Come and breathe with me this Thursday, 10th September, at 8pm BST. Breathwork built my capacity to stay with the hard things, and it's something I lean on whether life feels heavy or full or somewhere in between. It's a tool for intentional living, not just for the difficult days. Whether you've breathed before or you're completely new to this style, this is a gentle way to step in. There's nothing you need to prepare and nothing you need to have been through to be here. Just come as you are. We'll breathe together, and we'll stay with whatever surfaces, trusting that your body and breath know what they're doing. We'll have plenty of space afterwards to let everything settle. Time to come back slowly, to integrate, and to share whatever you need to, if you want to. Set aside a couple of hours so there's no need to rush. Bring somewhere comfortable to lie down, and a cuppa. Join here: https://us06web.zoom.us/meeting/register/nmWqpZQcSEazRjTHWCrenA Can't wait to breathe with you x

Last week I posted on Instagram questioning what if all of this is happening for our greatest good? Everything is happening for us not to us This week my family sits on the periphery of a deep grief portal. Not directly involved, but close enough to see the devastation of death. Again. And there is my belief, slapping me in the face. How can this be for our greatest good? How is this working for us ? I believe life is a spiral. We return to the same points, the same beliefs, again and again, each time from a different place, a different angle. That’s what I feel happening here. I’ve been to this belief before. I’m back at it now, but standing somewhere new, seeing it from a side I couldn’t have seen last time. And the question is can I come back to it without an agenda. Not gripping it to make it true, not needing it to hold so that I can feel okay. Just asking, honestly, does this still hold for me? And it isn’t only that one belief. It’s all of them. That everything is happening for us, not to us. That we are infinite souls, all of what I've come to understand from my experience with Honey. I believe all of it. And still, some of these beliefs sit easy in me, while others ask more of me in moments like this. I don’t have the answer today, and I’m not sure I’m meant to. But alongside the questioning there has been guidance. Signs. Synchronicity. A sense that my understanding is deepening, even here. I am consciously intending to stay present with the devastation I am witnessing, the ache I feel for them, and still hold that everything is happening for us. Both live in me at once. The ache doesn’t cancel the belief. The belief doesn’t numb the ache. I feel this is the work for me. Not choosing between them, but letting both be true. I’m not resolving it. I’m not making it make sense. I’m holding it gently, consciously with curiosity and intention. Humbled, still questioning, and more sure than ever that this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

I've been sitting with something, and I wanted to think out loud with you. When people meet how I live with Honey's death, not devastated, not "over it," but genuinely alight when I talk about my daughter, it seems to land in different ways on the surface. For some, it feels brand new. Like they've never heard anyone talk about death this way, and a door opens they didn't know was there. And for some, something goes quiet and still. Not shock. More like recognition. Like a thing they always knew, that had somehow slipped out of reach. But here's what I've started to wonder. What if even the ones who think they're hearing it for the first time aren't, really? What if they're remembering too, and just haven't put that together yet? Because I don't think we get pulled toward things that are truly foreign to us. I think we get pulled toward what feels like home. And you're here. Something drew you to this space, to a room built around exactly this. Maybe that pull is the tell. Maybe it isn't new information at all. Maybe it's something old, waking up. And it would make sense that we'd have forgotten. Because we haven't always been this removed from death. Go back a century, not even that, and people died at home. Families washed them, sat with them, kept them close. The dead stayed part of the household, spoken to, remembered out loud, woven into ordinary life. And then, slowly, it was taken away. Handed to hospitals and back rooms and tidied out of sight, until in just a few generations we became strangers to the thing every generation before us lived alongside. So maybe the knowing didn't disappear. Maybe it just got buried. And maybe none of us are learning this for the first time so much as turning back toward something that was always there. I don't know for certain. I'm still wondering my way through it. But it's the question I keep coming back to. So I'd love to ask you. When you read that the connection doesn't end, what happened in your body? And why do you think you found your way here, to exactly this?

Honey I didn't know how loud silence could be until Honey wasn't there. No cries. No heartbeat. Just stillness stretching through every breath I took. There was peace too, strangely. A quiet presence. A companion. As if she had only come to open a door inside me, then slipped out quietly, without needing to say a word. Grief for a baby is a strange kind of grief. There are no years of memories to hold onto, no firsts, no stories, it's the future that doesn't come, the what-might-have-been. I would have loved to mother a daughter. And in some ways, I still do. Just not in the way most people can see. I mother her in the way I carry her presence. In the softness she left behind. In the way I speak her name. In the way I live more awake to the fragile, miraculous life in front of me. I mother her when I light a candle.When I tell her story.When I let her shape the way I love her brothers,and the way I meet the world with a little more tenderness. Honey changed everything. Now, when I look at my boys, I see walking miracles. Because they are. She gave me that sight, to see life more clearly, more tenderly, more fully. Since she came and went,my understanding of death has softened.I'm not afraid anymore.I've touched something infinite,a knowing that life doesn't end, it changes form.Our bond didn't end; it only changed shape. Grief changed me. She mothered me as much as I mothered her. And in the hollow she left behind, I found a steadier love, a wilder softness. A love that doesn't need to be seen to be real. A bond that doesn't end just because a heartbeat does. Honey didn't stay.But she gave me everything. If you feel called, tell us about your person - the one who died, or the one you're still carrying. Or simply what's brought you here. There's no right way to say it.

Thank you to those who came last night. What a beautiful and rich conversation we had. I've woken up this morning with so much gratitude for you all and your willingness to show up and be seen in your vulnerability ❤️‍🔥 Please feel free to share any of story or your miso mg s from last night here so we can carry on those conversations of that feel right for you. Sending you all so much love. Can't wait till the next time we get to be together 🙏🏼💘