Ageism isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s subtle, with a look, a comment, or an assumption…How ever it shows up, ageism can leave us feeling invisible, devalued, or left behind.

Growth in later life often brings a richness that that we thought was for youth alone. But there’s something deeply powerful about making choices with the wisdom of experience behind you. There’s a strength in deciding to begin again, not because you have to, but because you want to.

Whether it’s a sweeping cinematic score, a nostalgic tune from our childhood, or even a singalong in the car, music provides valuable moments of connection to ourselves and to each other.

It’s fair to say that most of us are familiar with stress in the form of a breakup, a diagnosis, or a job loss, for example. These moments of disruption are easily recognisable as emotionally taxing. But what about the kind of stress that’s harder to name, when nothing overtly dreadful is happening?

Music, in many ways, is a universal language and I love how it connects us, not just presently, but beyond life too

What if, instead of fighting these parts of ourselves, we became more curious about them? This is not to romanticise suffering. Nobody wants to live with chronic anxiety or depression. But re-framing symptoms as creative, adaptive responses changes the tone of the conversation. It introduces self-compassion. It softens the inner critic and offers hope.

Childhood trauma, be it from neglect, loss, abuse, or instability, leaves invisible but enduring marks. The child’s developing brain is shaped by their environments and relationships and when the world feels unsafe or unpredictable, survival mechanisms and coping strategies kick in. Hypervigilance, withdrawal, perfectionism, and people-pleasing are just some of the ways children adapt in order to feel a sense of control or protection.

In that moment with the stone, I wasn’t just grounded, the interconnectedness of nature was palpable. My grief, my healing, my joy, and my heritage were all allowed space in the vast, wordless understanding of the natural world. I was reminded that healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t always come in silence or stillness.

What struck me most was how normal life could appear. During the lulls between shelling and gunfire, children would return to school and laugh and play in the village streets. Despite the chaos of their reality, there was a resilience in them that insisted on the normalcy of play, learning, and connection.

It’s hard to look at our world right now and not feel a sense of concern. Our social feeds are filled with misery. Wars are raging, innocent lives are lost, voices rising with anger, while others are silenced in fear. The rise of extremist ideologies, the demonising of difference, and the uncertainty of our shared future don’t just exist out there.

I see the therapeutic journey mirrored in the rhythm of nature, with its seasons of rest, bloom, decay, and renewal. We move through our own inner seasons where at times we feel cold and stripped bare, and there are the times we bloom and smile again.