the story pilgrim

sharing sacred stories on the pilgrimage through life

Musings

It has been a while

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“Pressure is a privilege.”

Billie Jean King

It has been a while since I put pen to paper and blogged. The pessimist inside of me tells me not to bother—no one reads these anyway, so what is the point? But the realist inside of me tells me to go ahead, as if anything, writing this is more for myself, a therapy more than anything else.

I find myself here in LA—well, Torrance, a sub-city within the second largest city in America. I was not expecting to come here; it just happened. Airport standby in my role as cabin crew, Friday morning, and within ten minutes of my shift starting, the phone rang, and preparations for the flight to LA began.

The flight here was packed, completely full, and it also had what we call a “positioning crew” onboard. These are crew members who are flying out to a destination as passengers but will be working a flight back. They were working on an Airbus A380 back, so that meant there were 22 of them, and it was a nightmare. They felt they could come and stand in the galley, open up workspace areas, and get things that they thought they were entitled to, when in reality they were only getting in the way of us, the operating crew, who were there to serve not only them but the actual fare-paying passengers. Too much information? Was I upset? A little. Did I get over it? Yes, I did.

Anyway, I went for a walk this morning. I was intending to walk down to the beach, but something told me not to, so I went for a meander around the local area instead. As I walked, several things came to mind. There are a lot of apartment blocks here, all named “The Mikado”, “San Bonito”, “Spencer Arms”, “Via de Amo”, and many more, and I started to think about America and how it came about—a mishmash of cultures, races, religions, people from all over the world who came to settle and live here. Of course, there are the indigenous people here as well, but what has that meant, what has that made America today?

It is a land full of conflict. Yes, some of it gets violent, but the majority of it is rooted in sport—professional, amateur, and college level. People find their tribe, their team, and then scream from the rooftops for victory. They become so passionate about success for these teams, these tribes that they follow, and it is a huge part of their culture, all stemming from the origins of bringing so many different people together.

I came across a “No Kings” protest demonstration outside the local city hall. Thousands of people had turned out to express their concerns about the land that they live in and how it is being governed. There were many different banners, most of them expressing how upset they are with the current administration and its leader, their President.

Now, I am not one for protesting; I would not normally arrange to be a part of something like this, but today something shifted within me. It was lovely to see people being able to get it out there, to express the concerns that they have, and in their minds, they are doing something about it. I stood there with a smile on my face as I watched their faces and their body language, as they were able to just let it out.

I walked away from the demonstration and immediately came to a small Japanese garden in the local cultural centre—beautiful, serene, a stark contrast to what was happening just a block away. I sat and watched the water cascade down the waterfall in the centre, and I thought about how the water was simply reacting to the environment that it found itself in. It was not resisting, it was not trying to be different, it was just going with the flow, but in doing so it was making a difference. Over time, that water will shape the rocks and the environment around it, it will give life to plants and animals that are able to take advantage of it, and it will make its mark, carving out its own design.

That struck me. We all can make a difference; sometimes it may not be seen, sometimes it may not be immediate, but the truth is, we can make a difference. Something has shifted, and I need to remember that, which is why I am writing this down now.

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.