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https://liberationtherapiesandcoaching.co.uk/

Liberation Therapies & Coaching, The Coach House, Brand Lane, Ludlow (2025)

17/11/2025

Today I learned a gentle little word: “glimmer.”

It’s the soft opposite of a trigger -
not something that startles the nervous system, but something that soothes it.

A glimmer is a tiny spark of joy, a moment where your breath settles, your shoulders drop, and you feel - even briefly- anchored, grateful, alive.

What’s magical is this:
once you train your mind to look for glimmers, they begin to appear everywhere.

Small, almost secret at first, then multiplying like shy wildflowers
that realise the sun is finally warm enough to trust again.

My glimmers today…

A slow coffee out in a café with my husband - the kind of unhurried moment where the world feels gentle
and time loosens its grip.

Talking to my cousin, reconnecting after sixty years.
Sixty years!
And yet the conversation slipped easily into place, like a long-lost piece clicking back into the puzzle of my life.
A soft, unexpected miracle.

Watching my cats play in the winter sunshine, bathed in gold,
completely absorbed in the simple joy of light and movement.
Their ease always reminds me that contentment can be found in very small things.

Seeing the birds feasting at the seed feeder in the tree - tiny flurries of feathers, their trust in this little offering of food something tender to witness.

And finally…
a wonderful sunset that spilled across the sky, as if the day itself wanted to bow out with one last brushstroke of brilliance.

So many glimmers in a single day.

And somehow, noticing them makes the whole world feel a little softer around the edges.

Tell me - what were your ‘glimmers’ today?

Photo ~ the sunset from my garden in Northumberland U.K.

03/11/2025

For Shona

Loneliness is not the absence of people - it’s the absence of understanding. You can be surrounded by company and still feel unseen, unheard, untouched.

It isn’t empty rooms that ache; it’s the weight of unsaid things pressing quietly against your chest.

The stories you’ve swallowed.

The truths you’ve softened.

The parts of you that never quite make it into words.

Healing begins when you dare to give voice to what has long been silenced … when you let your truth find air, even if your voice trembles.

It’s the slow, tender work of allowing yourself to be known. Known, not as the version you’ve learned to perform, but as the person you have always been beneath it all.

Connection starts there: in the courage to speak what matters, and to trust that someone will meet you in that sacred space between words.

And in time, you realise loneliness was never a life sentence - it was only a signal.

A call to come home to yourself, to reach out from truth rather than fear, and to let the world see the quiet miracle of your honest becoming.

I see you.

Art ~ Warren Caplan
‘Work in Progress’

28/10/2025

When the body begins to whisper, then plead for clean air, for space,for the kind of silence that has weight and texture…
that’s when you know it’s time to listen.

You don’t make the decision all at once.
It arrives quietly in the ache that never quite goes away.

In the fog that coffee can’t lift.
In the heaviness that sits somewhere between your throat, lungs and heart.

Something deep inside begins to say, enough.

So you pack up the fragments of your old life.
The noise, the hurry, the endless doing that left no room for being.

And you drive north.

Past the places that stopped feeling like yours.
Past the lights that never dim.
Past the hum of other people’s urgency.

Until the land itself begins to breathe again.

Northumberland rises up to meet you.
A vast hush of hills, moor and stone, wind and wildness.

The sky opens.
The air feels like medicine.
The silence has a pulse.

Here, everything moves slower.
The sheep graze without hurry.
The rivers curve and meander like they’ve always known there’s time enough for everything.

And slowly, without you noticing,
you begin to match that rhythm.

Your breath deepens.

Your shoulders drop.

The noise inside your head grows quieter.

You start to hear what silence actually sounds like.
The wind, the distant cry of an owl, the heartbeat of a world that never needed your performance, only your presence.

Mornings arrive wrapped in mist and woodsmoke and the bleating of sheep.

Evenings stretch out, soft and golden,
until the first stars blink awake in the dark, deep sky.

And you realise.
You realise all the striving, all the chasing, was only ever leading you back here.

To this stillness.
To this simplicity.
To this moment of being fully, deeply alive.

They say we have two lives,
and the second begins when we realise we only have one.

But perhaps it truly begins the moment we stop running.
Turn our faces to the wind, and let the quiet find us.

I see you.

Photo ~ view from my garden.
Northumberland.

24/10/2025

Some battles don’t show.

No bruises, no bandages - just the weight of something unseen pressing on the spirit.

The world keeps spinning, people keep talking, and all the while, someone you pass in the street might be holding themselves together with nothing more than habit and hope.

Depression isn’t a mood or a passing sadness. It’s a quiet erosion from the inside out - the slow dimming of light, the loss of colour in things once loved. It can feel like trying to wade through fog, where every step takes effort and even the smallest task feels impossibly heavy. And yet, from the outside, everything can look perfectly fine.

The truth is, some of the brightest souls - the ones who make you laugh, who lift others up, who always seem so strong, are often the ones who’ve walked through the darkest landscapes alone.

They’ve learned how to smile through storms, to hide their trembling hands behind gestures of warmth. Their light isn’t born of ease; it’s forged in struggle.

A smile can be camouflage.
A laugh can be a plea.
A silence can be a scream that never found a voice.

So please tread gently.

The person beside you may be fighting battles you cannot see, remembering losses you know nothing about.

Be the presence that steadies, not the one that demands.

Be the friend who listens without fixing, the stranger who offers warmth without question.

Because sometimes, your quiet compassion, a kind word, an unhurried moment, a simple touch… might be the small mercy that gets someone through the day.

We never truly know the path others are walking.

So when in doubt, choose kindness.

Always, choose compassion.

I see you.

Art ~ J Douglas Dalrymple
Depression

14/10/2025

For my friend Rachel - after our long conversation yesterday.

“We don’t really think about it, do we?
That quiet, unbearable truth waiting in every love story, that one day, one of us will attend the other’s funeral.

One will have to say goodbye.

And when that day comes, the world won’t stop.

There’ll still be washing in the machine,
the smell of their shampoo in the air,
their coat hanging by the door like they might still come home.

The bed will be too big on one side,
and laughter - that beautiful, ordinary sound - will echo in the empty spaces until it fades.

Yet we live as though time owes us forever.

We postpone the hug.

We hold back the “I love you” because we’re cross or tired or proud.

We stay quiet when we should soften,
forgetting that silence can last a lifetime.

We always think there’ll be more time.

But one day there won’t be.

Not for both.

So while you still can - love.

Not half-heartedly, not when it’s convenient, but fully, fiercely, foolishly.

Hold each other like you mean it.

Say what you feel, even if your voice shakes.

Let pride take the night off.

Let ego stay outside with its shoes on the mat.

Because one day, one of you will be left holding the memories.
And the only thing that will ease the ache - the only thing that will make it bearable - is knowing you didn’t waste your chance.

That you loved… right to the bone.

I see you.”

Art ~ Peter Nottrott
Big Gold Heart

13/10/2025

This is for a client who is learning that silence can be its own kind of strength.
Sometimes the wisest thing you can do is stop defending yourself and simply let your peace speak for you.

When someone is committed to misunderstanding you, no amount of explaining will change the story in their mind - but your stillness will. 🧡

“The best decision you can make is to be quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from fear or defeat, but the quiet that grows from finally understanding where your energy no longer belongs.

Life has a way of showing you again and again - that no matter how carefully you explain yourself, some people will only ever hear what fits the story they’ve already written about you.

You can speak the truth a thousand times, pour your heart out until it’s empty, and still watch your words bounce off walls built from their own assumptions.

At some point, you realise that the truth doesn’t need defending - it just needs living.

Because there are people who are not searching for clarity, only confirmation.
There are those who cling to misunderstanding you because it justifies their version of events, their need to be right, their comfort in keeping you small.

And so, you stop trying to fix what was never yours to fix.

You stop rehearsing explanations in your mind, hoping one day they’ll finally see.

You stop handing your peace to people who have already proven they can’t hold it gently.

Silence becomes your boundary. Not as punishment, but as protection.

You realise that you don’t need to keep proving your worth through words, or reshaping yourself to fit into someone else’s limited perception.

Sometimes, silence says everything.
It says, “I’m done trying to make you understand.”
It says, “I know who I am now — and that’s enough.”

And there’s real power in that.

A quiet, grounded kind of strength that doesn’t shout, doesn’t plead, doesn’t need to win the argument.

It simply is.

I see you.”

Art ~ Jaume Munoz
Silence is always an option

12/10/2025

As I trace my family line, I realise I’ve become the last branch on my particular tree.

The memories, the stories, the laughter - they rest here now, in my hands.

It’s been twenty-seven years since Mum left, and six since Dad.
Long enough for the ache to soften,
for the sharp edges of grief to round into something gentler -
but still, their absence hums beneath everything.

Some mornings I wake with their names in my heart, as if no time has passed at all.

Now the last aunt has gone, and the last uncle too.
The voices of that generation have fallen quiet, and the family stories rest now in my hands.

I am the keeper of the memories.

As I trace the lines of our family tree,
each name I find becomes a heartbeat.
They are not just names to me -
they are laughter that once filled kitchens, hands that worked the soil,
hearts that hoped and broke and mended again.

When I find them, I say their names aloud.

I tell them they are not forgotten.

That someone, generations on, still remembers.

And yet, I am the last…

My children will not have children of their own, and so the line will close here - not in sorrow, but in completion.

A circle quietly drawn.

Perhaps that’s why I feel the pull so strongly now, to gather every thread before it slips away, to make sure each name is spoken, each life honoured,
each story given back to time.

Grief has become something else.
Not the wound it once was, but a root.
It grounds me in all that came before.

It reminds me that though the branches may end, the tree still stands.

Deep in memory, alive in love.

So I keep speaking their names into the quiet…
… one by one.

Because remembrance is a kind of continuation too.

And even if the line ends with me,
the love does not.

For those who speak the names of those who came before…
I see you.

Art ~ Renold Laurent
Ancestors

08/10/2025

For Jeff… you rock!

It takes real courage to let go.

Not the loud kind that charges ahead,
but the quiet kind that breathes deeply,
unclenches its fists, and whispers “enough.”

That first moment of release can feel brutal.
You might shake.
You might ache.
Every part of you might want to grab hold again to fix what’s broken, to rewind time just one more turn.

But the truth is, the tighter you grip,
the more life slips through your fingers.

Letting go doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.

Of course it did.

It shaped you, stretched you, maybe even broke you open in ways you never expected.

But when something has finished teaching you, it’s time to stop rereading the same page.

The past can be a comfortable kind of cage - familiar, predictable, safe in its sadness.
But when you stay there too long,
you start to forget who you are beyond it.

You start to live small.

When you turn your gaze back to now…
this breath…
this heartbeat…
this exact precious moment - something begins to shift.

The weight loosens.
The air moves differently.
You can breathe again.

Add a little forgiveness -not to excuse,
but to release.

Add a touch of trust - not blind faith,
but quiet knowing that life is still unfolding for you.

That’s when healing begins to take root.

No, it’s not easy.
Change rarely is.

It asks you to walk through the fog
with no guarantee of what’s waiting on the other side.

But beyond the ache and the unravelling
lies something freer - the life that’s been calling your name for a while now.

So if the story you’re living feels too heavy,
too tight,
too full of yesterday…

remember this:
you are not trapped in the old chapter.
You are the author.

Pick up the pen.
Begin again.

The next page is already waiting for you.

Art ~ Emilio Balvanera

03/10/2025

For dear Marnie.

There comes a point in healing when we whisper their names one last time.
Not to erase them, not to deny the love or the ache, but to release what was never ours to carry.

They had their own storms, their own weights and for too long you may have walked with their shadows on your back.

But the truth is those shadows are not yours.

Their burdens do not belong in your hands.

So today, you can imagine laying them down.

Offer each one a different gift:
a bow of respect,
a flame of gratitude,
a stone of anger thrown into the river,
a blessing for their journey into rest.

And then you let go.

You give them permission to sleep in the deep earth and you give yourself permission to live in the bright air.

Because their story ended with them.

And your story - your precious, unfolding, living story is still yours to write, with your own voice, your own steps, your own lightness.

I see you.

Art ~ Angelina Deminia
Flame

25/09/2025

The world shouts bad news at us from every corner… headlines, gossip, the endless scroll of worry.

Fear is sticky.

It grabs our attention, lowers our vibration, and whispers that danger is everywhere. When we dwell on it, we unconsciously begin to search for more of it… and like a magnet, we attract what we’re tuned into.

But gratitude tunes us differently.

It softens the noise, turns down the volume on fear, and opens us to the small, tender details that remind us life is still good. Gratitude lifts us up, and in that lighter state, we notice more to be thankful for.

It doesn’t have to be grand. In fact, the simpler, the better.

Each night, before you close your eyes, write down three things you’re grateful for.

Don’t think too hard.

Let them arrive like little gifts.

Today, do far, mine are:
- The joy of spending time with my animals, their presence grounding me.
- My lovely husband surprising me with a takeout coffee, still warm in my hands as I write this.
-The feel of damp grass beneath my bare feet, soft and alive as I hung out the clean fresh laundry on the line to dry in the sunshine.

Fear shrinks the world.

Gratitude expands it.

Tell me - which one do you want to carry into tomorrow?

Art ~ Yenny Yohan
Gratitude

24/09/2025

I’ve been sitting with this thought lately - perhaps we have it backwards when we imagine “purpose” as some grand, glittering destiny, a single, thunderclap achievement that leaves the world gasping in awe.

Maybe - just maybe - purpose lives in the quiet, unnoticed spaces. The moments so small we almost dismiss them.

The look that says I see you.
The hand that steadies another without fanfare.
The kindness so ordinary it dissolves into the air, until, years later, we realise it shaped us.

I can trace the contours of my own life through such moments.
A word spoken gently when my heart felt brittle.
A smile that arrived like sunlight through a crack in the curtains.
A time when someone listened with their whole attention, when their silence said, you matter enough for me to stop and truly hear you.

Those moments didn’t come with fireworks or applause. Yet they rearranged something inside me.
They softened edges, lifted burdens, shifted the path beneath my feet ever so slightly - and those tiny shifts made all the difference.

And then I remember the times I have offered the same, without even noticing.

A passing kindness, a presence, a word that slipped out as casually as breath. Later, someone has told me, you’ll never know what that meant to me. It humbles me to realise how even the smallest gesture can ripple far beyond what we imagine.

It’s so tempting, isn’t it, to believe our value must be proven in milestones and monuments?

That our lives must shout to be worthy. But what if the most important thing we’ll ever do is make another human being feel less invisible?

To remind someone, even fleetingly, that they are loved, worthy, and not alone?

That thought quiets me. It releases the weight of being enough in the world’s loud terms. Instead, it points me towards love in its simplest clothing - an everyday, living prayer of kindness.

Perhaps that is purpose. Not the lightning bolt, but the steady flame.

One small, luminous act at a time.

I see you.

Art ~ David Stanton
After, the lightning strike.

22/09/2025

There is a sacred thread between listening and love, so fine you almost miss it, yet so strong it can hold the weight of a human soul.

When someone leans in and allows us to pour out our words, not to hurry us along, not to correct or judge, but simply to be with us, something deep inside exhales. It is as though their stillness says “your voice matters, your heart matters, you matter…”

Love does not always arrive wrapped in flowers or declared in dramatic sentences.

More often it lives quietly in the pauses, in the attentive silence that makes room for us to unfold.

To be listened to with patience and presence is to be met without conditions, without demands to be brighter, quicker, or more together than we are.

This kind of listening is love in its purest form - love that does not rush to mend or to solve, but simply offers itself as a steady, open space.

To be heard in this way is to feel held, even without arms around us, in a warmth that says: you are safe to bring your whole self here.

I see you.

Art ~ Pauline Ender
Listening

Liberation Therapies & Coaching

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