the story pilgrim

sharing sacred stories on the pilgrimage through life

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The Culture We’ve Created: Walking Backwards Through a World That Wants to Run

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“The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.”

Bertrand Russell

Lately, I’ve been walking a lot with Todd, our fox-like mystery of a rescue dog. We have a few regular routes near our house; footpaths, fields, bridleways, and most days we pick one and go. But this week, for no reason other than curiosity, I walked one of our usual paths in reverse.

It was oddly disorienting. Familiar things looked unfamiliar. Corners came too soon, or not soon enough. I knew the path, but I didn’t know it like this.

And it made me wonder: how often do we mistake routine for reality?

A Culture That Worships Momentum

In the Western world, we’re told that success looks like acceleration: move fast, build fast, reply fast, grow fast. Faster is better. Hustle is holy.

Even in the creative industries, perhaps especially in the creative industries, there’s this constant pressure to be seen, to be doing, to be producing. And when you’re not? You feel like you’ve fallen behind.

But what if forward isn’t the only direction? What if perspective is more valuable than momentum?

I’ve spent a lot of my life moving, countries, careers, projects, auditions, and it’s only now, walking slowly behind a Shiba Inu who barks at television screens, that I’m starting to question the rhythm of the world we’ve built.

Certainty Is Overrated

Bertrand Russell, with his usual sharp tongue, once said, “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” It rings true now more than ever.

Our current culture doesn’t have much time for doubt. It wants clarity. Strong opinions. Quick takes. Instant uploads. Everything curated and captioned before it’s even lived.

But doubt is honest. Hesitation is human. And as much as I hate to admit it, most of the meaningful things in my life, the best walks, the best conversations, even the best performances, came from not knowing.

From being lost.
From walking backwards.
From re-seeing something I thought I already knew.

The Illusion of Connection

We live in a world where it’s never been easier to “connect” and never harder to feel connected. We scroll past each other. We post rather than talk. We perform rather than reveal.

The danger in all this is that we start to believe the version of ourselves that gets the most engagement. And we forget the quieter version. The one who hesitates. Who doubts. Who changes their mind.

That version doesn’t play well on TikTok. But it might just be the one worth listening to.

What Todd’s Teaching Me

Todd doesn’t care about content. He cares about which stick tastes best and whether I’ve remembered to pack his favourite treat. He’s scared of sharp movements, unsure about new people, and suspicious of moving shadows.

He’s also teaching me to slow down. To notice. To watch my own reactions.

Some days I feel trapped by it all, by the not-knowing, the mess, the stalling of a career that I still deeply care about. Other days, I see it more clearly. This is just the view from the reverse angle.

And like that walk the other morning, it’s showing me something I couldn’t see when I was rushing through in the usual direction.

Final Thought

The culture we’ve created tells us to go faster. That visibility is success. That movement equals meaning.

But maybe it’s not about new paths. Maybe it’s about walking the same old ones, just in the opposite direction.

Slow down. Go backward. Get lost on purpose. Doubt with pride.

Todd and I will meet you there.

The Optimism I Give (and the Doubt I Keep)

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A birthday dispatch from someone who just turned 55 and isn’t quite sure how that happened.

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

So here it is. Another birthday.

I’ve now reached the curious milestone of 55, and frankly, it’s come as a bit of a shock.

Some part of me is still waiting to feel like a proper grown-up. I remember when I used to think 55 was ancient. You’d have a caravan, knee problems, and opinions about curtain fabric. That version of 55 wasn’t wearing Converse or trying to start a podcast from a walk across Spain. And yet… here we are.

Even more surreal: I’ll be 60 in five years. Sixty. SIXTY. That number used to belong to grandparents and old-school policemen with moustaches and proper trousers. Now it belongs to me in five years.

So yes, I’m having the traditional birthday spiral: What have I done? What am I doing? How did I get here? And is it too late to sort it all out?

The External Cheerleader, The Internal Critic

I’ve always been excellent at pumping other people up. Genuinely, I’m Olympic-level when it comes to encouraging friends. You’ve got a plan? I’ll build you a logo, write your launch copy, and make you believe you were destined for greatness.

But for myself? That same energy vanishes. I become hyper-sceptical, suddenly obsessed with evidence and outcomes.

It’s maddening. Especially today. Birthdays pull focus like that.

You start to tally up what hasn’t stuck. All the things that nearly took off, the projects that flickered and faded, the doors that opened just enough to show you what was inside before slamming shut.

That’s the pattern I know too well. And the voice that narrates it? That voice is me. Calm, quiet, persistent. Telling me: “Don’t bother. You’ve done this before. Nothing sticks.”

But here’s the twist: I know that voice is lying. It’s fear dressed up as insight. And the only thing keeping it alive… is me.

The Nietzsche Problem

Nietzsche once wrote, “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

He wasn’t talking about midlife self-employment blues, or navigating YouTube algorithms, or trying to pitch a podcast about sacred storytelling to a world drunk on viral nonsense, but still. It lands.

The ‘why’ behind what I do: walking, writing, talking, connecting, that’s still real. Still intact. It just gets buried under all the perceived expectations.

The ones that say:

  • You should be further along by now.
  • You should have figured it out.
  • You should be more successful.

But who said that? Some ghost version of 55-year-old me I dreamt up when I was 28 and living off service station pasties? That guy had no idea what life would look like now.

The problem is never the mountain ahead. It’s always the pebble in your shoe. That small, persistent narrative that tells you not to bother — because you’ve already run out of time.

But if you’re still walking, you haven’t.

So What Now?

Maybe I stop trying to convince myself that optimism has to feel like certainty. Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s just willingness. A bit of breath in the lungs. Enough belief to get up and try again.

Not because this time will be different. But because this time is still worth doing.

And when I catch myself spiralling about age, and time, and that fact I’ll soon be closer to 60 than 50, I’ll remind myself: everything I’ve loved, built, and learned… I did after 30. Much of it after 40. So who says 55 is the epilogue?

Maybe it’s just Part Three.

So yes. I’m 55. I’m bewildered by that. But I’m here. Still walking. Still wondering.
Still trying to find a voice that’s kind enough to speak inward, not just outward.

If you’re doing the same, keep going. You’re not behind. You’re just between chapters.

Buen Camino,
Darren

The Story We Tell Ourselves

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“We are the stories we tell ourselves.”

Joan Didion

When I was twelve, my Grampsie, my favourite relative next to my mum, passed away. He was only 63. I was devastated. And somehow, in my grief and childlike logic, I decided I too would die at 63.

That number lodged itself in my mind, uninvited but powerful. It wasn’t a fear. It was a quiet, steady belief. A script I didn’t remember writing, but followed all the same.

Years later, I shared this with a friend. They said something I’ve never forgotten:
“Well then you will. If you think it, it will happen. Stop thinking that way.”

So, I did.

Not overnight, but steadily. I started changing the script. Because I realised what my friend had seen instantly, that the stories we carry shape the lives we live.

The Power of Narrative

Lately, I’ve been walking a lot with Todd, our rescued Shiba Inu. We’ve got a handful of well-worn routes near the house, fields, footpaths, muddy bridleways.

Recently, on a whim, we walked one of our regular paths in reverse. Same path. Same gates and trees. But everything looked different.

And it hit me: even the familiar becomes unfamiliar when we change our point of view.

It made me think about other “routes” I walk on repeat, the stories I keep telling myself about my health, my relationships, my career.

Some of those stories are kind. Some… not so much.

Why the Negative Sticks

Here’s the thing I’ve noticed (and I bet you’ve felt it too): the bad stuff tends to hang on longer. The missteps. The rejections. The wrong turns.

We replay them in full colour. But the wins? The breakthroughs? The good moments? They often get left behind, like postcards you meant to send but never did.

And yet, I believe this more firmly the older I get:
We are what we think we are.

Not in a motivational-poster sense. But in a deep, lived truth. The beliefs we hold, about our worth, our potential, our future, they steer everything.

So, What Now?

If you’ve been telling yourself a story for a long time, maybe now is the moment to ask: Is it true? Is it helpful? Could I walk this differently?

Whether it’s the idea that you’re not where you “should” be, or that good things don’t last, or that love has passed you by, what would it look like to question that?

Not with a bulldozer. But with a slow, steady step in the other direction.

Because just like that path behind my house, the view changes when you walk it backwards.

You don’t need a new life.
You might just need a new story.

The Dog Who Didn’t Know What a Television Was

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When we brought Todd home, we didn’t adopt a dog. We adopted a mystery.

A fluffy, fox-like riddle with four legs, deep brown eyes, and absolutely no idea what a television was.

He barked at the screen as if Whoopi Goldberg had just strolled into the lounge uninvited. He didn’t know what stairs were, or why buses moved without barking. He didn’t know what to do with a bone. He’d never seen a sofa, a car, or a postman.

Todd is a Japanese Shiba Inu, rescued from a puppy farm in Slovakia. He spent his first year of life in a kennel at the Dogs Trust after being intercepted at the border. His two sisters were adopted quickly. Todd wasn’t.

He was nervous, confused. Shut down.

And now, a month into living with us, he has the run of our downstairs, three meals a day, and a growing appetite for cuddles. He’s discovered chew toys, cosy corners, and the joy of sleeping on his side in the sun.

It’s been both delightful and, at times, maddening.

Welcome to the Long Game

Bringing Todd home has been like inviting a wild, beautiful question into our lives. We thought we were getting a pet. What we got was a pilgrimage.

Every day with Todd is a walk into the unknown. Not just physically—although the outside world is still a sensory avalanche for him—but emotionally. He is teaching us a new language, one bark and tail flick at a time.

He doesn’t like visitors. He panics at vehicles. He’s unpredictable with other dogs. We still can’t get a harness on him. The car is a no-go zone.

Our world has shrunk—and expanded.

We now think twice about every decision. Can we go out? For how long? What if someone comes to the house? When can we travel again? What is a holiday now?

And yet, every time he nudges his head under our hands for a stroke, every time he trots over for his food, or sits beside us quietly in the evening, we see it: trust, slowly growing.

The Parallel Pilgrimage

There’s something about Todd’s journey that mirrors what the story pilgrim has always been about.

The long walk. The slow reveal. The layered unfolding of something sacred and strange.

Todd isn’t a quick fix. He’s a lesson in patience. In presence. In the kind of connection that only comes when you slow all the way down.

He reminds me that not every path is linear. Some are awkward, circular, filled with barking and backtracking. Some involve cleaning up accidents and cancelling plans.

But these paths? They’re real. They’re messy. And they’re meaningful.

What Todd Taught Me (So Far)

  1. Not all fear looks like fear. Sometimes it looks like barking at the TV.
  2. Progress is invisible until it’s not. One day, you realise he didn’t flinch when you moved your foot. That he asked to go outside. That he wagged his tail when you walked into the room.
  3. Freedom can be frightening. Imagine spending your first year behind a gate. Then being handed a house. A sofa. A world.
  4. Love is not a cure, but it is a start.
  5. Control is a fantasy. Especially when you own a Shiba Inu.

The Journey Ahead

We’ve come a long way. But we’re not there yet. Maybe we never will be.

Maybe the whole point is not to get there, but to walk with each other anyway—to keep showing up, keep learning the strange dance of trust, and keep choosing love over convenience.

Todd is not the easiest addition to our lives. But then, none of the best things have ever come easy.

And as with all pilgrimages, we didn’t choose the shape of the path. But we’re walking it. Together.

One bark, one breakthrough, one beautiful mess at a time.

A Journey Measured in Lessons, Not Miles

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“The only thing of which one can be guilty is of having given ground relative to one’s desire.”

Slavoj Žižek

There’s something quietly profound about looking back and realising how far you’ve come—not just in distance, but in understanding. When I left home at nineteen, camera in hand, and stepped aboard a cruise ship for the first time, I had no idea what kind of life I was beginning. I thought I was just going to work, to see the world a bit. But that journey didn’t end when I stepped off a different ship two years later. It hasn’t ended yet.

Since that first job, I’ve lived in America, Cyprus, Wales, and England. I’ve had addresses and attachments in more places than most people collect fridge magnets. Even now, working as cabin crew, I continue to criss-cross the globe. I sleep in hotels more often than in my own bed. The itch to move has never quite gone away—and maybe it never should.

But here’s the truth that’s taken me years to see: travel doesn’t change who you are. It reveals you.

Travel Isn’t a Fix—It’s a Mirror

There’s a romantic idea we’re sold about travel, that it “broadens the mind.” And it does. But it also exposes things. It shines a light on how you respond to stress, to isolation, to unfamiliarity. It shows you who you are when no one’s watching and you’re a long way from anything that feels like home.

I’ve made some remarkable choices. I’ve also made some truly awful ones. I’ve fallen in love on different continents and fallen apart in places I couldn’t even point out on a map now. I’ve been married. Divorced. Twice. My career has been a mix of high points and quiet stretches that tested my confidence and my nerve.

And yet—I’m happy.

Because the further I’ve travelled, the more I’ve come to realise that growth doesn’t look like success. It doesn’t move in a straight line. It stumbles. It learns. It sometimes goes back to the beginning and starts over.

Blackpool to the World

Every now and then I think of that kid from Blackpool, suitcase packed, boarding a ship with a camera and a vague sense of ambition. What would he say if he saw the life I’ve built? The places I’ve been? The cultures I’ve encountered?

He’d probably say, Really? Me?

And I’d say, Yeah. You made it happen.

That’s the thing. There’s luck, sure. Timing. Opportunities. But you still have to choose. You still have to say yes. You still have to get on the plane, take the job, walk into the unknown.

Žižek’s words stay with me: “The only thing of which one can be guilty is of having given ground relative to one’s desire.”

I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But I never gave up on my desire—to see more, know more, connect more deeply. That desire is still with me, whether I’m walking the Camino, working 38,000 feet in the air, or telling stories through the story pilgrim.

Final Thoughts

Personal growth doesn’t come from ticking off destinations. It comes from being present in those places—from listening, observing, sometimes failing, and always moving forward.

Travel has shaped me. But I shaped my life by continuing to move. And somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing the perfect path and started embracing the journey.

And I’m still on it.

The Space Between: When Life Feels Like a Waiting Room

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“Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.”

Ovid

There are times in life that feel like motion, like momentum. And then there are times that feel like a waiting room—static, uncertain, caught between where you were and where you want to be. These moments, though quiet, can be the loudest of all.

I find myself thinking about the way time bends in these spaces. When you’re moving forward, time accelerates, days pass in a blur of action and purpose. But when you are in between—between jobs, between relationships, between clarity and confusion—time slows, thickens, holds you in place.

Waiting is an uncomfortable thing. It forces introspection. It invites doubt. It tests patience. But maybe it also serves a purpose.

The Illusion of Control

We are raised to believe that life is a cause-and-effect equation: work hard, make connections, do the right things, and success will follow. But anyone who has pursued a creative career—or any passion that depends on factors outside of their control—knows this is not always true.

You can send the emails. Make the calls. Put yourself out there. And sometimes, nothing happens. No rejection, no acceptance. Just silence.

This is where the real challenge begins. Because while rejection is painful, uncertainty is maddening. It leaves space for overthinking, for self-doubt to take root. Am I doing enough? Am I too much? Did I miss my moment?

And yet, if we take a step back, we see that every great story—every journey worth telling—has a moment of waiting. The in-between is part of the structure. The hero doesn’t always know what to do next. The road forward is often unclear. The moment of pause is not failure; it is a necessary beat in the rhythm of progress.

What Can Be Done in the Waiting?

If waiting is inevitable, the question becomes: how do we use it?

1. Shift the Perspective

Instead of seeing stillness as stagnation, what if we reframed it as preparation? As Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.”

The work we do when no one is watching is often what determines how ready we are when the opportunity comes.

2. Focus on the Craft, Not the Outcome

It’s tempting to measure success by external validation—jobs booked, money earned, recognition gained. But those things are unpredictable. What is within our control is how we use the time we have.

  • A writer writes, even when no one reads.
  • An actor prepares, even when no role is in sight.
  • A storyteller listens, even when there’s no audience yet.

3. Find the Small Wins

When the big goal feels too distant, look for the smaller ones: a skill improved, a connection strengthened, a personal insight gained. These may not feel like milestones at the time, but they are the stepping stones that lead forward.

The Road Always Moves Again

Heraclitus said, “Everything flows, nothing stands still.”  The hardest thing to believe when you are in the middle of waiting is that the wait will end. It will.

One day, something will shift—a message will come through, an opportunity will appear, a door will open. And in that moment, you’ll realise that the waiting wasn’t wasted time. It was part of the story.

Wherever you are right now—whether moving forward or stuck in place—remember: stillness is temporary. The road will move again. And so will you.