“I would not be where I am today, were it not for you… You changed my life. I will not forget that. I appreciate it beyond measure.”
There was more to me than the story I knew.
I didn't set out looking for any of this.
For most of my life, I thought I knew who I was. Kate. My history, my personality, my experiences, the things I liked and disliked, the things I was good at and the things I struggled with.
Then I had a moment in a café where everything fell into place. It was as though a veil had fallen away. Colours seemed vivid, everything had depth and aliveness, and I felt a oneness with life beyond my experience.
I hadn't been searching. I wasn't meditating or trying to make anything happen. But afterwards, something had changed.
I sometimes describe what I recognised as a quiet pool beneath the noise of thought. A sense of being OK, of love and connection, of simply being here.
It's not something I'm trying to chase or recreate, and I don't think it makes me special. Other people describe something similar in different ways. I use words like presence, awareness and the quiet pool, but I'm not particularly interested in finding the perfect word for this. Words can only point towards it. Perhaps this reveals itself when we get curious. When we get quiet enough to notice what was already there.
Because once you have seen that there is something beyond the story, you can't quite unsee it. Of course, you can still get caught up in thought, worry and everyday life. But perhaps your relationship with it begins to change. Even when you forget, the knowing that there is more to you than your experience is still there.
When my daughter was struggling with anxiety, I tried to fix things. I searched for answers and tried to understand what was happening so I could find the thing that would make her OK. I became exhausted, and began to wonder whether I was looking in the wrong direction.
I was trying to change the waterfall. But I had forgotten about the pool.
Remembering that quiet pool within shifted how I could be with my daughter. She would always say, ‘You changed, Mum!’ I didn't need to have all the answers. I could sit beside her, listen, stay connected and leave space for her own knowing to come through.
Because if it exists in me, why wouldn't it exist in her?
What I offer now isn't a set of answers or techniques to fix you. It's a space to question the things we can come to believe about ourselves: I'm broken. I'm different. I'm anxious. I'm depressed. I'll never be OK. This is just who I am.
Is it?
What if we don't know? What if we get curious about some of the things we are so certain about? What if there's more to us than the story we've come to believe?
I don't know where this journey will take you. And I'm not going to pretend that I do.
What I can offer is a space to explore. A space where you don't have to arrive knowing what you're looking for. I can sit with you. I can listen. I can trust what I know without needing to know what comes next.


