I am a deeply feeling person that is wired to absorb information in a world that thrives on stoking outrage, sadness and division. All while showing us joy and beauty and love. And sometimes it’s terrifying. My brain struggles to prioritise things and can get engulfed by emotion – shutting down or spinning off in a random direction as I run to keep up.

I’ve always treated my feelings as a scary place. At the moment I’m thinking of it like a reservoir I like to swim in sometimes. Historically treated with a degree of trepidation lest I fall in, fully clothed and am dragged to the bottom of the unfathomable icy depths. Yet it is also a tranquil place, full of wildlife and abundant nature, that could provide sustenance, restoration and cooling on a hot day. This water can support my weight – and not in a scary thin ice sort of way either. I never know when I get into the water how long I’ll stay. Will I be able to take a quick dip or must I always swim laps to the point of exhaustion? Can I enter the water smoothly one step at a time or must I always throw myself in from the dock, not quite sure what is under the surface?

The funny thing about being up to your neck in a country reservoir is that it makes you a bit less available to do the tasks that every day life requires of you. All the getting in and out of the water and getting dressed and dried doesn’t leave much space for vacuuming or making sure kids have the relevant permission slips for school. And so over time i realised that I had stopped visiting. Blocked the road there and concentrated on not feeling my feelings, not even dipping a toe in to cool me on a glorious day. And it worked. Until it didn’t.

Turns out life is a bit rubbish if you don’t let yourself feel things. People become distant as they struggle to connect with you and loneliness creeps in (which i shut out with lots of busy unimportant stuff) and people you meet professionally think you are a cold, unfeeling robot. The worst part was to hear my children describe me to others as having a heart of stone. It absolutely killed me to think my children thought I didn’t feel. That all this protection I had built was so effective that even those I love the most in the world couldn’t find the path.

So I have started sitting by the water’s edge again. Sometimes I take others with me to share in the beauty. Sometimes I write about it. Sometimes I fall in, fully clothed and trust in the power of the water to float me back to the surface so I can climb out. And sometimes I dive in headfirst and splash and laugh and get out shivering because I now know i can come back any time and be alright.