation that is being experienced by so many right now. The best I can hope for in that regard is that our actions now are helpful to ourselves and others wherever possible, and that most of the big learning will come with hindsight and be turned into action. It’s been said so often already, but the old ‘business as usual’ is no longer a possibility, whether we’d like it to be or not.

So with all of this in mind, how do we start to look beyond our much needed silver linings, the day to day practice of building routine, finding distractions and creating ‘safe enough’ nests for ourselves? How do we go about healing from a collective trauma? 

Part of my vision in setting up Live and Breathe involves developing the tools to build communities that foster social justice and direct, wholehearted communication. No small feat, but a vision is about dreaming big! Somewhere to start towards this is normalising vulnerability. Covid-19, it is said, ‘does not discriminate’ and is here to remind us all that there by the grace of God/the universe/insert your ‘big picture’ belief here… go we. While it’s true that a virus does not care about  who you are, it does affect some communities disproportionately. That’s an important point for another day. But health inequality aside, a pandemic is certainly one of those rare situations that forces us to stare down our vulnerability and our mortality, regardless of how wealthy, healthy, hardworking or virtuous we may be on the surface. I can feel the ripples of a sea change creeping in, as formal emails suddenly contain opening gambits like  ‘I hope that you and your loved ones are safe and well’ and Zoom calls involving ‘hardened’ business folks start with a wellbeing check-in. This chipping away at the facade of stoicism and invulnerability is how we start to grow and I hope it persists. Permission and encouragement, when required, to start a work meeting with ‘I’m having a shitty day, I’m using my resources and I’ll be ok, but here’s what I need from you’. The courage to get in touch with that old friend you haven’t seen for years and were worried about contacting again in case it was awkward. Using our experiences of having to give up our routines and re-learn how to work, socialise and live to enable us to be honest about when we don’t know the answer to something. Vulnerability is something I have struggled with showing for years. And I’ve done years of work on getting comfortable with it, though there’s still so much room for growth. So here’s an intervention if ever I’ve seen one - a horrific situation that exposes our common humanity and demands our vulnerability and compassion. 

When we’re feeling too vulnerable and too exposed to go analysing a crisis or thinking about what we can do to help, our job is to breathe, self-soothe (I recommend putting together a go-to collection of soothing sensory items in advance - fluffy blanket, hot chocolate, favourite smells, music, whatever works for you) and to find connection and support, even if it’s ‘just’ remotely watching Netflix with someone who cares about you. And when that difficult moment passes, our job is to find ways to name and express our feelings. I hope that this brave new world is brave enough to let us all admit that sometimes we’re vulnerable.

Breathing through a pandemic

These are strange, scary, illuminating times. My voracious love of dystopian, post-apocalyptic literature, films and TV did not prepare me for the reality of living through a life and world changing crisis like Covid-19. Like so many of us, I find my days drastically altered and have time on my hands with which to worry, reach out, create, reflect and breathe.

It strikes me that it’s important to neither succumb to despair, nor to allow ‘toxic positivity’ to take hold - there is room for the hope and fear, the heaviness and excitement at new prospects, the boredom and creativity. Most of us will have unexpected time on our hands and in this brave new world of staying indoors, a need to find ways to occupy ourselves. The pressure to learn a new language, write a novel, redecorate your home, grow vegetables and record an album in your living room may be lurking in the background, and a testament to the creativity and adaptability of humans. I fully support all of these endeavours - taking time to slow down, create, express and make your environment safe and comfortable is something I often encourage for myself and my clients! However… it’s okay if none of these things happen in the end. It’s okay if all you achieve today is to inhale and exhale.

As a busy professional with ADHD, I’ve sometimes found it challenging to consistently practice what I preach by keeping a long standing, daily self-care routine going. Don’t get me wrong, I am skilled at using my resources when needed to get to a place of calm, ‘unblock’ emotions and connect to my creativity. And at times, I’m also skilled at making excuses for being too busy to slow down and consciously breathe each day. This tragic global situation has a few silver linings that call us to do things differently, both in terms of the small choices each of us makes and on a bigger, collective level. I am out of excuses to keep running so fast, and this reminds me that breathing and connecting with my body is the basis for being creative, keeping perspective and connecting with my most adult self.

Beyond that, I am encouraged and moved to see that aforementioned adaptable human nature kick in as we play, sing and share thoughts with each other via video call, find creative ways to help our neighbours from a six foot distance, get in touch with long lost friends and feel grateful for connections with our loved ones. I’m more aware of my privilege than ever - for many, lockdown in unsafe circumstances and poverty lead to potentially more serious danger than the virus itself. There are some ways we can help indirectly if we are able to - by donating to projects working with the most vulnerable, by supporting small businesses, by looking out for each other and offering support. But this pandemic inescapably highlights a need for global change that gives people and planet a fighting chance of safety and wellbeing - for those fortunate enough to have time, space and capacity to breathe and reflect, there is an opportunity to focus on what we can do to contribute to a better post-pandemic world. We may be in this for a while though, so for now, inhale, exhale, slow down.

Finding my voice

This is a cliché like the ones you hear on those ubiquitous TV talent shows, but I can’t remember a time when singing wasn’t part of my life. Although for me, that’s not strictly true – while I’ve been singing since I was quite wee, there were a few years of  vocal wilderness around a decade ago. It started with a bad bout of bronchitis and progressed to surgery and vocal rehab. A combination of bad luck, stuck emotions and a lack of rest resulted in temporary disaster but would ultimately have a happy ending.

Singing and speaking are the main things I’ve always instinctively turned to in order to process my emotions and express who I am (not to mention how I made my money – supporting people mainly through talking). Being unable to really use these resources was both devastating and shame inducing. Who was I if not a singer and professional voice user, and what was I supposed to do with all these inconvenient feelings that had nowhere to go?

This is where I may get a little evangelical about the tools that helped me get back on track and that I now have a passion for sharing with others. The NHS took care of the physical aspect of repairing my vocal apparatus but I needed to address other factors and this is where I first encountered a psychological and body work approach to vocal coaching. At Noble House, I learned about vocal rehab, an understanding of trauma and conscious breath work. I knew it was the right place for me, and still my carefully crafted defence system fought this recovery process every step of the way… until it all started to fall into place. I made leaps and bounds as a singer and a human. I belted out impossibly cheesy songs in my bedroom until my flatmate and I had fits of emotional giggles about this new development. I talked about things I’d never talked about before and felt the improvements come thick and fast.

The obvious next step in this adventure was to start training as a practitioner. It’s been a long process and an eye opening one too. While this has been going on, I’ve continued with my job supporting young people through various challenges in their lives and later, managing a small team of wonderful people who do likewise. I’ve been, and continue to be involved in various bands and music projects. I believe that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been encouraged by a friend to sort out my vocal problems. For most of us, our voices are one of the most important aspects of our identity and ability to participate in communities, to stand up to injustice and to express our feelings. I may be a little biased under the circumstances but I’d say that taking care of this aspect of self and being aware of how closely it’s connected to our emotional world and our health is of vital importance.

‘Tell your truth, find your voice, sing your song’ (Anon).