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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.

“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.

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”

Aristotle

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”

Heraclitus

There are moments in life when we find ourselves in unfamiliar places, both physically and emotionally. We wake up in a different city, a hotel room that could be anywhere, in a space that feels suspended between reality and dream. Outside, the world continues its tireless movement—cars weave through crowded streets, voices rise and fall in rhythms we do not fully understand, the pulse of existence beats on. And yet, internally, we feel still. Too still.

But what is this stillness? Is it rest, or is it paralysis? Is it a moment of contemplation, or is it inertia? The mind, left unchecked in these moments, can become a labyrinth, turning endlessly in on itself, trying to find meaning in the silence.

This is the paradox of stillness. Ancient Greek philosophers understood it well. Heraclitus reminds us that life is always in motion, that even as we stand still, everything around us shifts. And yet, to stand apart from the current for too long is to risk disconnection, to feel adrift rather than grounded.

The Struggle Between Action and Waiting

Modern existence is relentless in its demand for action. Productivity is the altar at which we are all expected to worship—move faster, do more, achieve, accumulate, conquer. To sit still, even for a moment, feels like falling behind, like relinquishing control. But is that true? Or is stillness a form of wisdom?

Plato wrote of the nous, the rational mind, the ability to reflect and gain wisdom from contemplation. He would argue that in moments of stillness, we are not failing but preparing. Preparing for the next step, the next move, the next great act. But waiting can feel unbearable when the world seems indifferent to our movement. When doors remain shut and voices do not answer back.

So, what does one do in the waiting?

The Anxiety of the Unwritten Chapter

There is a peculiar form of dread that comes with feeling untethered—when the road ahead seems obscured, and every attempt at forward motion feels uncertain. The mind races ahead, predicting failure, rejection, irrelevance. The weight of potential presses heavily on the shoulders.

Socrates famously stated, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” But what happens when we examine life too much? When self-reflection turns into self-doubt? When the sheer number of choices available leaves us paralyzed rather than liberated?

There is a temptation in these moments to retreat, to wait for clarity to arrive like some divine revelation. But clarity is rarely given freely. It must be sought, unearthed through movement—through being in the world rather than observing it from the sidelines.

The Danger of Prolonged Stillness

If stillness is necessary for wisdom, then movement is necessary for survival. The ancient Stoics believed that virtue was not found in retreat but in engagement with the world. Marcus Aurelius, one of the last great Stoic philosophers, wrote, “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.”

To wait for motivation, for the right moment, for external validation—this is to surrender to fate rather than shape it. The reality is, there is no perfect moment. No divine sign. No absolute certainty that guarantees a path forward. There is only the choice to act or to remain stagnant.

But action does not always mean grand gestures. Sometimes, it is a small step: sending an email, making a phone call, writing one sentence, stepping outside. Small movements that defy the weight of inertia.

Finding Meaning in the Unfinished Story

If Heraclitus is right, then we are never the same person from one moment to the next. The version of ourselves that sits in stillness today is not the same as the one who will move tomorrow. This is both liberating and terrifying. It means we are not defined by what we haven’t done, by the doors that have not yet opened.

It means that each moment holds the potential for transformation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of stillness is that it is temporary. That no moment of uncertainty lasts forever. That waiting is not inaction, and stillness is not defeat. The river moves forward, whether we resist it or not. And eventually, we move with it.

“To him who is in fear, everything rustles.”

Sophocles

Fear magnifies the unknown, but motion diminishes fear. So, what is the next step? Perhaps it is simply rising from the chair. Opening the door. Taking a breath and stepping into the day. The future is not waiting to be discovered. It is waiting to be made.

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Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash

The start of a new year always feels like a good time to reflect, doesn’t it? A moment to take stock of what went well, what didn’t, and what’s been quietly simmering beneath the surface. Last year? Well, it was one of those years that felt tougher than it looked in hindsight. Ever have one of those?

You spend months feeling like you’re spinning plates—juggling auditions, side jobs, relationships, health, finances—and yet when you pause, you realise, “Wait a minute, I actually got some stuff done.” It’s not the “Oscars speech” kind of progress, but it’s progress all the same.

There’s this great quote from Bryan Cranston that sticks with me: “The actor’s job is not to book the job. The actor’s job is to go into the room and be compelling.”

Now, replace “actor” with whatever you’re striving for, and it still works. Sometimes, the wins aren’t about the flashy results but about showing up, being present, and doing the thing. For me, last year had a lot of that. I didn’t book a blockbuster, but my audition-to-job ratio was solid. Small victories count—and they add up.

On the personal front, I’ve been reminded how much joy comes from sharing pieces of your life with someone else. Taking Lucy to Chicago, showing her the places that shaped me, was like giving her a guided tour of my past—with some excellent pizza stops along the way, of course. Sharing those stories made them feel fresh again, as if the city had been waiting for someone new to see it.

But let’s not sugarcoat it: life last year was also frustrating. Trying to level up in acting while keeping the bills paid is like running a marathon with a backpack full of rocks. You’re moving forward, but you’re constantly aware of the weight.

And then there’s the mental soundtrack—you know the one. Social media’s endless parade of other people’s highlight reels. Media shouting about how the world’s falling apart. It can pull you down faster than quicksand.

But here’s the thing: stepping back helps. Perspective is a sneaky superpower. When I finally looked at my year objectively, I saw that it wasn’t so bad. Stress just has this annoying habit of zooming in too far on the messy bits.

There’s a Bible verse I always find amusing: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). I mean, it’s solid advice…and also a bit sassy, right? Like, “Calm down, mate, today’s already a handful.” But it’s a fair point. If we’re too focused on what’s next, we miss the quiet wins of today.

Health-wise? Up and down, like one of those theme park rides that makes you question your life choices. But overall, I’m upright and functional, which is more than enough some days. Mental health? Same. It’s a balancing act—holding onto the good stuff while not letting the bad stuff knock you flat.

As we step into another year, maybe the real trick is to keep moving while remembering to pause. Take stock, find the humour in the chaos, and celebrate the small wins—even if it’s just getting through a tough week with your dignity intact. Or at least most of it.

So, to whoever’s reading this: don’t let the world or its noise pull you down. Find the joy in showing up. Take stock of your wins, however small. And remember Bryan Cranston’s advice: the job isn’t always about booking the job. Sometimes, it’s just about being there, being compelling, and keeping faith that the pieces will come together. Here’s to a year of spinning plates—and maybe catching a few.

Have you ever given yourself a gift? I don’t mean a fancy gadget or an expensive meal (though those are delightful). I’m talking about the kind of gift that costs time, attention, and honesty—a true act of generosity towards yourself.

If you’re anything like me, the idea might make you squirm a little. Isn’t it selfish to focus on yourself? Shouldn’t generosity be about others? But here’s the twist: the better we are at giving to ourselves, the more meaningful our generosity becomes.

Let’s unpack this with a bit of humour and a dash of philosophy—because if we can’t laugh at life while pondering its mysteries, what’s the point?

The Paradox of Generosity

Generosity is often painted as a one-way street: a giver and a receiver, with the giver basking in the moral glow of their selflessness. But have you noticed how uncomfortable it feels when someone says, you need to be more generous to yourself? It’s as if we’re being handed a riddle with no answer key. Why does generosity towards ourselves feel harder than giving to others?

Here’s my theory: we’ve internalised the idea that being good means being selfless. But selflessness, taken to extremes, leaves us empty. Generosity isn’t about depleting your own reserves; it’s about sharing from abundance. And abundance starts with you. If you’re running on fumes, you can’t give much to anyone—least of all yourself.

Giving the Gift of Time

One of the greatest gifts you can give yourself is time. Time to walk, to think, to just be. I’ve learned this while recording episodes of the story pilgrim. Wandering through cities, forests, or even my own neighbourhood, I’ve realised that carving out space for myself isn’t indulgence—it’s survival.

Think about the last time you gave yourself permission to do nothing. Not the accidental kind of nothing where you’re scrolling social media and suddenly an hour’s gone—I mean intentional nothing. Sitting quietly. Walking without a destination. Listening to your thoughts without judgement. It’s liberating, isn’t it? And a little terrifying. But this is where we start to reconnect with ourselves, to hear the whispers beneath the noise.

Connection: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Generosity is a form of connection. When we give to others, we’re saying, I see you. I value you. But what about when we give to ourselves? It’s the same message: I see you. I value you. And yet, connecting with ourselves often feels harder than connecting with others. Why?

Because we’re complicated, messy creatures. It’s easier to focus outward than to face our own inner chaos. But when we take the time to connect with ourselves, to honour our needs and desires, we lay the groundwork for deeper connections with others. How can we truly see someone else if we’re unwilling to see ourselves?

Practical (and Fun) Ways to Be Generous to Yourself

1. Write Yourself a Letter – Imagine you’re your own best friend. What would they say to you? Write it down. You’ll be amazed at the kindness you’re capable of showing yourself.
2. Take a Solo Adventure – Go somewhere you’ve always wanted to visit. Bring a notebook or just your curiosity. No agenda, no expectations—just you and the world.
3. Treat Yourself to Quiet – Turn off your devices. Sit in a park or your favourite chair. Let your mind wander. It’s like giving your brain a deep breath.
4. Celebrate Small Wins – Did you finish a project? Cook a decent meal? Get through a tough day? Celebrate it. Life is made up of small victories, and they deserve recognition.

A Gentle Reminder

Generosity isn’t about grand gestures or constant giving. It’s about presence. It’s about saying, I’m here, and I care, whether to a friend, a stranger, or yourself. When we learn to give ourselves the same kindness we offer others, we unlock something powerful: the ability to give without expectation, to connect without pretence, and to live with a little more ease.

So, next time someone tells you to be generous to yourself, don’t roll your eyes. Think of it as an experiment, a practice, a gift. After all, who deserves your generosity more than you?