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Liberation Therapies & Coaching, The Coach House, Brand Lane, Ludlow (2026)

26/03/2026

For all of you who are ‘of a certain age’.

We get called “the elderly,” as if that explains us.
It doesn’t, it’s not even close.

Because what that word misses is this: we are the last people who remember a world that has completely disappeared.

I was born in 1958.
Which means I remember.

Not in headlines - but in texture.

You might see the grey hair, the slower steps. Time does that. But if you listen-really listen… you’ll hear something else.
Not fading.
Not fragility.

It’s Memory that is Lived.

We didn’t just grow older.
We crossed worlds.

Childhood was simple, and it was enough.

Skipping ropes slapping pavement in a steady rhythm.
Holidays meant staying with Nana or your Aunties, not airports, not all-inclusive escapes, just familiar rooms and the comfort of being known.

Playing out till the light changed and someone shouted your name from a doorway.
Marbles, bikes, scuffed knees, and no one tracking your every move.

No screens.
No noise.
No constant interruption.

Just life - happening where you stood.

We learned people face to face. You knew tone, expression, silence. That certain look!

You learned how to be with others without hiding behind anything.

Then the world began to open up.

The music changed first.
The sixties rolled in and suddenly everything had a pulse - energy, rebellion, possibility. You didn’t stream it. You waited for it. Saved for it. Played the records and cassettes over and over until it became part of you.

School made you patient. You wrote things down. Looked things up. Took your time. You couldn’t rush knowledge- it had weight.

And love… love wasn’t instant either.
It unfolded. Slowly. Properly. Conversations that lasted, not messages that disappeared. You got to know someone in real time, not edited fragments.

And then, almost without noticing, we became the generation that straddled two completely different worlds.

We remember letters. Proper ones. Waiting days, sometimes weeks.
Phones that stayed in one place - and sometimes weren’t private.
Television programes that arrived at a certain time, not whenever you fancied.

And now?

Now we carry everything in our hands. Faces, voices, information, memories - instant.

We watched men walk on the moon from our living rooms. Then we watched computers arrive… and then shrink… and then quietly take over everything.

And through all of it - we adapted.

That’s the truth people don’t always see.

We didn’t resist change.
We absorbed it.
We kept up - while holding onto something solid underneath.

We grew up with different fears too. Illnesses that felt closer.
Uncertainty that didn’t come with constant updates or reassurance. You just… got on with it.
And somewhere along the way, that builds a kind of strength that doesn’t need announcing.

And still - some things never left us.

The taste of food that actually tasted of something.
A conversation that wasn’t rushed or half-held.
The quiet understanding of presence - real presence.

We’ve loved. Lost. Carried on.
We’ve watched people come and go, and we hold stories that no one else quite carries in the same way.

We are not relics.

We are the link.

Proof that the world can change beyond recognition… and something essential can still remain intact.

So yes - call us “elderly.”

We’ll smile.

Because we know this:

We remember before.
And there’s power in that.

We are not just ageing.
We are holding a version of the world that no longer exists.

And that makes us rare.
Quietly remarkable.
And impossible to replace.

I see you.

19/03/2026

For Sue… freedom awaits.

Perhaps the quietest tragedy of all is not that freedom is out of reach, but that it stands so close - like an open door we never quite notice, or a key resting patiently in our own pocket, while we continue to circle the same locked room.

Years can slip by this way. Not in dramatic collapse, but in repetition. The same thoughts rehearsed like well-worn lines. The same emotional weather returning with faithful predictability. We become inhabitants of a familiar landscape - one shaped not by possibility, but by pattern.

There is a kind of trance to it.

A soft, persistent spell of unworthiness hums beneath the surface, so constant we stop hearing it. It colours everything and we begin to measure ourselves against invisible scales, always somehow falling short. And so, without quite deciding to, we build a life around that assumption.
We edit our desires.
We shrink our reach.
We learn the contours of our own confinement so well that it begins to feel like home.

But what if…the cage is not locked… it is learned.

Bar by bar, it is constructed from self-judgment, from the tight grip of anxiety, from the restless sense that something is missing or wrong or not enough. Even dissatisfaction becomes familiar, like an old coat we no longer question wearing, no matter how heavy it feels.

And here is the paradox: what imprisons us is not force, but familiarity. Yes, read that again.

Because to step beyond it would mean entering unknown territory. It would mean loosening the identity we have so carefully, unconsciously maintained. It would mean risking the unsettling possibility that we were never as limited as we believed.

Freedom, then, is not a distant destination. It is a quiet invitation. A subtle shift. It is the moment you notice the pattern instead of stepping into it. It is the breath where you pause instead of obey. The gentle, radical act of questioning the voice that says, “this is just who I am.”

And perhaps that is where everything begins to change.

Not with a grand escape, but with the smallest turning of awareness - like a window unlatched in a long-closed room, letting in air that was always there, simply waiting.

So go and breathe the air. Expand your lungs dear friend. The key to the world is in your pocket.

I see you.

Art ~ Tatjana Awshew
A difficult choice

18/03/2026

This is from a dear friend of mine and it’s a must read for ALL women - whatever their age. Stay Safe! Please share. X

“I've noted some really reprehensible treatment of women by the Pick Up Community, as they manipulate hormones like cortisol, serotonin, dopamine and oxytocin to create romantic interest, and above all, sexual attraction. If people want to hook-up at an event, that's their own business. But some of my friends and students have been targeted by these slimeballs, and I want to arm women against them. That's why I put this document together: I hope it is useful for somebody.

Pickup Manipulation Red Flags Handout

Protecting Yourself From Pickup Manipulation

This guide helps you recognize common psychological tactics used by the pickup community. These tactics are designed to influence emotions quickly and create artificial attraction.

Key idea:
Healthy attraction grows slowly through comfort, respect, and consistency. Manipulation creates confusion, pressure, and emotional turbulence.

The 7 Red Flags of Pickup Manipulation

1. Confidence Underminer: A compliment wrapped in an insult. Examples: You are pretty confident for someone like you. You would be really attractive if you dressed better.
Purpose: Lower your confidence so you seek his approval.
What to do: Do not engage with the insult. You do not need to prove yourself to anyone

Emotional Rollercoaster: Strong interest followed by sudden withdrawal.
Examples: Warm and flirty, then cold or dismissive.Interested one minute, distant the next.
Purpose: Create emotional uncertainty so you chase validation. What to do: Value consistency. If it feels unstable, step back

Instant Intimacy: Pushing closeness very quickly.
Examples: I feel like I have known you forever!
Sharing deep personal stories right away. Intense eye contact
to force connection.
Purpose: Trigger bonding feelings before trust exists.
What to do: Slow things down. Real intimacy takes time

Early Physical Escalation:
Touch increases quickly early on. Examples: Touching your arm or shoulder. Guiding you by the back. Long hugs or hand holding right away.
Purpose: Normalize touch and lower resistance.
What to do" Set boundaries immediately if it feels off. Step back or say no

Manufactured Jealousy: Showing that other women want him. Examples: Flirting with others in front of you. Talking about how many women are interested in him. Showing off attention from others.
Purpose: Create competition so you value him more.
What to do: Do not compete. Genuine interest does not require a performance

Fantasy Future. Talking about a shared future very early. Examples: We should travel together. You would love my place at the lake. You and I would be dangerous together!
Purpose: Create emotional bonding through imagination.
What to do: Treat early future talk as entertainment, not reality

Isolation From Your Support System: Trying to separate you from friends early.
Examples: Let us go somewhere quieter... Come outside with me for a minute... Let us leave your friends and go somewhere else...
Purpose: Reduce your support and increase influence.
What to do: Stay with your group unless you choose otherwise.

Simple Rule: If someone creates confusion, pressure, or emotional turbulence quickly, slow the interaction down. Healthy connections feel calm, respectful, and clear.

Three Questions That Break Manipulation

These questions shift control back to you and expose unclear or manipulative behavior.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"
Use when you receive a backhanded compliment or unclear comment. It forces clarity and removes the hidden jab

"Why would you say that to someone you just met?"
This brings the behavior into the open and makes manipulation uncomfortable to continue

"Are you trying to impress me or get to know me?" This resets the interaction and puts responsibility for honesty back on him

Final Reminder: Manipulation depends on speed and confusion. Confidence comes from slowing things down, asking clear questions, and trusting your instincts. You are never obligated to continue an interaction that feels uncomfortable. Respectful people respect boundaries.”

15/03/2026

Mother’s Day is not one simple story.

It is not only flowers on the table
or breakfast trays or small sticky hands holding handmade cards.

Mothering is larger than that.
Older than that.
Wilder than that.

Today is for the women who carried children and the women who carried love in other ways.

For the mothers whose arms are full,
and the mothers whose arms ache with absence.

For the women who quietly wait today,
glancing at the phone or the letterbox
hoping for a card, a message,
a small remembering…

For those who longed to be mothers and those who tried…
and tried
and tried again.

For the women who mother friends,
communities, animals, gardens,
ideas, and fragile hopes.

For those who have lost their mothers
and just like me, feel the quiet echo of that space today.

For those whose mothers were complicated, distant, or never quite able to give what was needed.

For the grandmothers, stepmothers, foster mothers, aunties, sisters, teachers,and the steady women who appeared at exactly the right moment.

Mothering is not only biology.

It is the ancient art of holding space
for life to grow.

It is patience.
It is fierce protection.
It is showing up again and again with tenderness in your hands.

So today we honour all the quiet ways love is given.

Seen or unseen.
Named or unnamed.

Because the world has always been held together by those who mother it.

“Happy Mother’s Day”
to every heart that has ever nurtured life.

And if today feels tender for you in any way, may you be held with the same gentleness you have given to others.

If this speaks to you today,
hold it close…
or share it with someone who might need it.

I see you . 🌿

04/03/2026

I once came across a line that whispered something simple and freeing:

“You can be the richest shade of amber… and still not be enough for someone whose favourite colour is silver.”

And it lingered with me.

Because so often we mistake incompatibility for inadequacy.

You can glow warmly.
You can love with your whole ribcage.
You can stretch, soften, offer more, try harder… and still not be what someone is searching for.

Not because you are lacking.

But because they are tuned to a different frequency.
A different palette.
A different light.

And that does not make you any less extraordinary.

Please, stop trying to polish yourself into chrome when you are made of firelight.
Stop muting your warmth.
Stop editing your edges just to be selected.

You do not need to become silver to be worthy of love.

Somewhere, someone is longing for amber.
For depth and warmth.
For exactly the tone you carry without effort.

And when they find you, there will be no negotiation.
No subtle reshaping.
No quiet shrinking.

Just a gentle recognition - “There you are.”

If this settles somewhere in your chest, perhaps it’s time…

Time to stop folding yourself into spaces that were never built for your brilliance.

You are not too much.

You are simply not meant for every room.

And that is not rejection.

It is redirection.

I see you.

Art ~ Indra Laura Lazdina
Amber’s Sea

12/02/2026

For Camilla.

There are some griefs that arrive like storms.

And others that sit quietly in the cupboard… just waiting.

When parents die and after the paperwork, the phone calls and the strange administrative business of death, there was the other job - the one nobody really prepares you for.

Emptying the house.

Not just furniture and photographs, but the ordinary, domestic archaeology of a life. Half-used bottles of washing up liquid, spare loo rolls, cleaning spray under the sink, a bag of clothes pegs, three different kinds of lightbulb no one uses anymore…

And a giant bag of Yorkshire Tea.

I remember, I brought the practical things home with me. It felt wasteful not to. Sensible, respectful even. As if Dad was still, in some small way, provisioning me.

For months, without really noticing, I had been making tea with teabags my dad bought.

Then one morning I reached into the bag.

And there was only one left and that hollow crinkle of empty packaging.

And I stood there, absurdly, in my kitchen, holding a bag of air, and burst into tears.

Because it wasn’t about tea.

It was about the fact that this was the last thing of his.
The last ordinary thing he chose in a supermarket aisle.
The last small, unconscious act of care that had quietly stretched forward into my life.

Grief is a peculiar creature.

It doesn’t always come when you expect it. It slips in through the back door, disguised as something mundane. A teaspoon. A supermarket brand. The end of a box.

And yet, as I made that final cup, there was something else there too.

Comfort.

Because for a moment, the kettle boiled in the same rhythm it always had. The teabag sank in the same way. The smell was the same. And I was, in some strange, tender way, sharing a cup of tea with my dad.

Not in memory.

In continuity.

And perhaps this is how love lingers.

Not in grand gestures or dramatic anniversaries, but in the quiet disappearance of the last teabag, the last sq**rt of washing liquid, the last worn towel that finally gives up.

The things we don’t notice are keeping us company.

Until they’re gone.

I see you.

Art ~ Julia Abele

10/02/2026

Inspired by my friend Lil whose husband, Dave Myers died nearly two years ago.

It always comes down to the little squares.

Those polite, well-behaved boxes lined up on a form like gravestones in a neat row, asking you to choose where to bury your truth.

Each one no bigger than a fingernail, yet somehow heavy enough to carry the weight of your whole life.

And there you are, pen hovering, as if this is a moral decision rather than an administrative one.

On paper, you are alone.

In your chest, you are still in conversation.

You are still saying “we.”
Still turning to tell a story.
Still mentally setting aside a comment for later.
Still living in a house where the echo hasn’t quite caught up with the silence.

The form doesn’t know about any of that.

The form wants clarity.
The heart offers continuity.

You scan the options like a traveller looking for a destination that doesn’t exist on the map.

Married - well, that feels like a lie.
Single - oh no, that feels like betrayal.
Widowed - that feels like a door slamming shut in a room you still sit in every day.

None of the boxes say:
My person has gone, but my belonging hasn’t.
The body has left, but the bond hasn’t.
I am still devoted to a conversation that no longer has replies.

But the form doesn’t care about nuance.
The form wants a tick.

So you make it.

Not because it fits.
Not because it’s true.
But because there isn’t a square for the reality you live in…

… where love is still present, and only the person is absent.

I see you.

Art ~ Jacobien De Korte

09/02/2026

When I was about twelve, I was sitting at the table with my mum, watching her count pound notes into little piles. The cash to pay the bills for the month ahead.

She spread them out between us like cards in a game I didn’t yet understand.

“Look at that,” she said. “That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”

It looked like abundance.
Like more than anyone could ever need.

Then she said something that quietly slipped past my ears and lodged itself somewhere much deeper.

“Imagine each of those notes is a year of your life. Does that look like a long time?”

I remember looking again.

And feeling the picture change.

What had looked like plenty suddenly looked… fragile.
Finite.
Spendable.

Then she gently removed some of the notes.

“Most people don’t get all of these,” she said. “So we’ll take a few away.”

The space on the table grew.

The pile grew smaller.

“And some people get even fewer. So you have to think about what you’re going to spend yours on.”

I didn’t fully understand.

But something deep inside me did.

Life, I realised, is not a long road stretching endlessly ahead.

It is a small stack of notes on a kitchen table.

And whether you notice or not,
you are spending them.

Adults are not old.
They have simply used more of theirs.

Time is not something you have.
It is something you are quietly exchanging, moment by moment, for the life you are living.

That image has never left me.

Years and years laid out in front of me.
A diminishing pile.
A growing space.

Not in a way that feels urgent or panicked, but in a way that feels clear.

These days matter.

This day matters.

Because you are always, always,
buying your life with the notes you’ve been given.

I see you.

Art ~ Antoine Quairiat

09/01/2026

It popped up without warning.

A small square on my phone, wrapped in Facebook blue, labelled “a memory.”
My dad. Smiling. Alive. There he was, in the middle of Christmas, when the world was already soft and thin-skinned.

It stopped me dead.

For a moment I couldn’t breathe properly - as if time had folded in on itself and I’d stepped into a crack between then and now. The room around me faded. The noise. The plans. The busyness of being fine.

And suddenly I wasn’t.

I felt him before I thought about him.
The sound of his voice.
The particular way his presence filled a space.
The safety of being someone’s daughter.

Grief is like that.
It doesn’t knock.
It doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just arrives - quietly, efficiently- disguised as a memory notification.

What surprised me most wasn’t just the ache.
It was the guilt.

A strange, sneaky guilt that whispered “How can you be enjoying your life when he isn’t here to see it?”
As if joy were a betrayal.
As if laughter needed permission.
As if loving life now somehow meant loving him less.

But that’s not true, is it?

Missing someone doesn’t mean you stop living.
And living fully doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten.

Love doesn’t disappear when someone dies - it just changes form.
Sometimes it shows up as a lump in the throat.
Sometimes as a tear that arrives out of nowhere.
And sometimes as a Facebook memory that reminds you how deeply you were - and still are - loved.

I put the phone down eventually.
Carried on with my day.
But I carried him with me too.

Because missing him means he mattered.
And enjoying my life now… perhaps that’s part of what he would have wanted all along.

I see you.

Photo ~ My Dad. December 2015

06/01/2026

For those who need this today.

Nobody really talks about the quiet kind of survival.
Not the dramatic rescues or the moments that make good stories.
But the long, ordinary nights where nothing happens - and yet everything does.

The nights with no crisis to name, no voice on the other end of the phone, no one arriving to save you from yourself.
Just you and the ceiling.
Just you and the steady, stubborn thud of your own thoughts.

You lie there counting breaths like they’re stepping stones, trying to slow the racing, trying not to tip into the dark places you know too well.

You don’t fall apart loudly.

You don’t reach out.

You don’t even cry, sometimes.

You endure.
Silently.
Patiently.
Like someone holding a door shut against a storm no one else can see.

And when morning comes - as it always does - you get up.

You make the tea.

You answer the messages.

You show up.

You wear the familiar face that tells the world you’re fine, or at least functioning.

No one sees what it cost you to be there.
No one marks the hours you spent holding yourself together in the dark.
There’s no applause for surviving something invisible.
No medal for getting through a night that nearly swallowed you whole.

And yet …that kind of survival matters.

The unseen, unspoken, uncelebrated kind.
The kind that asks everything of you and offers no witnesses in return.

It takes a depth of strength most people will never have to find.
And if you’re living that life - if you’re surviving quietly - please know this:

What you’re doing is not small.
It is not weak.
It is not nothing.

It is courage, practiced in the dark.

I see you.

Art ~ Silent Struggle
Emmanuel Ojebola

20/12/2025

“Are you ready for Christmas?”

It’s a question that arrives every December like a subtle demand.

Ready… for what exactly?

I’m a Christian, yes.
But somewhere along the way I stepped off the conveyor belt of frantic buying, plastic cheer and spending for the sake of spending. The noise of it all began to drown out the meaning.

That doesn’t mean I’ve always felt this way.

When the children were young, I loved Christmas.
I loved the gentle chaos of it - wrapping presents late into the night, the rustle of paper and secret smiles. Stockings hung with care. Trees chosen, decorated, admired. Lights twinkling. The house warm with anticipation.

It was a season of giving then, in the most literal and tender way.
And it mattered.
It was right for that time.

But seasons change.
And wisdom, I think, is knowing when to change with them.

I don’t put up a tree anymore.
Not because I’ve lost my love for Christmas but because I’ve learned to listen to my nervous system.

I know that the taking down leaves me tight-chested and overwhelmed. And I no longer force myself to do things that bring more stress than meaning.

Our children are grown now.
Scattered across the UK, living their own lives, creating their own traditions. Just as it should be.

They don’t need things from us - and truthfully, they wouldn’t want the weight of them either.

My husband and I don’t need anything.
We have no grandchildren.
What we have is enough.

We have friends of many faiths - and of none at all.
And what I notice is this: compassion, kindness, generosity and love are not owned by any one religion.

They show up wherever hearts are open.
Christmas, at its best, speaks a language that all of us can understand.

So for the past 17 years, we’ve chosen a different kind of gift.
Instead of presents, we donate to the homeless charity Crisis, in the name of our family.

This is our Christmas offering - to our children, and to each other. A quiet act of compassion that feels aligned with what Christmas asks of us.

On Christmas Day, you’ll find us with a flask of soup and a packet of sandwiches, heading out for a long hike… or down to the beach.
Our dog, Keava Pink, trotting ahead, nose to the wind, blissfully unaware of dates, deadlines or expectations.

In the evening, we hunker down with Keava Pink, our cats - Milo and this year we also have Little Mary. We prepare some ‘party food’ and watch the television.

No performance.
No pressure.
Just presence.

On Boxing Day, I cook our Christmas dinner.
Turkey crown.
All the trimmings.
Celebration without the rush.

No stress.
No hassle.
Just love.

Because Christ is not something to be unboxed in December and stored away with the decorations.
He is not seasonal.

To me - Christ is for every day of the year.

Wishing you all the very happiest of Christmases and thank you for following me.

I see you.

Photo ~ Little Mary, Milo and Keava Pink

07/12/2025

For my friend Gareth - stay strong!

Estrangement doesn’t usually happen overnight.
It is built quietly, in the spaces between words, in misunderstood moments, in things that were never spoken at all.

And when someone you once loved closely - a child, a parent, a sibling - suddenly feels distant or unrecognisable, the pain can cut deeper than words know how to hold.

But here is something that deserves to be said, gently:

People don’t pull away because you are unlovable.
They pull away because being close has begun to touch places inside them that feel too raw, too confusing, or too unresolved.

Sometimes your presence stirs guilt they don’t know how to face.
Sometimes your memory carries warmth that now feels like pressure.
Sometimes your love reminds them of a version of themselves they no longer recognise.

So they do the only thing that feels safe to them in that moment - they step back.

They go quiet.

They rewrite their own version of events so the distance feels justified.

Not because you are cruel.
Not because you are “too much.”
But because something inside them feels too much.

And perhaps the hardest part is this…
The mind will always choose emotional survival over emotional truth.

So if you sit with an empty chair at the table this year…
If you hold a phone that no longer rings…
If you carry love that has nowhere gentle to land…

Please remember:

You are not only the character in someone else’s painful story.
You are a whole, flawed, beautiful human, doing the best you can with the heart you were given.

Sometimes estrangement is not a final sentence.
It is a pause in understanding.
A space where healing has not yet found its language.

Be kind to the part of you that still loves them.
Be proud of the part of you that is learning to let go.

Both are acts of courage.

I see you.

Art ~ Kasia Derwinska
Let it go.

Liberation Therapies & Coaching

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