It can begin in small, invisible ways.

A flutter in the chest before ward rounds. A tightness in the throat before speaking up in meetings, the waves of nausea preparing to speak to a concerned relative.

The quiet dread of not knowing, not being enough, not having the answer, not being able to hold it all.

For years, anxiety lived in my body like a quiet, constant alarm. I would feel it rise, an inner fluttering, a heat in my chest. I could feel the blush before it came. And I feared it. Not just the sensation, but what it would mean. What others would see. That they would notice and judge me.

And then comes the shame.

Because doctors, we tell ourselves, aren’t meant to feel this way. We’re trained to be steady, competent, unshakable. We learn to allay fear in others, but not in ourselves. And when anxiety shows up, it feels like a betrayal. A crack in the armour we’ve worked so hard to wear.

In the quiet hush beneath the canopy of trees, something ancient stirs within us. A knowing, a remembering. For doctors, so often caught in the sterile hum of hospital corridors and the relentless pace of clinical demand, this return to nature can feel like a long exhale after years of holding breath.

As a former doctor, I know how easy it is to become stuck in that place. For years, I moved at a pace that felt impossible to question. My identity became wrapped in the needs of others - patients, colleagues, systems, expectations. Yes, there was purpose, but also a growing disconnection from my own body, my own rhythm, my own sense of joy.

It wasn’t until I stepped outside - quite literally - that I began to find my way back.

I was out on an early dog walk this morning, hoping to spot a curlew or two, before I even realised that today is World Curlew Day.

As I walked and heard the familiar bubbling call that stops me in my tracks every time, I found myself reflecting on what it is about the curlew that holds such a special place in my heart.

To all the mothers, Wisdom of the Mother Oak is a tribute to your strength, love, and wisdom. Whether biological, adoptive, foster, stepmother, grandmother, spiritual, or a mother figure, motherhood comes in many forms, each equally special in its own beautiful way.

This tree holds a special place in my heart.

With her crooked branches, asymmetrical frame and irregular clumps of leaves. She is beautiful in her stoicism, damaged yet resilient. She lives on a slope in the field near my home, surrounded by other oaks, with a view of the windswept moor in the distance.

A tree can have strong roots, a healthy trunk, and all the potential to grow tall—but if the soil isn’t right, it struggles. The nutrients aren’t there. The foundation is unstable. It leans, weakens, and sometimes falls.
Doctors know this feeling all too well.

Books have a unique ability to change the way we see the world. They provide a space for reflection, open our minds to new perspectives, and offer solace when we need it most.

Nature is a masterclass in collaboration. A stunning film about two of my favourite local species from BBC Winterwatch recently got me thinking.

Otters and kingfishers are both river dwellers, yet not rivals. As otters glide through the water, they stir up fish, creating the perfect hunting opportunity for kingfishers.

Sometimes, when our minds feel tangled and stuck, sitting and / or staring at a screen only makes it harder to find answers.

Walking coaching offers a different approach—one that invites movement, fresh air, and gentle reflection.

Finding the light…

This is the solstice, the still point

of the sun, its cusp and midnight,

the year’s threshold

and unlocking, where the past

lets go of and becomes the future;

the place of caught breath, the door

of a vanished house left ajar.

Mary Oliver