We move through life as if there are endless days to come. And while we’ve all heard that trope of “You could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” we’re all stubborn enough to believe that it’ll never happen to us.

So we keep moving through the days, sometimes more mindlessly that we’d care to admit. Forgetting that one day, a life in this body will cease to exist.

We’ll be returned to source once more, remembering our true home, and that our life there on Earth was a mere blip in the grand scheme of all that is.

‘Earth School’ some people call it.

I’ve heard it described as a stage, one where we play roles like characters working off of a script. What if there is indeed a script? Society’s script…

The one we’re handed in childhood and quickly learn through a series of unspoken rules and harsh expectations. Our divine nature squished into a confirming body, our soul slipping into the shadows of our being as the ego and monkey mind take centre stage.

Is this life a series of remembering and forgetting?

In forgetting, we enter this life with fresh eyes and new lessons. We forget our true nature as ageless souls that have transcended through many lifetimes.

But some people remember…

After falling down a rabbit hole of Near-Death Experiences (NDEs), my perspective on life began to shift entirely. Not only on what happens after death, but the impact we have during our time on this earth. The true nature of reality, and of our energetic footprint.

I have linked a few of the videos below. Each of these opened my eyes to that which exists far beyond this reality, and how to integrate this knowledge into daily life.

This is a crazy lil rabbit hole that is altering my brain chemistry. I’d love to know your thoughts in the comments. 🍿

All my love,

Lauren Amber Bradshaw

(A.k.a Amber Fox)

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• Dr Bruce Grayson M.D. on Mayim Bialik’s Breakdown

• Elizabeth Krohn’s first-hand experience:

• Elizabeth Krohn on Mayim Bialik’s Breakdown (with Jeffrey J. Kripal who uses scientific frameworks to explain her NDE):

• Betty Guadadno on Mayim Bialik’s Breakdown (one of my personal favourites!):

• Erica McKenzie on Coming Home:

• Philip Hasheider on Coming Home:

What are your thoughts on Near-Death Experiences or life after death? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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All my love,

Lol Padgett x

Recently, I found myself becoming detached. Deflated.

My creative process had become so intertwined with the outcome that I began losing my love for the very thing I was creating. My attention became fixated on results—on perception and comparison.

When did creating art become so serious?

I remember drawing because I loved the feel of pen on paper as I swished and circled around—entirely detached from the notion that anyone would ever look upon my art through a critical lens.

I wrote like that too, because to do so felt as though something higher was working through me; my fingers a conduit to something far higher than myself. I wrote so fast that I didn’t know where it all came from, as though I’d tapped into a limitless well of creativity.

Had that well dried up?

The answer was yes and no.

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This intrinsic well is a finite resource that can run dry if you focus solely on the output, something Julia Cameron describes in The Artist’s Way. She writes about how “filling the well” is the vital act of replenishing your internal reservoir of creative energy, be it through images, ideas, meditation, morning pages, or anything of the like.

But if you get pulled into the machine of constant output—rarely resting, rarely refilling—you begin depleting yourself. The quality of your work can suffer, and the love of your work definitely does. The lack of inspiration washes over you like a tidal wave, clearing all previous works from its path and convincing you that you’ll never have a worthy idea again.

Unfortunately, I fell into this trap (again) recently.

After starting to post on TikTok as a way to promote my writing, the pesky ‘For You’ page quickly gathered my attention. Suddenly, I was spending hours flicking through other people’s videos. Some were intentional, helpful even—but most were not. As I doomscrolled, that glorious reservoir of creativity quickly dried up.

“How do I even begin to compete amongst a sea of writers and mentors and kids dancing on the internet?”, I fretted as I ate my third mini magnum and scrolled further. Before I knew it, my inspiration had shrivelled into the size of a prune. If I listened close enough, I might have even heard it cry for help.

I spent a few days feeling sorry for myself, before journalling my way back to the real issue at hand…

I had become so focused on the outcome, that I had disregarded my love of creating entirely.

This social media endeavour that had started out as a way to promote my writing had, ironically, stopped me from writing. (What the hell?!)

I laughed out loud when I realised the paradoxical trap that I had set for myself. Self-sabotage had struck again, and I was dumbfounded (again).

So here I am, reminded of the fact that I must create for the love of creating.

Not for the desired outcome or growth metrics, but for the little girl that resides deep within me. The girl who wants to play and dance and create, with zero regard for how her creations might be regarded in the make-believe ether of social media.

A Conversation I’d Love to Have

If this debacle sounds familiar, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Leave a comment

All my love,

Lol Padgett x

We are portals to life, the vessel through which all humans are made.

Society, however, has bound us to the stake of heavy expectations. Of asking everything of women to the point of exhausti…

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She didn’t feel comfortable around most girls. There was an unspoken competition, paired with a quiet certainty that she would never be good enough.

She wasn’t stylish or particularly sporty. She was funny, but only in the company of people who felt safe. Outside of that tight inner circle of family and a handful of close friends, the world saw a subdued version of her. A shell.

What they didn’t see was the battle she was waging in her own mind. The boisterous inner child pressing against the cage of her carefully contained exterior.

Without a clear sense of self, she searched for validation the only way she knew how—through boys.

Male attention came easily to her. Effortlessly, at times. Boys were eager, and she learned how to play that to her advantage.

But while those dynamics gave her a sense of worth, they also deeply unsettled her. At any moment, the roles could reverse—and she would become the one chasing. Such was the volatility of teenage relationships.

How do you keep the ‘upper hand’? You keep them on their toes, she surmised.

She split up and made up with her high school sweetheart a record of seven times during their four-year courtship. He was popular, gifted with surfer-like good looks, and effortlessly likeable. Their peers got to know her through him. “So-and-so’s girlfriend”.

She embraced it and rejected it in equal measure.

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Without realising it, this became the blueprint for my love life as I passed from adolescence into early adulthood. Relentlessly pouring myself into a male counterpart, then hating the fact that I have given away my independence—particularly when my efforts were not returned in kind. I blamed them, of course. Even if only subconsciously.

I prioritised men over female friendships. And even though I managed to make some good friends over the years, those relationships would inevitably perish in the wake of a new boyfriend on the scene.

I never spent too long on my own, so any girlfriends I had were few and far between. Like an addict, I searched for the next hit—the next person. Seldom would you find me lonely; I could hardly stand the thought of it.

I excelled at running from myself. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being left in my own company. It was too harsh an environment, that sadistic inner world of mine. I committed years of my life to running as far away from myself as I could.

Unsurprisingly, my sense of self remained almost non-existent. I resorted to ‘finding myself’ only through the eyes—and arms—of a man. It was only when I found myself in a secure relationship with someone who played no games, that my nervous system realised that it was safe to simply be.

God knew what she was doing, because this relationship coincided with a period of life where someone slapped a self-development book on my lap for the first time. This was a topic I didn’t know existed, let alone something that people practiced in their day-to-day lives.

It was the rabbit hole I didn’t know I needed.

What ensued was a seven year journey of becoming. Of finally going inward. Of turning toward that girl that I had spent my entire life running from.

Somewhere along the way, I started prioritising my female friendships—which became by far the best decision I ever made. Being able to confide in women who were actively navigating their own journeys gave me the confidence to venture into my own. We leaned on each other, cried to one another, sent twenty-minute-long voice notes, and showed up at each other’s doors with wine, weed, and chocolate when we needed it most.

Slowly, I detached my self-worth from the internalised male gaze.

I stopped policing myself, trying to make myself smaller, more palatable. The shell I had forged around myself broke over and over again; a new layer of boundaries arriving around the woman that kept growing beyond measure.

Today, my sense of self has nothing to do with how I am perceived, and everything to do with the rich inner world that I have earned for myself. Through peeling back layers of ego and shame, I uncovered a woman so expansive, so vibrant, that I have no other choice than to let her shine in the way she was always destined to.

My heart aches for the 13-year-old girl now. I only wish I could tell her of the woman we became. Something tells me she’ll find out, one day.

All my love,

Lol Padgett x

When we start dressing more expressively, when we stand our ground and advocate for ourselves, it can be instantly accompanied by a need to shrink back into your comfort zone as quickly as you came out of it. Whatever we’re not used to will often be met with an instant need to retreat, your nervous system screaming at you to seek safety immediately.

This morning, I pieced together a divine outfit. Feminine, flowing, glowing. A metallic orange skirt paired with an electric blue, backless top with no bra in sight. Carefully selected jewellery paired with the boots and bag to match—this outfit felt nothing less than magnificent, and I felt that way too.

That was until I stepped out of the house.

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The moment that I left the comfort zone of my home, I instantly felt eyes upon me. Real or imagined, their presence was damning. Suddenly, taking up visual space felt like the most daunting thing I’d ever done. As I continued walking, strangers smiling or gawking or entirely ignoring, I felt myself wanting to shrink into the background, partly wishing I’d worn the uniform that everyone else seemed to have donned—blacks and greys and beiges. Mutable tones, not drawing too much attention.

Is this the unspoken rule? That we will not, must not, draw too much focus toward ourselves? What insurmountable fate could we be welcoming into our lives by dressing freely, by expressing ourselves fully?

In expressing our fullness, are we inadvertently raising our hand for something our subconscious knows not to volunteer for? I don’t think any of us ever got the written memo; but this unspoken rule is one that many of us succumbed to without ever realising what we were signing up for.

Oftentimes, it’s not until we begin expressing ourselves freely that this unwritten memo rears its head. When you stand out, stand up, your nervous system can feel attacked, even though nothing in your reality has actually changed. Suddenly your body is screaming at you to retract, to stop taking up space.

For me, as I continued to walk toward my intended destination in this flowing, colourful outfit, I began sweating profusely. The decision to go braless was welcomed by underboob sweat, my eyes feeling more comfortable on the ground than straight ahead.

I kept going. Kept putting one foot in front of the other as I made the effort to raise my chin upward. I reminded myself that I was indeed safe, and invited my fretting mind to join me at the centre point deep within. Ah, hello again.

I forgot myself for a moment there, but here I am. In this present moment.

With God above and my roots below, I felt myself grounding into every step I took. Gradually, my heart began to settle, calming its strenuous beating into a steady rhythm. When I return to my vessel, to this body who is indeed safe, I am reminded that I am just as safe now, out in the open, as I was in front of the mirror shaking my ass to Cardi B. That same confidence can exist out in the open too, because nothing has changed except my external environment—and external environments do not hold power over me. The extrinsic reality does not warrant relinquishing my intrinsic peace. What kind of shitty trade-off would that be, anyway?

If we place ourselves at the mercy of our external environments, we become as weightless as a piece of dandelion fluff, the wind mercilessly carrying us on an endless breeze of opinions and expectations. We become carried away by the ever-changing landscape of people and situations and whatever else would like us to bend to its will.

But when we ground ourselves within the present moment and within our body, we become sturdy enough that the once-threatening winds no longer have the power to shift us. Instead, we continue following the course that we set for ourselves.

We can still feel the air floating by, it might caress our body and kiss our cheek. We can be refreshed by it, enlightened even, but it does not take precedence over our sovereignty. It does not get to make the decision as to where you will go next.

That decision remains with you and you alone.

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All my love,

Lol Padgett x

Our life loses life.

Our life force begins to slowy fade. So slow that we barely notice it. 

Like a frog in gradually boiling water, unable to feel the impending doom. 

Could we be the frog that placed itself into this hard and confined pressure cooker?

The temperature slowly rising out of ego and misalignment, until it eventually boils over the surface…

We’re so good at building fortresses around ourselves, paved with fancy-sounding job titles and 5-year plans. But how often do we pause long enough to ask whether this is what we really want for ourselves?

I wonder if these ivory towers built in isolation are born of us copying what someone else is doing.

Born out of complete resignation to the fact that none of us actually know what we’re doing.

“Well that’s what they’re doing over there, so I guess I’ll do the same.”

We find ourselves building the same ‘rat race’ cornerstones into our lives:

Finish college, get a degree, acquire a good job title that evokes mild interest when you tell your parents’ friends what you do. A small sense of pride might even enter as you catch your dad’s smile in your periphery. “It’s worth it just for that”, your subconscious ego might tell you.

Is it? Is it worth it?

That job that sounds good when you discuss it over drinks, but actually leaches the energy from your bones as you sit at the same desk each day, completing the monotonous workload that never shows signs of slowing down.

Is this what I was looking forward to as a child? When I daydreamed about becoming an adult and having my independence? “I can do anything!”, or so I thought. 

But now I’m here, and it’s draining me ever so slowly. 

Anyway, I have rent to pay and those flights to book, and drinks at the weekend. I can’t stop now, even if I wanted to—so why even entertain the idea?

The reason you entertain the idea is because a life of sovereignty could lay upon the other side.

Yes, the unknown can pose a great deal of discomfort—I will never claim otherwise. But it also guides you, aligning you onto a path that your soul has been screaming for you to follow from deep within. 

You’ve always known there was more. And yet you succumbed to what everyone else was doing. It might have even seemed like the easier option—especially given that the well-travelled path comes with far less judgement than the one you forge on your own.

“Who does she think she is?”, they might throw with a glance down their nose. “Does she think she’s better than us?”

The answer is no. 

But while they’re busy climbing a ladder so quickly that they forgot where it leads, you could be running through the hidden pine trails of the forest, discovering new adventures and trusting your heart to guide you along the right path.

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The trust that you build with your intuition is based upon a relationship you forge with your own body, with your nervous system.

When you begin listening to the small nudges of that inner knowing, and you act upon them, you nurture that relationship.

Your body begins to trust you, believing that if it speaks up that you will truly listen and take action.

You have to get quiet enough to do so, however. Those innocent nudges come quietly, especially at first. And if you’re battling them against the outside noise of rules and expectations, they can quickly lose their voice amidst the chaos.

You must grow quiet enough to listen.

To open a space welcoming enough for the unseen to weave its way into your life. 

If you should be so brave, you could find yourself living a life beyond your greatest imaginings.

The divine has a way crafting beauty and wonder into our lives—but first, we must surrender. 

All my love,

Lol Padgett x

…Except, do you? Or are our lives merely a product of what we breathe life into?

In the early days of courtship, passion and lust can easily be mistaken for the illustrious ‘knowing’. The infatuation we have with one another is a drug like none other. Our dreams of what could be become intertwined with what is. Blinded by sweet n…

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A Letter from 80-Year-Old Lol

Hello, my dear,

I am you, only 60 linear years later. You’re looking gorgeous, you know—and so am I, of course ;)

I see that anxiety on your heart. I know you feel it. It weighs heavy sometimes. Who placed it there? I know for damn sure that it wasn’t me. Was it? That younger version of both of us did what she needed to surviv…

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Overindulgence is something I’ve been contemplating a lot lately—the way we swing from excess to restriction, and back again. The pendulum that never seems to rest.

We work ourselves into burn out, chasing achievements often set by others more than ourselves. We keep reaching, persevering until we meet our breaking point, before collapsing into a puddle and exclaiming, “I need a holiday!”.

But you know that score: when we get on said holiday, we do the complete opposite of everything we’ve been doing in the run up to it.

• Been dieting? Eat to fill your boots.

• Been working excessively? Do absolutely nothing (and likely feel a subtle pang of guilt for not checking in with work).

• Dry January? Not anymore! *Runs to the all-inclusive bar*

Everything we do swings from one extreme to the other. But there’s something about this that reflects the laws of physics. When you do any one thing to excess, balance must be restored. We see this clearly in addiction: dopamine receptors are driven to their peak before crashing even lower than where they started. The system overcorrects. It has to. Balance always seeks itself out.

There’s an expression that rings true for this, among many other aspects of life:

“The pendulum never stops swinging.”

Life was designed to be navigated across ever-changing landscapes. We need certainty (safety, stability, security) as much as we need uncertainty (spontaneity, surprise). It’s healthy to move through our lives with a healthy balance of most things we come into contact with. However, when we start messing with that balance, as we pesky humans love to do, life will inevitably restore its symbiotic nature; someway, somehow. The needle cannot stay at one side of the pendulum forever. (As the film The Substance scarily illustrates!).

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This equilibrium has evaded me for as long as I can remember. Binge-and-restrict cycles inspired my eating disorder, restricting myself to the furthest degree before binging so much that it hurt my stomach. It’s always been present, and it’s always had a hold over me. That is until these past few months…

After leaving my last job, I’ve been consciously resetting my nervous system. Working full time across two roles whilst studying a degree and planning a wedding at the same time had taken me into the depths of burn out. My intuition was growing louder, until it became so loud that I could no longer ignore it. It told me that I needed to leave, to pause, to reset. After getting all of my ducks in a row and preparing as much as I could for a career hiatus, I stepped into what felt like the abyss.

It felt uncomfortable at first, having nowhere to be, no one to please. I had suddenly been gifted with an abundance of time and no plans on how to fill it.

It’s within this great pause that balance began to restore itself. My life, my nervous system, was no longer being taken to extremities. I discovered peace in the rest that I was taking. No longer bound by expectations, rigid working hours, and assignments pouring from an almost-empty vessel.

As I began to slow down, my intrinsic well began to fill back up. When I stopped depleting my resources, I began to recover. Balance was being restored; equilibrium was finally finding a home within me.

That was until I headed on a trusty all-inclusive holiday to Jamaica with my husband and some of our dear friends.

After 16 hours of travelling, I was greeted by an enormous buffet and a very empty stomach. Almost instinctively, I filled my plate with everything brown and beige. Pizza, pasta, jerk chicken—oh my! This plate looks like a delicious mountain that could give you a heart attack just by looking at it. What happened next, you ask? A horrendous stomach ache that was the painstakingly obvious reflection of my overindulgence.

Meanwhile, our super health-conscious friend sat gleaming after demolishing his colourful (also mountainous) plate of food. And suddenly, his healthy choices became my unexpected catalyst.

My holiday plates began to change—still mountainous, still satisfying, but full of colour and nourishment. And the way I felt for the rest of the holiday reflected that shift. Energised. Grounded. Content. Those choices followed me home, quietly influencing how I eat now, without force or rules.

That pendulum is still swinging, but it sways closer to the middle now. Less violent. Less exhausting. And as the saying goes, how you do one thing is how you do everything.

As balance returns in my body, it continues to unfold in other areas of my life too. And for that, I’m deeply grateful.

I am learning that equilibrium doesn’t come from discipline or deprivation, it comes from learning to live somewhere between burnout and escape.

A Conversation I’d Love to Have

I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Have you experienced your own version of burnout and overindulgence? How has this played out in your life?

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Thank you for taking the time to read this article. If you’d like to explore consciousness, courage, and the quiet rebellion of choosing your life on purpose, this is the perfect corner of the internet for you. Subscribe to follow along and join the conversation.

All my love,

Lol x

I am sitting at my desk, though it feels more like an altar than a workspace. My office (or sanctuary) is scattered with glowing candlesticks, crystals gathered across different chapters of my life, and photographs of my younger self, taken long before the outside world played any role in my outward expression.

Each morning, I write three pages in what looks like the Hobbit’s journal, taking pause every now and again to gaze outside of the window opposite me. A pigeon rests quietly on a branch straight ahead, while another pair of birds fight for their space in this grandiose tree.

Once my Morning Pages are complete, I pull from a tarot deck that I am instinctively learning how to read. These readings are just for me—a pocket of the morning reserved for the witchy part of myself that spent years being suppressed but now feels rich and expansive.

These mornings are sacred. A window into my soul’s intricate details. Consciousness—or God—feels closer to me here.

My inner life has unfolded through years of asking uncomfortable questions, meeting old demons, and shedding past selves. There was a younger version of me that would tell white lies to paint a perfect image in the minds of those she sought to impress. Her outer life took a much higher priority than her inner life could even dare to compete with. But of course, an ego-led life can only go on for so long. Eventually, severe depression took hold. Daily panic attacks and crippling shame were the results of a life built upon external validation, one that inevitably collapsed under its own weight.

I have detailed my journey back to self in previous articles, but the balance between my outer and inner life was extremely off-centre, weighing heavily in favour of outward perception and leaving no crumbs for my intrinsic needs or intuition.

After what has felt like Frodo’s quest, an expedition through hell and high-water eventually brought me here—to a life led by soul instead of ego; humility instead of self-righteousness. If me back then could even take a glimpse at my life now, I think she might faint.

But now, I find myself in a similar predicament, only the other way around…

These days, my inner life feels vast, lost in translation when I attempt to contain it with words. Even sharing a glimpse of my mornings feels exposing. Why is this?

Part of me wonders if it’s because in sharing these intimate parts of myself, I open myself up to criticism, cynicism. If I had read someone talking about intuitive wisdom and a connection to consciousness a few years back, I would have promptly placed them in the loony bin and moved on with my day. But I think my caution in sharing my inner life goes deeper than that…

What if voicing our rich inner lives allows some of their magic to quietly escape?

The moments that are just meant for you and only you—do they lose their weight when you attempt to share them online? I’m thinking of those who share images of themselves crying online (no judgement, I promise), or instinctively reach for their phones to film their children instead of being in the moment with them. The magic that fills these moments seems fragmented as soon as we pull out a device in order to record it; to contain it.

I’d like to reiterate that I pose no judgement here. I know that there is no right or wrong way to live these lives that we have been gifted with.

Yet I can’t help but wonder, what could be gained from prioritising our inner life, inner wisdom, inner magic? Instead of capturing a moment to share in hopes that external validation might be gained, what if we were fully present, encapsulating the memory deep within our minds and replaying it before we go to sleep that night? What if instead of scrolling on our phones right before bed, we brought that memory to life in our minds with pure gratitude for the circumstances that made it possible?

Perhaps the answer isn’t withdrawal, but balance. I’m not saying to never take a picture again (my photo-happy mum would be devastated), but maybe it could be done more intentionally.

When we nourish our inner lives more than the perception of them, something shifts. Our energy speaks louder than images or captions ever could. Our confidence, habits, expression—everything flows from a place of fullness. And from that overflow, if we choose to share, we do so mindfully, not reflexively.

The notion that I am posing is simple:

The direction of our energy is everything.

When we pour into our outer lives first—carefully curating how we are perceived and binding our self-worth to external validation—our inner lives are often left depleted.

Instead, pour generously into your inner life first, and from the overflow, allow it to spill into your outer life.

The ripple effect of this conscious redirection is significant, I can attest.

Lots of love,

Lauren/Lol x

The relationship I had with myself was fraught with self-abandonment, body dysmorphia, and a persistent voice in my head telling me that I was never quite good enough.

It’s hard to comprehend now as I sit with so much love for the woman I have become; but there was a time when self-criticism felt like second nature—when I bullied myself relentlessly and mistook that cruelty for motivation. And yet, even then, there was always a quiet, steady hum beneath the noise. A silent inner knowing that whispered: there is more than this.

I ignored it, of course.

That was until life held up a divine mirror and asked,

“Is this the life you truly want?”

The answer was unequivocally: HELL NO.

With nothing to my name except for a mountain of debt and a knack for questionable decision-making, I followed an intuitive nudge for what felt like the first time at 22. I figured that following everyone else’s blueprint for life had already led me down a pretty grim path—what’s the worst that could happen by paving my own?

So I leapt.

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Oftentimes, the difference between a known artist and a shadow artist is not talent—it’s audacity. It’s the courage to allow your art, your writing, to be seen by others.

As Julia Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way…

“Too intimidated to become artists themselves, very often too low in self-worth to even recognise that they have an artistic dream, these people become shadow artists instead.” (Cameron, 1992).

Shadow artists often choose shadow careers—those close to the desired art, even parallel to it, but not the art itself, Cameron explains.

For me, my shadow career took the form of branding and marketing. Built upon my foundational love of psychology and a fascination for what drives us humans to make decisions, seek change, and ideally create a better life for ourselves, I had found myself in a career that made a lot of sense on paper. The leap from product development into brand development felt intuitive. Illustrative design, colour psychology, copywriting that would make your head spin and exclaim “That’s me!”—I loved it, and much of me still does.

But there was a disconnect. A quiet knowing that my soul recognised long before my mind would admit it.

I had grown tired of mass consumerism—a machine built upon the promise that if you just buy this next thing, you’ll finally be happy. Part of me rebelled against Western society’s incessant need for more: to do more, be more, sell more. Trend analysis, quarterly targets, KPIs…the further I ventured into this tunnel, the darker it became.

I realised that the career I’d been forging for myself, though rooted in good intentions, had ultimately made me a cog in a machine I no longer believed in.

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I feel it’s worth noting here that I still find immense value in the work of industry designers and developers. However, I do believe that ‘more’ should be replaced with ‘enough’, and that development should pass through the filter of “Does this add value?” As opposed to “How much money can we squeeze out of this?”.

Aware of the growing disconnect between my soul’s path and the one I was walking, I made the intuitive decision to step into the unknown once again. I tied up loose ends, completed projects, handed them over, and drove away from my last job with Olivia Dean aptly singing, “Now we know that dream ain’t coming true, there’s room for something new.” (Yes, of course I’m in love with Olivia Dean… aren’t we all?!)

In the weeks since, I’ve turned inward, and for the first time, my value doesn’t feel tethered to my output. I started writing here on Substack as an extension of my diary, expressing things I used to reserve only for close friends over wine and a good cheese board.

I’m now working my way through The Artist’s Way, a 12-week course guiding you through the process of recovering your creative self. Praised by the likes of Reese Witherspoon, Elizabeth Gilbert, Martin Scorsese, and many others, Cameron’s tools for creative recovery are already unearthing pieces of me that had previously been hidden beneath layers of “I’m not good enough to pursue my own art; I’ll just support someone else’s instead.”

I’m realising how long my limiting beliefs kept me standing in the wings of my own life. My art that I had only ever shown to my hype-man of a husband is now gracing my Substack feed, and my writing is sparking conversations in a unique community of people who are interested in the quiet rebellion of choosing their lives on purpose.

So here I am for all to see, and for the very first time, it’s 100% me.

No faff, no jargon—just authentic truths that continue to guide me on this path toward alignment. My artist within is no longer buried beneath unspoken fears and outdated stories that once kept her small. Instead, she moves with faith—an intrinsic belief that my creativity is the key to my becoming.

A Conversation I’d Love to Have

I’m curious — have you noticed places where you’ve dimmed your own creative self? If so, how has that unfolded for you? If you feel called, I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

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We didn’t grow up with religion in our home.

In fact, my closest brush with faith was belting out the classic “Give me oil in my lamp, keeping me burning…” as I sat cross-legged in primary school at the ripe age of eight.

That’s why it came as quite the shock when I was voluntarily christened in a Catholic church nearly twenty years later.

Allow me to rewind…

As a self-proclaimed Atheist, I had never stepped foot in a church (aside from being coaxed in by my mum on Christmas Eve by the promise of a minced pie).

That was until a few years ago, when I hit a deeply personal rock bottom. The aftermath of an event that had shook me to my core had left me in a state of quiet terror. I didn’t know where to turn, and in a moment of complete surrender, I searched for a nearby church. Maybe there I could find reprieve, I thought.

I wandered into a Sunday service, tail tucked firmly between my legs. Still in shock and fractured vulnerability, tears fell from my eyes as I sat alone in the pews. I barely registered the sermon that day; all I felt was a sense of safety—an unexpected softness. As if I was being cradled by a place that once felt foreign but suddenly felt like home.

After the final hymn, a woman tapped me on the shoulder, her eyes offering solace to a shaken soul. She invited me for a cup of tea—the hallmark of British comfort. I, of course, said yes.

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Still fighting tears, I found myself surrounded by kind strangers who offered nothing but love. One offered me her phone number as another handed me a plate of biscuits. I was astounded by the compassion these people were offering to a complete stranger.

And then, the cherry on top of a wondrous cake, I was introduced to Father Jay (who I later found out was nicknamed ‘Gay Jay’, which made me fall in love with that church even more 😆).

Father Jay was a young priest who made his services seem like prophetic comedy stand-up sessions. Faith in God underpinned his cleverly layered humour with equal parts wisdom and wit.

Before long, I began finding my way back to myself… and surprisingly, I found God along the way.

The Dilemma: Comfort vs. Mistrust

This is where my inner conflict began. Whilst I was finding great comfort in the church and the teachings that stemmed from it, I also had a sense of mistrust towards organised religion.

Let me explain…

The God I had come to know felt like unconditional love—unbound by words or names. God, Allah, Buddha, Universe… it all felt like one collective consciousness that we are intrinsically connected to.

So how could something so vast be reduced to rules?

How could religion be used to attack certain groups?

How could it manipulate or control the vulnerable?

I didn’t understand. If I’m being honest, I still don’t.

I have since learnt about near-death experiences (NDEs), with individuals recounting their profound out-of-body experiences. The most common thread among these accounts is an overwhelming sense of love, and a connection to one united consciousness unlike anything they’ve ever experienced in human form. And interestingly, many state that there is no judgement. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

So where did the judgement stem from in religion?

Was “sin” a man-made mechanism to control the behaviour of followers?

I don’t claim to have the answers here, but I do know that for me, something didn’t fit.

When our priest, lovingly known as Gay Jay, moved on to another parish, our services were taken over by someone with far stricter rules. Simply showing up on Sundays was no longer enough. The energy shifted. The rules felt rigid, iron-clad. And slowly, I backed away from the religion that had once offered me refuge.

Sadly, I haven’t returned to many churches in the years that followed; but I do still carry God with me.

In meditative stillness, long walks in nature, and even rooms filled with love, I feel God everywhere.

If God is collective consciousness—the place we all belong to and briefly depart from during our human experience—then God is not separate from us. We are consciousness having a human experience, not the other way around.

To me, God has no gender, no favourites, no wrath.

God is the intuitive nudge you feel, the door that opens for you at just the right time.

And while I am still actively navigating my relationship with a religious God and trying to find myself amongst its teachings, I do know one thing:

God is within; not without.

A Conversation I’d Love to Have

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

What does your relationship with God look like?

Does it feel taboo or uncomfortable?

Does God feel like home—or does your understanding of the divine go by another name entirely?

Thank you for taking the time to read this article. If you’d like to explore consciousness, courage, and the quiet rebellion of choosing your life on purpose, this is the perfect corner of the internet for you. Subscribe to follow along and join the conversation.

All my love,

Lauren

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Have you ever followed your intuition so blindly that you have no idea waited on the other side?

Well, four years ago, I did just that—and it led me onto a path I could have only dreamt of…

As I stumbled into yet another of life’s inevitable crossroads, I found myself searching for answers again. On the surface, it looked like I was trying to figure out the next move in my coaching business. In truth, my soul was hungry for something much deeper, cleverly disguising its longing as a career question.

I was wading through the familiar waters of self-development, but something just felt lost in translation. My heart carried a subtle ache, a quiet intuition that there was more—but I couldn’t quite name what “more” meant. Plus, I had one small problem:

I was searching for answers in a reservoir of solutions I had already exhausted.

Then, one day, I stumbled upon an interview with Michael Pollan. The author of ‘How To Change Your Mind’ (2018) had set out to research how LSD and psilocybin were being used to treat depression, addiction, PTSD, and a variety of other difficult-to-treat conditions. His work pointed toward various case studies, including that of a man with severe OCD whose condition became quite literally non-existent following psychedelic-assisted therapy. (If you watch the Netflix documentary version of the book, there’s a beautifully illustrated depiction of this experience along with the first-hand account).

Michael’s work was my white rabbit, and before long, I discovered wonderland.

I learned that throughout our lives, our brains carve neural pathways like grooves in fresh snow. Over time, these grooves become so well-worn that even with the intention of exploring new terrain, our sled inevitably slips back into the same tracks. Psychedelics, however, act like a thick downpour of fresh snow: suddenly, the mind is free to glide in any direction it chooses.

From there, I fell into the work of Paul Stamets (2005), Rick Doblin (2016/Ongoing), and Albert Hoffmann (1980), each of whom were pioneers in bringing psychedelic research to the forefront of mainstream discourse. Eventually, I felt ready to explore this great and mystical realm for myself. The answers that were alluding me would surely come join me in this place.

And so, I brought my questions to the great Mushroom Gods.

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Oftentimes, it’s those closest people to us that trigger us deeply. It’s the partner, colleague, or family member who taps on a nerve worn thin by previous offences—so thin that it now flares at the slightest inconvenience. In this instance, we have become fertile ground for past experiences to hijack the present moment, convincing ourselves that the worst is happening all over again.

During these flare ups, that beautifully present, zen-loving version of yourself goes flying out of the window, and a slice of your frustrated alter-ego takes over. You might even find yourself in Karpman’s Drama Triangle (1968), whereby you become the Victim, who feels oppressed and helpless; the Persecutor, who blames and criticises; or the Rescuer, who tries to save the day without being asked. (Note that these roles are not fixed; individuals can shift between them in various situations).

I’m sure you could think of someone in your life who has embodied one (or three) of these roles in the past, but let’s pose a slightly uncomfortable question:

When might you have absent-mindedly fallen into one of these roles yourself?

I know that for me, the roles of Rescuer and Persecutor are all too familiar. Having been raised in a disciplined household by two police officers—one of whom also served in the Navy—I learned early on to value structure and commitment. I now take pride in the discipline I have carried into adulthood. But left unchecked, that same discipline has pushed me to extreme limits in my ongoing attempts to prove myself (often to my own detriment).

So when I encounter someone who says they’ll do something and then doesn’t follow through, my brain simply does not compute. Almost instantly, I slip into Persecutor mode—critical, impatient, convinced that I could have completed the task to a higher standard and in half the time.

But regardless of which role your ego pulls you into, the question still stands:

Why do we give other people so much power over our emotional state?

Could there be a small yet sadistic part of us that secretly enjoys surrendering control—the illusion that if someone else is at fault, then we’re off the hook? After all, if it’s their problem and not ours, we don’t have to take responsibility for our role in the scenario.

Which leads me to a deeper question:

What if everything you’re experiencing is, in some way, a reflection of what you’re currently willing to accept for yourself?

I know, I can feel you recoiling as you read this on your side of the screen. Trust me, I felt like running a mile when I asked myself this very question too. “I don’t want this!”, I would exclaim before feeding further into the problem by complaining about it to a friend or trying to play the silent saviour for someone who never asked for it.

It’s easier to keep feeding into the problem than it is to change it. But while the option of sweeping something under the rug might seem good enough—you do eventually end up with a mountainous rug.

Fortunately, there is another option, and it comes in the form of Radical Acceptance.

Byron Katie famously says, “When you argue with reality, you lose—but only 100% of the time.” Reality isn’t the problem; your belief that it should be different is. No one wins in the Drama Triangle. It’s a perpetual state of shit (excuse my French). But through Radical Acceptance, we can switch sides.

The Winner’s Triangle is the antidote to the Drama Triangle, and was developed by Acey Choy in 1990.

• Rescuer to Caring/Coaching —> We offer empathy whilst respecting the other person’s autonomy. Offer help when asked, but respect that their problem is not your own, nor is it yours to solve.

• Victim to Vulnerable —> This is your space to move with humility and vulnerability. If you feel safe to do so, express the fears or insecurities that could be contributing to the issue at hand. If you’re truly not sure how to express or explore these feelings, seeking professional help could allow you to develop language and an understanding of what’s going on within you.

• Persecutor to Assertive/Challenger —> Becoming assertive means becoming sovereign. It’s the conscious decision to govern your own resources (such as your energy) with intention and guard them using personal boundaries. You get to set the tone for what you will and won’t accept. In this assertive place, you must recognise that other people’s needs are also valid, and in doing so, solutions can be found without using blame or at the expense of another’s feelings.

This is your invitation to come home to yourself, in those zen moments and the reactive ones.

With awareness and with care, you begin to reclaim your energy, your agency, and your life force.

References

Choy, A. (1990). The winner’s triangle. Transactional Analysis Journal, 20(1), 40–46.

Karpman, S. (1968). Fairy tales and script drama analysis. Transactional Analysis Bulletin, 7(26), 39–43.

Taylor, A. (2025). Escape the drama: How to lead with power, compassion, and clarity. Directions Coaching.

Slow mornings, crisp November air, wandering through British countryside amidst the turn of another season. For a moment, I find myself in a state of complete bliss. Its magnitude is almost unfathomable; the feeling of true freedom.

And then something smacks me round the back of the head,

‘Skadoosh!’.

But instead of a Kung Fu Panda-style revelation, it’s the sudden pang of expectation. It’s the pressure of not doing, of not achieving. It’s the well-meaning family member asking, “So, what’s next?”.

Truthfully, I have no fxcking clue what’s next.

My God, it feels freeing to even type—yet, equally terrifying.

Not terrifying because I’m scared for me; rather, I’m scared for them. Scared of letting them down. Scared of their judgement. Scared of not squeezing myself into the round hole that should fit. Maybe you’ve experienced your own version of this… that quiet inner knowing that part of your life doesn’t quite fit, but it’s more acceptable if it does, so best get squeezing!

Well, fortunately and unfortunately, I had already spent the better part of early adulthood moulding myself to the preference of others. A little slimmer here, a little more polite there. Eating disorders inspired anxiety; anxiety triggered depression. I quickly found myself having tried seven different anti-depressants, plus some trusty beta blockers to help the panic attacks, by the ripe old age of 22. I remember pondering with a heavy heart, “Is this my life now?”.

I had found myself at a crossroads, one that I may have naively bypassed in another life. This time, though, I had no choice but to pause from my all-consuming victimhood and ask, “Is this truly what you want?”.

At 22, I vehemently decided that this would not be my life. I couldn’t just roll over—not least without trying to forge a life that I actually wanted first.

Holding a mirror up to the life I had created was one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever had to do, and yet, it was also the most transformative.

The seven years that followed have been quite the journey. One of intense redirections, extreme ownership, and intuitively following my curiosity at every fork in the road.

Having completed a degree whilst working full time, planning a wedding, and entering into a period of deep shadow work, I’m now viscerally aware of my innate value. It is this awareness that helps me to stand tall as I enter a period of intentional pause once again.

That persuasive round peg doesn’t lure me in like it used to, even with its promise of social glory attached. And now, when I answer the fatal, “What’s next?”, I remember that 22-year-old girl, and I remember the woman who saved her.

If only she knew she had a built-in saviour.

Although, maybe she did.

We’re taught to prioritise power, climb the ladder, keep moving, don’t look back. As Simone Stolzoff suggests, ‘Companies strategically place incentives to keep employees chasing carrots without ever feeling full.’ (Stolzoff, 2023). Companies and culture alike, our society praise…

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