What Was Said in Greenwich

I’d joined Greenwich Market in London right around Brexit, when tourism took a hit. It wasn’t the vibrant market I remembered growing up — not with the phased renovations, the scaffolding, and the constant building works. Probably not the best time to set up a stall… but despite all that, I managed to show up and secure a regular space.

And the truth is, it wasn’t even guaranteed. You’d turn up with no certainty you’d be selected for a pitch that day — but somehow, I was never turned away.

And slowly, something real formed.

A few clients would come daily. Some weekly. Some fortnightly. Over a couple of years it was enough to build rapport — the kind that turns “customer” into familiar face, and familiar face into me knowing their life story… or what they’d say before they’d say it. Friends told their friends. And before I knew it, this little circle of intimates formed around me — not huge, not loud, just consistent.

A select few started inviting me out socially — drinks, sometimes even a spiritual festival.

There was one occasion I’ll never forget.

They’d talk openly about matters that would frequently come up in sessions with me. I kept confidentiality — always. But I couldn’t help noticing the difference between what people say out loud to friends… versus what they say in a more authentic setting with me, where vulnerability is allowed and the truth doesn’t have to look pretty.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The faces we show depending on what company we keep.

This particular evening it was three of us — two women, both my clients, both older than me. Most of my clients were women between 35 and 60, though not limited to that, and these two fell somewhere in the middle. They’d known each other a while.

I’ve changed their names, but I’ll try to recreate what was happening around that table.

I remember the table was round. A bar/lounge in Greenwich. Dim lights. That bustling London hum — glasses clinking, people leaning in close, music low enough that you could still hear a confession if someone dared to make one.

Their names, for this story, are Ana and Alexandra.

And what happened that night still makes me smile — because it was one of the clearest moments I’ve ever had where the conversation was happening in two places at once. Out loud, like normal. And underneath it… like a second channel had opened up.

It wasn’t announced. It was organic. It just… happened.

Ana takes a sip, adjusts her hair like she’s trying to act casual, and says:

“So… I’ve met a new guy.”

Alexandra looks at me — the kind of look that says have you heard about this one?

I look back with a clean no.

Ana smiles like she’s been holding it in for days.

“I’ve been waiting to tell you both.”

And I swear Alexandra and I didn’t even speak, but the same thought landed in both our minds at the exact same time.

Is he any good? Better than you-know-who?

Our eyes flick to each other — not dramatic, just quick — like a silent agreement.

Alexandra says out loud, polite and encouraging:

“Tell us more.”

Ana launches into the story: where they met, what he does, how he made her laugh, how he looked at her like she was the only person in the room… all the usual details you give when you want the room to approve before you fully let yourself feel excited.

And while she’s talking, Alexandra and I are having a whole other conversation — silently — that neither of us planned.

How long do you think it’ll take before she brings up Mr No Good?

And in my head, I’m counting down like it’s a game.

Five… four… three…

Ana’s face is smitten, glowing, the way it does when someone’s trying to convince themselves this time is different.

Two… one…

Ana leans forward slightly, like she’s about to drop the plot twist.

“So guess who texted me last night.”

The three of us look at each other. Not surprised. Not shocked. Just… knowingly.

And this is the part I’ll never forget: without saying it out loud, Ana acknowledged it. Like she could feel the undercurrent between Alexandra and me — and even if she wasn’t fully confident with her own light, something in her still picked up what was happening.

The message was basically: I know what you two are doing.

Out loud, full volume now:

“Matthew texted me too!”

Ana turns her eyes to me, like: I don’t like Matthew.

The out-loud conversation continues — all three of us fully engaged — but underneath, the telepathic channel is still running.

Why don’t you like him, Ana?

And the answer comes in a feeling more than a sentence: because he’s not good enough for her.

Then Alexandra’s energy fires back: you deserve better too.

And Ana’s energy pushes right back: so do you.

It’s like they’re both protecting each other while still chasing the same patterns. Like they can see the truth… and still can’t always choose it.

And then I say it — out loud — because someone had to bring the moment back down to earth.

“Are you guys happy?”

Alexandra goes quiet for a second, then shrugs with this softness in her eyes.

“I’d love to grow old with someone.”

Ana, on the other hand, breaks the tension with a grin and says:

“The Kama Sutra positions are amazing,”

We all laugh — that real laugh where you can’t tell if you’re laughing because it’s funny, or because it’s too true.

And I just sat there smiling.

Because part of me thought: is this what it’s like to be around other people who are tuned in?

And then the deeper truth came:

They weren’t “like me”.

They were them.

They had their own gifts — or their own sensitivity — or maybe they were simply close enough

to their own truth to hear it sometimes.

But I could also feel how they admired the light in others while hesitating to accept their own.

And that, right there, was the most human part of the whole surreal night.

When I Don’t Know What to Do

What do you do when you don’t know what to do?

I stop, and I surrender.

At some point I noticed I’m walking around with a combustion of energy twenty-four seven — eager to transfer it into creation. It’s so alive that if I could release it from my fingertip it would probably spark. I crave channelling it into my own work when I know what I’m shaping… and into someone else’s ambition when I can see their potential so clearly I want to help it come to fruition. Healing a wound. Doing something kind. Believing in someone before they can.

Do I manifest? Yes.

Do I sometimes not know what to do with it? Also yes.

That’s why I buzz with enthusiasm — with momentum — because it can feel like containing electricity that just wants to make light. And stillness can feel unfamiliar when you’re used to motion.

For a long time I thought I had to do something with it — or safely pour it out.

But not all energy is meant to be spent.

Some of it is meant to be surrendered — returned back to Source.

And most often than not, when I’ve been brave enough to do that, remarkable things I’d never even think of have occurred. Some might call them miracles. Some might call them profound. I just know they weren’t forced. They arrived.

Carrying that energy has been my default. Switching it to surrender took some getting used to — because it meant I’d receive. And for someone who only knew how to over-give, that took some serious adjustment.

If you’re reading this as permission to procrastinate, I need to say this gently: it isn’t. Rest is real. But so is responsibility. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is send the email, write the page, make the move, do the work — and stop waiting for the perfect mood to arrive.

Surrender isn’t avoidance — at least, it wasn’t for me. It was learning the balance between releasing control and finding contentment in the doing nothing.

I resisted meditation for as long as I can remember. I didn’t want to sit still with myself. I didn’t want the quiet. In reflection, I think I told myself it “wasn’t the right time” — without truly understanding why. And if I could speak to that former self now, I’d tell her: it wasn’t that you couldn’t do stillness… it’s that you hadn’t yet healed the parts you didn’t want to sit with.

But what if the real mastery is this: action when action is needed, rest when rest is needed — and the courage to stop creating long enough to let life meet you. To build a peaceful place inside yourself, so when it’s time to receive… you can be cosy in yourself, not gripped by trauma, regrets, expectations, fear, guilt, anxiety, anticipation, failure, haunting memories — or even the pressure to feel inspired.

Instead, the knowing: Ahh… I’ve done the healing now. I can surrender, and be worthy of receiving.

So I say: make the time. Everything has its time.

Even healing can be achieved in stillness.

And receiving? That’s catapulted once you’re in alignment.

Hardly Anyone About

On my train journey to meet a friend, I glimpse a Samaritan advert: “There is always someone who cares.” I shamefully — but intensely — think, that’s me. I ponder that I’ve seen those suicide-prevention adverts sporadically during my travels over the years and wonder: if I were in a vulnerable mental low state, could those words reach me? Would I believe they were true?

I don’t think so — which is odd, because my natural passion for helping others, my matriarchal tendencies, and my Christian upbringing that taught me to love thy neighbour have always existed alongside a deeper question: do others genuinely care too? My default is that even doctors, therapists, teachers… they’re doing their job. Surface level. And with the way the world is — workloads, personal lives, pressure — how often do we actually meet care that feels personal, not procedural?

I was walking in my neighbourhood for an evening walk. The streets were quiet. Hardly anyone about. The sun had set. Saint George’s Cross flags in windows and wrapped around wet poles from the rain earlier in the day. I held my head high in the gentle sea breeze and moonlit sky… until a loud voice chattered down the street behind me.

He was walking in the road, so I slowed down and waited for him to pass as he paced the pavement parallel to me. His hood went up.

“Oi,” he yelled at the car waiting for him to cross. “What you gonna do, ay?” Hands out wide. All bark, no bite.

I crossed the road so I could stay behind him — so he wasn’t in my blind sight.

He went on, quick as lightning — eager to find his next prey — and approached a lone figure at a bus stop up ahead. I didn’t catch the words, just the body language: loud, thrown about, taking up space. Not sticking around, he pranced off into a dark alley.

As I came up to the stop I approached the lone figure from behind, my South London cockney accent coming out without thinking:

“Are you alright?”

As she turned, I realised we both had melanin in our skin. She replied — shaken — and her accent wasn’t the same as mine.

“He told me to f*** off back to Nigeria.”

Oh dear, I thought — face still composed.

“He’s been chatting nonsense all the way up this street,” I said. “Ignore him.”

As I went on my way, she called, “Thank you.”

By the time I’d got halfway up the street, I heard a big commotion. My head spun. Across the road, at the entrance of the alley, a pale-skinned, grey-haired older man turned to look too, striking a cigarette in the dark — and we saw that same guy had returned, just as aggressive as before, this time hitting the bus stop she’d been waiting at, repeating the same words… while the woman made scarce.

I thought to myself: this man, no older than thirty, looked like he was craving a fight. Honestly, he needed a hug more than a punch — but I doubt he’d respond kindly if anyone retaliated with love and open arms. And it wasn’t my job tonight. I had a young family waiting for me at home. Still, my years working in social care made it hard not to recognise someone who needed the right support.

I just saw a bleeding soul — a grown man with an inner child crying out for help.

Why could I meet his hatred with compassion, when he’d probably never see me beneath the fog that divides us humans?

A younger me — when I hadn’t yet recognised the healer in me — would’ve put myself in harm’s way to reach that soul, knowingly or unknowingly drawn to their inner wounds; the parts of them that were traumatised, lost, wounded. I didn’t see the costume they wore. I saw the layers beneath.

And I mistook my nature — that calling to heal — for duty, for friendship, for love, for obligation.

But not every stranger I care for is my responsibility to heal. Not every person I can read is mine to reach.

Perhaps that’s why, somehow, he didn’t really see me on that same street.