Mike Nesbitt’s resignation is about much more than one Minister, one party or one hospital. It raises uncomfortable questions about political integrity and whether Northern Ireland is genuinely prepared for health reform.

On 26 March 2026, Mike Nesbitt appeared before the Northern Ireland Assembly’s Health Committee.

The subject of the evidence session was governance and accountability in health and social care. It was wide-ranging, covering everything from waiting lists and trust oversight to patient safety, workforce pressures, care provision and the future of hospital services.

Towards the end of the session, however, Committee Chair Philip McGuigan asked Nesbitt a question which, reading it again today, feels remarkably prescient.

Nesbitt had recently stepped down as leader of the Ulster Unionist Party and Jon Burrows had taken over. McGuigan referred specifically to concerns surrounding the South West Acute Hospital and the possibility that decisions about health services could be influenced by party politics or electoral considerations.

He asked the Minister for an assurance: would decisions made between then and the end of the mandate be based on his role as Health Minister and on patient outcomes, rather than on political influence?

Mike Nesbitt replied:

“I give you that assurance. I am personally unencumbered by the search for votes, because I will not be standing on 6 May 2027, and I give you the assurance that, if I feel that the party is trying to influence how I carry out my role, I would rather walk — resign; step away — than become some sort of lapdog or functionary for a political party.”

It was quite a statement.

Less than five months later, he walked.

Mike Nesbitt resigned as Health Minister on 18 August following an increasingly public disagreement with Ulster Unionist leader Jon Burrows over the future of emergency general surgery at Causeway Hospital. Nesbitt’s resignation letter referred to Burrows having previously identified one health-policy “red line”, concerning puberty blockers, before Causeway effectively became another point of fundamental disagreement. He also made clear his frustration at discovering the party leader’s position on issues within his ministerial responsibility through the media.

Whatever your politics, whatever you think about Mike Nesbitt personally and whatever position you take on the future of Causeway Hospital, there is something significant in what happened. He told us what he would do and then circumstances arose in which he believed the principle he had set out in March was being tested.

He did what he said he would do.

That deserves more consideration than a couple of days of Stormont headlines before attention moves on to the next political row.

Everyone wants health reform. Until health reform arrives.

Northern Ireland has been talking about transforming health and social care for years.

We know the language: transformation, reform, prevention, early intervention, community-based services, regional specialisation, better outcomes, workforce reform, shifting left, the Neighbourhood Model of Health and Wellbeing and moving resources away from crisis intervention.

There is broad political agreement that the current model cannot simply continue indefinitely, and yet the uncomfortable part of transformation is that eventually somebody has to change something.

A service moves, a hospital changes its function, resources are redirected, a familiar model of care disappears or a new one takes its place. Eventually somebody’s constituency feels the impact, and suddenly the principles that sounded perfectly reasonable in a strategy document become much harder politically.

This is where health reform collides with representative democracy.

MLAs are supposed to represent their communities. If thousands of constituents believe the loss of a hospital service will leave them less safe, their elected representatives should absolutely challenge the decision.

There are perfectly legitimate reasons for communities to resist centralisation. Geography and transport links have real consequences for access to care, particularly in rural areas, while ambulance capacity, existing health inequalities and the confidence of patients and staff all have to be part of any decision about where services are delivered. Clinical recommendations should be tested and challenged, particularly when they result in significant changes for a community, and the fact that something is presented as a clinical decision should never be used to close down legitimate questions about how it will work in practice.

At the same time, Northern Ireland cannot continue indefinitely with a political culture in which everybody supports health transformation provided transformation happens somewhere else.

That is an issue far bigger than Causeway.

We have seen versions of the same argument around hospital services across Northern Ireland for years, and this is where things become difficult for whoever happens to be Health Minister. There is almost universal agreement that the health service needs transformed, that waiting lists are unacceptable, that workforce shortages have to be addressed and that continuing to spread limited resources across services that may no longer be sustainable cannot be the answer. Yet the political consensus becomes much harder to maintain when reform moves from a strategy document to an actual decision about a hospital or service that people know, value and understandably want to protect.

That is the contradiction we need to have a much more open conversation about. If we genuinely want transformation, some decisions will be difficult and some will be deeply unpopular. They should be challenged, particularly where there are questions about the evidence, access, rurality or patient safety, but we cannot continue calling for wholesale reform of health and social care while treating every proposed change to the existing system as something that must be stopped.

What is a Health Minister actually for?

There is also a difficult question about where the influence of a political party over one of its Ministers should begin and end. Of course Ministers are politicians, appointed by political parties and accountable to the Assembly, and nobody would seriously suggest that a Health Minister should be insulated from political challenge or from the views of the communities affected by their decisions. MLAs should question them, their party colleagues should challenge them and Ministers should have to explain and defend what they are doing.

Nesbitt himself was hardly arguing for freedom from scrutiny. In that March Committee session he spoke at length about governance and accountability, describing them as essential to delivering safe and high-quality care and setting out how accountability runs through the trusts and the Department, ultimately reaching the Minister and the Assembly.

The more interesting question, particularly in light of what has happened since, is how far that challenge should go. A party is perfectly entitled to question its Minister, push for evidence, represent the concerns of local people and argue strongly for a different course of action. It becomes much more difficult when a Minister reaches the point where they believe they are no longer being allowed to exercise their own judgement over the portfolio they have been appointed to lead.

If every contentious decision has to be reconsidered according to the potential electoral consequences for the Minister’s party, it becomes difficult to know where ministerial responsibility really lies, and nowhere is that more important than in health. Decisions about the future of services are rarely straightforward: clinical evidence may support retaining a service in one instance and concentrating expertise elsewhere in another, communities may bring forward evidence or experiences that have not been properly considered, and clinicians themselves will not always agree on the best way forward. All of that should form part of the scrutiny around a decision, particularly when the consequences for patients and communities are significant.

What brought me back to Nesbitt’s evidence from March was just how directly Philip McGuigan put this issue to him. His question was specifically about whether decisions concerning the South West Acute Hospital could become influenced by party politics or electoral considerations, and he asked Nesbitt to assure the Committee that his decisions would continue to be based on his responsibilities as Health Minister and on patient outcomes.

Nesbitt’s answer left very little room for interpretation. If he believed his party was trying to influence how he carried out the role, he had already told the Committee what he would do.

“Unencumbered by the search for votes”

There was another part of Nesbitt’s answer that caught my attention when I went back and read the transcript: “I am personally unencumbered by the search for votes.”

By then he had already decided that he would not stand in the Assembly election in May 2027, which put him in the unusual position of running arguably the most difficult Department in the Executive without having to think about protecting his own seat at the end of the mandate.

That certainly does not mean that the decisions he made were automatically the right ones, and there will be people who strongly disagree with some of them. What interests me more is whether being at the end of his electoral career gave him a degree of freedom that is actually quite rare for a Minister attempting major reform.

Health transformation inevitably produces decisions that people will oppose, particularly when they involve services that communities have relied upon for generations, and there must always be proper scrutiny of the evidence behind them. But there is something worth considering about having a Minister who could make those decisions knowing that he would never again have to stand on a doorstep and ask someone to vote for him.

It also puts some of what Nesbitt was saying elsewhere in that March Committee session into context. He spoke repeatedly about prevention and early intervention, increasing capacity in communities and moving away from a system which too often intervenes only when someone has become seriously ill and requires acute care. We are now seeing that thinking developed through the Neighbourhood Model of Health and Wellbeing, and that kind of reform will inevitably involve changes in where and how people receive care.

In the same session, when discussing the South West Acute Hospital, Nesbitt acknowledged how emotive hospital reconfiguration is while continuing to argue that patient outcomes and evidence had to be central to the decisions being made. You can disagree with where that evidence eventually takes you, and communities, clinicians and elected representatives should challenge it where they believe it is wrong or incomplete.

What becomes much more difficult is when the question being asked changes from “is this the right thing to do for patients?” to “what will happen to us politically if we do it?”

A personal word about Mike

I should probably say at this point that I like Mike Nesbitt.

I have known him through different aspects of my work over the years and he has always been supportive of the things I have been involved in. I have found him interested, engaged and willing to listen, including when the conversation has been about something difficult or when there has been disagreement. My experience of him has always been that he genuinely wanted to do the best job he could.

That inevitably shapes how I look at what has happened this week, and I think it is important to be open about that.

I also watched him take on the Health portfolio at an extraordinarily difficult time. He inherited a system dealing with the consequences of years of underinvestment, huge waiting lists, serious workforce pressures and an expectation that transformation somehow had to be delivered at the same time as the existing service was struggling to meet current demand. I am not sure any Health Minister could have walked into that Department and produced the scale of change people understandably want within a couple of years.

There were decisions Mike made that I disagreed with and areas where I would have wanted him to go further. Knowing and liking a politician should never mean suspending scrutiny of the job they do. But from my own dealings with him, I always had the sense that he took the responsibility seriously and genuinely wanted to leave health and social care in a better place than he found it.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons his words at the Health Committee stayed with me.

When I heard him say that he would walk rather than become a “lapdog or functionary” for his political party, I believed him. It did not strike me as a throwaway line designed to produce a headline or get him through a difficult Committee exchange. It sounded like someone who had thought about where his own line was.

Five months later, we found out what happened when he believed that line had been crossed.

When words actually have consequences

We talk a great deal about integrity in politics, although I sometimes wonder what we actually mean by it. For me, the interesting point comes when somebody has said publicly what they will do in a particular set of circumstances and those circumstances subsequently arise, especially when following through carries a personal or political cost.

That is what makes the March exchange so striking now. Nesbitt could not have known, sitting in front of the Health Committee that day, exactly what would happen five months later, but he nevertheless put his own position on the line. He described the circumstances in which he believed he could no longer properly remain Health Minister and said what he would do if he reached that point.

There will inevitably be different accounts of what happened between Nesbitt and Jon Burrows, and the disagreement over Causeway should not become a proxy for deciding whether the proposed changes themselves are right. The clinical evidence should still be examined, the concerns of the local community should still be heard and Burrows is perfectly entitled, as UUP leader and an elected representative, to challenge a decision he believes is wrong.

What I find difficult to ignore, however, is the connection between what Nesbitt said in March and what he eventually did in August. He had publicly set his own threshold for remaining in office and, when he believed that threshold had been crossed, he acted on it.

In politics, where we are all fairly accustomed to hearing explanations about why yesterday’s firm position has become rather more flexible today, there is something worth acknowledging in that.

The next Health Minister inherits all of this

Attention will inevitably turn quickly to who comes next, but whoever takes over the Health portfolio inherits an extraordinarily difficult job and a health service whose problems have not paused while the UUP works through the political consequences of Nesbitt’s resignation.

The waiting lists remain, as do the workforce pressures, the difficult financial position and the decisions around the future configuration of hospital services. The development of the Neighbourhood Model of Health and Wellbeing, the shift towards prevention and early intervention and the wider transformation programme all extend far beyond the tenure of any one Minister.

There will also be people and organisations across Northern Ireland wondering what happens to conversations, decisions and commitments that were already under way with Mike Nesbitt. A new Minister will rightly want to make their own judgements and may reach different conclusions from their predecessor, but there also has to be enough continuity within government that a change at ministerial level does not continually send months or years of work back to the beginning.

That is particularly important in health because genuine transformation cannot be delivered within the political lifespan of one Minister. Workforce planning, prevention, building capacity in communities and changing where and how services are delivered take years, and some of the benefits may not become visible until long after the politician who made the original decision has left office.

Which brings me back again to that phrase: “unencumbered by the search for votes”.

There is something uncomfortable at the heart of health reform when the person being asked to make decisions about what our health service should look like ten or twenty years from now is operating within a political system that, understandably, also has one eye on the next election. That tension will not disappear with Mike Nesbitt’s resignation. If anything, the circumstances of his departure have exposed it rather starkly.

No Health Minister can transform health and social care alone. Whoever comes next will need wider political support, including when decisions become difficult, and there has to be enough space within our politics for proposals to be examined properly, challenged robustly and, where the evidence ultimately supports them, implemented even when they are unpopular.

Otherwise we risk spending another decade agreeing that the health service needs transformed while discovering, decision by decision, that we cannot agree to any of the changes required to transform it.

He said he would walk

There will be people who strongly disagree with my assessment of Mike Nesbitt’s time as Health Minister, and there will be people who believe Jon Burrows was entirely right to intervene over Causeway Hospital. The political leadership of a party has every right to challenge one of its Ministers, particularly on an issue of such importance to a local community, and the debate over the future of services at Causeway should continue on the evidence.

We can argue about whether he was right about Causeway. We can argue about whether Burrows was right to intervene. We can scrutinise Nesbitt’s record as Health Minister and debate whether the reforms he championed were the right ones.

But I think we should also be capable of acknowledging when someone does what they said they would do, particularly when doing so means giving up one of the most important jobs in our government.

On 26 March, Mike Nesbitt told us that if it came down to remaining Health Minister or retaining the independence he believed he needed to do the job, he would walk.

On 18 August, he did.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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I had a PhD interview this week. It didn’t go particularly well.

I’ve spent more than 20 years working in policy, research and the voluntary and community sector, during which time I’ve written and contributed to research reports, carried out interviews and focus groups, analysed evidence, written more consultation responses than I could possibly count and spent a considerable amount of time trying to get research and evidence in front of the people who actually make decisions.

But I’ve never been an academic.

And it turns out I don’t speak academic particularly well either.

One of the questions I was asked was about a recent academic article I’d read and, if I’m being completely truthful, my answer was basically: no idea. I’ve a lot on and, even if I had read one recently, there’s every possibility my menopause brain wouldn’t have retained the title, author and central argument long enough for me to produce them on demand in a PhD interview.

Probably not the answer they were looking for.

Then there were questions about methodology, why I would choose particular methods, how theory would add to the research and what academic literature had informed my thinking, and there were moments when I genuinely couldn’t work out how to translate what I knew into the kind of answer I thought they wanted.

The particularly annoying thing is that, given some time afterwards, I could answer some of those questions.

Ask me how I would go about understanding what people really think about an issue and I can talk about that all day. Ask me why I might want to interview one group of people, bring another group together for a discussion and then look at documents and evidence alongside what they have told me, and I can explain exactly what I’m trying to understand and why those different perspectives matter.

Call it “methodology” in a PhD interview, however, and apparently part of my brain packs its bags and leaves.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since.

Years ago, I contributed to Beneath the Surface, a report on child poverty in Northern Ireland published by the Child Poverty Alliance, and when Eamonn McCann reviewed it for the Belfast Telegraph he made an observation about some of the contributions being written in “’academic’ language, a version of English almost as exotic as Ulster Scots.”

I’ve always loved that line.

It feels particularly relevant this week because academic language really is a language, with its own vocabulary, conventions and ways of explaining things, and it isn’t a language I’ve spent my career speaking.

I’ve spent my career trying to do almost the reverse. I’ve tried to take complicated policy, evidence and research and make it understandable, to listen to people’s experiences and connect those experiences to the bigger structural issues around them, and then to work out how that evidence can get in front of somebody with the power to actually change something.

And perhaps this is also where my relationship with research is slightly different.

What gets me exercised about research has always been what happens after it.

I can get incredibly frustrated by brilliant pieces of academic research that identify a problem, document people’s experiences, sometimes make recommendations and then seem to disappear. A report is published, there might be a launch, everyone agrees that the findings are important and, six months later, it is sitting on a shelf or buried somewhere on a website while the people whose experiences filled its pages are still living with exactly the same problem.

My instinct has always been to ask: what are we going to do with it?

Who needs to read this? Who has the power to act on it? How do we get it in front of them? Can it influence a policy, change a service, secure funding, challenge a decision or at least force somebody to answer a difficult question?

I have often taken research — sometimes my own and sometimes research produced by academics and others — and tried to turn it into something that can influence change. For me, publication has never felt like the end of the research process; it is often the point at which the next part begins.

That doesn’t mean I think every piece of academic research has to produce an immediate policy change, because understanding something properly has value in itself and some research may shape thinking over many years rather than producing an obvious result next Tuesday. But I do find myself constantly interested in that space between knowledge being produced and knowledge actually travelling somewhere.

Perhaps that is part of what I would bring to academia rather than something I need to leave at the door. Because I don’t want to spend several years becoming very knowledgeable about something, write a thesis that a handful of people read and then put it on a shelf.

I’d want to know what happens next.

Years of working around policymaking have taught me that evidence rarely wanders into a government department by itself and changes someone’s mind. Somebody usually has to carry it there, translate it, build relationships around it, find the right moment, connect it to what government is already trying to do and keep pushing when the first response is silence.

That world I do understand.

Academic theory and methodology are different. One of the reasons I was interested in doing a PhD was precisely because I wanted to learn more about them, develop that side of my thinking and understand whether the things I have observed over many years have already been explained, challenged or understood in ways I haven’t yet encountered.

And perhaps that’s why I came away from the interview feeling so deflated.

I thought that was part of what I was going there to learn and develop.

I didn’t expect to arrive as an academic. I expected to arrive with decades of experience, practical research skills, a research idea I cared about, a great deal of curiosity and a willingness to learn how to become one.

Maybe that was naive.

Maybe there is a level of academic grounding you’re expected to have before you start and I simply hadn’t appreciated that, which is useful information to have even if discovering it while sitting in an interview wasn’t particularly enjoyable.

It has also left me thinking about expertise and the different ways in which we demonstrate that we know something, because there are people who can explain a theoretical framework beautifully and there are people who have spent 20 years watching some of those theories play out in real life without ever knowing what they were called.

Some people, of course, can do both.

Perhaps that’s where I’d eventually like to get to.

I don’t know what will happen with the PhD and, after the interview, I’m also asking myself whether I still want to do one, although I’m resisting the temptation to answer that question while I’m still replaying all the things I wish I’d said differently.

What I do know is that I walked into the interview knowing a great deal about research, policy and trying to make change happen, but discovered there is another body of knowledge and another language that I don’t yet know.

If I decide that I want to undertake this PhD, I’m going to have to learn that language.

But I think I’d also want to hold on to the language I already speak.

Because whatever I research, I suspect I’ll still be the person at the end asking:

So, what are we going to do with it?

Until next time.

— Ellen

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I don’t often write about novels, but every now and then one comes along that stays with you long after you’ve closed the final page. The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah has been one of those books for me. Like so many people, I was drawn into the lives of two sisters trying to survive occupied France during the Second World War, but by the end I realised that what I’d been reading wasn’t really a story about war at all. It was a story about people, about fear, about identity and about the choices ordinary men and women make when they are confronted with something unfamiliar or something that challenges the world as they know it.

Perhaps that’s why, instead of thinking about France, I found myself thinking about Northern Ireland.

As I write this, the Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann is taking place across Belfast. The city is buzzing. There is music on the streets, visitors everywhere and, whatever your views about the event itself, there is no denying that it has brought an energy to the city that many people have embraced. At the same time, there have also been voices questioning whether it should have been held here at all and whether it represents something they feel uncomfortable with. I’ve listened to those conversations over the past week with genuine interest, not because I’m trying to decide who is right or wrong, but because I think they tell us something much bigger about ourselves.

One of the privileges of my working life has been the opportunity to spend more than twenty-five years sitting in rooms with people who don’t always agree with one another. Sometimes those discussions have been about child poverty, suicide prevention or disability rights. Sometimes they’ve been about whistleblowing, governance or public services. Sometimes they’ve been about community relations. What I’ve learned is that policy is rarely the hardest part. The difficult part is understanding why people see the world so differently, and how you create enough trust for them to work together despite those differences.

That is, after all, what Northern Ireland has been trying to do for the best part of three decades.

One of the things I have always appreciated about the Belfast/Good Friday Agreement is that it never pretended our differences didn’t exist. It accepted that some people would feel British, others Irish and many both. It recognised that people would continue to hold different constitutional aspirations, different political beliefs and different cultural identities, and rather than trying to remove those differences it created a framework that allowed them to coexist. Our equality and human rights legislation has continued to build on that idea. It doesn’t ask us to agree with one another. It protects our right to be different and, importantly, expects public authorities to respect those differences equally.

I sometimes wonder whether we have lost sight of just how radical that idea really is.

Because equality of esteem isn’t simply about protecting rights on paper. Surely it also means creating a society where people from every background feel that their culture, heritage and identity have value, where nobody feels invisible and where celebrating one tradition doesn’t require another to retreat into the shadows.

As I’ve been thinking about all of this over the past few days, my thoughts have repeatedly gone back to my dad.

My father was a loyalist. He served time in prison during the Troubles and spent much of his life working in loyalist communities. If you met him for the first time, you probably wouldn’t have expected him to tell you how much he loved the Irish language. Yet while he was in prison he learned Irish, gained qualifications, signed his name in Irish and often answered the telephone using his Irish name. He loved the phrase daoine le chéile – “people together” – and would often speak about the beauty of the language itself.

He never regarded that as contradictory.

He never believed that learning Irish somehow made him less loyal to his own identity or less proud of where he had come from. Looking back now, I think he understood something that many of us still struggle with today, namely that confidence in your own identity gives you the freedom to appreciate somebody else’s.

That doesn’t mean we all have to enjoy the same festivals, learn the same language or share the same political aspirations. It does, however, invite us to ask a more interesting question. Are we building a Northern Ireland where every tradition feels recognised and respected, not just in principle but in practice?

For me, that includes the Irish language, Irish music and the extraordinary atmosphere that the Fleadh has brought to Belfast this week. It also includes Ulster-Scots language and heritage, Orange traditions, pipe bands, brass bands, Highland dancing and the many customs that have shaped Protestant, Unionist and Loyalist communities for generations. It also includes the cultures, languages and traditions brought here by people who have made Northern Ireland their home from elsewhere in the world and who are now part of the story of this place too.

Perhaps equality of esteem is less about making everything identical and more about ensuring that every community can look at our public life and recognise something of themselves within it.

That isn’t always easy, and it certainly isn’t achieved by keeping score.

It is achieved when we become confident enough to celebrate the richness of another tradition without feeling that our own has somehow been diminished.

That’s the thought I was left with when I closed The Nightingale.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t really a novel about wartime France after all.

For me, it became a reminder that the kind of society we build will never be determined solely by legislation, strategies or government programmes. Those things matter enormously, but ultimately it will be shaped by whether we choose fear or curiosity, suspicion or understanding, and whether we are prepared to believe that another person’s identity can be celebrated without threatening our own.

Whenever I think about the Fleadh in years to come, I suspect I won’t remember the headlines or the political arguments.

I’ll remember my father.

A loyalist who loved the Irish language, and who taught me that the strongest identities are rarely the most defensive. They are the ones that are secure enough to keep learning.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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Over the next year, Northern Ireland’s political commentators will do what they always do. Every opinion poll will be dissected, every constituency analysed and every percentage point scrutinised. We’ll hear endless discussion about whether Sinn Féin can retain its position as the largest party, whether the DUP can recover ground, whether Jon Burrows can revive the Ulster Unionists, whether the TUV can continue to build support and what it all means for the political balance between unionism, nationalism and those who identify as neither. The latest LucidTalk polling for the Belfast Telegraph has already fuelled those debates.

There is nothing wrong with that. Elections matter, political parties matter and leadership matters.

I’m just not convinced that this is the conversation most people are having.

The owner of a business in Belfast city centre who is wondering whether customers still feel safe coming into town isn’t lying awake thinking about opinion polls.

The parent whose child has been waiting years for an autism assessment isn’t interested in which party is up or down by two percentage points.

The patient waiting for surgery doesn’t care who won the latest political argument on social media.

They are asking a much simpler question.

Is anybody actually fixing this?

That, for me, is where politics in Northern Ireland has become disconnected from the public it is supposed to serve. We spend enormous amounts of time discussing elections, personalities and political positioning, yet remarkably little time asking whether government itself is delivering better outcomes.

This week’s debate about Belfast city centre illustrates the point perfectly. Businesses described a city centre increasingly affected by anti-social behaviour, drug misuse, rough sleeping and crime. Councillors expressed concern. Political representatives spoke about the need for urgent action. Belfast City Council then reminded everyone that it does not have the statutory powers to establish healthcare facilities, provide temporary accommodation or tackle crime directly.

That single sentence says more about how Northern Ireland is governed than many people probably realise.

Most members of the public don’t know where the powers of councils end and those of Stormont begin. They don’t know which Minister is responsible for which decision, when Executive agreement is needed or when a department simply doesn’t have the legal authority to do what people are demanding.

Nor should they have to.

People see a problem and quite reasonably expect those they elected to solve it.

Instead, what they often discover is a political system where every organisation can explain why another organisation holds the key to the solution.

The council points to Stormont.

Stormont points to budget pressures.

Departments point to legislation.

Ministers point to the need for Executive agreement.

Assembly Committees publish reports.

Motions are debated.

Strategies are launched.

Consultations are announced.

Everyone agrees there is a problem.

Yet somehow the problem remains.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard politicians from every party respond to another disappointing set of figures by saying, “more needs to be done.” We hear it after waiting list statistics are published. We hear it after reports on educational attainment. We hear it after discussions about poverty, mental health, homelessness and now Belfast city centre.

Of course more needs to be done.

But who is going to do it?

If you’re asking people to vote for you next year, surely that is one of the first questions you should be able to answer.

Not what another Minister should do.

Not what another department should do.

Not what another organisation should do.

What decisions can you make? What influence do you have? What will you personally be judged on over the next four years?

Because if the answer to every difficult issue is that somebody else holds the powers, voters are entitled to ask what difference their vote is actually going to make.

This isn’t an argument for handing every organisation more powers, nor is it a criticism of partnership working. Many of the issues facing Northern Ireland genuinely cut across health, justice, communities, education and local government. My concern is something much simpler. Somewhere along the way, we have become better at explaining why change is difficult than demonstrating how change will actually happen.

Perhaps that also explains why people become so frustrated after taking part in consultations or responding to strategies. They invest their time, share their experience and expect that their contribution will influence decisions, yet they are rarely told who will ultimately make those decisions, where the legal powers sit or what happens once the consultation closes. Participation is important, but participation on its own does not change outcomes. Decisions do.

As we approach both the Assembly and local government elections, I’d like to see far less discussion about who is up, who is down and whether one political tradition has gained at the expense of another. I’d like to hear candidates explain how they will improve waiting lists, strengthen local communities, support our town and city centres and make better use of public money, but I’d also like them to explain how they intend to do it, who else they will need to persuade and how the public will know whether they have succeeded.

If every party goes into the 2027 elections promising change, then every party should also answer one simple question.

What will be different in 2031 that allows us to judge whether you succeeded?

Not another strategy.

Not another consultation.

Not another Assembly motion.

Actual, measurable change.

Because when the votes have been counted and the headlines have faded, people won’t judge this election by who won the debates or gained the most seats.

They’ll judge it by whether their lives are better than they were before.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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One of the things I enjoy most about working in policy is asking questions. Not just the questions dominating today’s headlines, but the ones that often get forgotten once a decision has been made.

Policy moves quickly. One week it’s a consultation. The next it’s legislation. Then it’s a strategy, a funding announcement or a new programme of work. Before long, everyone has moved on to the next challenge.

What often receives much less attention is what happens afterwards.

For me, one of the hallmarks of good policymaking is evaluation. Looking back is just as important as looking forward. If we don’t stop to understand what worked, what didn’t and why, we risk repeating the same mistakes or missing opportunities to build on success.

That was the thinking behind a recent Freedom of Information request I submitted to the Department of Finance about the 2015 Northern Ireland Civil Service Voluntary Exit Scheme.

The documents I received tell the story of one of the biggest workforce reforms ever undertaken within the Northern Ireland Civil Service.

The Executive invested around £90 million in the scheme. More than 2,300 civil servants left the organisation and permanent staffing reduced from almost 28,000 employees to just over 23,000 in the space of two years.

It was a significant intervention, intended to reshape the Civil Service and reduce workforce numbers while delivering long-term financial savings.

As I worked through the papers, one thing became very clear. The scheme itself was closely monitored. Applications were recorded, departmental reductions were tracked, ministers received regular submissions and progress against targets was carefully reported. There was a detailed understanding of how the scheme was progressing and how many people were leaving.

What I struggled to find was evidence of what happened afterwards.

Ten years later, where is the post-implementation review?

Today, the Northern Ireland Civil Service employs 24,679 permanent staff. Alongside them, departments are supported by a further 5,186 agency workers.

Taken together, that means 29,865 people are now working across the Civil Service. That is more than the permanent workforce before the Voluntary Exit Scheme was introduced.

Of course, permanent civil servants and agency workers are not the same. They are employed under different arrangements, fulfil different roles and should not be treated as directly interchangeable.

However, when considering the overall workforce delivering public services, the figures raise an important question. If government invested around £90 million to reduce the size of the Civil Service workforce, how has that workforce evolved over the last decade and what has been achieved as a result?

That is not a criticism of the decision taken in 2015. Decisions are made in the context of the information, financial pressures and priorities that exist at the time.

What interests me is something different.

Have the anticipated savings been realised?

Has productivity improved?

Has the Civil Service become better equipped to develop and deliver policy?

Did the reduction in permanent staff lead to greater reliance on agency workers?

Have the right skills been retained?

Has the scheme strengthened the organisation for the challenges it faces today?

Those feel like entirely reasonable questions to ask ten years on.

They feel even more relevant when set against Northern Ireland’s current financial position.

Hardly a week passes without hearing that public finances are under pressure. Departments are being asked to reduce expenditure. Transformation is presented as essential rather than optional. The Northern Ireland Fiscal Council has warned of significant budget pressures, Assembly research has highlighted substantial funding gaps and the Northern Ireland Audit Office continues to identify challenges around workforce planning, vacancies and organisational capability.

The message is consistent.

There isn’t enough money.

If that is the reality—and I believe it is—then every significant investment of public money should leave behind more than an audit trail.

It should leave behind evidence.

Evidence that tells us whether the intended outcomes were achieved.

Evidence that helps us understand what worked well and what could have been done differently.

Evidence that informs the next major decision.

Government quite rightly expects charities, voluntary organisations and public bodies receiving public funding to demonstrate impact, evaluate programmes and show value for money. It is difficult to argue that government should expect anything less of itself.

For me, this is about more than one workforce reform.

The Voluntary Exit Scheme provides an opportunity to reflect on how one of the biggest organisational changes in the history of the Northern Ireland Civil Service has shaped the organisation we have today. Whether the scheme ultimately delivered everything that was intended is something that should be capable of being assessed through evidence rather than assumption.

Perhaps that work has already been undertaken and I simply haven’t found it.

If it hasn’t, I think it should be.

A proper post-implementation review could examine workforce numbers, agency staffing, vacancies, skills, productivity, financial savings and policy capability. More importantly, it could help answer a much broader question about what government has learned from one of its most significant workforce reforms.

After more than twenty-five years working in policy, I have become increasingly convinced that success is rarely measured by the launch of a strategy, the passing of legislation or the announcement of funding. Those moments matter, but they are only the beginning.

The real test of good policy comes afterwards.

It comes from asking whether the decision achieved what it set out to achieve, whether it improved outcomes and what lessons should shape the next decision.

When public finances are under such sustained pressure and we are repeatedly told that there is no money, those questions become even more important.

Good policymaking depends on more than making decisions.

It depends on learning from them

Until next time.

— Ellen

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There are weeks when a place seems to lose its bearings.

The images from Belfast this week have been difficult to watch. Streets filled with tension. Families frightened to leave their homes. People feeling anxious about what might happen next.

The headlines have understandably focused on the unrest. The footage has been replayed repeatedly. Looking at those images alone, it would be easy to believe that fear and division define this moment.

But headlines rarely tell the whole story.

Photo of Anne Street underpass taken by Ellen.

Because while cameras were focused on scenes of disorder, another story was unfolding. A quieter story. One that may never receive the same attention.

It is the story of people who, when faced with fear and uncertainty, moved towards others rather than away from them.

I saw messages from community workers checking on families and asking if they were safe. I saw neighbours reaching out to one another. I saw faith leaders and community organisations opening doors and offering reassurance.

Hundreds of people gathered peacefully to stand in solidarity with those who felt vulnerable and afraid.

The family of the man who was brutally attacked publicly appealed for calm and made clear that violence was not the answer.

Then there was the message from a Cultural Liaison Midwife at Belfast Health and Social Care Trust.

As further unrest was expected, she reached out to reassure women from minority ethnic communities that they would not be left alone. Approval had been secured to arrange taxis for any pregnant woman who needed to get to the Royal Maternity Hospital but felt too frightened to use public transport or walk to the hospital.

The message was simple.

Please do not sit at home worried about yourself or your baby. Come to hospital. We will help you get there.

I cannot stop thinking about that.

In the middle of everything that was happening, someone was thinking about expectant mothers. Someone was making sure a woman in labour did not stay at home because she was afraid to leave her front door. Someone was thinking about babies about to be born.

That is public service at its best.

Quiet. Practical. Deeply human.

And then there was the story of a 23-year-old woman from India, living in Belfast.

When she saw reports of families trapped in their homes and too frightened to go out, she did not scroll on and move on with her day. She went into her kitchen.

She cooked.

Within hours, she had recruited volunteer drivers and coordinated deliveries across the city. She prepared more than one hundred meals and arranged for food, groceries, nappies, toilet paper, period products and other essentials to reach people who needed them.

She did not ask where people were from.

She did not ask what language they spoke.

She did not ask who they voted for.

She saw people who needed help and decided to do something about it.

That too is Belfast.

As I reflected on the week, I found myself thinking about The Specials and their song Racist Friend. Written more than forty years ago, it asks an uncomfortable question about the choices we make when prejudice and division surface around us.

It is a song about responsibility.

About deciding what kind of people we want to be and what kind of society we want to build.

This week, many people in Belfast answered that question not with words but with actions.

They checked on neighbours.

They delivered food to frightened families.

They arranged transport for expectant mothers.

They gathered peacefully in solidarity with people who felt vulnerable and alone.

They chose to care.

Those stories matter to me and I hope to you too. They are a reminder to us of something really important.

Communities are not defined solely by their worst moments. They are also defined by the people who step forward during those moments. The people who check on a neighbour. The volunteer who gives up an evening. The public servant who goes the extra mile. The stranger who fills containers with food and organises deliveries for families they have never met.

I have spent much of my career working alongside communities that often feel unheard and misunderstood. I know there are difficult conversations to be had. I know there are anxieties and concerns that deserve to be discussed openly and honestly.

But I also know this.

Communities reveal their true character not on their easiest days but on their hardest ones.

When uncertainty arrives, many people instinctively move towards one another rather than away from them. They offer practical help. They reassure. They comfort. They protect.

These acts may appear small in comparison to the dramatic images that dominate our screens.

They are not small.

They are the threads that hold communities together when events threaten to pull them apart.

Northern Ireland knows something about darkness. We understand what happens when fear takes hold and when people begin to see one another as strangers rather than neighbours.

But we also know something else.

We know that kindness survives. We know that decency endures. We know that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary compassion.

Darkness is loud. It demands our attention.

Light often works differently.

It arrives quietly.

A phone call.

A message asking if someone is safe.

A taxi arranged for a frightened expectant mother.

A home-cooked meal delivered to a family in need.

A peaceful gathering that says, “We stand together.”

These moments rarely lead the news. Yet perhaps they tell us more about who we are than the images that dominate our screens.

Because the story of Belfast this week is not only one of unrest.

It is also the story of people who refused to let fear have the final word. It is the story of neighbours looking after neighbours, public servants going above and beyond, communities opening their arms to those who were frightened, and ordinary people quietly choosing compassion over indifference.

Light still shines in the darkness.

And this week, it was everywhere.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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This article began somewhere between Dublin and Belfast.

I had been up at 5am to travel to Dublin for an event. It had been a long day filled with conversations about people, communities, leadership and the importance of human connection.

On the journey home, I missed my train.

I was sitting in the station reflecting on conversations I had throughout the day, reading political coverage, thinking about some of the challenges facing Northern Ireland and, if I’m honest, reflecting on life more generally.

By the time I looked up, the train had gone.

As I sat waiting for the next one, my thoughts drifted towards politics.

Or perhaps more accurately, what politics is supposed to be for.

Over the course of a single day, I had spent time discussing suicide prevention, public policy, leadership and community engagement. I had also watched another round of headlines focused on political personalities, internal disputes and organisational tensions.

The contrast stayed with me.

Pictures: Ellen meeting with Robbie Butler, Órlaithí Flynn & Jon Burrows

One of the privileges of my work is that I spend time in very different worlds.

I sit in meetings with ministers, MLAs, councillors and civil servants.

I work with charities, community organisations and campaigners.

I hear from people through research, engagement exercises, consultations and policy discussions.

I speak with women who feel their voices are ignored.

Community leaders trying to improve their neighbourhoods.

Parents navigating complex systems.

People affected by poverty, inequality and poor mental health.

People who have largely lost faith that anyone is listening.

What strikes me is that very few of these conversations revolve around political strategy.

People talk about their lives.

Their families.

Their communities.

The challenges they face.

The hopes they have for the future.

The support they need.

The barriers standing in their way.

Politics matters because it shapes all of those things.

Political parties matter.

Democracy matters.

Debate matters.

Disagreement matters.

Different perspectives strengthen decision-making.

Challenge improves policy.

Scrutiny is essential.

Healthy organisations need room for debate and discussion.

Yet there are times when politics can become consumed by itself.

Most people notice when that happens.

They may not follow every detail.

They may not know every personality involved.

What they do see is attention being diverted away from the issues affecting their daily lives.

They see progress in some areas of public services and growing pressures in others.

Health waiting lists may reduce in one area while ADHD assessments, special educational needs assessments or community services face increasing demand.

The picture is often more complex than a headline can capture.

What many citizens experience, however, is the feeling of continuing to wait for the support they need.

They see families struggling with rising costs.

Community organisations working tirelessly to keep services running.

People searching for support.

People trying to navigate increasingly complex systems.

People waiting for change.

The result is often disengagement.

People switch off.

They conclude that politics has little relevance to their lives.

That should concern all of us.

Most people care about politics differently than political insiders often imagine.

They care when they cannot get a GP appointment.

They care when they cannot access mental health support.

They care when they cannot secure housing.

They care when their child cannot access the support they need.

They care when they have been waiting years for treatment.

They care when they cannot afford to heat their home.

They care about outcomes.

Over the past week I have had conversations with politicians from different political traditions.

We disagree on some things.

That is entirely normal.

That is democracy.

What struck me was how quickly common ground emerged when the discussion focused on issues affecting people’s lives.

One conversation centred on suicide prevention.

Another explored some of the wider challenges facing Northern Ireland.

Nobody changed their political beliefs.

Nobody abandoned their principles.

People listened.

People engaged.

People explored different perspectives.

The focus remained on the issue rather than the individual.

When a family loses someone to suicide, their concern is not where support comes from politically.

When someone is in distress, they are focused on getting help.

When someone has spent years waiting for treatment, they are interested in progress.

They want solutions.

Good policymaking requires evidence, consultation, scrutiny and accountability.

There are reasons why procedures exist.

There are reasons why legislation is scrutinised.

There are reasons why decisions are tested and challenged.

Those safeguards are important.

They help improve decision-making and protect against unintended consequences.

At the same time, policy developed without listening to those most affected by it is unlikely to succeed.

Lived experience matters.

Relationships matter.

Trust matters.

Throughout my career, whether working on suicide prevention, with children and young people, communities experiencing disadvantage or women who often feel disconnected from decision-making, one message comes through consistently.

People want to be heard.

They may disagree with the final outcome.

They may have preferred a different decision.

What people want is to know their experiences matter.

They want to know their views have been considered.

They want to know somebody listened.

My interest in this is not academic.

It comes from experience.

I grew up in a community where many people felt decisions were made somewhere else by people who neither knew nor understood their lives.

Over the years I have encountered the same sentiment repeatedly.

In loyalist communities.

In disadvantaged communities.

Among people living in poverty.

Among those navigating public services.

The details differ.

The message is often remarkably similar.

Nobody asked us.

Nobody listened.

Nobody understood.

That should concern anyone involved in public policy.

People can often accept decisions they disagree with.

Feeling invisible is much harder to accept.

People are frequently more willing to accept decisions they disagree with than decisions they feel excluded from.

That observation has shaped much of my interest in consultation, engagement and participation.

Expertise matters.

Evidence matters.

Research matters.

Yet good decisions are rarely made in isolation.

The people most affected by policy often understand its strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else.

Ignoring those voices weakens policymaking.

In recent years I have become increasingly interested in who gets to participate in policymaking and who gets left out.

Whose voices are sought out when governments consult.

Who feels confident enough to contribute.

Who believes their views matter.

Who has concluded there is little point engaging because the outcome feels predetermined.

Consultation should create genuine opportunities for people to shape decisions.

Trust begins to erode when people believe engagement is taking place after key decisions have effectively been made.

Once trust is lost, rebuilding it can take years.

There is another aspect of politics that receives far less attention too.

Hurt.

Many public disagreements are discussed as battles of ideas.

Yet beneath the surface there are often people who feel unheard.

People who feel disrespected.

People who believe their contribution has been overlooked.

People who feel decisions have been made about them rather than with them.

Those experiences are real to the people living them.

Public representatives are human beings too.

They experience disappointment.

Frustration.

Hurt.

Loss.

Self-doubt.

Relationship breakdowns.

The pressures that come with public scrutiny.

The responsibility of making decisions knowing others may disagree.

Over the years I have met politicians from different parties and political traditions.

Whatever our differences, I have not doubted for one second that they entered public life because they wanted to make a positive difference.

That is why I think it is important to hold more than one truth at the same time.

People can be genuinely hurt.

Organisations still need to move forward.

People can feel unheard.

Others can have a different experience of the same events.

Someone’s experience can be entirely real without it being the only perspective in the room.

Listening matters because it creates space for those experiences to be acknowledged.

It allows people to feel heard and treated with dignity, even when agreement remains elusive.

Most people can cope with disagreement.

Feeling dismissed is much harder.

One of the lessons I have learned from community engagement is that people do not necessarily expect to get their own way.

They do expect respect.

They expect honesty.

They expect to be heard.

They expect their experience to matter.

Perhaps that is where relationships matter most.

Particularly when disagreements emerge.

Particularly when difficult decisions have to be made.

Particularly when emotions are running high.

The true test of leadership often reveals itself during those moments.

Because while policy is ultimately about improving lives, politics remains a deeply human endeavour.

People remember how they were treated.

Perhaps my reflections this week were shaped by something else too.

Recently I came across an old newspaper article about my dad.

He died at 56.

My brother died at 47.

Neither age feels particularly old to me anymore.

Life has a way of sharpening your perspective.

It encourages you to think about what matters.

Public service matters.

Leadership matters.

Relationships matter.

How we treat one another matters.

The difference we make while we are here matters.

That may explain why I sometimes find myself both hopeful and frustrated by politics.

I have seen what politics can achieve when people focus on solving problems.

I have also seen organisations become consumed by themselves.

The longer I work in policy and public affairs, the more convinced I become that politics is strongest when it remains rooted in service.

Service to people.

Service to communities.

Service to the public good.

That sounds straightforward.

Maintaining that focus can be surprisingly difficult when relationships become strained and organisations come under pressure.

The temptation is often to look inwards.

Leadership requires the discipline to keep looking outwards.

Over the years I have become convinced that policy change is a contact sport.

The Children’s Services Co-operation Act did not happen because one person had a good idea.

Progress on issues such as Free School Meals, suicide prevention and support for vulnerable communities did not happen because a report was published and left on a shelf.

Change happened because relationships existed.

Conversations took place.

Trust was built.

People remained willing to engage, even when they disagreed.

Northern Ireland has often been viewed through the lens of constitutional politics.

Yet some of our greatest achievements have emerged when people found ways to work together despite profound differences.

That lesson applies to healthcare.

It applies to education.

It applies to tackling poverty.

It applies to suicide prevention.

It applies to politics itself.

We will never agree on everything.

That is neither realistic nor desirable.

Progress becomes much harder when we lose the ability to listen, engage and build relationships across those differences.

I also think political parties, governments, public bodies and organisations all face the same challenge.

How often do we genuinely listen when there is no crisis?

How often do we engage before decisions are made?

How often do we create meaningful opportunities for people to shape the decisions that affect their lives?

Listening should be woven into leadership.

It should not be reserved for moments when things have gone wrong.

Perhaps that is the lesson I take from this week.

Politics works best when it remembers who it is for.

Policy works best when it is informed by the people most affected by it.

Leadership works best when it keeps its focus on service.

Despite everything, I remain optimistic.

Every day I meet people from different communities, sectors and political traditions who genuinely want to improve the lives of others.

The challenge is creating the conditions where those conversations can happen, where different perspectives can be heard, where disagreement can be handled respectfully and where citizens remain at the centre of decision-making.

When that happens, progress is possible.

Northern Ireland has always needed more of that.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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I normally use this space to write about policy, politics, community engagement and the things happening around me professionally. But this week feels a little different.

Over the last few weeks I’ve found myself reflecting on time, on what we collect as we move through life and work, and on the things we carry — often without realising just how much has built up.

Not physical things necessarily, although there are plenty of those too. I mean the less visible things.

Responsibilities.

Ideas.

Projects.

Expectations.

Roles we step into.

Versions of ourselves that made sense at a particular point in time.

Working in policy and public life can become a bit of a magnet for all of it. There is always another issue that matters, another person who needs support, another opportunity that could make a difference, another conversation that feels important enough to say yes to.

Many of those things are worthwhile. Many of them deserve attention.

But over time there is a difference between building something meaningful and simply carrying more and more.

Pic: Ellen chatting with d/First Minister Emma Little Pengelly at Hillsborough Castle

The quiet accumulation

The strange thing about carrying too much is that it rarely happens overnight.

Nobody wakes up one morning and decides they want to become overwhelmed.

It happens gradually.

One meeting becomes two.

One project becomes three.

One responsibility expands into five others.

You take on a board role because you care. You start a piece of work because you believe in it. You say yes because someone asks and you know you can help.

And because most of the things you are carrying are good things — things you care deeply about — you don’t always notice the weight increasing.

You just adapt.

You work later.

You promise yourself you’ll catch up next week.

You tell yourself that once this event, report, application or deadline passes, things will settle down.

Then another thing arrives.

A different kind of reminder

Last week I attended the Hillsborough Garden Party.

It was a lovely event and one of those moments where life slowed for a few hours. People were chatting, laughing, catching up and simply being present.

What struck me wasn’t the event itself as much as the contrast.

So much of life now can feel like moving from meeting to meeting, task to task and deadline to deadline. We become very good at planning what comes next and sometimes forget to notice where we actually are.

I found myself standing there thinking about how much of life is spent looking ahead.

The next meeting.

The next strategy.

The next funding application.

The next challenge that needs solved.

And yet for a few hours there was space simply to pause and look around.

Five years

Over the last while I’ve also been reflecting on something much more personal.

This month marks five years since my brother died at just 47 years old.

Five years feels impossible to write.

Grief is strange because it doesn’t arrive, do its work and then leave. It changes shape over time. Life continues around it. Work happens. You carry responsibilities, support others and keep moving forward.

Then a date appears in the calendar and suddenly time feels very different.

It has made me think a lot about time and how quickly it moves.

About the way we tell ourselves that we’ll slow down after the next project, the next event, the next busy period.

About how often we delay the things that matter because there will be a better moment later.

Perhaps that has been part of my thinking recently too.

Not dramatic changes. Not throwing everything out and starting again.

Just asking more honest questions.

What deserves space?

Policy often teaches us something similar.

When we face difficult challenges our instinct is often to add more.

Add another strategy.

Add another initiative.

Add another process.

Sometimes that is exactly what is needed.

But sometimes progress comes from asking harder questions:

What is still serving a purpose?

What no longer fits where we are going?

What deserves deeper attention?

What needs released?

I have been thinking about that personally recently too.

What gives energy rather than simply taking it?

What deserves protection?

What creates meaning?

Because perhaps growth isn’t always about adding more.

Sometimes it is about creating enough room for what matters most.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

What have you been making space for recently?

Until next time.

— Ellen

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Over the past year, I’ve made a few changes for my own sanity.

I’ve limited myself to checking the news once a day.
I’ve cut right back on social media — and when I do go on, I follow accounts that bring a bit of joy or remind me that not everything is bleak.

The world feels heavy. The headlines are relentless. There’s so much happening that we can’t control, and it builds into a constant sense of frustration.

For me, it’s been about protecting my own mental health. Being more intentional about where I put my energy. Accepting that I can’t fix everything, but I can show up in a way that feels more grounded — and kinder.

And that starts with being kind to myself.

Video: waves crashing on rocks taken by me standing looking out at the North Sea.

Which brings me to this

I’m going to say something that people probably won’t want to hear.

And I’m saying it knowing full well I’ve been part of it too.

In the community and voluntary sector, we see the worst of things. We hear the stories. We understand where systems are failing. That’s the reality of the work.

How we communicate that in a policy space can come across as negativity.

I know that won’t sit well with everyone. I’m sorry about that. But I think it’s worth saying.

Because the frustration is real

Government moves slowly. Painfully slowly at times.

You can spend months — sometimes years — pushing an issue, building relationships, putting forward evidence, and still feel like you’re getting nowhere.

Meanwhile, the need is right in front of you. People are struggling. Services are stretched. Staff are exhausted.

And on top of that, the sector is often expected to do more with less (I hate that phrase!). To fill gaps that shouldn’t be there in the first place. To keep things going without the resources or recognition that’s needed.

It’s frustrating as hell.

Of course people are angry.
Of course people are tired.
Of course people feel like they’re not being heard.

But here’s the difficult part

How that frustration shows up matters.

After more than 20 years working in policy and advocacy, I’ve been in a lot of rooms.

And I’ve seen good ideas — important ideas — fall flat.

It was because of how they were delivered.

Too much detail all at once.
Too much focus on everything that’s wrong.
Too much frustration in the tone.
No clear ask to hold onto.

You can feel it happen.

People stop leaning in.
They start to disengage.

And once that happens, it’s hard to bring them back.

What it feels like from the other side

The people you’re speaking to are dealing with multiple pressures.

Different departments. Competing priorities. Limited budgets. Political realities that don’t always make sense.

They’re hearing issue after issue, all of them urgent, all of them important.

If what they hear feels like a stream of problems with no way through, or if the tone feels like they’re being blamed for everything, it creates distance.

That’s not what you’re trying to do.
But it can be the impact.

Holding onto your message without losing the room

You don’t need to water anything down.

You don’t need to pretend things are better than they are.

But you do need to think about how your message is being heard.

That means:

• being clear about your ask

• not trying to say everything in one go

• creating space for a conversation

• and being aware of the tone you’re bringing into the room

You want people to stay with you long enough to understand — and act.

A small check before your next meeting

Before you go in, it’s worth asking yourself:

Am I helping this person understand — or am I unloading everything that’s frustrating me?

There’s a difference.

And it can be the difference between being heard and being switched off.

This is part of the work

Caring deeply about the issues is what drives this sector. It’s what keeps us working in it - because we care.

But how that care comes across matters.

Because if we want things to change — really change — we need people to stay with us, not tune out.

Sometimes the barrier isn’t the issue.

It’s how it’s landing.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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I want to talk about something that doesn’t get said enough in policy work.

Sometimes your idea just doesn’t land.

You can be confident in it. You can back it up. You can explain why it matters.

And still — nothing moves.

I’ve been there.

Pic: Ellen with the fabulous Sara McCracken.

A number of years ago, I was pushing for children’s budgeting. On paper, it made complete sense. The idea that government should clearly track and prioritise spending on children felt like the right thing to do — and it was grounded in evidence and good intent.

But it didn’t land.

It was too complex.
It didn’t fit easily into how the system was set up.
And if I’m being honest, it didn’t connect in a way that made it easy for decision-makers to pick up and run with.

That was a hard lesson.

Being right isn’t always enough

In policy and advocacy, we spend a lot of time building the case.

We gather evidence.
We speak to people with lived experience.
We build what we believe is a strong, well-reasoned argument.

And sometimes we assume that if the case is strong enough, it will move.

But policy doesn’t work like that.

Decisions are shaped by timing, political priorities, system constraints, competing demands, and how easy something is to implement.

You can be completely right — and still not get traction.

When something doesn’t land, it’s tempting to push harder

I see this a lot.

An idea isn’t getting anywhere, so the instinct is to double down:

• say it louder

• repeat it more often

• push harder in meetings

But if the issue isn’t being heard or understood, more volume doesn’t always help.

Sometimes what’s needed is a step back.

Going back to the drawing board

This is the part people don’t always talk about.

There’s a moment where you have to ask yourself:

Is this the right ask, in the right form, at the right time?

Not whether the issue matters — that’s usually still true.
But whether the way you’re presenting it is working.

That might mean:

• simplifying the ask

• breaking it into smaller, more manageable steps

• reframing it in language that connects with current priorities

• testing it with people who will give you an honest view

It can feel uncomfortable. It can feel like you’re letting go of something you’ve invested time and energy in.

But it’s often where progress starts.

It’s part of the work

Looking back, I don’t see that experience as a failure.

I see it as part of understanding how policy change actually happens.

Not in straight lines.
Not just through strong arguments.
But through adapting, learning, and sometimes reshaping your approach so it can land.

A question to sit with

If something you’re working on isn’t gaining traction right now, it might be worth asking:

• Is the ask clear enough?

• Is it realistic within the system it sits in?

• Does it connect to what decision-makers are focused on right now?

• Have I made it easy for someone to say yes to?

You don’t need to abandon the issue.
But you might need to approach it differently.

If you want support with this

This is something I work through with organisations all the time.

Helping take a strong idea that isn’t landing and shaping it into something that has a better chance of moving — without losing the core of what matters.

If you’re feeling stuck, or like you’re pushing against something that isn’t shifting, drop me a message. Sometimes a fresh perspective is all it takes to unlock the next step.

Good ideas don’t always land first time.

But with the right approach, they don’t have to stay on the shelf.

Until next time.

— Ellen

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I’ve been a bit quiet.

Not disappeared. Not stopped. Just… quieter.

And I think sometimes that’s needed.

The last while has given me space to step back and take stock. Not in a dramatic way — just enough to ask myself a few honest questions. What am I doing? What’s actually making a difference? Where is my energy best spent?

Because if I’m honest, there have been times where it’s felt like a lot of movement, a lot of conversations, a lot of noise — but not always enough clarity.

And I know I’m not the only one who feels like that.

Pic: Ellen outside Stormont Castle after giving presentation to the Northern Ireland Executive

When you step back, you start to see things differently

Working in policy and advocacy, it’s easy to get caught up in the pace of it all. Meetings, emails, events, briefings. Always something to respond to. Always something urgent.

But stepping back has reminded me that activity and impact are not the same thing.

You can be in all the right rooms and still not be as clear as you need to be.
You can be busy and still not be focused.

And clarity — real clarity — is what cuts through.

A reminder of the bigger picture

One of the moments that stayed with me recently was presenting to the Northern Ireland Executive.

Sitting in that room, with every Minister around the table, you’re very aware of the scale of responsibility they’re carrying. Every issue is important to the person bringing it. Every issue has urgency. But they’re holding all of it at once.

It brings you back to something simple but important:

Your issue matters.
But it sits alongside many others that matter too.

And if you want it to land in that kind of space, you have to be clear, focused, and able to connect it to the bigger picture.

What I’ve been reminded of

A few things have become clearer to me over the past while:

• You don’t need to be everywhere. You need to be in the right places.

• You don’t need to say everything. You need to say the right thing.

• You don’t need to chase every opportunity. You need to focus on the ones that matter.

And maybe most importantly:

You need to protect your energy.

Because this work can take a lot out of you if you let it.

What I’m bringing into this next phase

Less noise.
More focus.

Being clearer about the work I want to do and the work I don’t.
Working with people who are serious about making change, not just talking about it.
Saying things more directly, even when it feels uncomfortable.

And continuing to share what I’ve learned along the way — not as theory, but from being in the work for a long time and still learning.

If you’re feeling a bit stuck or stretched

You’re not alone.

A lot of people I speak to are doing good work but feeling pulled in too many directions. Trying to respond to everything. Not always sure what’s making the biggest difference.

Sometimes what’s needed isn’t more activity — it’s a bit of space to think, reset, and get clear again.

That’s something I can help with.

Whether it’s shaping your public affairs approach, tightening your message, or just helping you work out where to focus — we can start from where you are.

I don’t have everything figured out. I don’t think anyone does.

But I do know this: when you take a step back, get clear, and move forward with intention, things start to feel more manageable — and more meaningful.

It’s good to be back.

— Ellen

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This week I had one of those moments that policy people often talk about but can’t always plan for.

I had the opportunity to briefly meet Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer.

Now, anyone who has spent time around politics knows that moments like this are rarely long. There’s no time for a carefully structured briefing or a detailed explanation of the issue you care about. You might have seconds, maybe a minute, before the conversation moves on.

But those moments still matter.

Pic: Ellen meeting with Sir Kerr Starmer

They’re reminders that influence often happens in short bursts — quick exchanges, introductions, or passing conversations that can open a door if you’re ready for them.

The reality of those encounters

People often imagine that meeting a Prime Minister or a senior politician means having a deep conversation about policy.

In reality, they are moving quickly, meeting dozens of people, hearing a wide range of issues, and juggling a long list of responsibilities. Your interaction will likely be short.

That doesn’t make it meaningless.

What matters is whether you can use that moment well.

Be clear about who you are

If you suddenly find yourself in front of someone with influence, the first thing they need to understand is who you are and what you represent.

Not your entire organisational history.

Not a five-minute explanation.

Just enough for them to place you.

Something simple and human works best. Who you are, what you do, and the issue you care about most.

Clarity travels further than complexity.

Know what you want to say

The second thing that matters is knowing what you want them to remember.

You don’t need to deliver a policy lecture. In fact, trying to cram too much information into a short exchange usually has the opposite effect.

One clear point is far more powerful than five rushed ones.

A short sentence about the issue that matters to you.

Why it matters to the people you work with.

What change you want to see.

That’s enough to leave a mark.

Don’t underestimate the moment

It’s easy to dismiss brief encounters as symbolic or unimportant.

But policy work is often built on relationships and familiarity. If someone has heard your message once in passing and then sees it again in a briefing, a consultation response, or a meeting request, it lands differently.

You’re no longer a stranger. You’re someone they’ve already encountered.

That recognition can make the next conversation easier.

Preparation is the quiet advantage

The people who use these moments best aren’t necessarily the loudest voices in the room.

They’re the ones who have taken time beforehand to think about what they would say if the opportunity appeared.

They know their message.

They know their issue.

They know how to explain it simply.

And when the moment arrives, they’re ready.

A reminder for anyone working in policy or advocacy

You may not meet a Prime Minister this week. But you might meet an MLA, a councillor, a civil servant, or someone who influences how decisions are made.

The same principle applies.

Those short conversations can matter more than we sometimes realise. Being ready for them can make all the difference.

Because in policy work, you rarely get long speeches.

You get moments.

And when they come, it helps to know exactly what you want to say.

Until next time,
Ellen

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I was reading a passage from Eleanor Roosevelt’s autobiography recently, where she reflects on what it was like watching her husband make decisions as President. She talks about how people would come to him knowing their own issue inside out. They were passionate, well-informed, and often completely right about what needed to change.

But he had to hold all of those issues at once.
He had to hear conflicting views, weigh competing priorities, and make decisions that would never please everyone.

It stuck with me because it describes exactly what we’re dealing with in policy work now.

People who work in advocacy often know their issue better than anyone in the room. You live it. You see the consequences when systems fail. You carry the stories. The urgency is real.

The people making decisions, though, are holding ten different urgencies at the same time.

Understanding that doesn’t mean you lower your expectations. It helps you shape your message so it has a better chance of landing.

Pic: A quick selfie with Orlaithi Flynn and Máirtín Ó Muilleoir — proof that once a selfie-Lord Mayor, always a selfie-Lord Mayor!

Why your issue can get lost, even when it matters

One of the most frustrating things about policy work is feeling unheard. You’ve done the work. You’ve gathered the evidence. You’ve shown the human impact. And still, nothing seems to move.

Often that’s not because your issue doesn’t matter.
It’s because it’s competing with several other things that also matter.

Health budgets sit alongside housing pressures.
Education reform sits alongside poverty, workforce shortages, and infrastructure.
Everything feels urgent to the people closest to it.

If you walk into a room assuming your issue should automatically come first, you’re likely to meet resistance. If you walk in showing that you understand the wider pressures and can explain how your issue connects to them, you’re far more likely to be taken seriously.

How to frame your issue in the wider picture

A few things that help when you’re trying to influence people who are holding a lot at once:

Show how your issue connects to other priorities
Don’t present your work in isolation. Make the links clear. Housing affects health. Poverty affects education. Trauma affects employment. The more you can show those connections, the easier it is for someone to place your ask within their broader responsibilities.

Acknowledge the pressures they’re under
You don’t have to agree with every decision to recognise that policymakers are dealing with limited budgets, political constraints, and competing demands. Naming that reality builds credibility and opens up a more honest conversation.

Be clear about what you’re actually asking for
Clarity cuts through complexity. If your ask is vague, it gets lost. If it’s specific and realistic, it’s easier for someone to pick up and carry forward.

Help them do their job better
The most effective policy asks don’t just point out problems. They offer ways forward. They make it easier for the person in front of you to see how your proposal could work in practice.

Staying grounded when everything feels urgent

When you’re close to an issue, it’s hard not to feel like everything is on fire all the time. And sometimes it is. People are being harmed by slow decisions, underfunded services, and systems that don’t work as they should.

Holding onto that urgency matters.
Channelling it in a way that lands matters just as much.

Seeing the bigger picture doesn’t mean softening your message.
It means placing it where it can do the most good.

How I can support this

A lot of the work I do with organisations is about helping them step back from their issue just enough to see where it fits in the wider system — and then step forward again with a sharper, more persuasive message.

If you’re struggling to get traction, I can help you:

• Map where your issue connects to other policy priorities

• Clarify your core ask so it’s easier for decision-makers to act on

• Shape your message so it speaks to the wider pressures people are dealing with

• Think through who you need to influence, and how best to approach them

You can also catch up on previous episodes of Policy360: Unplugged if you want to hear how people inside the system think about trade-offs and decision-making.

We all care deeply about the issues we work on. That’s what drives us.
But influence grows when you can show how your issue sits within the bigger picture someone else is trying to hold.

That’s where your work starts to travel further.

Until next time,
Ellen

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I’ve realised something over the last while: these posts are as much for me as they are for you.

I’m in the middle of a messy transition in my own life. Things feel unsettled and raw, and I’ve been carrying a lot of hurt, frustration and anger about what’s going on in the world, and in our politics at home too. The tone has hardened. The rhetoric has sharpened. There’s more nastiness in public life than I’m comfortable with. It wears you down. Some days it feels like you’re pushing against something that just keeps pushing back.

If that’s how you’re feeling too, you’re not on your own.

Pic: A great conversation with deputy leader of the UUP Diana Armstrong MLA and UUP Councillor Bethany Ferris.

And I’ve been thinking about what you do with that anger. Pretending it isn’t there doesn’t help. Letting it spill out everywhere doesn’t help either. For me, the work has been about holding onto it and using it. Letting it sharpen my focus rather than harden me.

That’s where this question keeps coming back to me, both personally and professionally:

Who are you?
And what do you want?

What people say about you when you’re not in the room

In policy spaces, people talk about organisations in shorthand. It’s how busy systems work.

“They’re the housing ones.”
“She’s strong on mental health.”
“They care about this issue, but I’m not sure what they’re asking for.”

That last one is where a lot of good work quietly gets lost.

You can be well regarded and still be unclear. When things feel loud and polarised, clarity matters even more. If your message is fuzzy, it gets drowned out. If it’s clear, it stands a better chance of cutting through.

Finding allies when things feel heavy

I was reminded of the importance of allies recently. I hit a resource issue in a piece of work and didn’t have the capacity to deal with it on my own. Someone from another organisation stepped in. She offered help, I was honest about my limitations, and she just went with it. No fuss. No making me feel small about it. She saw what was needed and helped carry it.

It sounds simple, but it mattered more than she probably realised.

When things feel hard, having people you can rely on makes a real difference. Not people who just nod along, but people who will show up when you’re stretched. People you can be honest with about what you can and can’t do. People who help you keep going.

This work can feel lonely at times. It doesn’t have to be.

Pic: An amazing and inspiring chat with the wonderful Lilian Seenoi-Barr, former Lord Mayor of Derry City & Strabane Council.

Get known for one or two things

When everything feels urgent, it’s tempting to try to speak on everything. That spreads your energy thin and makes it harder for others to place you.

You don’t need to be known for all the issues. You need to be known for a small number of things you care deeply about and can speak to clearly.

If someone in Stormont or a department was asked about your organisation, what would you want them to say?

Not your mission statement.
Just the headline.

If you can’t answer that easily, it’s worth sitting with. Clarity helps others understand you. It also helps you decide what to focus on when your energy is limited.

A few questions to ground yourself

• What’s the one issue you care about enough to keep pushing, even when it’s tiring?

• What do you want to be known for in policy spaces?

• Who are the people you can lean on when things feel heavy?

• Where are you spending energy that isn’t moving anything forward?

You don’t need perfect answers, you need them to be honest.

If you want support with this

A lot of my work is about helping people take frustration, anger and a sense that something isn’t right, and turn that into a clear message and a practical strategy.

If you’re feeling scattered, worn down, or unsure where to focus next, drop me a message. We can work out what matters most right now and who you might want to build alongside.

You can also listen back to episodes of Policy360: Unplugged if you want to hear how others have navigated moments like this in their own work.

I don’t have this neatly wrapped up. Some days I feel hopeful. Some days I feel tired. Most days, it’s a mix of both.

Clarity about who you are, what you want, and who’s beside you gives you something solid to stand on when everything else feels unsteady.

Until next time,
Ellen

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Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had some brilliant conversations in places that weren’t “policy spaces” at all.

At the Eastside Awards, I chatted to a few people who genuinely care about their community and are trying to figure out how to get their concerns heard. Then at the NI Assembly Women’s Caucus event, I found myself in some sharp, generous, and honest conversations with politicians about what really matters to people right now.

Pic: chatting with Pat Cullen MP at the Women’s Caucus Event at Parliament Buildings.

These weren’t planned briefings. Nobody had prepared talking points. But they were meaningful — and real.

And it reminded me: if we only ever focus on formal channels, we miss other opportunities to build relationships.

It’s not always about the meeting

Don’t get me wrong — the formal meetings, the briefings, the consultations — they matter. But some of the most important relationship-building happens on the sidelines.

Standing in a queue. Sharing a table. Having a five-minute chat after an event.

Moments that build trust, understanding, and connection — long before a policy ask ever lands on someone’s desk.

Pic: catching up with Belfast Lord Mayor Tracy Kelly at Eastside Awards.

If you’re only engaging through official meetings or cold emails, you might be missing chances to:

• Get a better feel for where someone is really at

• Hear unfiltered feedback on your idea

• Start a conversation that can lead to something more meaningful

It’s not about being strategic all the time — it’s about being present, curious, and willing to talk.

A few ways to make the most of those moments

Be ready to explain who you are and what you do — in a way that’s natural and relatable. You don’t need a polished elevator pitch, but you do need to be clear.

Ask questions — and actually listen. Sometimes people will tell you more off-the-record than they ever would in a formal setting.

Follow up — a short message to say, “great to meet you” or “here’s the thing I mentioned” goes a long way. People remember that.

Say yes to more things — even the events you’re not sure are “for you.” You never know who’ll be in the room.

You don’t have to be everywhere — but being somewhere regularly builds familiarity. And in public affairs, familiarity leads to trust. And trust opens doors.

If you’re trying to get your voice heard

I help organisations connect with the right people — in the right way. That might mean:

• Building your public affairs strategy

• Helping you figure out who you should be talking to

• Sharpening your message so it lands

• Supporting you to follow up and stay visible

• Or just giving you a clearer plan so you’re not trying to do everything all at once

If that’s something you need this year, drop me a message. You don’t need to have it all figured out — we can work it out together.

You can also listen to past episodes of the Policy360: Unplugged podcast — conversations with journalists, politicians and campaigners sharing what really works when it comes to influence.

It’s easy to feel like you’re not doing enough if you’re not in formal meetings all the time.

But don’t underestimate the power of being in the room, asking questions, and getting to know people properly — especially those you might not always agree with.

Those quiet conversations? They often end up shaping big changes.

Until next time,

Ellen

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Some weeks feel heavier than others — and this is one of them.

The headlines are overwhelming. Violence, division, politics fuelled by anger. It’s hard to watch, harder still to know where to put your energy. And if you’ve found yourself feeling hopeless or wondering what difference any of it makes — you’re not the only one.

But this is where it helps to bring things back to what’s real, what’s local, and what’s within your reach.

You don’t have to do everything. But you can do something.

Ellen meeting with the Commissary o Ulster-Scotch and Ulster-Bitisch Heirskip Lee Reynolds & An Coimisineir Gaeilge Pol Deeds.

A few places to focus this week

Review your message
Take another look at what you’re saying. Is it still clear? Does it speak to what’s going on politically and socially right now? Small adjustments can make a big difference.

Reconnect
Reach out to one political contact — even just to share an update. Keeping the relationship going matters, especially when the pace of change is picking up again.

Respond to something
If a consultation or policy proposal touches on your area, take 30 minutes to submit a short response. You don’t need a 10-page paper — your insight still counts.

Make time for one conversation
Speak to someone in another organisation, a funder, or someone you want to collaborate with. Real connections will carry your work further than reactive comms ever will.

Write it down
A blog, a short reflection, a LinkedIn post — anything that helps you articulate what you’re seeing. Your voice can help others make sense of things too.

You don’t need to tick every box. Choose one thing and do it well.

And if you’re tired — that makes sense too

None of this is easy. There’s pressure to respond to everything, but the truth is, you’re allowed to take a step back when you need to.

Staying informed, staying committed, and staying well — that’s a balance you have to work at. And there’s no shame in needing a slower pace to keep going.

Looking after yourself is part of this work. If you’re burnt out, you won’t influence much of anything — and we need your voice, steady and strong.

If you need support

I work with organisations who want to make an impact without burning out or getting lost in the noise.

If you need help to:

• Refocus your public affairs strategy

• Get clarity on your policy messaging

• Write a response or a strong piece of communication

• Or just take a step back and look at the bigger picture

Let’s have a conversation.

You can also catch up on episodes of Policy360: Unplugged — practical conversations with journalists, campaigners, politicians and policy people trying to do good work in complicated systems.

And if you find these newsletters useful, you can support them here, or become a paid subscriber to help keep it all going.

Take care of yourself this week. And if you’ve been feeling stuck or unsure, start small. Pick one thing and move it forward.

Ellen

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Happy New Year.

I know getting back into things isn’t easy after the break — especially when the last few weeks have involved a lot of cheese, chocolate, and trying to avoid your inbox. But as always, the political world doesn’t stay still for long.

Picture: Ellen meeting with Jon Burrows

This month, we’re starting the year with a change in leadership at the Ulster Unionist Party.

Now whether or not you agree with the politics of any party or leader, if they’re shaping policy — or have influence over those who are — it’s important to understand where they’re coming from. It’s not about agreeing with them, it’s about being able to engage effectively.

And leadership changes are moments of movement. If you work in or around policy, this is the time to think about how you build, rebuild or strengthen relationships — because what worked last year might not land the same this year.

What changes — and why it matters

New leaders bring new tone, new priorities, and often, a new team around them. That means the door might open for conversations you couldn’t have before — or, unfortunately, close on ones you’ve worked hard to progress.

That’s why this is the perfect moment to take stock and refresh your approach.

Four things to focus on

1. Pay attention to what’s being said.
Look at the language they’re using — both in media and in meetings. What’s front of mind for them? What are they avoiding? Listening first gives you a stronger footing.

2. Be early.
Don’t wait until they’re inundated with meeting requests and asks. A short, thoughtful message introducing your organisation and your focus can set the tone for future engagement.

3. Refresh your messaging.
If you haven’t updated your policy language in a while, now’s a good time. Make sure what you’re saying still resonates and that it connects to what matters to the people you’re trying to influence.

4. Think longer-term.
This won’t be the only change in 2026 — so use this as a template for how you respond to shifts going forward. Being prepared for change is a strength.

If you need support

This is exactly the kind of work I help organisations with. I can support you to:

• Develop a clear and practical public affairs strategy

• Build relationships with the right people, even if they’re new to you

• Draft or refresh briefings and messages that cut through

• Make sure your voice is heard, even in a crowded space

And if you’re not sure where to start, that’s fine — just drop me a message and we’ll work it out: hello@policy360.co.uk

You can also tune into Policy360: Unplugged, my podcast where I speak with people across politics, media and civil society. It’s a good way to get back into the rhythm of policy work — and you can earn CPD points for listening too.

However your year has started — whether you’re clear on your direction or still dusting off the holiday cobwebs — I hope this gives you something to build from.

Leadership will keep changing. Politics will keep shifting. But if your message is clear, your timing is thoughtful, and your relationships are real — you’re already ahead of the game.

I also want to say this: I know things feel heavy right now. Between the violence we’re seeing across the world and so much division and anger, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed or powerless. People don’t know where to turn or what to do — and I know many of you feel that too. But staying engaged, keeping your focus on what you can influence, and continuing to show up with compassion and clarity — that matters more than ever.

Ellen

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I wasn’t planning on being moved by a Christmas advert this year.

But here we are.

The new John Lewis ad features a teenage boy and his dad. The son gives his father a vinyl record — not a big, flashy gift, just something simple. But it lands.

The track (Where Love Lives, if you’re curious) opens up something in the father. It takes him back, softens him, says what the son can’t quite find the words for. You can feel the emotion, the history, the unspoken things that finally start to make their way to the surface.

And the tagline?

“If you can’t find the words, find the gift.”

Pic: talking politics with the wonderful Noel Thompson!

Now, I know it’s designed to make us spend money — but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Because it got me thinking about our world — policy, advocacy, influencing.

And how often we rush to make the ask.

We go in with urgency…

We want meetings.

We want decisions.

We want movement, funding, reform — and rightly so.

But sometimes, in our urgency to be heard, we forget something important:

Connection has to come first.

We ask, but we don’t always offer something meaningful before we do.

We focus on pushing the message instead of building the bridge.

And in policy — where rooms are often full of noise and competing priorities — it’s the bridges that cut through.

So what does it mean to “give” in advocacy?

It’s not about gifting someone a box of chocolates before a meeting (although no judgement).

It’s about offering something true.

A story.

A lived experience.

An insight that hits differently.

Something that helps the person across from you feel what’s at stake.

Not just intellectually — but emotionally. Personally.

That’s the stuff that gets remembered. That’s the stuff that gets carried into the next conversation, the next committee meeting, the next opportunity for change.

Get to know who you’re talking to

This kind of connection doesn’t just happen. You’ve got to work at it.

And that means getting to know the politician or policymaker on the other side of the table — even if (especially if) you don’t agree with their politics.

We live in a world where everything is polarised.

Where people get written off before they even open their mouths.

Where the “other side” is treated like the enemy.

But if you want to influence policy — not just vent your frustration — you need to understand the people who hold power.

You need to know what they care about, what language they respond to, what pressure they’re under.

You don’t have to agree with them.

You just have to see them as human — and build the bridge from there.

The policy world can be full of asks.

But sometimes, it’s not the ask that moves people.

It’s the moment you create before the ask.

It’s the gift of perspective.

It’s the bridge you build by showing them something they hadn’t seen — or hadn’t understood in quite that way before.

So here’s your nudge for the week:

Before you send the email, ask for the meeting, or head to that event…

Pause.

Ask yourself:

What am I giving them that helps them care about this as much as I do?

What’s my version of the vinyl?

And if you’re not sure how to answer that, or you’re sitting on a powerful story you don’t quite know how to shape — you know where I am.

How I can help

• I write and shape consultation responses that save you time and make your point land.

• I help you build a public affairs strategy that doesn’t rely on luck or connections.

• I support you to craft your message so it sticks with the people who matter.

• I draft blogs, social posts, and policy comms that don’t get stuck in jargon.

You can also listen to the Policy360: Unplugged Podcast — with real insights from policy-makers, journalists, and people driving change. It’s a great place to sharpen your thinking and earn CPD too.

This is the last newsletter I’ll be sending before the new year — so let me be the first to wish you a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful, restful start to 2026.

However your year has gone, I hope you can take some time to pause, reflect, and maybe reconnect — with the people who matter, and with the reason you started doing this work in the first place.

Here’s to a stronger, bolder, better-connected 2026.

Ellen

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There’s a phrase I keep coming back to lately:

If you’re not at the table, you’re probably on the menu.

It’s used so often it’s almost become a cliché — but when you’ve lived it, you know it’s true.

Lately I’ve found myself in meetings about some of the most pressing issues facing our communities — suicide prevention, poverty, education. All deeply important. And yet, time and time again, I look around the room and ask:

Where are the people who’ve actually lived this?

Where are the voices of those most impacted? The people trying to heat their homes, navigate a broken support system, or get a diagnosis for their child?

They’re not in the room — not because they don’t care. But because no one’s asked, or worse, no one’s made space.

Let’s talk honestly for a second.

It’s not that there’s no money.

There’s money.

There are pots and projects and pilots and funding rounds.

But the change we need?

The real reform that would actually make a difference?

It’s missing.

And that raises a hard question:

Are we spending money on the right things — or just the same things?

Because if we’re not building policy around the reality of people’s lives, we’re not solving anything. We’re just recycling.

I know what it’s like to be on the outside

I grew up in Tiger’s Bay. Money was tight. My mum left, my dad ended up in prison, and I looked after my four younger brothers.

There were no leaflets explaining your rights. No policy documents in plain English. Just surviving.

So when I talk about getting people in the room — I don’t mean showing up for the photo. I mean having real influence, having your experience respected, and shaping decisions that affect your life.

So here’s what I want to ask this week:

• Who’s missing from the room in your work?

• Who’s being spoken about, but never with?

• Who’s being asked to engage — but not resourced to do it?

And if you are one of those voices — what do you need to get heard?

This is the heart of what I do

I started Policy360 to help people with something I wish I’d had more of when I was starting out: someone to help cut through the policy noise, translate the jargon, and help turn lived experience into real, focused influence.

So if you:

• Don’t have time to write a consultation response

• Need help developing a public affairs strategy

• Want support crafting a message that actually cuts through

• Or need a blog or social post that gets your ask across clearly

That’s exactly where I come in.

It doesn’t have to be complicated or polished. You just have to start.

Also — if you haven’t yet, check out my podcast, Policy360: Unplugged — real conversations with policy-makers, journalists and change-makers across Northern Ireland.

You can even earn CPD points for listening:

https://policy360unplugged.buzzsprout.com/2254501/episodes

And if these newsletters save you time or spark ideas, please consider signing up for a paid subscription.

Being in the room matters.

But being heard in the room? That’s where the real change starts.

And if you need someone to help get you there — I’ve got you.

Ellen

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