The six pillars that ground me
Journaling changed everything for me. It gave me a space to be brutally honest. A way to slow the mind, rein in the wandering, and tune into what’s actually happening—inside my head, and in my heart.
Over time, that honesty brought clarity. Not about goals or plans—but about values. What actually matters to me. What keeps me steady when life moves fast—or tries to pull me under.
That clarity lives in these six pillars.
They aren’t rules. They’re not universal truths. They are also nothing new. However, they are personal—and evolving. Like a river, they shift with the seasons. They help me navigate not just the surface-level currents of daily life, but also the deeper undertows: distraction, self-doubt, old habits that still tug at my ankles.
Some weeks, I’m in flow—aligned, present, grounded. Other times, I drift. I lose sight. But these pillars help me notice. They bring me back. If a day or week feels off, I can usually trace it to one of them being ignored. If it feels alive—it’s because I’ve honoured them.
Your pillars will be different. They should be. But defining them—really knowing how they show up in your life—is a game-changer.
Otherwise, it’s all drift. And one day, you wake up somewhere you never meant to be.
1. Wisdom is freedom
Stay open. Stay curious.
I’ve learned more from being wrong than from being right.
Wisdom isn’t about knowing—it’s about unlearning, noticing, asking better questions. It’s a quiet kind of power.
Reading helps. So does writing. So does being wrong and realising it. Sometimes wisdom shows up in a book or a conversation. Sometimes it bubbles up in my journaling. Most of the time, I’m not looking for answers—I’m just trying to see things more clearly.
The more I pay attention, the freer I feel.
2. Love yourself
Look after the body. Look after the soul.
When I move, I feel better. When I drink less, I feel clearer. When I sleep, eat, rest—properly—I feel like the version of me I actually want to be. The good one. The clear one.
Loving myself isn’t a feeling. It’s a practice. It’s in the choices I make when no one’s watching. It means forgiving myself when I mess up. Listening when something feels off. Paying attention to the things that deplete me—and the things that lift me.
Some days I get pulled off course. But loving myself means noticing sooner, and choosing differently faster.
3. Love others
The best form of love is presence. Not fixing. Not performing. Just being there—fully.
I want to offer that to the people I care about. My family. My friends. But also the stranger I pass on the towpath. Say hello. Smile. Mean it. Watch their eyes respond to the spark that happens when two people actually see each other.
It’s not just about people. The connection I feel when I look into Woody’s eyes—when I take time to play with him, really be with him—is just as real. It’s still love. It still matters.
Loving others means being genuine. Honest. But most of all, it means showing up. Not just physically—but with attention. With care.
4. Breathe it in
This is about slowing down. Taking time to breathe. To notice. To listen.
In the mornings, with a hot mug of tea, I sit with Woody by my side and take time for myself—to meditate, to journal, to watch the sunlight bounce off the river and onto the ceiling. It helps me recalibrate for the day ahead.
I enjoy pausing mid-walk to listen to birdsong or study the sunlight breaking through the tree canopy. These moments remind me I’m part of something vast and flowing.
We’re all made of the same stuff—part of something much bigger. And when I remember that, the dramas feel smaller. Less urgent.
This isn’t about checking out. It’s about tuning in.
5. Make it matter
I want to do work that means something. That uses my creativity with care. That feels aligned—not just impressive.
Making it matter means asking why I’m doing something before chasing how. It means being proud of what I put into the world. Not in a polished, performative way—but in a quiet, inner sense of integrity.
I’m not chasing success in the old way. I’ve done that. I want to build something I can stand behind. Something that contributes, not just consumes.
6. Time is ticking
I don’t want to sleepwalk through life. Or spend my days on things that drain me just because they’re easy.
Distraction is everywhere. So is fear. Fear of starting. Fear of failing. Fear of not knowing where something will go. But here’s what I’ve learned: most of the momentum comes after the first step. Clarity often follows action.
This isn’t about pressure. It’s not about squeezing life dry or chasing endless goals. It’s about choosing to live awake. To start something without knowing where it leads. To make the call. Begin the project. Get out of bed and make the day mean something.
Time is always moving. So I try to move with it—intentionally. With care. With meaning.