Stories

The holiday season often invites us to pause and reflect on where we are and where we’ve been. It’s a time of connection, gratitude, and the gentle pull of nostalgia. As I settle more into life back here in England, this question resonates deeply with me.

I recently heard a statistic – one I can’t confirm but that lingers in my mind nonetheless: 80% of people will die within 50 miles of where they are born. It’s not the idea of death that strikes me, but rather the magnetism of home. What is it that draws us back as we age? Is it the safety of the familiar, or something deeper – an unspoken need to return to the roots of our narrative, as though the place where our story began might hold the key to its meaning?

This season, I find myself reflecting on both absence and presence. On those who are no longer with me and those who are here, right now. Life feels fragile, as though it is built on layers of memory, held together by the stories we tell ourselves and each other. I think about the history I share with those close to me – the moments that have become stories – and the ones still waiting to be created. This season, I want to live in the latter.

But reflection is a double-edged sword, isn’t it? On the one hand, it brings clarity. On the other, it can anchor us too heavily in the past. Am I spending too much time reflecting, I wonder? Am I mistaking the act of looking back for progress? What is the balance, and what am I balancing it with?

Philosophers have long grappled with the tension between reflection and action. Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor, reminds us that “it is not death that a man should fear, but never beginning to live.” Reflection should guide us, not paralyze us. Søren Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism, once said, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” The challenge, perhaps, is to look back with wisdom but walk forward with intention.

As someone prone to overthinking, this interplay between past and future is an ever-present tension. Overthinking can be a trap, but it’s also what gives my creativity its depth and my stories their layers. The trick, I’m learning, is to let reflection inform action, not replace it.

This holiday season, I’m asking myself: What story am I carrying into the coming year? I hope it’s one of presence, one that embraces the familiar while staying open to the unknown. A story of living fully and meaningfully with the people I cherish.

So, I’ll leave you with the same question: What story are you carrying into the holiday season this year?

Take a moment to reflect—just enough. And then, go live it.

Since I walked the Camino de Santiago back in 2017, I’ve been thinking deeply about connection.

That pilgrimage was the first time I truly questioned my connection to a God I wasn’t sure was there. I had no evidence, no grand epiphany—just a feeling, something I couldn’t fully explain. Even now, I’m still confused about what that something is.

But what I learned during those 500 miles is that connection takes many forms. It’s not always about divine clarity or absolute answers. Sometimes, it’s as simple—and as profound—as connecting with nature, with oneself, and with others.

Connecting with Nature

Walking the Camino, I had no choice but to engage with the natural world. The rhythm of my footsteps matched the sway of the trees. The sunrise marked the start of my day, and the cooling dusk signalled rest. It was the first time in years I felt completely present.

Nature reminds us that we’re part of something bigger. It doesn’t judge or demand. It just is. That simplicity was grounding for me, and it’s something I still turn to when life feels overwhelming.

If you’re feeling disconnected, step outside. Not just to tick the box of “being in nature,” but to be in it. Sit under a tree, let the breeze wrap around you, or feel the ground beneath your feet. Nature has a way of offering connection without saying a word.

Connecting with Yourself

Walking alone for hours each day gave me no choice but to sit with my own thoughts. That was both freeing and unsettling. What did I believe? Who was I becoming? Was I running toward something, or away from it?

That inner dialogue hasn’t stopped since the Camino. I still question myself, still wonder what I’m supposed to make of this life. But I’ve realized that connection with yourself doesn’t mean having all the answers—it means being willing to ask the questions.

Start small. Find five minutes of silence in your day, whether it’s in the morning, before bed, or on a lunch break. No distractions, no noise—just you. You might be surprised at what surfaces.

Connecting with Others

The Camino isn’t just about walking; it’s about the people you meet along the way. Strangers became friends, and fleeting conversations turned into moments of shared humanity. Those connections reminded me how deeply we all crave to be seen and heard.

Back in my daily life, I try to carry that lesson with me. Real connection with others doesn’t require grand gestures—just attention. A question asked with genuine curiosity. A moment of vulnerability. A willingness to truly listen.

Next time you’re with someone, take a moment to tune in fully. Put the phone away. Look them in the eye. Ask how they really are. It might seem small, but those are the moments that stick.

The Mystery of Connection

I still don’t know what I felt on the Camino. Was it a divine presence? The energy of the earth? Or just my own mind searching for meaning? Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe it’s none.

What I do know is that connection matters. To nature, to yourself, to others. These threads are what ground us, even when the world feels uncertain.

So, how will you connect today? Will you step outside and breathe it in? Will you sit quietly and listen to your thoughts? Or will you reach out to someone who might need to be reminded they’re not alone?

Let me know—I’d love to hear your story.

Buen camino,
Darren

There you are, sitting with a cup of something warm in your hands, mulling over your career and the choices you’ve made. You’ve been on this path for as long as you can remember, pouring your heart into your craft. But it’s been a while now—too long since you’ve landed a meaningful project. You know what you want, but it seems further away than ever.

You hear it all the time: “The industry is slow for everyone.” “Things are tough all around.” Yet, there it is—another new project announced, another new name in the spotlight. You start to wonder, If things are slow, why is it only affecting me?

You devour books, listen to podcasts, and watch videos from the so-called “successful” ones, each preaching a gospel of risk and reward. “Take a chance,” they say. “Push the boundaries,” they insist. You’ve tried that. You’ve stepped outside the box, doing what felt right in your gut, only to be met with scepticism or outright criticism. Somehow, the risks you’ve taken seem to do more damage to your spirit than good.

It’s a maddening cycle. You know you have to stand out, but every time you try, you feel like you’re further from the mark. You’re left wondering, Am I doing something wrong? You’ve watched others take similar risks and be celebrated for them. And yet, when it’s your turn, the acknowledgment never comes.

So now you’re here, wrestling with the fear that nothing will change, that your bank account will stay as empty as the space where opportunities should be. And the doubt seeps in, whispering that maybe you’re the one exception to all those motivational quotes.

But what if you’re not?

Maybe, just maybe, the silence is not a sign that you’ve gone astray but a part of the process. It doesn’t make the uncertainty any easier, but perhaps it’s worth considering that this is what growth feels like. Not always exciting, not always celebrated, and certainly not always understood. But maybe that’s okay.

Because, deep down, you know you’re not going to give up. You’ll take another risk, and then another. You’ll keep pushing because that’s who you are, even when it seems like the world is too quiet. Maybe the quiet is just giving you space to find your voice, once again.

So, here’s to those who keep going when the applause fades, when the inbox is empty, and when the world feels silent. You’re not alone.

You wake up, go through the motions, and sometimes it feels like life is a loop. Maybe you’ve caught yourself thinking, “Is this it? Another day, the same routine?”

It’s easy to get swept up in the ordinary, the tasks and to-dos that make up most of our lives. But what if there’s something more, something meaningful, right in the midst of all that everyday noise?

You don’t have to wait for a grand event or a big change to find purpose or connection. Sometimes, it’s in the simplest moments that the richest stories unfold. When you take a second to pause—whether you’re walking down the same street you’ve always walked, sipping your morning coffee, or even sitting in silence—you might find that the everyday has more depth than it first seems.

You’ve probably had those moments when a random thought hits you—something about your life, your relationships, or even just where you’re headed. It’s in those little pauses, those quiet seconds, that the world opens up in unexpected ways. The challenge is to notice them, to let yourself be curious about the familiar things you see every day.

There’s a story hidden in your routine, even when it feels like there’s nothing special happening.

The laughter with a colleague during lunch, the comfort of your evening walk, or the way the sun hits your window just right—it’s all part of something bigger. You don’t need to search far and wide to find meaning or beauty; you just need to look closer at what’s already around you.

Life isn’t just about the big moments, the milestones. It’s about the little steps you take, the ordinary days that build up over time. And as you move through your days, even the mundane has the potential to surprise you, to remind you that there’s more happening beneath the surface.

So, next time you feel stuck in the routine, try looking at it differently. You never know what you might discover when you slow down and really see what’s in front of you. The ordinary can be extraordinary, if you let it.

54.

What does that even mean? Just a number, right? But then, is it just a number? What if I told you today is my birthday and that I’m turning 54? Does that give it more meaning, more weight? Context is everything, isn’t it? It’s what turns random facts into something we can hold on to, something we can make sense of.

Being alive today, writing this post—that feels like a gift. But what about the past, the memories, the choices that led me here? How much do they matter to the present, to where I find myself today?

Right now, I’m sitting in Nauvoo, a small town on the banks of the Mississippi River. To most, it’s just a dot on the map, easy to overlook. But for me, it’s a place loaded with memories.

I spent a lot of time here as a performer, part of the core cast of the Nauvoo Pageant. Back then, I was also a devoted member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, so devoted that I helped bring others into the fold. But now, as I sit here, I see things differently. I no longer belong to that Church; I now consider myself an atheist.

The memories of my time here are fond, yet complex. There’s a certain warmth in looking back, but also a discomfort when I think about the Church’s policies and the broader role of religion as a whole. I can’t help but question the controlling nature that religion often seems to exert.

Soon, I’ll be heading to Chicago, a city that feels more like home than anywhere else. Chicago was where I spent eight incredible years of my life. It’s where I felt valued as an actor, truly seen and loved as a person. I made friendships there that are more like family, the kind that you carry with you wherever you go. Chicago is vibrant, alive, a place where I thrived.

But, even as I yearn for the connections I made there, there’s a hesitation. The reality of living in a place where the risk of gun violence is a constant undercurrent is hard to ignore. 

Then there’s Brighton, my current home. It has its own appeal—the charm of the seaside, the eclectic mix of people, the comfort of a healthcare system that looks after its own. But England has its challenges too. The political landscape feels more insular lately, especially after Brexit, a move that feels like a narrowing of horizons rather than an opening. 

So, here I am at 54, caught between the safety and uncertainty of two very different worlds, torn between the longing for my past life in Chicago and my current reality in Brighton. Is there really a perfect place to live? Or is it more about finding a way to carry all these parts of myself—my memories, my connections, my questions—with me wherever I go?

Maybe it’s about making peace with the contradictions and continuing to move forward, even if I don’t have all the answers yet.

For now, I’m here in Nauvoo, remembering, questioning, reflecting. Soon, I’ll be in Chicago, reconnecting with old friends, feeling the city’s energy again. And after that, who knows? The past is a big part of who I am, but it’s the future that keeps calling me forward.