(Please note, this article contains some strong language. Rather listen to the full conversation? Here you go!)

“Why would anyone want to do this?” asks Dan Angel. “I honestly don’t understand why people like it. I don’t even get any buzz afterwards either.” What, no endorphins or runner’s high? “No. It’s just bollocks. I don’t think they exist. I think people have made these things up.”

In memory of his late father, Peter, Dan’s hoping to complete 26 marathons over the next decade and raise £100,000, primarily for the MND (Motor Neurone Disease) Association. But he hates running. “If you’ve got enough determination, you can do it. But don’t bloody ask me if I enjoy it.”

15 years out of the gym

Dan only started running in November 2023. “Prior to that, I hadn’t been in a gym for 15 years,” he says. Before then, his free time was dominated by culture. “I’m a massive opera fan, I’m a member of Ronnie Scott’s, I go to loads of art exhibitions, I’m a massive heavy metal fan so I go to rough gigs in Camden, I read all sorts of books,” he says. “My wife, Gemma, is always worried when I pick up something new because she thinks I’ll want to know everything there is to know about it. I’ll find new hobbies on a monthly basis and want to become a knowledge expert on them.”

But things changed just before he turned 50 when he saw Kevin Sinfield – an ex-rugby league player – on TV. Kevin was running marathons to raise money for the MND Association, in memory of his late teammate, Rob Burrow, who died of the disease. “Rob played for Leeds Rhinos and was the number seven. So all of Kevin’s charitable efforts are around the number seven”, says Dan. “Every year he does a ‘7 in 7’, which is seven marathons in seven days.”

This sparked an idea for yet another hobby – this time one with a greater purpose: running a marathon. “Because I had no knowledge of what running a marathon was like I thought, ‘That doesn’t look too bad. You see blokes doing it with fridges on their backs and dressed as rhinos. Surely I could do it too?’”

With the support of his family (and Gemma assuming this was just another passing fad) Dan promptly signed up for the Rob Burrow Leeds Marathon, on a mission to raise money for MND too.

A brutal diagnosis

“My father died from Motor Neurone Disease,” says Dan. “He was 62.”

A year before, Peter had started tripping up. Initially, they didn’t think anything of it; we can all be uncoordinated at times, “I mean, I’m notoriously clumsy. I’m always banging my head,” says Dan. But when this continued, Peter went for tests. “I was in the room, when he was diagnosed,” Dan remembers.

“The thing that sticks in my memory about it all, was that the doctor said to him – more or less word for word – ‘We’ve done some tests. And the good news is we’ve ruled out Parkinson’s, but unfortunately it looks like you’ve got Motor Neurone Disease.’”

While there’s never a good way to deliver bad news, this was brutal. “If I was being generous, maybe he was inexperienced. But it was pretty rubbish.”

The disease progressed quickly. MND attacks the nerve cells that control movement. Gradually, messages from the brain and spinal cord stop reaching the muscles and everything shuts down: from limbs to speech, swallowing and breathing. Yet the mind stays sharp. In the UK, six people are diagnosed with MND every day. And six people also die from MND every day. There is currently no cure.

A year to the day

For Dan’s family, the unexpected kindness of friends was a genuine lifeline. Peter’s oldest schoolfriend, a builder, drove over every day until he’d single-handedly built a new downstairs extension so Peter could stay at home for as long as possible. “He was a titan,” recalls Dan. “You see the best parts of human nature in these times.”

The family did the lion’s share of care, with professional carers helping once Peter couldn’t move. Peter passed away in a hospice, just a year after diagnosis. “More or less a year to the day,” says Dan. Sometimes the disease moves more slowly, but Peter’s was quick. “I wouldn’t have wanted to see him linger on. It was a blessed relief at the end, to be honest.”

A painful first marathon

Signing up for a marathon was about more than just raising money for the MND Association – the main charity supporting people affected by MND – it was a way for Dan to honour his dad’s memory. But it wasn’t easy, “I started running and found out that a mile was a lot more difficult than I ever imagined!” He admits he should have done a bit more research before committing. Not least seeing if he actually liked running – which, it turns out, he hated.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he says, “There wasn’t enough thinking it through beforehand.” If he could have his time again, “I’d have chosen something else. I’d have sold things on the street, I think, rather than do this!” So, what keeps him going? Not external rewards, clearly, but something deeper. “There are points on every run where I concentrate on why I’m doing this. I think of my dad, sitting in the chair, not being able to move. I think of the hoist. I think of him in the hospice towards the end. And I use that to drive me on.”

Fitting training in around his family, his full-time job and his love of culture wasn’t easy. But he braved the cold, dark, wet winter mornings and gradually racked up the miles.

Just sixteen weeks later, having raised nearly £7,000, he headed up to Leeds for marathon day.

Then disaster struck. Halfway round the course, a woman ahead of him stumbled – and Dan badly twisted his ankle avoiding her. He texted his family to let them know what had happened – but kept going. “They were all telling me to stop,” he recalls, but he refused. “It’s not possible for me not to finish. If I broke an ankle, I’d finish. Gemma wouldn’t like to hear me say that because she knows what I’m like, but I would hurt myself to finish. I would.”

Pulling out a double measure of Jack Daniel’s – hidden in his running vest – at mile 25, may have helped numb the pain. “I decided to record a video near the end and toast my dad,” he says, “Although the mistake I made was doing it so far from the finish line. I had terrible heartburn for the last mile.”

Dan barely registered the cheers as he neared the end. “I don’t really get any benefit from being supported. Because, mentally, I’m in the place I need to be.” He was locked in his pain cave, using his dad’s memory to push through.

Eventually, he “sort of stumbled across” the finish line. “I thought I’d made decent effort in the last 50 metres, but frankly I looked like an arthritic 90-year-old.”

No one’s dancing down the road

The next day was worse. Travelling solo and barely able to walk, Dan gritted his teeth and spent five hours on public transport getting home. And then he spotted a blind man at Twickenham station. “I thought I’ve got to ask him if he needs help.” Unfortunately, the man said yes. “I said, ‘You can’t see, but I’m going to be a bit slow because this is what’s happened’. He said, ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not exactly Fred Astaire dancing down the road myself!’ So, I had to walk a blind man, with his arm around me, and deposit him at a café – while crippled and dragging my case in the other hand.”

By day two, he could hardly move. “My body was a wreck,” he says. “You have to think strategically. You have to ask yourself, ‘Do I need to go for a wee?’ You don’t want to sit down and then need to get up five minutes later. Because getting up and down is not good.”

One and done?

But while his body was moving slowly, his brain wasn’t. “There was part of me that felt I hadn’t done the best I could do, and somehow I’d let everyone down.” Gemma’s hopes for this being a one-and-done hobby were about to be dashed. “I felt guilty that I hadn’t raised any money for the hospice that looked after my dad,” he says, “Because they don’t get any government funding, and they were wonderful.”

Maybe he could run just one more marathon, and raise money for them too?

When they confirmed he had a place in that year’s London Marathon, “I was in the Southbank Centre and I burst into tears. People were thinking, ‘What’s wrong with him?’ But it meant a lot to me to run for them. A lot.”

So, like Twickenham’s answer to Forrest Gump, Dan continued training. Still hating every step; still driven by a strong sense of purpose.

Once again, on race day, he toasted his dad’s memory as he approached the finish line. And, once again, he’d raised nearly £7,000.

A measurable impact

While many people choose to run for large charities, Dan feels there’s a more directly measurable impact when you support smaller organisations, like MND and the hospice. “It seems to mean more to them,” he says. Small amounts make real differences: £10 buys an information pack for the newly diagnosed. £20 provides an LCD writing tablet so someone can communicate when speech fails. £4,000 kits out an entire family.

“I have experience of what stair lifts and hoists cost,” he says. “So, I like to think around £4,000 can kit a family out. Once I get to that number, I think I’ve helped.” He clarifies, “I know they don’t give it all to one family, but that’s the driving thing in my mind.” Knowing his suffering helps families in need gives Dan the grit to keep going – even when the path is painful.

A decade of pain

Having raised around £14,000, Dan could have easily hung up his running shoes for good. But he wasn’t done.

“Again, I blame Kevin Sinfield,” he says. “I saw him on television doing things that, frankly, I just can’t believe are possible. And then I thought, ‘I’m not doing enough. If he’s doing that, then I must be able to do a bit more. I’m not dead yet. I’ll do a couple a year until I get to 62 – which is the age my dad died.’”

Gemma understood how important this was and came up with an unexpected proposal. “She said, ‘Well, 24 is a funny number: you should do 26 because that’s the number of miles in a marathon.’ I thought, ‘Oh, Jesus!’”

That means 24 more marathons over the next decade – with a goal of raising at least £100,000 in total. “I’ll probably do 16 marathons for MND and then 10 for small local charities that mean something to me, like the hospice.”

To sweeten the deal, one race a year will be overseas – and Gemma gets to decide where they go, so they can turn it into a family holiday. But he’s painfully aware of his age, and the fact he still doesn’t see himself as a runner. “I’ve got to do three a year for the next couple of years,” he says. “The advice is to do a maximum of two, but I want to bank a few while I’m still relatively young, because I don’t want to be doing three when I’m 62!”

Get your fucking knees up

These days, Dan’s regime has ramped up significantly. He now trains seven times a week: two gym sessions and five runs, totalling more than 50 miles. “I ache all the time,” he says.

Masterminding this schedule is his new coach – an elite ex-marathon runner in his 70s who won’t take payment from Dan, as his gift to MND. “He follows me on a bike telling me to get my fucking knees up at 8am on a Saturday,” says Dan. “It’s like a Rocky movie.”

And he’s putting Dan through his paces in group training sessions too. “He sets me off first, for 60 seconds,” Dan explains. “And then I hear the rest of them like thunder coming up behind me. It doesn’t take too long to overtake me.” But they’re all very supportive. “They know how hard it is. The fact that you’re doing it is the main thing, as far as they’re concerned.”

Despite the punishing schedule, Dan wouldn’t have it any other way. He needs to feel the pain – and go to “dark places” – to keep reminding himself why he’s doing this. “It sounds a bit melodramatic,” he says, “But I always have tears in my eyes when I run. Not the whole way round, thank God. People would be worried if they saw me in Bushy Park doing that. But I do cry. I do.”

Meet your heroes

“There have only been two runs in my life that I’ve enjoyed, and that’s when I’ve run a mile with Kevin Sinfield.” Yes, Dan finally got the chance to meet the man who inspired it all.

During Kevin’s 7 in 7 challenges, he runs an ‘Extra Mile‘ for the MND community. It’s an opportunity to raise funds and awareness, and connect with the people he’s helping. “There might be 20 of us running with him, and 150 families there with MND,” says Dan, “And he speaks to every single one of them”.

The first time Dan took part was in Liverpool. “The embarrassing thing is, when I run with him, I can’t speak to him! Everybody else goes up to him and he asks why they’re doing it, but I haven’t got it in me to say anything other than ‘Thanks’.”

Afterwards, Gemma called to hear how it went, “I was on the train home. I couldn’t speak,” he says. “I broke down. I said to her, ‘I’ll call you back in a minute’ – and it took me about five minutes to compose myself. God knows what the people on the train thought!”

So, why does being around Kevin affect him so deeply? “It’s partly that he’s such a great man,” he says. “But it’s also connected with something that’s very important to me, and I can’t find the words.”

Kevin didn’t just inspire Dan to start running, he also inspires him to keep going when things get tough. “He doesn’t like it either – he’s not a runner,” says Dan. “I mean, he bloody is now, but it’s not something he gets any pleasure out of.” And much like Dan, Kevin doesn’t want the focus of the running to be about him – it’s about MND. Dan recalls a BBC Breakfast presenter asking Kevin how he pushes through the hard miles, “He touched his head and he touched his heart. He said, ‘It’s in here and it’s in here.’ And he didn’t want any more spoken about it,” says Dan. “And so, when I go running and it gets hard, I do that too: I touch my head and my heart. He helps me around even though he’s not there.”

Kevin’s given Dan the strength to keep going, even when things feel bleak. “Frankly, you’d go over the top with him,” he says. “You bloody would.”

Channelling grief into purpose

“I’ve got a sense of purpose in wanting to raise money and awareness for MND,” says Dan. Then he hesitates. “And I think I’ve got a complicated relationship with my dad’s death – helping MND through running has become a bit martyrish.”

One friend suggested it might be helping him process his grief. But Dan shakes his head, “I don’t want it to. I want it to remain raw – because if it doesn’t, I won’t get round.” He knows this sounds extreme. “The truth of it is, I want it to hurt. Because when I think of my dad and those last six months of his life, it was bloody awful. Flogging myself to death connects me to him, in a way. It makes me appreciate what he went through, and it drives me to carry on. If I didn’t have that, I wouldn’t do it.”

Of course, it’s also about the money he’s raising to help families, like his, after a diagnosis. “I say to people it’s all about the dough. And it is, mainly. But it’s about the dough in my dad’s memory.” He’s channelling grief into purpose, one painful mile at a time.

“So, I think I have got a sense of purpose – because it means a lot to me. Until a couple of years ago I would never have thought doing something like this would be important.” But now? “I would say, other than family, this is the most important thing in my life, without any doubt.” He bursts out laughing, “And it’s fucking terrible!”

The road ahead

Paris is just a few weeks away. Leeds is four weeks after that. Two marathons in one month. As Dan says, “That’s a bit stupid really.” Then he gets a bit of respite before Palma in October. By the end of this year, he’ll have completed 21 out of the 26. “I just focus on the next race,” says Dan. “I think if you start going beyond that, you’re not respecting what you’re doing.”

That said, he’s got his sights set firmly on the final finish line. Back where it all began in Leeds, in 2036. “I hope I can do all 26. But I also hope I finish when it’s done.”

There’s a pause. Will he really stop? “That’s what worries me,” he admits. After all, he never planned to run two marathons, let alone 26. “I might end up swimming the Atlantic or something. God help us all!”

Always there

Dan’s daughter, Romy, was only nine when he ran his first half marathon. He told her he’d looked up to the sky at mile 11 and asked his dad for a push. She waited to hear what happened. “He was no bloody use whatsoever!”

Yet in some ways he is always there, pushing Dan on. Every time he touches his head and his heart. Every time he thinks of Peter in the chair, unable to move. Every time he racks up another mile. Every time he toasts his memory just before the finish line. And in every pound he raises for a family who desperately needs it.

Dan won’t stop until he’s completed 26 marathons, raised £100,000, and proved that a fierce sense of purpose can take you further than you ever thought possible.

Even if you hate every single step.

If you’d like to support Dan, you can donate to MND Association through his JustGiving page. He’s currently the highest fundraiser for MND for this year’s Rob Burrow Leeds Marathon: let’s help keep him there!

And if you’d like to learn more about MND, access support, or share information with anyone who needs it, please visit the MND Association website.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

The article captures Dan's voice, but nothing beats hearing him tell his own story. In the full conversation, he opens up about his ongoing battle with injuries, why he always races under his dad's name, and how finding purpose has changed his view of human nature. Expect self-deprecating humour, brutal honesty, and a lot more swearing.

(Rather listen to the full conversation with Sunny? Here you go!)

Please note, this article contains potentially distressing content.

“In these countries, when a man isn’t present, a woman doesn’t have a voice. She’s vulnerable and will do anything – absolutely anything – to feed her children. I’ve had cases of women who’ve become pregnant by an aid worker while trying to receive aid. And it doesn’t stop there. We’ve had cases in Syria where children as young as nine have been asked to do sexual favours for a bar of soap.”

Sunny Bahia founded Forgotten Women in 2013. It’s a charity that supports vulnerable and marginalised women around the world, by protecting their dignity and helping them escape poverty and exploitation. And it’s vital work. In a disaster zone, women are 14 times more likely to die than men. When it’s literally a battle for survival, they sometimes have to go to extreme lengths to receive life-saving supplies – first for their children, and then for themselves. “A lot of people aren’t aware that sex for aid exists,” Sunny says, “But it happens all round the world.”

Over the past 13 years, Forgotten Women has helped tens of thousands of women across the world experience dignity, safety, hope and the chance of a better future.

An unexpected calling

But back in 2011, Sunny was living a very different life.

“I was a creative – I know that’s hard to believe!” she laughs. “I come from a design background – graphic design, editing, all of that…I kind of had my life planned out, if I’m honest. I was going to work my way up the ladder, set up my own design company, and then buy a house and a nice car – all of that and more.” Living her dream in London, times were good, “I really, really used to enjoy it!” she says.

And then the war broke out in Syria. For some reason, Sunny couldn’t look away. The images of suffering – particularly the women – kept playing in her mind, on a loop. “You know how sometimes you can’t unsee or unhear something? When I went to bed, I could hear the screams of those women. I couldn’t switch it off.”

She felt she had to do something – but was at a loss for what could genuinely help. So she trawled through Facebook. “It took some effort – social media back then wasn’t what it is today – but I got in touch with some people doing great work on the ground.” She ended up talking to a married couple – aid workers in Syria, “And they said there was real need for a women’s hospital because there was just one midwife covering five districts.” With little to no medical support, women were frequently dying in childbirth, right in the middle of a war zone.

Building a hospital seemed like an excellent solution, so Sunny spent all her spare time working with the couple on a fundraising plan, “Until one day they just went silent.” She never heard from them again.

“Until this day, I have no idea what happened,” she says, “I’ve tried to find out. No one knows. I think they died in crossfire because they were in Damascus, and during that time things changed very quickly. And that was it.”

Seeing suffering beyond Syria

Having felt such a strong pull to help, Sunny was suddenly adrift. So, she packed up her camera equipment and went travelling. “I do photography as a pastime, and from behind the camera – when you don’t have a voice, when you’re not speaking, when you’re just observing – you realise that women are really suffering in other countries as well. It’s not just Syria.”

Once back in the UK, she began looking for new ways to help. “I spoke to a few charities, because I didn’t want to start something that already exists. We might as well just pile our efforts there.” Yet the feedback she kept getting was there was real need for a dedicated women’s charity, because when aid is being handed out, “Women are sidelined. Women don’t get the aid. Women are last to get the aid.” And there were many stories about sexual exploitation and violation of human rights – at the hands of the men who were supposed to be helping.

This was Sunny’s tipping point. With so many countries affected by conflict, disaster or emergencies, there was a clear need for an exclusively female front-line team who could deliver life-saving supplies directly to the affected women. “I thought to myself if we want the world to change, we’ve got to be the change. It’s now or never.”

Humble beginnings

“I met my friend Lucy in a coffee shop and said we’ve got to do this…It’s a moral duty.” Lucy was on board. Then they met Ali, who was inspired to join the team. “And that was it – that was the birth of Forgotten Women.”

Despite never having worked in the charity sector, Sunny quit her corporate job and threw herself right in, setting up a charity fund and getting registered. “It was well scary – we didn’t know what we were doing! Our first offices, honestly, I can’t tell you, it was like… Oh gosh… humble beginnings, right?!”

As Sunny says, this was a “major lifestyle shift”. While it was a sacrifice they were all willing to make, the reality still came as a shock. “I’m going to be honest; it was really tough in the beginning. We had this great energy but were in this really tiny office – three of us crammed in asking ‘How do we get our message out there? How do we get people to support us?’”

With no experience in the sector, they were learning from scratch. And it took its toll. “One time, we nearly killed each other!” she jokes, “It was just frustration, because I think we all had this energy, this passion to help women, but it wasn’t coming together.”

But grit and perseverance eventually paid off. Things started to take shape. They successfully completed their first safe aid delivery in Syria. And the snowball started to roll.

When you can’t just walk away

This radical shift in direction had surprised everyone in Sunny’s life – including herself, “I wasn’t that type – if something bothered me, I’d usually just walk past it. But something had changed.” This was far bigger than starting a new career: she’d found her calling – a visceral drive to make the world a better place.

“Perhaps I’m getting too personal, but I have a lot of regrets in life, and I just thought to myself I don’t want this to be another regret, you know. It’s hard living with regret.” She couldn’t walk away.

Initially, her family wasn’t entirely on board, “I think parents have certain expectations of their children, don’t they? To become doctors or whatever. And I’d just completely gone against the grain!” She laughs, “All of a sudden, I’ve chucked in my job and am doing charity work. It was like, ‘Oh my God has she gone mad? What the hell has happened to her – is she going through a midlife crisis?’”

But this was short-lived, and their ongoing support has meant everything, “I’ve realised how important family is,” she says. Perhaps this feels particularly poignant now she’s working with women who don’t have anyone in their corner.

Safe aid and advocacy

Over the years, Forgotten Women’s reach has expanded beyond Syria to include Somalia, Malawi, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and most recently Gaza. And its core mission has grown as well.

The charity has become a global voice for women who have been silenced. By raising awareness of what’s happening around the world – and highlighting instances of systemic exploitation and violation of human rights – they are making sure these women will no longer be ignored.

Delivering emergency aid provides more than just vital supplies. “We try to do an outreach service where we deliver aid to women in their tents. So, if they want to talk about anything they’re going through, they can,” says Sunny. And if the team can’t do this, they’ll still make the time for vital human connection. “We make sure we hug each woman – I’ve been to distributions where I’ve hugged over 500 and asked every single one if she’s okay.”

These brief moments of compassion hit home, “When you embrace that woman – when you hug her, when you kiss her on her cheek – she doesn’t want to let go.” As Sunny says, “I think it’s so important for her to have that moment, because she’s not going to have it again. As soon as I take my arms away from her, she’s back on autopilot – being the warrior who takes care of the children.”

Breaking the cycle

Although emergency safe aid was the original focus, the team quickly noticed a similar pattern happening in post-conflict countries. Once a country has stabilised, women who’ve been widowed and left in sole charge of their children, or those ostracised through disability or disfigurement, are dependent on handouts. In these cases, they’ll do whatever it takes to survive – begging, prostitution, selling an organ, or even selling a child.

She recalls Tahira in Afghanistan. Sunny met her shortly after Tahira’s husband was killed in crossfire. Not only was she dealing with grief, but she also had four young children to feed, was pregnant with her fifth, and desperate for food. “We went to her house and – oh, God – it was so cold. There was no food. It was really basic.”

Someone had just offered to buy her four-year-old daughter, Mahnaz, for $500. A welcome respite from poverty, but at the worst possible cost. Sunny remembers, “She kept saying, ‘There’s no helping me. There’s just no helping me.’”

This isn’t a one-off story – it’s why Forgotten Women expanded its mission. “We thought we need to empower these women; we need to protect their dignity. How can we do this? Handing them businesses – why not!”

So, they developed a model that turns financial donations into long-term independence: lifting women out of the aid cycle, out of poverty, and out of despair. Caseworkers identify women they can help, and the charity works with them to develop a business plan that complements their skillsets and will deliver a profit. Then it buys them the components they need to get started. This isn’t just a lifeline for now, it can change lives for generations to come, “We’re trying to break the cycle of poverty,” says Sunny.

Tahira’s transformation

And for Tahira, it’s changed everything. She now manages a successful transport and courier business, employing her uncle to drive the van – lifting him out of poverty, too. Sunny visited her again 18 months later, “And I kid you not, I didn’t recognise her because she’s put on weight! Her children were dressed in warm clothes. She had electricity. She’s even taken up rug making as a hobby – not to make a profit, it’s just a hobby!”

Seeing the impact first-hand brought home to Sunny how vital the work she’s doing truly is, “The UN talks about it all the time – the fastest way to eradicate poverty is to empower a woman as they’ll build communities. But when you actually see it in action, it’s something else.”

But the biggest joy was seeing Mahnaz was again. She hadn’t seen her since they’d handed over the keys to Tahira’s van when, “Mahnaz grabbed her mum’s dress and said, ‘Mummy, Mummy, you don’t have to sell me now.’ It broke my heart. It absolutely broke my heart.”

The true cost of living your purpose

Sunny can’t remember her last proper holiday. Whenever she travels, it’s for work. She books 16-hour flights in economy to save money for the charity’s beneficiaries. Her days start at 6am and don’t end until 11pm – when she opens her laptop to manage the UK team. “I’ll be honest with you, it’s really tiring and draining,” she says, “And there are weeks like that. You don’t get any rest time, you’re working till the last minute, experiencing all these highs and lows. And then you come back and go straight into the office the next day.”

So, does this work come at a cost? “I think I’m so damaged, I don’t realise it!” She’s only half joking. After all, she’s witnessed more suffering than many of us will ever see, “And you’ll always remember it. One of the things I always say is you can’t unsee things. And sometimes you wish you could. Because it’s just painful.”

Yet while she’s passionately advocating for change, others would rather not know. “I’ve been at fundraising events talking about a woman who’s been raped in order to receive an aid box, and someone has stood up and said, ‘I don’t want to hear about this – I’ve come here for a good time.’” It’s impossible not to react, and Sunny’s no exception. She grimaces, “I think I lost my composure…”

Long gone are the days of her two-seater sports car, “I’ll just have to find a rich man,” she laughs. She now feels uncomfortable overspending or going to lavish places, “It’s really conflicting,” she says. Instead, joy is found in life’s more private moments, “I just love sitting in a coffee shop with a cup of coffee and reflecting. I love spending time with my little nephew, my little niece, my family – the important things.”

Would she go back to her life before? It’s a firm no. “I don’t think I could do anything else,” she says, “I honestly believe we should live our lives being a vehicle for other people”. She’s found her purpose, her life makes sense to her, and she knows she’s making a difference. Importantly, she’s motivated by what truly matters to her – and this keeps her going through the hardest days. “People working in the charity sector don’t have great lifestyles, but it’s a sacrifice you have to make. You have to see it through.” At the thought of returning to the corporate world she says, “I think the guilt would eat me up.”

The ripple effect

Looking to the future, Forgotten Women isn’t planning to expand into more countries – they’re already at eight and “we want to focus on quality over quantity”. Instead, the priority is clear: to help more and more women build sustainable businesses and break the cycle of poverty.

In finding her own purpose, could Sunny be enabling countless other women to find theirs too – by setting up businesses they genuinely want to run? “Wow! I’ve never really thought about that; I’ve never connected the two. Gosh, yes, I guess so!”

In turn, these women are showing future generation what’s possible. As they begin to thrive – not just survive – they won’t just rebuild their own lives, they’ll transform their communities too. This is prosocial behaviour in action, and the potential ripple effect is staggering.

Forgotten Women will continue to provide life-saving supplies on the front line, too. “Obviously, the world is in a terrible place at the moment,” says Sunny, “So we’ll keep delivering aid to the countries that need it. That’s really important. And we won’t stop until every woman gets the respect and dignity she deserves.”

Forgotten Women relies on donations and volunteers to continue this vital work. If Sunny’s story has moved you, please consider doing what you can to help.

You can find out more or get in touch through their website, or follow them on Facebook, TikTok, Instagram and YouTube.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

Want to hear more of Sunny’s story? This full conversation is beautifully unscripted - going deeper into the emotional reality of working on the front line, from learning to hold back her own emotions to autopiloting through trauma, and how working in this sector “softens your heart”.

If you prefer a linear story, stick with the article; if you like genuine streams of consciousness, you’ll hear her humility when talking about Forgotten Women’s impact, laugh about needing to find a rich husband, and the weight of everything she’s witnessed.

This article is based on two conversations with Sydney-based Grant Barton – the first when he was seven weeks into his new role, the second at twelve weeks. In our first conversation, he walked me through his path from advertising into diversity and inclusion. In the second, we went deeper into some of the obstacles he overcame along the way, and what it really means to care so much about your work that you upend your entire life for it.

(Rather watch the full recordings? Here you go!)

“There were mornings I’d wake up crying because I was just so exhausted,” says Grant. “I didn’t know how I was going to handle the day…I was working with LA at 6am, with London at 11pm, and doing a full day in the middle…My body just wasn’t able to keep up with what I was trying to make it do…That’s when I got to the point where I thought ‘I can’t do this anymore’.”

Seven weeks in

Grant is discovering what it feels like to wake up genuinely excited about the day ahead. Yes, even on Monday. “I have to go to campus then, too – it’s not even a work from home day and I still look forward to it!”

As a senior consultant in diversity and inclusion (D&I) at Sydney’s Macquarie University, he’s working to create environments where everyone can show up as themselves without fear. He’s found his purpose and he’s thriving. “I’ve only been in this role for seven weeks. So, it’s still very, very new to me. I think you can see when I’m talking about it, I’m smiling. Like I really, really enjoy it.”

But it’s taken him 20 years to get here.

An accidental advertising career

Grant never intended to work in advertising. Growing up in rural New South Wales, he’d wanted to become a criminal psychologist. But his careers advisor insisted he’d be better suited to merchant banking. This didn’t fill Grant with joy, so he opened a university guidebook at random, “How does advertising at the University of Canberra sound?”

Perhaps fate was on his side that day. “Advertising’s a little bit like psychology, right?” says Grant, “We’re trying to convince people to do things and change their behaviours, so it’s a pretty good compromise.”

For a while, he loved it, “I was really living the dream,” working on big campaigns alongside colleagues who became friends. “There were tough days, but the fun at the end was worth it.”

The slow burn

Then he moved to Japan for six years and the pressure ramped up. Sometimes he’d be on set for 17 hours. “It was exhausting. And then there’d be a $200 cab ride home.” The glamour was gone.

Things didn’t ease up when he returned to Australia. Working on a global brand meant brutal hours: LA at 6am, London at 11pm, and everything in between. “Sometimes at Christmas I’d take my laptop home, just in case. Looking back, this was advertising: what kind of emergency could we have?!”

He took it seriously because he cares about people, “I carry a huge weight of responsibility. I’m the kind of person that can’t let anybody down. I kill myself to make sure I don’t drop the ball.” Anything he didn’t do would fall to his team – and he refused to do that to them.

But something had to give.

The breaking point

“It sounds like a midlife crisis,” he jokes, but swears it wasn’t. Turning 40 was a natural opportunity to stop and reflect, “Is this really what I want to be doing with my life?” He knew he needed things to change. But burnout was already closing in.

“I’d wake at 3am in a sweat thinking, ‘I forgot to do that!’”, emailing colleagues in LA begging for help. Nervous sweats. Panic attacks, “probably not worth panicking about, because it was just advertising – we’re not saving lives.” But knowing that’s one thing; changing your mindset’s another. “It got to a point where my body wasn’t able to keep up.”

While he loved his colleagues, it came at the cost of other relationships, including with his long-term partner, Pat. “You end up spending more time with people at work than the people you live with.”

Grant was at breaking point. And that’s when fate stepped in.

The fire

His dedication hadn’t gone unnoticed. The Advertising Council of Australia asked if he’d like to lead an initiative helping educate agencies around the country on how to work better with the LGBTIQ+ community.

Grant didn’t know it yet, but he’d just found his purpose. “It was like a fire had been lit in my belly – I thought ‘This is what I need to be doing!’” And the initiative was a huge success.

Carrying on in his current role was clearly unsustainable. So, Pat offered him a lifeline. “We’re lucky,” he told Grant, “We’re in a position where you can take a break…I’d rather struggle for a bit than have you go through this.”

So, “I quit my job with nothing to go to, because I knew I needed to focus my energy on building connections in the D&I space – so I could start to forge a career doing things I really cared about.”

Five months in the wilderness

Buoyed by purpose and hope, Grant began applying for jobs. But the rejections started coming in. And they didn’t stop.

“I’d been told transferable skills are all the rage – that’s all employers care about. They’re not.” Over five months he applied for 78 jobs, and every single one was a generic ‘Thanks but no thanks’. No feedback. Nothing. “I even applied for a job doing what I used to do as I just needed to get back into work. And I got rejected from that too. So I slammed my laptop shut and thought this is bullsh*t. I’m done.”

His mental and physical health started to crumble. It got to a point where, “I didn’t have a reason to get out of bed…I was the heaviest I’d ever been in my life.” He knew he needed to break the cycle.

First, he had to stop himself from lying in bed all day, “Because if you’re not working, you’ve got no reason to get up.” Every night, he’d set his alarm for 6.30am, and every morning he’d force himself to go for a walk. “I found that getting out and getting sunlight set me up for a great day.” The science suggests walking can help calm the amygdala – the part of the brain linked to fear and anxiety.

Then, once he’d started to feel brighter, he took up swimming lessons, going back to basics in the pool. Learning a new skill can help develop a growth mindset, building the confidence to embrace challenges rather than avoid them. “That’s what got me through,” he says.

Looking back, Grant credits creating these daily moments of ‘micro-purpose’ to getting his mental and physical health back on track. And then slowly, slowly the tide started to turn.

Stepping stones

Finally, he got a six-month government contract doing communications for their people and culture team. It was close enough to D&I that he found himself in meetings with the diversity and wellbeing teams, building valuable connections. That led to a six-week opportunity as Acting Manager of Diversity and Inclusion, and he got stuck right in. The team not only achieved bronze status in the Australian Workplace Equality Index they also got their Reconciliation Action Plan underway. “I had an absolute blast,” he says.

More stepping stones followed, each bringing him closer to where he is today: finally working full-time in D&I.

Early days, real impact

Grant’s thrown himself right in – collaborating with networks for the deaf and hard of hearing, neurodiversity groups and ally networks. “I’m getting to know people on campus, understanding how I can better support them in their activities.” He’s planning activities for mainstream events, while amplifying grassroots initiatives.

One of the challenges in such a large organisation is that you don’t always hear about the brilliant work being done. So, Grant’s making it his business to find out everything he can. “Once you start speaking to people, you hear what’s happening on the ground,” he says. “We need to celebrate all this amazing work – and find a way to scale it up,” he says. Inspired by a recent event, he’s now pushing for accessibility considerations to become standard practice in seminars: dimming the lights to 30% and informing attendees they’re free to fidget or get up and walk around if required. “Why is this not the default?” he asks.

And he’s already inspiring others. During a recent workshop, Grant brought in a live captioner – a woman who typed everything that was said, in real-time. He told attendees, “I’m consciously speaking slowly so she can keep up,” to which the captioner responded, “Slow down even more, please Grant!” A playful banter began, with Grant checking in, “Is this alright?” She’d type back guidance, and the whole room could see the interaction unfolding.

The response was immediate. “I’ve had people asking, ‘That captioning you had was amazing – what technology did you use?’” Grant laughs, “It’s a person!” Other teams are now looking to implement this at events. “Once people know we can do this, it can become the norm.”

Sometimes the biggest differences come from the smallest actions. Grant recalls a colleague who was gradually losing her vision due to a genetic condition. “She doesn’t have vision from here down,” he says, gesturing to his chin. “So, if she’s walking past your desk and you haven’t put your chair in, she can stumble over it.” It’s such a simple thing: remember to tuck your chair under your desk. But for someone navigating the world with limited vision, it makes a huge difference.

It’s these low-cost, high-impact actions that Grant finds most rewarding. “We can have conversations about strategies, frameworks and systemic change. But at the end of the day, the things that make the most impact are the ones you can see straight away.”

A different person

One of the most notable impacts has been on Grant’s own health. He no longer wakes up in tears and has only dreamt about work once so far, “And I take that as a win, considering my brain never turns off!”

He smiles at how far he’s come. “Pat says I’m a different person!” His friends have noticed too. “They said when I was in advertising, there were days we’d go out for dinner and I’d look grey, I was so exhausted.” Now, they’re commenting on how fresh he looks and how much more energy he has.

He reflects on what’s behind this change. “When you’re exhausted and your brain’s overloaded, you feel heavy – mentally and physically. You might drag your feet or blink slowly, because you just don’t have the energy to do anything. Now, I feel light. I’ve got a bit more pep in my step!” This comes from doing work he genuinely cares about, what psychologists call intrinsic motivation. When we feel autonomy, competence and connection to others, we flourish. While advertising was centred around brands making money, he’s now doing what he calls “human work”. “It’s actually improving people’s lives.”

Swimming has played its part, too. 18 months ago, Grant was re-learning the basics. “Now I swim about two and a half kilometres, four nights a week!” This gives him the peace he’s been craving, “It’s a bit like therapy,” he says, “It’s like the day’s being washed away.” His growth mindset has seen him join a squad and even start competing in ocean races. But he’s quick to acknowledge it can be scary. “You don’t realise how deep it is until you’re out there!” Is it worth it, despite the fears of what lies beneath? Absolutely, he says, “It’s pretty amazing.”

It’s not the first time Grant’s found freedom by doing something that scared him.

Coming full circle

One of the things he’s particularly passionate about is making safety and inclusion more visible. “At Macquarie, we have allyship training…If you participate, you get a rainbow lanyard. It’s such a small thing, but when you see staff walking around campus with them, it’s a symbol to show they’re someone who’s trustworthy; you can walk up and have a chat.” For people who’ve felt invisible, this level of understanding can change everything. Something Grant knows better than most.

“I only came out at university,” he reflects. Until then, he’d never questioned his sexuality. Although he’d been picked on throughout school, he’d always batted back classmates’ homophobic slurs with, “Well, mate, I’ve got a girlfriend and you don’t. Joke’s on you.” He says, “For some reason, it was like water off a duck’s back”. It was only once he’d gone to Canberra that he started to wonder, “Maybe some of those taunts might have been a little closer to the truth than I’d realised?”

He says this time was, “Horrible. Absolutely horrible. My world came crashing down because I thought I knew what my life was going to be like. And then everything changed.” He’d only just broken up with his girlfriend, his grandfather passed away, and now he was acknowledging his sexuality in secret. Grief and anxiety were wreaking havoc with his sleep, “My mind was all over the place,” he remembers, “Sex education back then was about how to put a condom onto a banana. There wasn’t any conversation around homosexuality, gender fluidity or bisexuality.” He was navigating seemingly uncharted waters – and drowning in the process.

Finally, after being astonished to see the ceiling turn purple and walls turn green during a presentation – only to discover he’d been hallucinating – he realised he needed professional help. “I wasn’t coping.” Seeing a therapist was the start of his journey towards acceptance. “She helped me realise that everybody’s unique, everybody’s different…I’m not abnormal.” And this gave him the confidence to share his news with a friend. Plucking up the courage, he said, “There’s something I need to tell you: I’m gay. And she turned to me, smiled and cried and said, ‘So is my mum.’” It was the first time either of them had told anyone. Grant says, “I’ll remember that conversation forever because it was so powerful.”

Creating similarly safe, supportive environments is what motivates Grant today. He’s building the world he wishes he’d had. “Normalising conversations around sexuality, gender and sex is something I would have loved,” he reflects. It’s about offering support to people you might not know need it – even through something as simple as rainbow lanyards, “Having those kinds of visual cues would have been absolutely brilliant,” he says.

An ambitious five-year plan

While society’s slowly shifting, there’s still work to be done. Grant’s a big believer in getting there through the tough conversations. “There are people who maybe don’t agree with some of the changes,” he says, carefully. “Having difficult conversations with people who aren’t interested, or don’t believe this is something we should be doing, is probably the hardest thing for me at the moment.” He says having an open mind and a willingness to listen is the only path to change, “I try to understand where that person’s coming from so I can understand what they’re thinking and unpack it from there.”

So, what’s the dream? What does success look like in five years’ time? “That I don’t have a job!” He clarifies, “Not because the industry is falling apart, but because we don’t need to be around anymore. We don’t need to be fighting for people. We don’t need to be fighting for equity. We don’t need to be fighting for inclusion. It’s just part of life. Five years is probably really ambitious, but that’s the goal!”

Taking the leap

Grant’s been through hell, but he’s found his purpose, “I really think this is it!” So, what advice does he have for someone considering a similar leap?

“Don’t hesitate,” he says. “I know it’s scary, especially if you’ve dedicated years to your career. But it’s never too late to give something else a go.”

That said, he reminds us it’s ok to, “Sidestep for a little bit if you need to; find the interim position that links your current world to your dream role, and spend time in that space. The more you do of that, the closer you’ll get to where you want to be.” It’ll also make the transition less daunting.

For those who’ve taken the leap, he offers one final piece of advice, “Find a micro-purpose in each day. That might be emptying the dishwasher, getting up and patting the cat, whatever. Just make sure you find it. On your journey to finding your bigger purpose, it can be disheartening every time you have a knockback. But you’ll get there in the end.”

For Grant, it took 20 years, 78 rejections and the courage to start over at 40. But he’s finally found the work that makes him look forward to Mondays.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

Grant and I spoke twice. The first conversation covers his journey and the joy of finally finding purpose, along with a comprehensive list of some of Sydney’s best outdoor swimming pools! The second dives into more personal parts of his story – everything from coming out to burnout. His openness and honesty are humbling.

There’s a small amount of uncensored language in these recordings, but it’s minimal.

(Rather hear the full conversation with the Dementia Disco team? Here you go!)

“Early on, somebody joined us who was non-verbal, and their mobility wasn’t very good either. You’d wonder, ‘How do you know if they’re enjoying themselves or not?’ So, I sat down next to them and held their hand, and then they started to pulsate my hand to the rhythm of the lyrics in the song that was playing.”

You can’t miss the emotion in Phil’s voice, “They couldn’t sing it themselves, but they knew the song, and they were able to communicate that with me.”

Picking up good vibrations

Dementia Disco was established in Stockport in 2019, by brother and sister duo, Nick and Kate, and their good friend Phil. They all had a personal connection with dementia. “Our dad had Alzheimer’s and Phil’s gran had dementia,” says Nick.

At the time, Nick and Kate’s dad was only 66 years old – a lot younger than many people living with the disease. But “the dementia groups were all geared around people in their 80s – who liked sitting quietly and having a cup of tea and a biscuit in a hall.” For a man who’d grown up in the 1960s and ‘70s and had a passion for music, “somebody on a piano playing Vera Lynn songs just didn’t engage him at all”. As Nick says, “We looked around for something more interesting for him, but it didn’t exist.”

Then, by chance, Our Dementia Choir came on TV. Nick and Kate both happened to watch it and the idea of music resonated, “We both independently thought Dad would be really into that,” says Nick.

The idea quickly took hold. A few days later, he mentioned it to Phil, “And she jumped up and said, ‘That sounds so amazing!’”

Remarkably, just a few weeks later – with food donated and playlist curated – the glitter ball rotated as the doors swung open for the first Dementia Disco.

You make me feel like dancing

“We had no idea if anyone was going to turn up!” says Kate.

They needn’t have worried: 40 people came and the dance floor was packed. “Straight away the atmosphere was like a mad wedding disco!” laughs Phil. “All different generations up on the dance floor and not a malted milk biscuit in sight!”

From the start, their goal was simple: to make it free, fun and for everyone. This way, if primary carers needed a break, someone else would be more than happy to take charge for a couple of hours.

And they’d struck gold with the time: Saturdays, 5-7pm. This wasn’t planned; it was simply what worked around their full-time jobs. But, as Nick points out, “Most activities and groups are in the afternoons during the week, and there’s very little provision at all at the weekend.” Kate adds, “It’s not too late for children, so they can come. It’s not too late for people who don’t have kids yet, so they can still go out in the evening. And it’s not too late to get the person with dementia home, because bedtime can be tricky.”

Right from the start, Dementia Disco was giving people a much-needed lifeline just when they needed it: connection, laughter and joy. “That’s really important to us,” Nick says, “It’s about people going home smiling.”

Six years on, Dementia Disco is a registered charity operating across multiple locations with a bold ambition: to create a national movement that changes how people think and feel about dementia. And it’s taken a lot of hard work to get there.

I will survive

“I was in quite a difficult place before we started Dementia Disco,” Kate recalls. She’d spent 14 years going up the ranks in a telecoms company, and for a while “it was all going well”. Then the storm hit. She and her husband were going through IVF after struggling with fertility issues, her dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, “And then to top it all off, our company got acquired by a telecoms giant”. “It was horrible,” she says – while she wasn’t earmarked for redundancy herself, she had the unenviable task of keeping her team motivated throughout all the upheaval and uncertainty. “I was in a really unhappy place.”

Her husband offered to shoulder their financial responsibilities so she could take a break, “Stop the job. Just take one thing off your plate.” Freed from the workplace dramas, she rebuilt her sense of self by focusing on things that really mattered: taking time to help her mum care for her dad and looking after her nephew. “It was the best thing I’ve ever done,” she recalls.

And then things started to shift. She got pregnant “Which was wonderful!”; they held the first disco; “And it’s like everything has taken off since then!”

“All those preschool years, I was able to start growing Dementia Disco,” says Kate. And in September 2024 they got funding so she could do this as her job, “And it’s really taken off!” The demand is clearly there: they now have three locations running regular discos with several more in the pipeline, “We can say we’ve become a national charity, which is incredible”.

And Dementia Disco has given her more than just a new way to make a living, “I feel a tremendous sense of purpose. Honestly, I’m happy! I feel like I’m making a difference.” She says it’s, “totally life changing”.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said this to you before,” Nick adds, gently. “I thought doing this might just be something that gave you a bit of self-confidence and remind you how awesome you are, and then you’d go and get a job … But you’ve become CEO of a charity. It’s absolutely amazing; you’ve done an incredible thing.”

She might not have had any prior experience in the charity sector, but Kate’s corporate years turned out to be a blessing in disguise, equipping her with skills she never knew she’d need: identifying diverse income streams, forging collaborative partnerships, and securing corporate sponsorships. She’s running the charity like a small business. “Those 14 years gave me the confidence and organisational skills to do this. So, I’m very grateful for all those experiences because they’ve got me to where I am now.”

Practice what you preach

“And just so it’s not all about you, Kate. How do you feel?” Nick’s natural humour shifts the emotion as he pulls focus to Phil. “You’re a schoolteacher, it’s the weekend, you’re absolutely goosed. You don’t want to see anybody else for those whole two days, you just want to shut down…”

“Yes, I do!” agrees Phil.

“What has kept you there on your Saturday nights – and spending all day baking potatoes and stuff. Why do you do it?”

Phil works at an inner-city secondary school in the most deprived area of Manchester. “It’s an understatement that it’s not without its challenges,” she says. She teaches music and PSHE – Personal, Social, Health and Economic education – looking at things like how we treat each other, how societies work, and how communities can grow. And running Dementia Disco means her lessons aren’t just theoretical, “I get to prove to them it can be real … I literally practice what I preach.”

It’s her way of honouring her grandmother Margaret’s legacy. The two of them became very close after Margaret’s husband, Harold, died of dementia – which coincided with Phil ending a 10-year relationship. “We really bonded, going, ‘You know what, we can do this; we can have a life after something terrible has happened’.”

Sadly, a few years later, Margaret was diagnosed with vascular dementia; “The Covid pandemic meant we weren’t able to be with her when she passed away”. Her friends were her anchor, “These two here are my surrogate family.” She pauses for a moment, “I would have loved my gran to see what we’re doing”.

So, what gives her the energy to spend Saturday nights on the dance floor, after a demanding week in the classroom? It’s the feeling of wellbeing and vitality she gets from doing something that makes a difference. “For all the times I think, ‘Oh my gosh, I just want to put my feet up on the sofa tonight’ – when you’re there, for those two hours, you just have the best time. And it’s always, always worth it.”

Plus, “The jacket potatoes have always been really well received … I like getting compliments on my cooking!” A little bit of extrinsic motivation never hurt.

I can’t get no satisfaction

Nick agrees, the energy he gets from Dementia Disco powers him through, too. Currently a secondary school teacher (he was working at the same school as Phil when this all began) he also had earlier careers in law and recruitment. Although he mainly enjoyed the work, “I never got a lot of personal satisfaction out of those jobs”. So, he became a teacher because he “wanted to do something important”. He pauses, “I feel like I’ve done a lot of good, I guess.”

Phil’s quick to highlight how humble he’s being, “You’re a good teacher! I’ve seen him in the classroom: he’s great!” He bats away the compliment, “But it still never felt quite like doing this.”

Looking back on his past, he says, “I never felt like I was searching for anything. But I’ve done a lot of different things, and never really been satisfied or fulfilled. So, I think I must have been searching for something – and I think this is it!” They’re now securing funding for Nick to start working there one day a week, alongside his sister.

And the beat goes on

The team’s passion shines through. They know what they’re doing is genuinely important to a lot of people – and they have a clear vision for the future, “There should be a Dementia Disco in every town!”

They’re working tirelessly to make this happen, creating a “run your own disco” starter pack – a franchise-style model, enabling anyone in England or Wales to set up their own event. The pack shares everything they’ve learned along the way, offering step-by-step guidance and ongoing support.

And the timing is crucial as demand is growing fast, “We never want to turn someone away,” says Kate.

Get up, stand up

Every Dementia Disco needs a committed team of volunteers, “Because obviously there’s only so many I can set up and run myself!” says Kate.

There’s a role for everyone – from organising venues to curating playlists. “We’re even starting to recruit DJ volunteers,” says Nick. But they’ll need to be on their game; while many requests are songs from the 60s or 70s, “there’s some mad stuff too”. From line dancing and Johnny Cash to Chappell Roan, they’ve even had a request for house music!

But, as Nick reflects, “If you think about the age of people who were going to raves in 1990 – that’s 35 years ago. So, if they were 20 then, they’re in their mid-fifties now. And there’s plenty of people getting diagnosed with dementia in their fifties. We’re not a million miles away from having a dementia rave.” Phil laughs, “A dementia mosh pit!”

Yet, this isn’t as bonkers as it sounds. “They say the best musical years are between the ages of 10 and 30. So whatever decade of your life that period covers, they’re the kinds of songs you’ll want to hear in later life,” says Kate.

I like to move it, move it

The trio has ambitious plans for the disco’s future. They’ve just launched an annual fundraiser – a festival-style day that’s already raised an impressive £6,400 – and they organise yearly trips to the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. This year, 110 people went for afternoon tea – which was completely free of charge, as always. “I stood up on the balcony and looked out at everyone on the dance floor,” says Nick. “That was quite a powerful moment.”

They’re also thinking more widely, keen to reach people who don’t yet have a disco in their neighbourhood, by planning a smartphone app that means “everyone living with dementia can dance every day”. The concept is simple – a series of easy-to-follow moves – but the benefits significant: music positively impacts emotions and movement benefits physical and mental health, helping prevent muscle wastage so people can maintain their independence for longer.

Boogie wonderland

The impact of what they’re doing is tangible.

Kate’s seen people in care homes “remember all the words to all the songs” and even get up and dance. “I keep hearing, ‘That’s the first time she’s stood up in two weeks’.”

Nick recalls a friend whose father had become unresponsive to almost anything. Yet, “he’s always up on the dance floor”. So, not only does his friend have “the most amazing time when she comes to the disco” she’s also creating positive memories to look back on in the future.

People quickly become part of the Dementia Disco family. Johnny used to bring his wife, Hilda, until she passed away. He then started volunteering. Now he’s on the board. The community has been there for him through grief, sickness and recovery. “It’s more than a hobby,” says Phil. It’s given him purpose.

But, of course, things don’t always run quite so smoothly. While anyone with dementia must be accompanied by a carer, the team also has adult safeguarding training – which they’ve needed to use. Phil remembers one time when, “We had to quickly go from, ‘Hi everybody, it’s great to see you – let’s get your disco shoes on!’ to ‘We’re here for you in a completely different capacity. Tell us what’s going on and how can we help you’”.

This isn’t just about strutting your stuff on the dance floor, it’s a genuinely caring, supportive community. And a heavy dose of compassion is probably just what the planet needs. “I think the world is in a pretty rubbish state at the moment – and if you’ve got a diagnosis of dementia dolloped on top of that, it’s tough times, isn’t it?” says Phil. Dementia Disco offers two hours of joy and connection. “Everybody should be able to experience it.”

Don’t stop believing

If your own purpose feels painfully elusive, don’t despair. “If you’re in a job that isn’t bringing you joy, volunteering somewhere may make you realise ‘That’s what I want to do’. You might not find a career in it, but a lot of purpose starts with volunteering.” Kate’s words echo research that shows volunteering can improve your mental health and wellbeing, impacting your sense of meaning and purpose in the world.

And what if you have an idea but you’re not sure where to begin. “Just do it!” says Nick. “Just go ahead and give it a lash! I think so many people have so many good ideas and then they talk themselves out of it because they haven’t got it all planned out from beginning to end.” Don’t worry about things you don’t understand; once you start, you’ll find people who want to help. “If it means that much to you, you’ll find a way,” says Kate.

“Just take a chance” says Phil. “Something might seem really small and inconsequential at the time, but that could be the big thing you do for the rest of your life.” Nick laughs, “I certainly didn’t think mine would be going to discos with 60-year-olds!”

“Sometimes you don’t know what your purpose is going to be until you just have a go.” Phil’s gentle call to arms rings true. “If it’s meant to be, then it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

Is it time to put on your dancing shoes, too?

If you’d like to start your own disco, donate to this incredible charity, or simply find out more, please visit the Dementia Disco website or follow them on LinkedIn, TikTok, Facebook or Instagram.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

After freezing in front of the camera with Alastair, I was going to stick to audio-only. But then, these three wonderful humans arrived in full Dementia Disco regalia, so I’m now embracing video!

Honestly, it’s worth watching – their passion and purpose really shine through.

Two things to note:

1. We’d chatted much longer than planned and their laptop ran out of juice, so we continued on the phone. You can just about make out what’s said, but I’ve popped the words on screen for full clarity.

2. If you also suffer from camera shyness and can’t turn off self-view, sticking a Post-it note on screen (covering your face) genuinely does work.

(Rather hear the full conversation? Here you go!)

“Me being me, I was running late,” says Joanna Michaelides. Back in 2009, she’d just left her parents’ house and was driving home to London when “I looked out of my window and could see a man lying on his back on the pavement, with his bicycle lying next to him, a group of people standing around him looking horrified, and someone on the phone.”

Before she’d had her first child, Joanna had been temping for a law firm where she’d happened to do a first aid course. But as she says, “I never thought I’d have to use it.”

“I had that split second decision of, ‘do I drive on?’ - because there were people there. But the thing that made me stop was no one seemed to be doing anything.” She got out of the car, “And then I had this moment of going, ‘Crap, what is it I’m supposed to do again?’”

DRs ABC

Luckily, every first aid class teaches you a mnemonic, which Joanna followed to the letter:

• D: Danger. The man was on the pavement, so there was no danger to him or anyone else.

• R: Response. Joanna started “tapping him on the shoulders, saying, ‘Open your eyes’” and getting no response.

• S: Shout for help. Someone was already calling for an ambulance.

• A: Airways. “When someone’s unresponsive, all the muscles in the body relax, including the tongue which can flop over and block their airway,” To lift the tongue off the back of the airway, “you put your palm on the forehead, two fingers under the chin and tip the head back.”

• B: Breathing. Joanna could see the man wasn’t breathing normally, he was taking noisy gasps on the inhale, followed by a massive pause. “And that’s not normal breathing: that’s something called agonal breathing which is what the body does when the heart’s not working properly.”

• C: CPR. “Crikey”, thought Joanna, “I’m going to have to do this thing that I did on a dummy however many months ago in a room, on a person.”

And for the next 15-20 minutes, Joanna gave CPR and rescue breaths to a complete stranger.

“I heard the person who was on the phone saying, ‘Yeah, there’s someone here – she looks like she knows what she’s doing.’ So, I thought, that’s good. At least I’m looking effective.” And then the professionals arrived and took over, using a defibrillator to shock the man’s heart as they bundled him into the ambulance. Finally, with a brief ‘thank you’ to Joanna, they drove off.

“I obviously didn’t know what happened to the person because off he went to hospital and that was it.”

Against the odds

Six months later, her mum called her with urgent news, “That man you gave CPR to – he’s in the local paper!” He wasn’t only alive; he’d recently completed a 200-mile bike ride in aid of the British Heart Foundation. The article told how he’d had a cardiac arrest and a “passing nurse” had given him CPR, starting a chain of survival. And now he was doing whatever he could to pay it forward.

Joanna’s mum wanted to correct the record, “I’d really like to write to the paper and let them know it wasn’t a nurse – it was just a normal person who’d done a first aid course. And maybe if other people did that, it would be a good thing.”

As soon as the man – Keith Aston – read her reply, he got in touch with Joanna. He’d been trying everything he could to track her down, “because without CPR there wouldn’t have been anything to work with when the ambulance service arrived”.

Joanna remembers, “He wrote me this lovely letter which I still have, I still treasure it. It’s a very emotional letter full of how he feels and how grateful he was to have that second chance.” And then they met up in a local garden centre (the photo below was taken that day). “That’s the moment my life pivoted from where it was going to where it is now,” says Jo.

Reflecting on the moment their paths first crossed, “Both of us were profoundly moved by the number of people that hadn’t known what to do. And both of us had purpose from that moment to try and do something about it in our community.”

CPR is a simple skill that almost anyone can learn, at any age. “So, we set up a CPR training group, which has been running for 13 years now.” The scheme – Heartstart Farnham Lions – continues to teach these essential skills for free, twice a month, every month. And so far they’ve trained over 2000 individuals across schools, community groups, colleges, scout groups and carnivals. “Some of those people have come back to us to say they’ve used their skills to save someone else and that’s so rewarding, because you then see it continuing to pay forward.”

Suddenly, “I felt like I had a purpose and a passion, to empower all those people – like me, like those other bystanders who’d all been there not knowing what to do – to give them skills and the confidence to be able to act if somebody needed their help.”

Everything starts to make sense

“We started off with Heartstart. I then trained as a first aid trainer for St John Ambulance … I loved training people but was also quite interested in treating patients … So, I became a volunteer Community First Responder (CFR) for the ambulance service.”

CFRs are ordinary people who are trained to respond to emergencies ahead of ambulances. “And I absolutely loved it.” The more patients she saw, the more Joanna wanted to learn about their pathophysiology, the drugs paramedics would administer, and what they were doing. She was seeing each response as a learning opportunity – employing a growth mindset: a belief you can develop your talents and abilities through dedication and practice. “This was when I really started to feel like this was my ‘thing’. This is where this has all been headed.”

The natural next step was to train as a paramedic, surely? But no, she’d studied drama at university decades ago, and was now a busy mum of two with enough on her plate. “I felt like I was too old and I’d missed the boat.”

Maturing into purpose

And then Covid made her reassess everything.

Initially, a friend quit a job she didn’t like, stating, “I’m going to enjoy my life!” Then, very tragically, another friend died. “And it made me think … I’ve been skirting around the edges for years - why don’t I just do it?”

Her children were now at school, so she could find the time to study. But “obviously my qualifications were a thousand years old by then, and not relevant because they were arts based.” So, to get the ball rolling, she enrolled on an access course at a local college before getting a place to study Paramedic Science at the University of Surrey, where she turned into “a massive nerd”.

Joanna found she’d reignited her love of learning. “If you’d told me when I was 17 that I’d be going back [to study science], I would have laughed in your face!” But this time round, she wasn’t interested in hedonistic pursuits or the pub. And three years later, she graduated with a first.

The signs were there all along

“This isn’t a job I could have done when I was 18,” reflects Joanna. Back in the early 2000s, she’d finished her undergraduate degree and then done a postgrad in acting, but while she “loved being on stage” she didn’t like the transient nature of the profession, lack of money (very few jobs were paid), or constant need to sell herself. She’d drifted through temp jobs, feeling increasingly lost.

But it turns out all of it was preparing her for now. Her drama training was proving especially valuable, as “80% of what we do in the ambulance service is about communication.” Her own mental health struggles when she was younger have given her empathy and understanding for vulnerable patients. And years spent advocating for one of her children who has special educational needs have equipped her with the ability to speak up “for somebody who can’t advocate for themselves”.

Even becoming a mum has played its part. “I love being a mum,” she says. “That period when the kids were small felt very fulfilling, for a different reason. And that sort of feeds into my purpose too.” It’s given her patience, empathy and the ability to stay calm amongst chaos - all essential skills for a paramedic.

“There have been lots of little arrows pointing me in this direction.”

Take time to smell the roses

Keith was there at the start of Joanna’s journey, and she was there for the end of his. While training for another British Heart Foundation bike ride, “He had a massive haemorrhagic stroke which was unsurvivable.” She went to visit him in the hospital. “I was holding his hand when he died – and that was a massive privilege.”

A week before he passed away, Joanna was dropping some CPR manikins off at his house and he asked if she had five minutes to stop for a chat. As usual, she was running late and thought she ought to get home for the kids. But something made her stay. “We sat in his garden and we literally smelt the roses,” she remembers. “He spoke about what a lovely life he’d had. He told me all sorts of things – things he’d done when he was younger, how he felt about life, and how he was so grateful to have had all the experiences he’d had. And that was the last conversation I had with him.”

Keith passed away in 2019 so never knew Joanna had trained as a paramedic, but “he would have been very, very chuffed.”

What keeps her going?

The 12-hour shifts can be physically and emotionally draining – particularly when children are involved or patients especially distressed. But there’s a strong sense of purpose, “It’s a job where you know that you can make a big difference to people.”

“It’s difficult to describe the feeling,” she reflects, “It’s about having a sense of knowing what I’m doing. It’s about confidence, autonomy and being fulfilled by what I do.” In psychological speak, this is called self-determination theory: when we feel a sense of competence, autonomy and connection, we flourish. Joanna’s found all three.

Recently, she bumped into a patient she’d treated for a heart attack several months earlier. He was now back to full health and, “He remembered me, he remembered the crew, and he was really grateful.” It’s moments like these that help sustain her through the tougher days.

One of her mentors gave some advice that she’s never forgotten, “Every day, go home and think of at least one thing you’ve done well.” It helps build resilience. And it’s working, “I feel like I’m a better person, friend, partner, mum – a better person in general – because not only do I have purpose, something that I enjoy and feel fulfilled by, I’m also happier.” This aligns with research into prosocial behaviour: when we help others, our own wellbeing increases. Of course, it’s not always as cut-and-dried as that, especially for people working in the emergency services, but for Joanna it’s proving true.

There are many ways to make a difference

While Joanna loves being a paramedic and remains passionate about teaching CPR, she hints that an evolution of purpose isn’t off the cards. Her university dissertation explored the emotional impact on bystanders who give CPR before the ambulance service arrives. “I did a lot of research into what’s done for them, how they might feel, and how that could be improved. So that’s a little project that’s still twinkling in my mind for when I’m a bit more embedded in what I’m doing now.”

To Joanna, purpose means “being on the path you feel you should be on, and making a difference to people in a positive way.” And her advice to anyone still searching for theirs is to turn inwards, “Listen to yourself, to what motivates you, makes you happy and makes you tick, and try to follow that in some way – whatever that might be.”

Please don’t be a bystander

Do you want to learn CPR? Start by googling “CPR classes near me”. If you’re in the UK, you could also check out St John Ambulance, the British Red Cross, or local community schemes - like Heartstart Farnham Lions.

“I would really, really encourage anybody to learn CPR. It’s really easy, it’s an essential life skill, and you could be the difference to somebody between life and death.”

Sixteen years ago, Joanna stopped to help a stranger. This split-second decision gave Keith a second chance at life and helped Joanna find her purpose – and has given thousands of others the power to make a positive difference too.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

If you’d like to find out more about Joanna’s path to becoming a paramedic, make yourself a cup of tea and settle in. You’ll hear more detail about the obstacles Joanna overcame as a youngster and after university (the first time round), what it was like to start finding purpose as a mum, how returning to study in her 40s gave her a whole new love of learning, and the day-to-day emotional highs and lows of being a paramedic.

She also offers really sound advice on why it’s ok to take your time to find your purpose and how to get there (which made me feel a lot better about still not having found mine).

Please note: there is a small amount of uncensored language in this recording.

(Rather hear the full conversation? Here you go!)

“I’m one of the incredibly, incredibly privileged people who found a sense of purpose pretty early on in life,” says Jessica Langford. “I didn’t have to go looking for it. It just walked up to my door, knocked very loudly and said, ‘Here I am.’”

That was the moment six-month-old Emily arrived.

Love at first sight

“I feel like my purpose in life – the reason that I’ve been put on the earth, the thing that I’m supposed to do – is to identify unmet needs in people and help them to meet them.”

Jessica’s an intergenerational practitioner in South Australia. Running a Montessori school within a retirement living complex, she delivers tangible benefits to the communities she serves. But as a teenager she’d felt a little lost. “I was going through that typical adolescent stuff of trying to figure out not just, ‘Who am I?’ but ‘Who do I want to be?’ … looking for hedonistic pleasures and trying to fill the cup that way. And then into my life came a beautiful baby girl. Not my own – in fact, not biologically related to me at all.”

Until then, she’d been identifying unmet needs in more typical teenage ways, “at house parties, getting the drunk person a glass of water and a mattress to lie down on.” But then Emily arrived, “Suddenly, I had this new sense of purpose that took it to a whole other level.”

Brooke was Jessica’s brother’s girlfriend, and Emily was her daughter. The two of them moved into Jessica’s family home and something extraordinary happened, “I just fell in love,” she says. “I just adored this little girl from the moment I met her - it’s something I still can’t rationally explain.”

“As a culture, we put so much stock into romantic love, and we talk about love at first sight being this fireworks moment for a romantic partner. But I felt that in a familial sense with Emily. There was something in me that recognised something in her. And I just immediately felt, ‘Oh, I’m meant to be in your life, and you’re meant to be in mine.’”

A few years later, this reason became clear - when Brooke’s relationship broke down and she started to struggle with addiction.

A strong sense of mattering

Having formed such a strong bond with Emily, Jessica was adamant she didn’t want her to end up in foster care, “I suddenly had this ‘aha’ moment of, ‘She needs me. She’s got this massive unmet need and I can do something about it; I can step up and be there for her.’”

So, she became her kinship carer aged 19. “I think that was the first time I took that instinct I had for spotting unmet needs in people and applied it in a really purposeful sense.”

Feeling the pull of positive psychology

While Emily was opening Jessica’s eyes to the power of positive relationships and “the wonder of early childhood”, her psychology degree was leaving her cold. “This was the early 2000s, and the positive psychology movement hadn’t made its way onto the syllabus.” She recalls how the focus back then was on identifying deficits, rather than promoting flourishing, “It was, ‘Let’s diagnose everybody. Let’s put them into some diagnostic categories.’ That’s a really satisfying way to live,” she grimaces.

Despite feeling disillusioned with the course, Emily had shown her an alternative path. Early education could be a form of preventative psychology, helping children “develop psychologically healthy landscapes from the beginning, so that whatever happens to them through the rest of life’s journey, they’ve got that toolkit.”

And as Jessica’s mother was a Montessori teacher, joining forces with her, “suddenly seemed like absolutely the right thing to do.” Plus, the approach perfectly aligned with her purpose, “Maria Montessori … was very much a scientist who engaged in observation of children and tried to identify what their needs were, how they were primed to learn, and what she could do to facilitate that.”

Noticing a generation of unmet needs

To equip her with the tools to help children in her care flourish, Jessica enrolled on a Diploma of Positive Psychology and Wellbeing. But she found herself applying the learnings in a way she hadn’t anticipated: to support her grandfather, as he cared for his wife with Alzheimer’s disease. “After she passed, I watched my granddad lose his purpose. It almost felt like he shrunk physically. Not only was the love of his life no longer there, but his reason to get up in the morning was gone too.”

He moved in with Jessica’s parents for his final years, and this opened her eyes to unmet needs – not just her grandfather’s, but potentially his whole generation’s. “It got me thinking: what does his everyday look like? And how many people his age are out there who don’t have someone coming home in the afternoon … who don’t have that sense of connection?”

Jessica and her mother started to talk very seriously about the intersection between all these elements. “How do we take what we know about early childhood, about Montessori and how beautifully it prepares children for life … [and] … about positive psychology, positive ageing and wellbeing, and what people need to flourish?”

Serendipity steps in

Then, just as their own ideas for intergenerational practice were taking shape, “We happened to be introduced to the CEO of an organisation called ECH, which provides ageing support services here in South Australia.” It turns out they were thinking along the same lines. “It was a coffee shop conversation that then turned into, ‘Okay, let’s do this – let’s design this and make it a reality.’”

What they created was revolutionary. Echoes Montessori is an early learning centre on the ground floor of a retirement village. With shared spaces designed for intergenerational connection, children from six months to primary school age can spend time with their 65-90+ year old ‘grandfriends’.

The magic in action

Some grandfriends love coming into the classroom. Others, like Rob, are a little less convinced – at least to start with. He thought interacting with the children would be his wife’s domain, not his. But one thing Rob’s really into is creating elaborate model train sets. “And of course, another group who are very passionate about trains is young children!” Having only ever had the odd “mmm hmmm” from his wife, he found a much more engaged audience in the classroom, with “children gathered around the table going, ‘That’s amazing! How does this work? Tell me what that does!’”

Grandfriends play a part in many aspects of the children’s day-to-day, from handcrafting learning materials in the workshop to caring for the communal gardens. And some experiences - like helping children develop their fine motor skills - offer more than just companionship. As we age, our ability to grip objects sometimes declines through lack of use; mentoring the children can help the grandfriends rediscover their own dexterity. “If you were doing it as an exercise on your own, you might feel a bit silly. But when you’re doing that with the children - when you’re helping them, mentoring them, guiding them - there’s dignity.”

Protection is paramount

But what about safeguarding? Jessica’s approach is deeply personal. Her first husband, Andrew, battled years of mental health issues stemming from childhood abuse – ultimately reaching the point where he couldn’t carry the weight any further.

“I’m looking at little Andrews,” she says. “I would never place a child in a position that I wouldn’t put someone I love - that I wouldn’t put myself [or] that I would ever think twice about.” Rather than avoiding risk, she sees intergenerational practice as protective: building children’s confidence with adults and expanding their support networks.

Love in the time of loss

The impact of her work is perhaps best illustrated through David’s story. His wife, a retired schoolteacher, was looking forward to spending time with children but passed away before the apartments were completed. So, David came into the classroom, “as a tribute to her, knowing that it’s what she would have done.” He used to be a Royal Air Force pilot, so taught the children to make paper planes, explaining the physics behind them and maintaining a core part of his identity in the process.

When he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, the community leaned in. With his permission, the children were given opportunities to “express their gratitude to him, and their friendship, and their love”. The full impact of David’s experience was only realised at his funeral. During the eulogy, “his daughter began to speak about Echoes and how much the children had meant to him, and we were floored.” They discovered quite how much they’d enriched his final years, “It really hit home. This was an important part of his life - it doesn’t matter that it was brief or towards the end.” Ultimately, “it gave him purpose. He had a purpose in life at a time where so many people are robbed of it by circumstance.”

We didn’t come here to **** spiders

But living your purpose isn’t always easy. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. As Jessica discovered, when the opening of the centre coincided with her son being born 13 weeks prematurely, in the midst of a pandemic. “I had my beautiful little boy literally attached to my boob most of the time” while “on a construction site, putting furniture together and doing all the promotional stuff.”

Downing tools wasn’t an option, “I didn’t come here to **** spiders!”, she laughs (loving the perfect opportunity to smash out some quintessentially Australian slang). Jessica said she could, “either just put [the construction] on the back burner and miss out, or I can pull my sleeves up and make it work.” So she chose to make everything come together in a way that felt authentic to her - with her son an important part of the process.

When The Office says it best

Has Jessica found her purpose? “I think I’ll be here for a long time, but I also don’t think it’s the end of the journey”. Describing purpose as, “meaning in application”, she’s driven by prosocial motivation: positively contributing to others’ wellbeing by finding ways to translate things that bring meaning into her life, “into something that has an impact on the world.”

Her advice for finding your own purpose is simple, “Listen. Listen to yourself. Listen to that little voice in your head telling you that ‘this matters’, that ‘you can do it’, that you can try. Listen to the people around you. Listen to what people need - because that might take you where you need to go.” And if the voice is telling you to step off the expected path, perhaps don’t ignore it. She signs off with a quote from The Office, when Tim tells Dawn, “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than halfway up one you don’t.” And Jessica’s proof this works.

To find out more or get in touch with Jessica, visit montessoriforlife.com.au, search for @echoesmontessori on socials, or connect with her on LinkedIn.

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

It’s worth listening to this simply to marvel at Jessica’s naturally poetic turn of phrase! You’ll also learn far more about the inspiring yet often heart-wrenching path she’s navigated over the past few decades, how positive psychology has given her the tools to deal with life’s unexpected challenges, and why we don’t always want to be the loudest voice in the room.

She’s made of strong stuff, and she’s also very funny.

Please note: there is a small amount of uncensored language in this recording, as well as references to child abuse and suicide.

(Rather hear the full conversation with Alastair? Here you go!)

“It’s the drug taker’s conundrum: how do you get your next hit? And the answer is you do something a bit bigger than the last one. And in the world of expeditions, that’s going to lead to you falling off a cliff and dying. Literally. Which I really didn’t want to do.”

Not settling for normal

Alastair Humphreys was having a “perfectly nice, happy, fun life” at university. But he’d started thinking, “Is this really it? Am I just going to graduate and get some job that I don’t really like because that’s what everyone else is doing, then I’ll do that for 50 years, and then I’ll join a golf club? Surely there must be a bit more I can do before I begin that normal life?”

As a youngster, he’d felt decidedly average, “I didn’t feel like I shone in any way in life,” yet was fascinated by stories of extraordinary human endeavours. “Throughout my time at university, I was inhaling expedition literature. It was very much reading those books that made me first think, ‘Wow, big adventures sound like a great thing to do.’” Sparking an interest which slowly morphed into “I wonder if I could do something like that…”

His motivation was, “To get to a point where I was looking forward to the rhythms and routines of normal life. And so I decided to pause that for a little while - by going off and doing something as stupid and crazy and hardcore and challenging as I could think of.”

So he decided to try and cycle around the world.

The arse-numbing reality of following your dreams

But this didn’t go exactly to plan. “Day one, I set off from my mum and dad’s house in Yorkshire.” But as soon as he was round the corner, “I burst into tears. I was thinking ‘This is the worst decision of my life. This is awful. I’ve split up with my lovely girlfriend to go and do this. All my friends are going off to do jobs and have fun, and I’ve condemned myself to this thing which is way out of my comfort zone. And it’s really scary. And my bum hurts’.”

Motivated by the fear he’d be “mocked forever” if he gave up this early on, he “limped down through England” with the sole aim of getting as far as France before giving up. But extrinsic motivation can be pretty persuasive, so he kept on going. “For about a year, I was very much motivated by what other people would think. And gradually … I started to care less about what other people think, and then the motivation started to become more intrinsic.” This internal drive led to him spending four years on his bike - crossing 60 countries, 5 continents, and cycling 46,000 miles.

Getting out of your head

Mastering the physical challenge was one thing, but “I hadn’t given any thought to the mental aspect of a long journey – how do you cope being on your own for so long?” As Alastair says, “Anyone can learn to ride a long way. It’s the mental side of things that are much more significant.”

He was exhausted by the “crazy emotional rollercoaster” of constant ups and downs. “You’re off in some amazing-sounding country, but you’re still just riding your bike every day, eating noodles, sleeping in a tent - the boredom, the repetition is all mixed in with the wonder, the glory, the fun and the excitement.”

Enduring these emotional extremes was test of resilience, something which Alastair still doesn’t think he’s overcome. “The highs were really wildly high, and the lows were really low - and there was no one to pick me up or moderate those things.”

But he reasoned, “I’ll get all this out of my system, then I’ll come home and be perfectly happy and normal, like all of my friends seem to be.”

A brutal comedown

Arriving back was a huge anti-climax, bringing a startling realisation, “Wow, I finished this massive thing, I’m still in my 20s, and the next 60 years are probably going to be a bit boring.”

Obviously, the only solution was to up the stakes. Again. And again. And again.

Over the next few years, Alastair proved he was anything but average. He ran 150 miles through the Sahara, walked across India, and crossed Iceland by foot and inflatable packraft. And while this was exciting, challenging and fun, he was “quite aware that just chasing more and more big adventures isn’t the solution to everything in life.” Reflecting on that time, he says, “I look back on it now as being a very selfish period. It was brilliant on a personal level, but it didn’t really add a jot to the universe.”

From macro to micro

Until now, Alastair had been enjoying writing about his adventures in the style of the books he’d read at university. In his words, “middle-class white man showing off about how cool he is.”

But was this what his audience wanted? While most people like the idea of adventuring, they often don’t have the freedom – or finances – to take six months off work to cycle across a continent or row across an ocean. So, he wondered, “Do we do nothing – or do we see what little things we can squeeze in around the margins?”

And that’s how he came up with microadventures: small and achievable ways of having adventures much closer to home. They’re something anyone can do: from pitching a tent in the woods overnight (and, if you’re brave, going straight into the office the next morning) to sleeping under the stars in your own back garden, being a tourist in your own city, or even simply taking a new route to work. It’s about seeing where you live in a new light. As Alastair says, “Adventure is only a state of mind.”

The movement took off – but not without a touch of irony. Whereas Alastair had been having big adventure after big adventure without much official recognition, “Once I started doing things like sleeping on little hills around London … suddenly I get the National Geographic nomination for Adventurer of the Year!”

The power of paying attention

Alastair’s purpose was evolving. “I used to go off, zooming across distant continents, and gradually I’ve got into exploring closer and closer to home”. And in doing so, he’s realised the value of slowing down: you find yourself paying more attention to what really matters.

“I recently spent a whole year exploring my local map.” Every week, he’d tackle a different spot near his home, at random. “My plan was to explore one grid square - one kilometre square - in complete detail.”

And doing this profoundly impacted him. “It’s not always beautiful nature … there’s a lot of litter, lots of blights on the landscape – even if you’re in the countryside. Once you start to pay attention, you start to realise that the so-called lovely green fields are actually wildlife deserts. The whole landscape, in many ways, is pretty trashed.” And now he feels, “a connection, a caring and a responsibility” to change things.

But why don’t more of us feel this way? As he points out, “You don’t chuck litter in your own back garden because you care about it. You feel a sense of stewardship: ‘This is my place, I’m going to look after it.’ So why don’t we feel that way when we’re out in the landscape?” We’ve become increasingly disconnected from the natural world. But that’s not the only problem, “There’s also the bigger question of why do we produce 20 billion plastic bottles every single day? This is a nuts society we’re living in.”

Slowing down to speed up change

To highlight these important issues, Alastair’s most recent pivot combines adventure with purpose. You can subscribe to his newsletter here.

“My purpose right now is to get more people to spend more time paying attention in nature.” He recommends spending at least 15 minutes a day somewhere close to home, and “really engaging with the outdoors”. Find a nearby park, field, riverside, wood - wherever you can get to - and then unplug your headphones, put your phone out of sight, and take time to notice - really notice - your surroundings.

He wants people to do this because it feels good - mentally and physically. But he’s hoping it’ll have a knock-on effect too: once you start noticing how bad things have got, “you’ll become inspired and motivated to take action and help fix it all!”

“A lot of really positive emotions [can] come out of the frustration and the anger and the fear and the sadness about the wrecked world. Once you start to do something, even something small, about it - like pick up some litter and encourage other people to get involved - that feels really positive,” he says. “You get this sense of achievement, a sense of accomplishment, that you’re actually doing something good.” And as he says, “If everyone fixes their own little spot - we’ve solved the world!”

Why saving the world has to feel good

While improving the state of the planet might be the end goal, Alastair’s adamant that any changes we make at an individual level should be enjoyable. He suggests finding ways to make your own life better that also make the world a little bit better too. “I think if you feel you need to start eating gruel, walking around in sacking, and generally having a miserable life, then no one’s going to carry that on for very long,” he laughs.

So how does Alastair avoid the martyrdom trap while still making a difference? He keeps a ‘not-to-do’ list on his wall to remind himself of what’s important, “A list of things I very specifically want to stop doing in my life.” This helps him focus his efforts on the things that matter the most, and which he enjoys the most too.

So, has he found his purpose? “I very much hope that what I strongly believe is my important purpose today isn’t the same as it is five or 10 years from now.” It’s clear he wants to continue learning and growing, “I hope in 10 or 20 years’ time, I look back and see myself now as a not very wise, naive person - and that I’m much wiser in the future!”

“I suppose my dream scenario would be that I finally write a book that makes a bunch of money, [so] I can buy some land and rewild it - and go surfing in the mornings! And then, through that rewilding process, encourage other people to make [better] choices and changes about nature and the environment.”

And would that be a legacy he’d like to leave the world? “Oh, that would be magnificent! I’d settle for that. Absolutely.”

Until then, he’ll continue exploring his local area, clearing up litter, and convincing people to spend 15 minutes under a tree - as it might just change how they see the world. Because sometimes the most meaningful adventures are the ones that happen closest to home.

To find out more or get in touch with Alastair, visit alastairhumphreys.com, search for him on socials at @al_humphreys or find him on Substack at .

Uncut and unfiltered: the full conversation

This hour-long chat covers everything in the article - and much more. Discover how Alastair uses humour to embrace negative feedback, learn about his newfound love of old-school film photography, and find out why he’s got half a naked man in his shed.

(Full disclosure: this was my first attempt at hosting a podcast. It’s not going to win any awards, the sound’s a bit tinny, and I’ve kept it audio-only as I froze in front of the camera more than once! However, Alastair was (unsurprisingly) both inspiring and eloquent, so it’s worth a listen.)

First thing on a Monday and songwriter/producer Toby is buzzing, “I look forward to work most days… I can’t really think of any days where I don’t.”

“What I’m doing feels like what I’m built to do. It encapsulates my skills and abilities. And it fulfils my reward centres. It makes me feel good. I’ve found something that uses the things I do best. And I find it fun.” When he’s surrounded by the right mix of people, there’s mutual enthusiasm, and the recording sessions feel like a celebration, “That flow state is amazing.” And when this happens, their creativity skyrockets, “We might be able to write three songs in a day – it feels like we’ve won!”

But this zest for Mondays hasn’t always been the case.

It pays to be a quitter

Back in the early 2000s, Toby had just started at university and was seriously questioning his life choices, “Why the **** am I studying computer science? I’m never going to pass this degree because I’m not doing it!”

Somehow, he’d found himself studying something completely at odds with his passions. Why? “Because I was quite good at computers at A-level and didn’t really know what else to do.” Despite being “obsessed” with music as a teenager, it hadn’t been on his radar for university because, “I didn’t know it was an option for a career – and it wasn’t a traditional path. It felt rebellious enough to do a degree in computer science.”

You know that awful, sinking feeling when you’ve made a big decision, and you’ve chosen the wrong thing? “I wasn’t interested in computer science at all. And that whole year I spent missing lectures – getting people to help me with my coursework – and doing music: meeting loads of musicians and working with them, DJing, and going in for music competitions. So, I made the decision to quit.”

He ended up heading to the opposite side of the country to begin a totally different degree in music technology, “That was obviously more than a bit risky, because I didn’t know how I was going to make a living afterwards. I think people can find that information a bit more easily now – but back then you didn’t have the resources online to see how you could eventually make a living out of something like this. And there was no careers advice for something like that unless you knew the right people, which I didn’t.” Yet something in him had clicked into place, “I thought ‘I’ve gotta make this work’”.

But quitting computer science was just his first leap of faith.

The joy of pop

As a teenager, Toby had been staunchly into non-mainstream music. “I remember thinking I wouldn’t ever write something commercial or make anything commercial. Even if someone offered me £1,000,000, I wouldn’t write a pop song!” Yet in the summer of his second year at uni, he found himself doing work experience at one of the UK’s biggest pop production factories: Xenomania.

“I got a little view into the commercial world of music. I’d never even thought that writing songs was a way I would end up making a living. I thought maybe, if I could, I’d be doing music for computer games or films or TV – and I was really up for that.” But arriving at Xenomania, he realised, “Oh, wow there are people that just sit in the studio and write songs all day – and they get paid for it? I was quite surprised – I couldn’t believe you could actually have a day job writing songs.”

Occasionally, timing and talent are on your side, “When I finished my degree I messaged someone [at Xenomania] and asked if they’d got any advice… and started working there a week later.” Despite being on, “Next to nothing pay” and “just sort of helping out” in the studio, he loved the excitement of it all, “Up until this point I’d not really been interested in pop music – but I’d suddenly found myself in that world.”

“Then, straight away – in my first week working there – I was tasked to make a remix for a Girls Aloud song that came out that week. I couldn’t believe they were going to put it out, because I thought I wasn’t capable of doing something that actually gets released. I said, ‘Isn’t an adult going to finish this for me?’ And I thought, ‘Wow – if I can do it, then anyone can!’”

But the constant pressure to perform was intense. And what Toby didn’t anticipate was that finding your calling doesn’t mean the hard part is over – sometimes it’s just the beginning.

A decade of sacrifice

“Over the course of those first few years, I went through a bit of a rollercoaster – being initially told I was brilliant, and then beaten down and told that I was absolutely s**t, terrible, useless, the weakest member of the team… and then built up again to say that I was amazing. There were times I felt like leaving.”

So why didn’t he? “Something inside me was saying ‘don’t’. I didn’t know whether I was being weak by not leaving, or sensible by staying – or a bit of both. And there was always the thought that you could have a hit – which would be great for your CV and your career moving forward – so I rode it.”

Toby’s intrinsic motivation gave him the determination to push through for a decade. “I thought, ‘This is just the grit and the graft. Put everything you can into this, and then it’ll be worth it in the end’”. It may have built his resilience, but he had to make some pretty big sacrifices along the way, “I sacrificed my social life, my friendships and the ability to have romantic relationships because I was working until nighttime every day – and at weekends too.”

Toby basically became a hermit for a decade. Not ideal for his social life, but excellent for his 10,000 hours. And while he misses the friendships that fell by the wayside, does he regret it? “No. There were some great moments – and sometimes it was a lot of fun. But there were sacrifices made by deciding to focus on my career.”

By now, many people would have burnt out completely. But Toby was about to discover that ten years of hard graft had been preparing him for the biggest risk to date.

Going solo

Choosing to leave Xenomania put him almost back to square one. “I didn’t know what lay ahead. This was like restarting my career completely – I didn’t know if I’d be a mixing engineer or a producer who produced other people’s songs. I wasn’t even sure I’d be a songwriter.” He had to relearn who he was, outside the Xeno-machine.

Toby hadn’t yet had a hit – but, having spent a decade sacrificing his social life, had managed to save enough to strike out alone. But savings pots aren’t limitless… “In that first year, I didn’t earn enough to live on – and my savings went down significantly. In fact, I was earning at such a loss that by the end of the third year I was going to have nothing. I was watching my bank balance go down to zero, knowing I might have to think about another career.” Then, just as he started to run out of money completely, his career took off.

“I was initially doing pop music, but have evolved into the dance world. It’s a better fit for me; I think it’s where my talent lies.” Plus, as it was his biggest musical influence in his late teens and early 20s, “It feels like I’ve come full circle.” And he’s found his superpower in collaboration. “Every song I write is a collaboration with other writers. When I write alone, it’s not as fun, not as rewarding.” He’s full of admiration for artists who can do that, “Maybe they’re true artists – people who can just sit down for days and days on end, doing their own thing, on their own project? I’d find it really tough.”

As ways to make a living, Toby says it’s pretty good. After all, “Writing a song with people that you like – your friends – what’s not to like?”

Not just a career, a calling

But does he think he’s found his purpose? “I feel like my purpose is to make songs that people can enjoy – and that I also enjoy. And I feel satisfaction when I do something well,” he says. “But purpose is almost a bit grander, isn’t it? It’s like ‘What are you giving to the world?’ And what am I giving to the world? Music? Songs? It doesn’t sound very profound, does it?” But does purpose always have to be that dramatic?

He says one of the best parts of what he does is, “Hearing stories of the songs helping individuals – seeing comments on YouTube and Instagram and getting private messages – about how they’ve helped people with mental health and personal struggles. You feel like you’re actually giving something back. It makes me feel good, it makes me feel satisfied, it makes me feel like I’ve done something.”

Toby wants to continue making a positive difference, one song at a time, for as long as he can. Yet he remains pragmatic about the threat of AI, “Everything changes, doesn’t it? I think I need to be ok with adapting and changing what I do.” His adaptability and resilience, combined with a solid growth mindset, should hold him in good stead. But even if the worst happened, would he still make music? “Yeah – for sure! Obviously, the collaborative element’s important to me, so I’d want to do it with other people. But, at the moment, I like what I’m doing, and I’ll carry on.”

Toby calls it his career, but it’s clear he’s found his calling. And he’s quick to acknowledge how fortunate he is, “I think everyone’s good at something, and I’m good at this – and have been lucky enough to find it and make it my career.” But remember, “When I started out in the industry, I felt useless, like I didn’t know anything.” So, if he could go back in time, what advice would he give to his former self? “Just keep going. Stick at it. Don’t give up. Don’t get knocked down. And don’t listen to people saying that you’re not good enough.”

That teenager who swore he’d never write commercial music? His tracks can be heard all around the world – in shopping centres, gyms, dance clubs, on the radio, in movies… And somewhere, right now, someone is dancing to one of them and having the time of their life.

“I applied for a really big grant last year. I spent so long on the application, I had so much phenomenal support from my colleagues, and it got four reviews back. I was chuffed that it even went out for review because it could have been rejected before that. Two of the reviews were really positive, one was positive about almost everything, and the fourth essentially said, ‘This is worthless’. They didn’t see the point of it. I believe in a neuro-affirming approach; they thought I should take a more medical approach. So it got rejected.”

Working in academia can be brutal, as Dr Samantha Friedman (Sami) knows only too well. “I called my best friend and sobbed on the phone. And I read the reviews a million times. You work so hard on something. You care about it so much. You’re trying to make a positive difference. And then it goes to a reviewer who doesn’t see eye to eye with you, so they don’t give it a good score. And that’s it. It’s over.”

“There’s so much rejection – whether it’s a student who doesn’t like the course you’ve taught and submits bad feedback, or a paper where the reviewer just hasn’t understood what you’re trying to do. It’s tremendously hard not to take it personally.”

Despite the harsh realities of academic life, Sami can’t imagine doing anything else. She’s a lecturer in Applied Psychology at the University of Edinburgh, researching how autistic people connect with nature and how this could be used to transform education for neurodivergent children. But as she puts it, “The trade-off of caring and loving what I do so much is that it really weighs heavy”.

An accidental PhD

This emotional burden wasn’t something she’d planned for. Growing up in America’s Midwest, Sami didn’t initially feel the pull of purpose. Instead, she was going to become a primary school special education teacher, specialising in autism because, “I have an older sister who was really good at lots of things, so I would just do what she did as it was working for her!” Her sister had a teaching internship during high school, so Sami followed suit, “I loved it! I thought this is great – it’s definitely for me!”

But by the time she was at university, she’d become increasingly disillusioned with the way autistic children were being treated and had started questioning her career path. “I didn’t love a lot of what I was seeing in the classroom - the systems at play and lack of support didn’t sit right with me.” This cognitive dissonance – the discomfort that comes when values clash with reality – was starting to point her in the direction of her purpose. She knew there had to be a better way to help neurodivergent kids feel a sense of autonomy and belonging, but what was it?

Then, “At the end of my first year, out of the blue, I got an email from a professor called Scott Morrison (not the Australian prime minister – that’s important to clarify!). He proposed we work together on a grant for undergraduate research”. They combined their specific interests – hers in autism, his in outdoor learning – and ran a small-scale study at a forest school, looking at how autistic children experienced going outside for lessons rather than having their group class inside. This gave her the chance to do forest school training – a surprising move for someone who, “wasn’t an outdoorsy kid and didn’t grow up in an outdoorsy family” – and she loved every part of it. Something had clicked. “It’s really interesting that all my work is now oriented around nature, because it really wasn’t a core part of me.”

This unexpected trajectory then took her to Scotland for a master’s degree focusing on autism and nature. But “In the first week, everyone was asking, ‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ I was thinking, ‘Oh shoot – I’m supposed to have the next thing planned? We’ve only just got here!’ I didn’t know what I wanted to do but I knew I really liked research, so I applied to PhD programmes. It seemed like a good next step. And that’s how I ended up going to Cambridge.” Sami was demonstrating a growth mindset: the belief that talents and abilities can be developed through dedication and hard work. Rather than seeing her lack of planning as a weakness, she was treating each uncertainty as a learning opportunity.

And what was going through her head at the time? “I’m sure I was an anxious mess! But I also thought I didn’t really have anything to lose as this wasn’t my grand plan. I remember being an undergrad and one of my professors talking about doing a PhD and I’d replied, ‘Never! I would never do that! Absolutely not!’”

Hanging out in the woods

Now Sami’s realised she’s exactly where she needs to be. “I can’t imagine anything else I would rather be doing. I feel genuinely fulfilled. The thought of this getting taken away from me makes me feel really panicked and sad.” But it’s not a walk in the park, “I feel challenged a lot – and I really like that. I love the idea that it’s like being in school forever. You have to keep learning things!”

And being an academic isn’t just her purpose; it’s also become a big part of her identity. “I’ve always cared a lot about what I research ... it feels all-consuming: there’s always more to be done, more impact to be had. It’s not just a job.” Ultimately, “I guess my purpose is being a conduit: someone who can translate people’s experiences into research that – hopefully – makes their lives better.”

This doesn’t stop self-doubt from creeping in, though. “There are academics out there curing cancer. People whose work is probably going to change the world. And they’d ask me, ‘What do you do?’ And I’d say, “I hang out with kids in the woods and talk to them about what they’re doing’. There’s a level of imposter syndrome – does the work I’m doing really matter?” Ironically, that feeling of being a fraud often tends to strike when people are doing work that matters the most to them.

When the going gets tough

“I’m passionate about making the world a friendlier, more accommodating place, especially for neurodivergent people.” For Sami, this means validating a wide range of experiences, particularly because previous research into autism has done harm by drawing universal conclusions which have since been disproven.

And her approach is resonating both within and outside the academic space, “Last week, I got an email from someone saying they have an autistic child, and everything I said perfectly captured their experiences. And that’s what counts: it doesn’t matter if there’s 15 people saying your work doesn’t matter, if one person says, ‘I feel seen and validated by what you’ve said’, that’s all I want.”

She’s creating ripples in the education sector too – and not just because she accidentally told the Minister for Early Education, “I think our education system is broken” without realising who he was! (“I’m not sure he agreed, but he was super nice about it.”) “Before Edinburgh, I taught on undergraduate primary education programmes for future teachers, and I advocated to run a session on autism. It just was 50 minutes. That’s all the input those teachers had in their entire three years at university.” But it paid off. “Afterwards, I would have students come up to me and say it changed their perspective on neurodiversity. So hopefully they’ll go into the classroom with a different mindset. If you can speak to people before they’ve shaped their feelings, that’s when it’s most impactful.”

Researching outdoor learning is another opportunity to effect change. There’s a psychological theory that says humans flourish when they feel autonomy (having a sense of control), competency (knowing we’re good at something) and relatedness (feeling like we belong). This comes up a lot in Sami’s work with autistic children: when they’re outside, they have opportunities for autonomy on their terms (building, exploring); they’re developing new skills and putting them into practice; and because the dynamics are different, they’re more easily able to relate to the other kids – perhaps for the first time. Being in nature can offer cognitive benefits too – such as improving working memory and attention – but it’s important to recognise that it won’t help if they’re having a bad day. That’s why, “I’m interested in how we take the ethos of what’s happening outside and then figure out how we apply it to indoor classrooms to make things better.”

But of course, it’s not that simple. With myriad funding cuts and curriculum pressures, many teachers’ hands are tied. “We have to figure out how we can translate what we believe to be true into things that fit alongside teachers’ constraints and actually impact practice.” It’s about encouraging teachers to think, “‘Maybe I could allow a bit of autonomy, or do something different, in this instance’ – rather than trying to change the whole system.”

So, what keeps her going through all the setbacks? “Just hearing one person say, ‘Your work meant something to me’. That’s what keeps me going.” That said, “I’d be lying if I said there’s not some extrinsic motivation there too! It feels really good to have a paper published and see my little number of citations going up. But I try not to let that be what fuels me because it’s not healthy – a lot of it’s out of my control. I think if you’re only extrinsically motivated in academia you’d burn out so quickly.” This echoes what motivation researchers have long known: while external recognition feels good, it’s the internal drive – the intrinsic motivation to make a difference – that sustains us when the going gets tough.

An uncertain purpose

For all her clarity about her academic calling, Sami knows that purpose isn’t fixed. “I would say in the next one day to three weeks, my purpose could change quite significantly!” she laughs. Sami’s heavily pregnant and her due date is imminent.

But even with this uncertainty ahead, her advice to her former self – or anyone starting on a similar journey – remains consistent, “Just keep taking the next step.” This approach has carried her all the way from getting her first grant to doing a PhD and now working in her dream job in Edinburgh.

Yet she’s quick to acknowledge, “The cliché of ‘jump and the net will appear’ is such a privileged thing to say right? I could only do that because I knew my family and my spouse would have my back.” But beyond the practical support, there’s something deeper at play, “It’s more about the self-belief element. If you care about something, lean into it. Because I think that takes someone the furthest. You can be technically good, you can be good in an interview, whatever. But if you don’t truly care about it, that comes across.”

For Sami, passion and purpose remain inextricably linked, “I’m very lucky that I’ve been able to put those two things together and make it my career. I recognise not everyone can do that.” As she prepares for the next chapter of her life, she’s holding space for the possibility that her purpose might evolve again – and that’s exactly as it should be.

“It was a wild undertaking – what was I thinking?” Meet Sarah Regan: co-founder and main owner of Little Flowers, an online florist in Sydney. Little Flowers is now a household name in Australia’s oldest city. But thirteen years ago, Sarah was in a very different place. Working long hours for an advertising agency, “I was burnt out. It felt like I wasn’t performing. The job was different to what I’d done before and I hadn’t had any training, which added to the pressure. And there was zero purpose. I thought, ‘I’ve got to get out’.”

When purpose goes missing

Advertising hadn’t always been this demoralising. Years before, she’d been managing purpose-driven health and social care accounts in the UK. She’d even set up a volunteering programme allowing staff to support community projects during work time – a programme that’s still running today. “People helped school kids with their reading; we revamped the community centre; we did big, themed lunches for all the people who used the community centre. I wasn’t doing it to get out of the office, I was doing it because it made me feel good. And I loved it. I think it’s actually my best achievement in advertising – and it’s nothing to do with advertising!”

But after moving to Sydney, things changed, “Part of it is I’d got older and just didn’t care about advertising in the same way. People 5-10 years younger than me wouldn’t mind staying late, endlessly debating where to put the dot above an ‘i’ on a business card. But I just wanted to go home! I loved the energy – the people were smart and driven, the business was growing, and it had really nice vibes – but I really struggle with jobs where I don’t have any emotional reward.”

“I was a broken woman by this point. I have a lot of grit and determination, which is sometimes to my detriment. I’d pushed myself really hard, I hated it and was miserable, working silly hours. And I had an idea that maybe I could do something that’s interesting to me.”

Sarah’s instinct aligns with meaning-making – the fundamental human need to feel our lives matter and make sense. She’d been attracted to purpose for decades. She’s got a psychology degree, she’s naturally interested in what makes us tick, she’d been inspired by Martin Seligman’s Learned Optimism, and she’d always chosen to work on accounts that made a positive difference to individuals or organisations.

So she quit.

A sticky therapy session

“I remember coming out of this job and feeling really demoralised. I was thinking, ‘What am I going to do?’ I’d put a lot of time, energy and commitment into my career, but I felt like a bit of a failure because I knew I just couldn’t do it any more. My confidence had taken a bit of a battering too. Your mind automatically goes to negative places at times like this: the things you’ve failed at, don’t do well, struggle with, or moments when you’ve been criticised.”

Transitioning between careers isn’t easy – even if you’re leaving a job you hate. Sarah wasn’t just burnt out, she now needed to adjust to a new reality and create a new identity for herself. Our brains are wired to spot threats, so even though her previous job was unfulfilling and exhausting, it was still a known entity. By contrast, the gaping void of unemployment and uncertainty was a much scarier prospect.

“After I’d had a few weeks off and was mentally a bit more robust, I said, ‘Right, let’s think about this objectively’. I got some multicoloured Post-it notes and used them to brainstorm all the things I’ve been told I’m not good at, don’t like, or make me feel bad about myself. I wrote one or two words on each Post-it, categorised them and stuck them up on the wall.”

“And then I did the same with the good stuff - everything from hobbies and interests I’d had as a kid, to jobs I’ve really enjoyed over the years and things I’d like to do again. I went through ten years of work appraisals, and added people I admired who had jobs that made me go, ‘They seem really happy – I’m a bit jealous - I’d like a bit of what they’ve got because that job seems really fulfilling or interesting’.”

“It’s no-holds barred brainstorming. And what you see is the stuff that was making you feel bad is just a small fraction of the whole – there’s lots of things that you’re good at, and lots of things that excite you and that you find rewarding. I wouldn’t have called it this at the time, but it’s about trying to work out what your purpose is.”

By so clearly visualising her strengths and interests, Sarah was rebuilding her identity from employee to entrepreneur.

The **** it moment

She couldn’t have predicted it, but if Sarah hadn’t dived into unemployment when she did, former colleagues Ben and John would probably never have asked her to make their idea a reality: an online florist delivering one mixed bouquet a day for an affordable $25, including delivery. The bouquets would be determined by what looked good and was in season at market – with a preference for local-grown blooms – reducing waste and decision fatigue.

“I remember sitting down and going, ‘****, this is a great idea! I was scared not to do it, I think. Because the risk wasn’t doing it - the risk was NOT doing it.” Sarah was embracing an entrepreneur’s mindset: while most of us are wired to avoid risk, successful entrepreneurs reframe it as opportunity; staying stuck becomes a bigger threat than taking action.

And it ticked every positive Post-it on her wall.

“It felt like a great idea. Emotionally, it was lovely. It was a, ‘Why hasn’t someone done this before?’ kind of fabulous idea. And it’s simple: you’re enabling people to do something charming and feel-good, and make someone else’s day, without breaking the bank.”

Suddenly, flowers could be bought at a price point that made it more accessible for people to send them for all sorts of reasons. Sarah found herself hand-writing customers’ messages, like: Because you sit next a mouth breather; So sorry they used the sofa as a trampoline; For surviving a whole day without screens - heroic stuff; Because the house is still standing. Just. and You have great house husband potential!

One lady even sent her grandma a bunch every day for a week, just to see her smile five times.

“When flowers are more affordable, people can send them for any reason. And the weirder, funnier, more random or unexpected, the more memorable it is. It can feel a bit more special. You’re enabling these little ripples of happiness that weren’t there before.”

So how does this feed into her purpose? “I don’t think everyone has an underlying drive to find purpose through work, but I do – I feel drained when I’m bored or under-challenged. If I’m going to spend eight hours doing something, I want it to be rewarding. For me, that’s either a creative reward or having a purpose – making a difference. And that’s what Little Flowers did: it gave me both a creative reward and an emotional reward. You’re making the world a better place hundreds of times a week – only in a really small way, but it does make a difference.”

Reality checks at 4am

Of course, finding a sense of purpose in your work doesn’t necessarily make it any easier – or mean you’re working standard eight-hour days…

“When we first started out, it was brutal. I’d write all the cards and do all the deliveries myself. I’d start at four in the morning [to go to the flower markets], get home at six pm and still be going into the night.”

At the start, 18-hour days were the norm for this one-woman business. This took grit – the combination of passion and perseverance required to reach an important goal – and was very different to what she’d experienced in her advertising days. “I was on a massive learning curve. I’d never owned a business before; I’d never been a florist before. It was a wild undertaking. What was I thinking? It sounds ridiculous!”

“And yet it was amazing because it was such a disruptive idea. It disrupted the entire flower giving industry in Australia – and might have even impacted other places as well. It was incredible to achieve something that was so different and had such a feel-good factor. A couple of times when I was in the van, people flagged me down and said, ‘I just love this business – I love what you’re doing!’ Yet it was so bloody hard – if it hadn’t had purpose, I would have given up. But it was just so good: it was so hard, but it was so good.”

Sarah had stumbled onto something powerful – what researchers call ‘prosocial behaviour’. When we help others feel good, our own wellbeing surges. It’s a psychological win-win.

The ripple effect

Little Flowers took Sydney by storm, “It went nuts very, very quickly.” And as it’s evolved, so have Sarah’s responsibilities. She’s now managing florists, assistants and customer services. “I’ve gone from one job that felt like it’d taken over my life to another that’s taken over my life! But when you’re your own boss, you have freedom to create something you really care about, and you can do that on your own terms.” In turn, she’s driven to create a positive work environment for her team, “The culture of the business gives me purpose too; we often get told it’s a really nice place to work.”

These days, economic realities mean the business and its offering has evolved, but the sense of making the world a better place, one bunch at a time, remains. They still offer the hyper-personalised customer service they’ve done since day one – always going the extra mile to help their customers. And they’re still spreading ripples of happiness whenever they can: for World Kindness Day they take to the streets, offering two flowers to passers-by – and then tasking them with giving one to someone else.

The purpose paradox

Despite spending thirteen years building her business, is this Sarah’s purpose? “It’s an interesting question… in some respects yes, because it’s given me a lot of drive and a lot of meaning. The satisfaction of making the world just a little bit better through my job has been huge, and it’s been a real motivator to keep going when times are tough.” Sarah says the business has also given her great creative fulfilment, and part of this is because, “You never stop learning and growing, which I really love.”

“I think all those elements contribute to a sense of purpose. So does it give me purpose - absolutely, yes. But I wouldn’t say definitively that the business is ‘my purpose’. Because I get purpose from other facets of my life too – like caring for family, or trying to solve problems in my community.”

And that’s something she’s keen to emphasise: the fact that purpose doesn’t just have to be what we do for work - it can come from other places too. “I love the idea of purpose shifting and changing as we make our way through life. I think it can be a constant evolution.”

What if you could?

“One piece of advice I heard – and said to myself every day – was, ‘What if you could?’ It came from the Henry Ford quote, ‘Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right’. I often come back to it. I think mindset is so important, isn’t it? Everything can get a bit overwhelming when you’re daunted by a lack of purpose and the frustration that comes with it. And all you need is to take a leap of faith.”

You can connect with Sarah on LinkedIn or find out more about Little Flowers on their website, Instagram or Facebook.

When I had my post-dysentery epiphany in the back of a rickshaw on the dusty streets of Kerala, I thought, ‘I want to be an actress! Finally - this is it!’ But I was wrong.

I’ve spent the last 48 years looking for my purpose (I’m 48). This isn’t just the stuff of daydreams; I give things a proper go. I’ve tried acting, journalism, advertising, copywriting, design, e-learning, TV development, talent scouting, corporate branding, yoga teaching and digital production. There have been moments of joy, pride and solid accomplishment - which have all felt great - but something’s always been missing.

Essentially, I’ve been searching for that elusive ‘thing’ I can do that’ll make the world a genuinely better place – so I’ve also given my time to mental health charities, environmental organisations and purpose-driven startups. But nothing’s been right. As my neighbour once said, “You’re nothing if not resilient”. (Ok, ok, she might have been commenting on a long line of dating disasters, but there are parallels.) Some less generous folk may even say I’m fickle, I’ve got no staying power, or I have a seriously low boredom threshold. But I’m not sure I agree.

Inspiration’s got a lot to answer for

The thing is, I’ve had great mentors.

My grandfather had a swift U-turn in his 40s: while captaining a ship in the navy, he had his ‘calling’. Before the family knew what’d hit them, they’d moved across the country so he could attend theological college, swapping sailing for sermons and caps for cassocks. He did it in style and with great purpose.

He took calculated risks for the greater good: leaving his central London church unlocked 24/7, so anyone seeking sanctuary would have a place to go. And by anyone, I mean anyone. I wish I could have seen the look on the parishioners’ faces when a sleepy tramp emerged from under the altar during a Sunday service, nodded, and went on his way. Grandpa also recognised and rewarded entrepreneurial spirit, giving a local youngster access to the crypt to launch something called ‘Student Magazine’ – which turned out to be the start of Richard Branson’s career. Big shoes to fill.

His daughter, Joe, had a similarly purpose-driven path. Following a spate of her friends being banged up overseas, she worked tirelessly to change the law so that British citizens could serve their sentences back home. Some had been incarcerated for drugs (don’t judge, it was the 70s); some had committed no offence at all – merely finding themselves unwitting political pawns. The charity she formed – Prisoners Abroad – continues to provide hope to prisoners and their families, during imprisonment as well as resettlement (a vital yet hugely underfunded service, which prevents homelessness and reoffending). More big shoes.

To add purposeless insult to injury, my little brother’s even found his. He once said he wakes up every morning and looks forward to starting work. What? Even on a Monday? Yep. This blew my mind.

You might say purpose is in my blood. But what the hell is it?

Ego’s got a lot to answer for too

My inner monologue’s always been very demanding, ‘What can I do that’ll hit the giddy heights of what my family’s achieved? How can I create something equally astonishing? Maybe I’ll be named in a famous person’s autobiography too!’

On reflection, I’ve been looking for a way to make a difference that’ll also make me look fabulous in the process.

(Cue recognisable sound effect from 1990s British TV)

Time to buy a lab coat?

For the past 18 months, I’ve been diving headfirst into the science of positive psychology. Like many finding purpose stories, I stumbled on this completely by chance. While living in Sydney, a friend was offered free tickets to an event that had ‘something to do with the brain’. Knowing I’m the eternal inspiration chaser, she invited me. And I was hooked. This set off a chain of events that’s seen me devouring books and podcasts, completing a positive psychology and wellbeing diploma with the Langley Group Institute, going to events, conferences and courses all around the world, and even forging early-days friendships with some of my industry heroes.

When I discovered pos psych, it felt like something clicked: for pretty much the first time ever, I’m on the fringes of an industry that speaks my language. Unlike my choices to date, I’m not there because other people say I’m good at it or to feed my ego (hello, acting), and I’m not making a ton of money from it (I’m not making any).

One exceptional stroke of luck was nabbing a ticket to the first ever World Meaning and Purpose Summit. I got lucky: I saw something on LinkedIn and pounced. And then it was sold out. During my diploma, I’d spent a lot of time exploring ‘positive meaning’: delving into the research and theories; cracking open my personal values; getting clarity on what really matters to me. And the summit was a game-changer.

Despite turning temporarily mute when coming face-to-face with the people I’d been studying (super smart individuals often have this effect on me), I had some interesting conversations and came away with the nub of an idea. Maybe my purpose wasn’t about creating something from scratch and being celebrated for my brilliance – maybe it was about turning the spotlight off the self and illuminating work others are doing instead?

Gravitating towards generativity

I guess midlife is a natural time to start to wonder about our legacies. I don’t have kids: I’d have loved to, and until my mid-40s it was my core driver (hence all those questionable dating disasters and freezing eggs like I was preparing for the apocalypse), but it hasn’t happened. So that’s out.

I’d also failed at finding a way to change the world. So, what else was there?

Refusing to be sucked into a void of eternal nothingness, I started asking friends, acquaintances – anyone – what makes them tick; what’s their legacy? And then it dawned on me: does it really need to be something massive? Intentional, everyday actions can have an equally positive difference, just on a much smaller scale – and still foster prosocial behaviour, strengthen relationships, spread kindness and make the world a slightly better place, one tiny ripple at a time.

Finding purpose

Every time I hear someone’s finding purpose story, it’s like a little light goes on inside me. I get butterflies in my stomach and I can’t stop smiling. It’s been this way for years, but it’s only now I’ve studied the science that I’ve got the language to understand why.

These positive emotions have a heliotropic effect – energising me, making me look outwards (goodbye, navel gazing), connecting with others through eye contact or smiles (yes, even in London where it’s a cardinal sin) and sharing moments of positivity resonance. When people inspire me, I notice I live a better life, I pick up more litter, I choose to help strangers, I donate to charities, I listen, and I notice. In short, I make more prosocial choices. It’s good for me and (hopefully) it’s good for others too (the man who’s adamantly refused to acknowledge my morning hello for the past 365 days may disagree, but it’s now too awkward to stop).

And this got me thinking: if I get the good vibes from hearing other people’s stories, would others also experience the same? Could it inspire individuals looking for their purpose to take positive action themselves – to start initiatives, make changes, or even keep going when things get tough? Could it help brilliant work that’s already out there get the recognition and support it deserves? And over time, could all of this have a greater impact on the way we interact with each other – and with the planet?

And so this blog was born.