​Moving from Control to Relationship

Over the last few blogs, I’ve been reflecting on uncertainty.

In the first, I wrote about that feeling many of us seem to be carrying that the ground feels a little less steady than it once did. In the second, I explored how our nervous system responds when life feels unpredictable, and why anxiety is not simply something that happens in the mind, but something we experience through our whole body.

This leaves me with another question:
What do we do with uncertainty when it arrives?

It is such a natural human response to want things to feel different.
"How do I stop feeling anxious?"
"How do I get back to feeling in control?"

These are questions I hear often in the therapy room.

And they make complete sense.

When something feels uncomfortable, our instinct is often to try to fix it, solve it, or move away from it.

But I wonder if there is another possibility.

Perhaps emotional wellbeing is not only about feeling calm or certain. Perhaps it is also about developing a different relationship with the moments when life feels unclear.

Because uncertainty is, in many ways, part of being human.
Relationships change.
Our bodies change.
Life takes unexpected turns.
The world shifts in ways we cannot always predict.
The question may not always be:
"How do I get certainty back?"

Perhaps it is:
"How do I learn to meet uncertainty with a little more kindness?"
When things feel uncertain, it is very natural to reach for control.
We might find ourselves overthinking, planning, seeking reassurance, or trying to anticipate every possible outcome.

There is nothing wrong with these responses.
Often, they are attempts to keep us safe.

Sometimes it helps to view these parts of ourselves with a little more compassion. The part that worries, the part that tries to solve everything, or the part that struggles to let go is often trying, in its own way, to protect us.

In psychosynthesis, there is an idea that we are more than any one thought, feeling, or experience.
Anxiety may be something we experience, but it does not have to become the whole of who we are.

There is also a part of us that can notice.
A part that can gently say:
"Something in me is feeling afraid right now."
"Something in me is searching for certainty."
This simple act of noticing can create a little space.
Not a space where the anxiety disappears, but a space where we are no longer completely overwhelmed by it.

The psychiatrist Viktor Frankl wrote in Man's Search for Meaning:
“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.”
I find this idea deeply comforting.
Not because it suggests we can control everything that happens to us.

But because it reminds us that there can be a moment of choice, sometimes very small in how we meet our experience.
A breath.
A pause.
A moment of noticing.
A moment of kindness towards ourselves.
Perhaps this is where our relationship with uncertainty begins to change.
Not by becoming fearless.
But by becoming more compassionate towards the parts of ourselves that are afraid.

A Gentle Practice
The next time you notice uncertainty arising, pause for a moment before trying to solve it.
Take one breath.
Notice your body.
Perhaps feel your feet on the ground or the support beneath you.
Then gently ask:
“What part of me is asking for my attention right now?”
You don’t need to find an answer immediately.
Simply noticing may be enough.
You might even offer yourself the words:
"Thank you for trying to protect me."
Because often, the parts of us that struggle the most are not trying to make life harder.
They are trying to help.
And sometimes healing begins when those parts no longer have to shout to be heard.

Reflections on Leadership, Collective Shadow, and the Search for Meaning

Over the past decade, the United Kingdom has witnessed an unusually rapid succession of Prime Ministers. Leaders have come and gone with a frequency that would have seemed remarkable in previous generations. Political commentators have offered many explanations: party divisions, economic pressures, changing public expectations, Brexit, global uncertainty, and shifting media landscapes.

All of these explanations may contain important truths.

And yet, I sometimes find myself wondering whether there might be another way of looking at what is happening. Not instead of the political explanations, but alongside them.

As someone interested in psychology, spirituality, and the ways individual and collective lives mirror one another, I find myself drawn to a more transpersonal question:

What if the rapid turnover of leaders is not only a political phenomenon? What if it also reflects something deeper taking place within the collective psyche of the nation?

I offer the following reflections not as answers, but as possibilities worth contemplating.

The Shadow of the Nation

Carl Jung spoke of the “shadow” as those aspects of ourselves that we would rather not see. These can be uncomfortable emotions, denied vulnerabilities, unacknowledged desires, or difficult truths about who we are.

While Jung was writing about individuals, many have extended this idea to groups, organisations, and even nations.

Perhaps countries, like people, have shadows.

If that is true, then periods of political turbulence may sometimes coincide with moments when previously hidden tensions begin demanding attention. Questions about inequality, identity, privilege, belonging, history, power, and responsibility can no longer remain comfortably out of sight.

When shadow material emerges, it rarely does so neatly. It can appear as conflict, polarisation, blame, anxiety, or confusion. We may be tempted to locate the problem solely in a particular leader or political party. Yet from a psychological perspective, the intensity of our reactions may sometimes point towards something larger seeking acknowledgement.

Perhaps the repeated struggles of political leaders tell us less about individual failures and more about the difficulty of collectively facing questions for which there are no easy answers.

The Collapse of the Hero Leader

There is a tendency within modern politics to place extraordinary expectations on those who lead us.

Consciously or unconsciously, we often long for someone who can restore certainty, resolve complexity, and guide us safely through difficult times. In psychological terms, we might say that we project heroic qualities onto leaders and hope they will carry burdens that belong to all of us.

The problem, of course, is that leaders are human.

When reality inevitably falls short of our hopes, disappointment follows. The hero becomes the villain. Expectations collapse. Attention turns to finding the next person who might finally provide the solution.

I wonder whether the frequent changing of leaders reflects, in part, the limits of this heroic model itself.

Perhaps we are living through a period in which the old fantasy of being rescued by a single individual is becoming increasingly difficult to sustain.

This is not necessarily a pessimistic thought. It may actually contain a deeper invitation: the possibility of moving from dependence towards collective responsibility, from looking upwards for answers towards engaging more fully with one another.

Such a shift is rarely comfortable. Growth seldom is.

A Spiritual Crisis Disguised as a Political Crisis

Political instability is often discussed in economic, social, or institutional terms. Yet some transpersonal thinkers have suggested that beneath many societal challenges lies a deeper crisis of meaning.

When the stories that once organised our lives begin to lose their vitality, uncertainty naturally follows. We may find ourselves asking questions that politics alone cannot answer.

Who are we becoming?
What values matter most?
What kind of society do we wish to create?
Where do we find belonging?
What gives life meaning?

These are not merely political questions. They are existential and, in many respects, spiritual ones.
When a culture is between stories, it can feel disorientating. The old narrative no longer provides sufficient guidance, while the new narrative has not yet fully emerged.
From this perspective, the rapid turnover of leaders may be less a cause of collective uncertainty and more a symptom of it.

A nation searching for direction may naturally struggle to find leaders capable of embodying a vision that is itself still taking shape.

The Invitation

Perhaps periods of instability are not simply problems to be solved.
Perhaps they are also invitations.

In psychotherapy, periods of confusion often arise when old ways of understanding ourselves no longer fit, but new possibilities have not yet become clear. While uncomfortable, these moments can sometimes mark the beginning of significant growth.

I wonder whether something similar may be true for societies.

Rather than asking which leader will finally provide certainty, perhaps we are being invited to tolerate uncertainty a little longer. To listen more deeply. To become curious about the fears, hopes, and longings emerging beneath the surface of public debate.

Maybe the question is not simply who will lead us.
Maybe the question is who we are becoming.
I certainly don’t know the answer.

But I suspect that meaningful change—whether personal or collective—often begins not with certainty, but with the willingness to remain present to the questions.
And perhaps that is where the real work lies.
 
As a psychotherapist, I am continually struck by the parallels between personal and collective life. The themes that appear in therapy; uncertainty, identity, shadow, loss, meaning, and transformation are often the very themes that surface within families, communities, organisations, and nations.
If these reflections resonate with your own experience of navigating change, uncertainty, or transition, psychotherapy can offer a space to explore such questions with curiosity, compassion, and depth. We may not always find immediate answers, but together we can learn to engage more openly with the questions that matter.

​If the last piece named something of the feeling, that sense of the ground being a little unsteady, then perhaps this is a place to gently wonder why that can feel so difficult to hold. Because for many of us, it isn’t only that things are uncertain. It’s how that uncertainty seems to land in the body.

In my work, I often notice that when people speak about anxiety, they’re not only describing thoughts. There’s usually something more immediate alongside it. A kind of tightening, perhaps, or a restlessness that’s hard to settle. Sometimes it shows up as feeling on edge, and at other times as a kind of heaviness or disconnection.

And very often, this seems to have something to do with not knowing. There’s something about the unknown that can feel particularly difficult to rest with. As human beings, we tend to orient ourselves through some sense of what comes next. Even if it’s only loosely held, there’s often an internal sense of direction , an expectation of how things might unfold.

When that begins to feel unclear or unreliable, something in us can become unsettled. It might not always show up as a clear thought. It might be more of a feeling in the background, a quiet questioning of what’s going to happen, or whether things will be okay. And even when those questions aren’t fully formed, the body can begin to respond.

Sometimes it’s as if the system starts preparing for something, even if it doesn’t quite know what that something is. There can be a subtle bracing, or a sense of needing to stay alert. At other times, it can go in a different direction , a kind of pulling back, or a sense of not quite being here.

What can make this confusing is that there isn’t always a clear reason for it. Nothing specific may have happened in that moment. And yet, something in the body is responding.

It can be helpful, perhaps, to remember that the nervous system doesn’t always organise itself around clear, defined threats. Uncertainty itself can be enough. When things feel unpredictable or open-ended, the system may struggle to find a place to settle. Not fully in danger, but not fully at ease either.

And over time, that in-between place can be quite tiring to live in. In somatic approaches, including the work of Peter A. Levine, there’s an understanding that the body holds and responds to experience in ways that are often faster than conscious thought. He writes in Waking the Tiger:
“Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.”

While this is often spoken about in relation to trauma, I sometimes find myself wondering if something similar can happen with ongoing uncertainty. When there isn’t a clear place to process what we’re sensing , especially when it’s diffuse or collective , it can remain held in the body, without quite having somewhere to go.

So the question may not only be how to get rid of these feelings, but how to begin relating to them a little differently. Not all at once, and not in a way that overwhelms, but perhaps just by coming into gentle contact with what’s already here.

You might, for example, take a moment to notice what’s happening in your body right now. Not everything, just one small area. It could be your feet on the ground, or the way your body is supported by the chair. There’s no need to change anything , just noticing.

Sometimes it can also help to let your attention move between your inner experience and the space around you. Let your eyes rest on something neutral or even slightly pleasant and stay with that for a few moments. Not as a way of escaping, but simply as a way of reminding your system where you are. From here, you might find yourself wondering , gently , how you tend to respond when things feel uncertain. Do you find yourself moving towards action, or thinking more, or pulling away? And is there anything, however small, that seems to help you feel even slightly more anchored?
There’s no need to arrive at clear answers. Sometimes just noticing these patterns, with a bit of curiosity, can begin to shift something.

If uncertainty feels difficult, it may not be a personal failing. It may be something quite human , a nervous system trying to find its footing in a world that doesn’t always offer clear ground.
And perhaps the invitation isn’t to resolve the unknown, but to slowly build a different kind of relationship to it. One that includes the body. One that allows for support. One that doesn’t require you to hold it all on your own.

In my experience, this is often something that unfolds most gently in conversation , at a pace that can be followed, rather than forced.

​Why So Many of Us May Be Feeling Unsettled Right Now

There’s a particular kind of anxiety that can be hard to name. It isn’t always linked to one clear situation, and it doesn’t necessarily ease when things are “figured out.” It can just sit there quietly in the background of daily life — or sometimes a little more persistently.

In the therapy room lately, and in conversations more generally, I’ve been noticing how many people are carrying something like this — a kind of low-level unease, as if the ground is just slightly unsteady beneath them.

I find myself wondering if some of this might be connected to the wider world we’re living in. There’s a lot happening — conflicts, uncertainty, ongoing instability in different parts of the world. Even if we’re not directly affected, or not taking it in consciously, it can still register somewhere in us. News travels quickly, images linger, and sometimes the body takes in more than we realise.

As human beings, we tend to look for some sense of safety — not perfect control, but enough predictability to be able to settle, to connect, to rest. When that sense of predictability is disrupted, whether in obvious or more subtle ways, the nervous system can begin to shift.

You might notice your mind becoming busier, trying to anticipate what’s coming, or a kind of restlessness that’s hard to switch off. For some, it shows up as difficulty relaxing; for others, it might feel more like numbness or disconnection. None of these responses are unusual. They may be ways your system is trying, as best it can, to take care of you.

Writers like Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, have helped bring this into wider awareness — that our bodies often register and hold experience in ways that don’t always feel logical or conscious. And perhaps this includes not only our personal histories, but also something of the collective atmosphere we’re living in.

In my own work, which is informed by psychosynthesis, I tend to hold these experiences in a more holistic way — not just as something happening in the mind, but as something that includes the body, emotions, and a wider sense of meaning. Often this means gently paying attention to what’s happening in the body alongside thoughts and feelings, allowing those responses to be part of the process rather than something to override or move past.
​
At the same time, many of us carry a quiet pressure to be okay — to stay steady, to keep functioning, to not be too affected. And when anxiety shows up, it can be easy to turn it back on ourselves. Why am I feeling like this? Shouldn’t I be handling things better? It can feel as though we’re the only ones struggling, even when that’s rarely the case.

Something that can make this kind of anxiety particularly difficult is that it doesn’t always come with a clear solution. The sources of it can feel diffuse, hard to locate, or larger than any one of us. There isn’t always a single problem to fix, or a certainty we can arrive at. And while it’s very natural to try to think our way out of discomfort, this kind of unease doesn’t always respond to more thinking.
​
Sometimes it can help to begin somewhere simpler, and a bit more immediate.
​
If it feels okay, you might take a moment to gently look around the space you’re in. Notice a few things you can see, a few sounds you can hear, and perhaps one sensation in your body — your feet on the ground, or the support of the chair beneath you. There’s nothing to get right here. It’s just a small way of reminding your system that, in this moment, you’re here.
You might also find yourself wondering: what feels uncertain in my life right now? And alongside that, is there anything that feels steady enough — even if it’s quite small or easily overlooked? There’s no need to force an answer. Sometimes just letting the question be there is enough.

If things do feel a little unsteady, the invitation may not be to force them into certainty — especially when so much, collectively, remains uncertain. It might be something more modest than that: just beginning to notice what’s here, and finding small ways to stay in contact with yourself as things move.

Not perfectly, and not all at once. Just in ways that feel possible.
And perhaps, over time, this kind of gentle noticing — of the body, the mind, and the wider context we’re part of — can begin to offer its own kind of ground.

If you find yourself wanting to explore this more, it may be something that can be gently held in conversation, rather than something you have to navigate alone.

This feels a little like a thank you note.

Recently, I was invited to spend a weekend at a friend’s farm. The WhatsApp group was boldly titled “Suffolk Farm Retreat”—which sounded very official, almost spa-like. I imagined timetables, workshops, maybe even a gong bath or two. But the small print (a.k.a. my friend’s warning) made it clear: this was not a retreat in any traditional sense. No schedule. No programme. No agenda. Just “come along and hang out.”

I’ll admit—I was sceptical. Most of the gatherings I’ve joined in recent years have had a purpose: a theme, an intention, or a learning arc. I wasn’t sure what a “no agenda” event would offer. Would it be too loose, too unstructured, maybe even dull?

And yet, by the end of the weekend, I was surprised at just how much I had received.

What emerged was not nothing—it was everything.

Decompression in Nature

The first gift was space to exhale. Walking among orchards, soaking in sunshine, letting the land hold me—it reminded me how much nature softens the edges of a busy mind. There’s a healing that comes when we stop trying to get anywhere. It echoes what Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us in Peace Is Every Step : sometimes just walking slowly, breathing fully, is more than enough.

Connection Beyond the Familiar

Another gift was community—not the kind of community built only around shared identities or beliefs, but the kind that stretches us. People had travelled in from across England, and even further afield—one participant had come all the way from Sophia, Bulgaria. I met people I might never otherwise encounter. They carried different perspectives, different positions, and yet in our conversations I found my own stance questioned, softened, and enriched. As bell hooks writes in All About Love, true community requires us to move beyond comfort and into curiosity.

Bonding Through the Everyday

It turns out that community isn’t just about conversation—it’s about cooking together, washing dishes side by side, laughing over burnt toast. Ordinary tasks became small rituals of belonging.

Embodied Acceptance

Another unexpected joy was noticing how body positivity wasn’t a concept we spoke about, but something we simply lived. Sunbathing in the orchard, dipping into the jacuzzi, letting bodies of all shapes and sizes simply be—glorious, imperfect, and unapologetic. To witness and be witnessed in this way felt deliciously freeing. It reminded me of Sonya Renee Taylor’s invitation in The Body Is Not an Apology: that radical self-love begins with honouring the body as it is, right now.

A Spontaneous Ritual

On the night of the black moon, a ritual spontaneously emerged. It wasn’t planned, but it was powerful—an improvised ceremony that left me deeply moved. It reminded me that ritual doesn’t need choreography; it needs presence.

From Doing to Being

Perhaps the deepest shift was moving from doing to simply being. Without an agenda, something surprising, nourishing, and profoundly human was able to emerge.

For this, I feel immense gratitude to my friend—for holding space for this experiment in openness, and for inviting us into his home and land. I’m already looking forward to the next “no agenda” gathering.

Sometimes, the absence of structure is the most generous container of all.

PS: the above picture is from the orchard in the farm where we spend glorious time sunbathing and nibbling on lunch. 

I recently spent a month remote working from Berlin, and I can honestly say—something in me shifted. Not in a dramatic, eat-pray-love kind of way. More like a gentle recalibration, a soft return to presence.

The simple fact that everything was different brought me back to life a little. In Berlin, they drive on the other side of the road. German buzzes around you like a hum you’re not quite tuned into. The buildings are austere and poetic. It shook me out of the comfortable passivity of routine and into something much more alert. I couldn’t rely on muscle memory—I had to pay attention.

And that presence was nourishing. As Jenny Odell reflects in How to Do Nothing, attention is its own kind of rebellion. Being present to the world, especially a new one, is an act of coming alive. For me, it looked like noticing the graffiti that read “Drop Rents Not Bombs” scrawled across walls in Wedding, or realising there were no ticket gates at U-Bahn stations—just a transit system built (mostly) on good will and trust. It felt oddly hopeful. And yet, alongside that hope, the city also revealed harder truths—like the visible and growing levels of homelessness, especially around Alexanderplatz. I couldn’t look away. And maybe that’s a good thing.

Berlin has this delicious tension between chaos and calm. On hot days, I joined locals swimming in Flughafensee, the cool lake waters a welcome contrast to the summer heat. I’d grab a Currywurst after a long day, hands full and satisfied, soaking in the casual deliciousness that Berlin does so well. I found joy in following the rhythms of the city—not as a tourist ticking boxes, but as someone tuning in.

Pico Iyer, in The Art of Stillness, writes about how travel can offer a kind of mirror—not to escape your life, but to see it differently. That’s exactly what Berlin gave me. A month of work emails and video calls, yes, but also of perspective. Of aliveness.

Now that I’m back, I feel energised in a way that surprises me. The emails are still there. But I feel different. More awake.

I’m already dreaming about next year’s remote working escape. Not to run away—but to keep remembering how much more vivid life feels when we choose to truly see it.

As June rumbles on and rainbow flags begin to unfurl across cities and screens, I've found myself pausing—not just to celebrate, but to reflect. Pride Month is often seen as political, cultural, or even a form of joyous protest. But this year, I’ve been thinking about Pride as something else too: a spiritual celebration.
 
What if the glitter, the music, the parades, and the fierce love we witness at Pride events are more than public expressions of identity? What if they're rituals—powerful, meaningful, and even sacred?
 
Here are some of my thoughts on the spiritual resonances of Pride through five interconnected themes.
 
 
Ritual and Celebration
 
Pride as Ritual
The parades, the drag performances, the moments of silence for lives lost—they are all part of a collective choreography. When we march, chant, dance, and drape ourselves in vibrant colours, we’re participating in something that’s deeply ritualistic. These acts can echo ancient ceremonies that marked liberation, healing, and transformation.
 
Religious Rituals
Think of Hindu processions during Navaratri, or Catholic processions during Holy Week. These gatherings carry symbolic meanings, reinforcing identity, belonging, and connection to something larger than the individual. Pride, while secular, mirrors these intentions. It offers what many rituals offer: a communal sense of transcendence.
 
Community and Belonging
 
Community in Pride
For many LGBTQI folks, Pride is a homecoming. It’s where we find our chosen family, receive nods of solidarity from strangers, and feel less alone in our journey. There’s a spiritual resonance in that sense of unity—a coming together that many describe as sacred.
 
Community in Faith
Religious communities have long been the cornerstone of belonging. They offer ritual, shared language, mutual care. However, for LGBTQI individuals, these spaces can be double-edged—sometimes deeply affirming, other times sites of exclusion. Still, at their best, both Pride and spiritual communities aim to cultivate connection.
 
Finding Meaning and Purpose
 
Pride as a Search for Meaning
Pride isn’t just a party—it’s a public reckoning with history, justice, and identity. We celebrate not only who we are but also the struggles that made this visibility possible. For many, it’s a moment of alignment with their deepest truths.
 
Spirituality and Meaning
Spirituality, at its core, is about making meaning—of pain, of joy, of mystery. It invites us into purpose and presence. When we walk in Pride, we may be stepping into a spiritual act: affirming that we are fearfully, wonderfully made.
 
Affirmation and Acceptance
 
Pride as Affirmation
Pride says, “You are enough.” In a world that often tells LGBTQI people otherwise, that’s nothing short of revolutionary. Whether you’re out, questioning, or simply witnessing, being part of Pride can be a deeply healing, affirming experience.
 
Faith Traditions and Acceptance
While not all religious traditions have embraced LGBTQI identities, there are growing movements within many—Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, and others—that seek to fully affirm queer people as spiritual beings.
 
Challenges and Conflicts
 
Conflicting Beliefs
For those of us raised in traditions that condemned our queerness, the spiritual path can feel like walking a tightrope. Can I be gay and spiritual? Can I return to my faith without shame? These are not easy questions, but they are deeply human ones.
 
Need for Inclusive Spaces
Thankfully, there is a rising tide of inclusive spiritual spaces—queer-affirming churches, LGBTQI sanghas, interfaith Pride services—that are bridging the divide between sexuality and spirituality. These spaces remind us: you don’t have to choose.
 
 
Pride is many things: protest, celebration, memory, future. But it is also, for many of us, a sacred time. A time to remember who we are, whose shoulders we stand on, and what kind of world we want to create.
 
Whether you find your spirit in the chanting crowds or in quiet reflection afterward, may this Pride be a ritual of love, of healing, and of radical belonging.
 
Happy Pride. 🌈✨
 
Below a list of books that I have found helpful. Maybe they can offer you some support too. 
 
"The Art of Ritual" by Renee Beck & Sydney Barbara Metrick — A beautiful guide on how rituals can be healing, inclusive, and affirming.
 
"Radical Dharma: Talking Race, Love, and Liberation" by Rev. Angel Kyodo Williams, Lama Rod Owens, and Jasmine Syedullah — A transformative dialogue on justice and spirituality, especially for queer and BAME/BIPOC folks.
 
"Rainbow Theology: Bridging Race, Sexuality, and Spirit" by Patrick S. Cheng — A theological resource centring the experiences of queer people of colour in spiritual traditions.
​

This year, Mental Health Awareness Week (12–18 May 2025) invites us to reflect on the theme of ‘Community.’ It’s a timely reminder that, while the conversation around mental health often focuses on the individual, we are always already embedded in wider networks—of family, culture, society, and spirit.

As a psycho-spiritual practitioner, I am reminded of how deeply spiritual traditions have always understood the importance of community—not just as a support system, but as a necessary condition for healing, growth, and liberation.

Sangha: Community as Refuge in Buddhism
Take Buddhism, for example. The tradition offers us the Three Jewels, or Three Refuges:
•    Buddha – the enlightened one, the teacher
•    Dharma – the teachings, or the path
•    Sangha – the community of practitioners
When Buddhists say they "take refuge," they are not only turning inward to meditation or upward to the transcendent—they are also turning towards one another. The Sangha is recognised as essential to the path of awakening. No one walks the path alone.
It’s an invitation to see community not just as a backdrop to our individual lives, but as part of the very structure of our wellbeing.

Psychology and the Need for Belonging
From a psychological standpoint, community matters just as much. Numerous studies have shown that social isolation is as detrimental to health as smoking or obesity. As psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk notes in The Body Keeps the Score, trauma is often healed not only through individual therapy but through restorative relational experiences.
Even more poignantly, research by Julianne Holt-Lunstad and colleagues has shown that loneliness and weak social networks are strongly linked to increased mortality risk (Holt-Lunstad et al., 2015). The science is clear: we thrive in connection.

Psychosynthesis: A Psychological and Spiritual Framework
My core modality, psychosynthesis, founded by Roberto Assagioli, also recognises the central role of community. While psychosynthesis focuses on the integration of the whole self—body, feelings, mind, soul—it does not isolate the individual from the wider human field. In fact, Assagioli reminds us:
“We need a group, a communion, in which we can experience the larger life that flows through us all.”--Roberto Assagioli, The Act of Will
Assagioli spoke often about the ‘interindividual psychosynthesis’—the idea that our growth is inextricably linked to how we relate to others. Community, in this view, is not just a container for our healing—it is a mirror, a teacher, and a crucible for transformation.

Cultural Wisdom: When the Community Is Unwell
In many Indigenous and non-Western traditions, mental illness is not seen purely as a problem within the individual but as a symptom of something off-kilter within the community. For instance, in certain Indian and Indian-American spiritual frameworks, mental distress is often interpreted relationally—linked to disharmony in family, ancestral, or social relationships.

In A.K. Ramanujan’s reflections on Indian psychology and folklore, illness is frequently seen as a message or call to restore balance—not only in the individual but in the wider social or cosmological order. Similarly, anthropologist Sudhir Kakar, in works like Shamans, Mystics, and Doctors, explores how Indian healers often see psychological symptoms as disruptions in the communal or spiritual field.
What if, instead of only asking "what's wrong with this person?", we also asked: "What might this suffering be saying about the community they are part of?"

An Invitation to Reflect on Our Own Communities
In the UK today, 1 in 4 adults report experiencing mental health issues, according to the latest NHS data. While part of this can be attributed to greater awareness and diagnosis, it's also worth asking—what kind of society are we living in where so many are struggling?
Our communities are often fragmented—split along political, racial, economic, and ideological lines. Social media and the pressures of late capitalism can leave us feeling simultaneously overstimulated and alone. For many, particularly those on the margins—including queer, trans, and racialised individuals—the experience of community can be mixed, even painful.
So perhaps this Mental Health Awareness Week is more than just a call to check in with each other. It is also an invitation to ask harder questions:
•    What kinds of communities are we building?
•    Who is left out or pushed to the edges?
•    How can we participate in communities that nourish, include, and liberate?

The Way Forward: Healing Through Connection
The theme of ‘Community’ reminds us that mental health isn’t just personal—it’s political, cultural, and spiritual. And while the work of healing begins within, it must ripple outward. We need safe spaces to be witnessed, held, and celebrated. We need to know we are not alone.
As Bell Hooks wrote in All About Love:
“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”
Let this week be a time to not only raise awareness but raise community—and to dream into being the kinds of structures, relationships, and cultures that make true mental wellbeing possible for all.

As we step into the heart of spring in the Northern Hemisphere, the month of May invites us into a moment of pause and reflection. For many countries around the world, the first of May is marked by a national holiday—Labour Day or May Day. While this day often brings a welcome respite from work and the promise of longer, warmer days, it also carries a profound historical and psychospiritual significance that is worth revisiting.

A Brief History of Labour Day
Labour Day has its roots in the international labor movement’s struggle for fair working conditions. The modern celebration originated in the late 19th century, notably with the Haymarket affair in Chicago in 1886. Workers were striking in support of an eight-hour workday, and what began as a peaceful demonstration tragically turned violent. This pivotal moment in labour history is why many countries now observe International Workers’ Day on May 1st—commemorating the fight for justice, dignity, and safety in labour.

For more on this history, you might find A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn a helpful and evocative resource.

Labour as a Celebration of Will
Looking at this day through a psychospiritual lens, I’m drawn to a deeper reflection: Could Labour Day also represent a celebration of the human will?
In Psychosynthesis, a transpersonal psychology developed by Roberto Assagioli, the will is not merely about force or discipline. It is a dynamic, nuanced energy that helps us align our actions with deeper meaning and values. Labour, in this view, becomes more than economic output—it is a spiritual expression of our ability to choose, to act, and to care.
From a Tantric or Hindu spiritual perspective, we might understand this as an expression of Shakti—the primordial creative energy, often described as the divine feminine. Shakti moves through the world as action, change, and life-force—always dynamic, always potent.

The Three Types of Will in Psychosynthesis
Assagioli proposed that the will has several qualities and expressions, but for simplicity, let’s consider three broad types of will:
1.    No Will – This is a state of apathy or disconnection, where we feel unable or unwilling to act. Sometimes this emerges from trauma, burnout, or deep disillusionment.
2.    Strong Will – Here, the will is active and focused, able to get things done and push through obstacles. While this can be admirable, it may lack sensitivity or alignment with ethical or relational values.
3.    Good Will – This is the most balanced and evolved form of will. It is strong, yes, but also loving. Good will integrates purpose with compassion—it seeks to serve not just the self, but the collective and the planet.

Assagioli explores this deeply in his book The Act of Will, which I highly recommend if you're curious about developing a more holistic and conscious approach to willpower.

Where Are We Now?
Looking around the world today, I wonder—might we be facing an imbalance in these expressions of will?
On one hand, many of us may feel overwhelmed by crises—climate, war, inequality—and fall into a kind of psychic fatigue, a state of "no will." On the other, we see systems driven by an excess of "strong will"—where speed, dominance, and unchecked productivity are prized, often at the cost of care. Think of corporate mantras like "move fast and break things"—a phrase that valorises disruption without always considering its impact.

This is why, as we honour Labour Day, it feels more important than ever to contemplate how we can cultivate and practice good will—in ourselves, our work, and our communities.
As we enjoy our upcoming holiday—perhaps with a bit of sun, rest, or quiet—I humbly offer a small inquiry:
What would it look like to labour in this world with more kindness, more consciousness, more good will?
Might we approach our efforts—not only in our jobs, but in our homes, our relationships, our activism—with both strength and love?
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Perhaps this May Day, we can plant a small seed of this intention within ourselves: to live and work in a way that honours not only our capacities, but our compassion. A celebration not just of labour, but of the will that makes that labour meaningful.

It’s been disheartening to witness the unfolding situation surrounding the recent UK Supreme Court ruling on the legal definition of a woman. The decision has reignited a complex and emotionally charged conversation about gender identity, rights, and belonging.

Having grown up in a country that recognises a third gender, I often find myself uncomfortable with the rigidity of binary gender structures. The lived experience of gender, in my view, resists such narrow definitions. It's not only that people are more diverse than these binaries allow; it's that reality itself seems more fluid, more nuanced, more alive than any rigid classification.

What I find particularly disappointing is the polarity of the debate. Conversations have hardened into entrenched positions, leaving little room for curiosity, complexity, or genuine discourse. When we lose the ability to engage with nuance, we also lose an opportunity for deeper connection and understanding.

Perhaps a psycho-spiritual perspective might offer a different way forward—one that doesn’t deny the real struggles and political stakes involved but offers a wider lens through which to view them.
Across multiple psychological and spiritual traditions, there is a recurring recognition of two fundamental energies that shape our inner and outer worlds.

Carl Jung, for instance, described the anima and animus as inner contrasexual archetypes—the anima representing the inner feminine in a man, and the animus representing the inner masculine in a woman. These concepts invite us to develop a relationship with the "other" within us, fostering a kind of inner balance or integration. [Jung, C.G. (1959). Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self.]

Tantric philosophy speaks similarly of the interplay between Shiva and Shakti. Shiva is consciousness, stillness, and pure awareness, while Shakti is energy, movement, and manifestation. The union of these forces—what some call the divine marriage—is considered essential for spiritual wholeness. [Feuerstein, G. (1998). Tantra: The Path of Ecstasy.]

One modern psychological model that avoids gendered language entirely is Psychosynthesis, developed by Roberto Assagioli. He spoke of two core energies--love and will—as foundational forces in our psyche. Love is the impulse toward unity and connection, while will provides direction, strength, and focus. Assagioli emphasized the importance of synthesizing these energies within ourselves to become whole human beings. [Assagioli, R. (1973). The Act of Will.]

This synthesis has multiple fascinating and beautiful ways of manifesting. For some, it might take the form of transitioning or stepping away from the gender binary altogether. These are not acts of confusion or rebellion, but deeply personal ways of seeking harmony between these archetypal energies—of embodying love and will, Shiva and Shakti, anima and animus—in a way that feels authentic and integrated.

From what I’ve read and understood, what most women, trans and non-binary activists are asking for is quite simple: safety. To be honest, safety is something everyone should have. If we can hold a psycho-spiritual lens and see the other not as a threat but as a divine being on their own journey toward inner synthesis, perhaps this awareness can lead us to meet each other with profound respect.

Surely respect is the soil in which safety grows. And safety, in turn, allows each of us to unfold, to explore, and to express the particular shape that these sacred energies take within us.
In the end, perhaps the most important question isn’t about which category someone fits into, but how we can help one another in the shared task of becoming whole.