I live and work in South Somerset, close to the farm where I grew up. As a child, I spent long days on my pony exploring fields and hedgerows. Landscape has always shaped how I think — in patterns, seasons, adaptation.

After studying at the University of Exeter, I moved to Australia and stayed for fifteen years. I established vocational rehabilitation services in remote regions — the Atherton Tablelands and the Snowy Mountains. On the Tablelands, my territory covered 250,000 square miles. I was told that if I had an accident, I should radio the Flying Doctor from the large set in the boot of my car — and if I broke down, light a fire by the roadside and put the kettle on.

Distance changes your sense of responsibility. It sharpens your attention to systems — health, work, geography — and how fragile or resilient they are.

When I returned to England in the late 1990s, I founded and grew a vocational rehabilitation company that ran for over fifteen years, supporting thousands of people and contributing to European knowledge-exchange projects across fourteen countries. I also served as a Trustee for my professional body and taught in higher education.

But the thread underneath it all runs deeper.

As a small child, I suffered a life-threatening illness. That early experience of vulnerability — and reliance on the structures around me — shaped everything that followed. I learned that resilience isn’t simply personal strength. It depends on conditions.

Over time, my work expanded into trauma-informed and somatic approaches, relational regulation, and extended learning with horses — precise teachers of non-verbal attunement. I’ve written about pilgrimage, seasonal ritual, and British landscapes, exploring how place, story, and nervous systems intertwine.

Today, alongside research, writing, and fieldwork, volunteering and care are part of my week.

Across everything I do, the question remains: What needs to shift — in people and in systems — for resilience to become possible?