Last week I found myself voluntarily swimming for six hours in 15.7° water. On paper, that sounds a bit mad. In reality, it felt like a strange homecoming: back to the cold, back to the rhythm of stroke, back to that quiet question I keep asking myself – how far can I really go? I was reminded that my mental resilience is strong, and I am lucky not to feel the cold as much as others do. My quiet superpowers held me in good stead. Since my Sealand Swim last year, I’ve been intrigued, if not a little excited, about discovering my edges. I’ve dared to dream about a Channel solo swim – a thought that still feels outrageous when I say it out loud and yet is more “yes” than “no” every time I check in with myself. I’ve also noticed how the people I spend time with change what feels possible. The more I hang out with Channel solo swimmers, the more normalised the idea of doing it myself becomes. They talk about tides and feeds, jellyfish and night swimming, with the same casual tone other people use to talk about their commute. Being around them shrinks the gap between “impossible” and “maybe I could”. Then I speak to my non‑swimming friends, who go pale at the mention of 14‑hour swims and shipping lanes, and I’m reminded that what feels ordinary in one community can seem utterly extraordinary in another. Their visible anxiety has been interesting to sit with. On the one hand, I feel incredibly held by their concern; on the other, I’ve had to get clearer about what is fear‑based “don’t do it” and what is genuine, practical care for my safety. It’s made me reflect on how often we absorb other people’s limitations as our own. How many dreams get quietly shelved because someone else can’t imagine themselves doing it? My swimming journey has been transformational for my mental health and resilience, as well as my physical health. When I first started, it was simply about moving my body and finding some headspace. Over time, it has become the place I go to remember who I am. There is something about immersing myself in cold water, the shock, the breath, the focus, that presses a reset button inside me. It is so calming and yet energising at the same time. Every time I achieve something new in the water – a longer distance, a colder temperature, a tougher sea – it ripples into other areas of my life. If I can stay calm when my face is burning with cold, maybe I can stay calmer in a difficult conversation. If I can keep swimming when the sea is choppy, perhaps I can keep going when a work project feels overwhelming. The water has become a rehearsal room for courage. If I can swim through stormy waters and come out smiling, then life is good. I’m discovering that resilience is less about gritting my teeth and more about staying connected – to my body, to my values, to the supporters around me. My swimming community has been just as powerful as the swimming itself. The incredibly encouraging swimmers I’ve met along the way have taught me the importance of cheerleaders and of getting outside your comfort zone. But having cheerleaders doesn’t mean they always tell you it will be easy. It means they hold your belief when yours wobbles. They remind you of the training you’ve done, the swims you’ve already completed, the grit you’ve shown on days when the chop was high and the wind unkind. When my self-talk wavers, I can rely on them to lift me up. When I think about a potential Channel solo, I still feel that familiar mix of excitement and fear. But underneath it, there is a steadier knowing – a sense that something inside me is indeed so strong. Not invincible, not reckless, just quietly, stubbornly strong. For now, I’m taking it one cold swim, one training session, one conversation at a time.  Maybe that’s the real invitation, whether you swim or not: to ask yourself where your “channel” lies, what cold, slightly outrageous thing is calling you. To surround yourself with people who expand your sense of what’s possible. And to remember that even in the choppiest waters, you might be stronger than you think.

I was asked the other day what my latest project was – is it events or is it coaching? On the surface, it’s a simple question, but this lens feels far too small for me. We live in a world that loves tidy labels, quick LinkedIn headlines and neat “What do you do?” answers, and yet few people have the time or curiosity to get to know who we are underneath those labels. I find myself entering 2026 less tied to a routine, but with a stronger awareness of who I am and where I’d like to put my energy. The more I learn about myself and my values, the harder it is to squeeze what I do into a job title. So I’ve stopped trying. Instead, I talk about finding ways to connect, to build communities, to inspire others to be the best they can be – and the places I do this take many shapes and forms. Part of the discomfort comes from how much of our identity we’ve been taught to hook onto work - “I’m a lawyer” “I’m a teacher” “I’m in events.” These phrases are useful shortcuts, but they can become boxes that feel increasingly tight as we grow and change. A portfolio of different roles – a mix of projects, interests and income streams – is becoming more common, yet our language hasn’t quite caught up. When your week spans facilitating a workshop one day, coaching someone through a career crossroads the next, and then hosting a community event, the old labels start to feel flimsy. What sits beneath it all, for me, is a desire to create spaces where people feel seen, connected and alive.​ So how can we support people to find more meaning in their lives, rather than pushing them back into the nearest box? I think it starts with the questions we ask. Instead of “What do you do?”, we might ask “What are you curious about at the moment?” or “Where are you feeling most alive in your life right now?” Open questions invite longer, more thoughtful answers and help people feel genuinely heard. They gently signal that it’s safe to bring more of themselves into the conversation, not just the polished job‑title version. We also need to be careful about the assumptions we make about what a “good” path looks like. It might be the promotion and the bigger job title – but it might equally be a sideways step, a portfolio career, a season of freelancing or a role that pays less but fits your values more. So many of us quietly crave change but talk ourselves out of it because we don’t have “enough experience” in a new field. Yet if we look honestly at our lives, we are often carrying a rich mix of transferable skills and lived experience: the projects we’ve led, the teams we’ve supported, the crises we’ve navigated, the care work we’ve done. All of this counts. The bigger question is whether we are prepared to take a risk on ourselves. Leaning into this messier, more fluid way of living can feel unsettling. It often leads to a richer life, but also a more complex one – less certainty, fewer straight lines, and more conversations where you see people’s eyes slightly glaze over as you try to explain “what you do now.” A life built around what makes you come alive can mean sitting with more ambiguity day to day, trusting that clarity comes from action rather than over‑thinking. But it also offers more chances to feel in flow, to notice that you are fully present in a moment, using your strengths in service of something that matters to you. I’m reminded of the Howard Thurman quote: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” I come back to this often. It doesn’t mean ignoring responsibilities or pretending life is simple. To me, it is an invitation to keep asking: Where do I feel most alive? How can I bring more of that into my work, my relationships, my community – even in small, everyday ways? When we follow that thread, we don’t just step out of the box for ourselves; we quietly give others permission to do the same.  So perhaps the more helpful question for all of us this year isn’t “What’s your job?” but “What are you building?” A life, a community, a practice, a body of work – even if it doesn’t fit neatly on a business card.