There are books you read, and then there are books that quietly rearrange you. A Brain That Breathes by Jodi Wilson sits firmly in the latter category—a gentle but unflinching invitation to reconsider how we live, what we prioritise, and how we care for ourselves in a world that rarely slows down.

What makes Wilson’s work so powerful is not that it presents radically new ideas, but that it returns us—again and again—to truths we already know but have somehow drifted away from. Reading it can feel like being reminded of how to be human.

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The Foundation We Forget: What We Need to Feel Safe

One of the most striking sections is her return to the basics: water, food, movement, sleep, sunlight. It sounds almost too simple—until you realise how often we neglect these in pursuit of something more “important.”

When you're exhausted or emotionally depleted, your brain doesn’t operate from a place of clarity. It shifts into survival mode. That spiral of “What’s the point?” isn’t necessarily a philosophical crisis—it’s often physiological.

Hydration affects cognitive clarity. Nutrient-dense food stabilises mood and energy. Movement regulates stress. Sleep repairs both body and mind. Sunlight anchors our internal clock. These aren’t luxuries or “nice-to-haves”—they are the scaffolding of mental stability.

What Wilson does so effectively is strip away the illusion that wellbeing requires complexity. Before you overhaul your life, she suggests, ask a quieter question: Have I met my basic needs today?

It’s disarming how often the answer is no.

The Trap of Impossible Standards

Another idea that resonates deeply is the subtle violence of self-imposed expectations.

Ask yourself if you're trying to keep up with impossible standards.

This is where many of us get stuck—not because we lack discipline or ambition, but because the target itself is unrealistic. We absorb expectations from social media, productivity culture, and even well-meaning advice, then internalise them as personal failure when we can’t keep up.

Wilson invites a pause—not to abandon growth, but to interrogate it:

• What am I actually aiming for?
• Who defined this standard?
• Is this aligned with how I want to feel?

Because improvement driven by self-criticism tends to exhaust us. Growth rooted in clarity, on the other hand, tends to sustain us.

Designing a Life Around What Matters

“Figure out your priorities” sounds obvious—until you try to do it honestly.

Wilson reframes priorities not as achievements, but as feelings.
How do you want your days to feel? Grounded? Spacious? Connected? Calm?

This shift is subtle but powerful. It moves you away from external validation and toward internal alignment.

From there, her advice becomes practical:

• Schedule rest and joy deliberately
• Treat them as essential, not optional
• Accept that life will always contain difficulty—but it doesn’t have to be defined by it

There’s something quietly radical about choosing joy on purpose, especially in a culture that often treats rest as laziness and busyness as virtue.

The Misunderstood Power of Softness

Wilson challenges a deeply ingrained belief: that gentleness equals weakness.

Softness doesn't mean fragility, just as strength isn't always a hard outer shell.

We’re conditioned to equate productivity with worth, toughness with resilience. But constantly pushing, striving, and hardening comes at a cost—it disconnects us from ourselves.

Moving gently through the world isn’t about doing less for the sake of it. It’s about creating enough space to actually experience your life.

Softness, in this sense, is not passive. It’s intentional. It’s choosing presence over pressure.

Creativity as a Return to Self

One of the most beautiful threads in the book is the idea of creativity as therapy—not in a clinical sense, but in a deeply human one.

Creative acts—painting, stitching, writing, building—anchor us in the present moment. They reconnect us to our breath, our body, and a slower rhythm of thinking.

The repetition of a brushstroke or stitch isn’t just soothing; it’s regulating. It quiets mental noise. It gives the mind something tangible to hold onto.

And importantly, Wilson emphasises:

The value lies in the process, not the product.

This runs counter to how we usually approach creativity—as something to perfect, share, or monetise. But when you remove outcome from the equation, something shifts. You’re no longer performing—you’re simply being.

In that space, something subtle happens: you start to mend.

The Weight of “Stuff” and the Lightness of Less

Wilson’s reflections on consumption cut deeper than a typical decluttering narrative.

We often think of possessions as neutral or even comforting. But everything we own carries a hidden cost: attention, maintenance, responsibility.

Once something belongs to us, it requires our time.

This reframing is powerful. It explains why clutter feels heavy—not just physically, but mentally.

Letting go, then, isn’t just about tidiness. It’s about reclaiming energy.

And she extends this beyond objects:

• Let go of relationships that no longer nourish you
• Release outdated ideals
• Question the constant pressure to acquire more

The result isn’t deprivation—it’s relief.

Choosing “enough” over “more” creates space for something we rarely prioritise: contentment.

The Nuance of “Treating Yourself”

The idea of “little treats” has evolved—sometimes into something excessive, even escapist.

Wilson doesn’t reject indulgence, but she calls for balance.

A small treat—a pastry, a quiet coffee, a spontaneous moment of pleasure—can genuinely lift your mood. But when every discomfort is met with consumption, it becomes a coping mechanism rather than a joy.

The key is intention.

Are you soothing yourself, or are you avoiding something?

There’s nothing wrong with comfort—but it’s worth understanding what you’re asking it to do.

 

Learning to Savour the Good

Perhaps the most quietly transformative section is her guide to “savouring the good.”

Not the extraordinary. The ordinary.

• A warm cup of tea
• A flickering candle
• A clear sky
• A small moment of beauty you might otherwise overlook

These aren’t life-changing events. But noticing them changes your experience of life.

Walking with intention to observe, sharing positive moments with others, eating slowly, appreciating your home as it is—these practices recalibrate your attention.

And attention, ultimately, shapes reality.

If you train yourself to notice what is good, you don’t ignore hardship—you simply stop letting it dominate the narrative.

 

Why This Work Resonates So Deeply

What makes A Brain That Breathes so impactful is its honesty.

It doesn’t promise a perfect life. It doesn’t offer a rigid system. It doesn’t demand transformation.

Instead, it offers something both simpler and harder: awareness.

• Awareness of your needs
• Awareness of your limits
• Awareness of what truly matters

And from that awareness comes choice.

You begin to choose rest without guilt.
You begin to choose less without fear.
You begin to choose softness without shame.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, your life starts to feel different—not because everything has changed, but because you have.

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If the book leaves you with anything, it’s this:

You don’t need to do more to feel better.
You need to come back—to your body, your breath, your values, your life as it already exists.

And from there, begin again.

 There’s a quiet kind of magic in finding your way back to the kitchen.

Not the rushed, midweek scramble of “what’s for dinner?” or the distracted chopping between emails—but the slower, softer rhythm of pottering. The kind where time loosens its grip a little. Where you tie on an apron not out of necessity, but because something in you is ready to create, to nourish, to settle.

As the season turns and the air sharpens, the pull toward the stove feels almost instinctive. Lighter meals give way to something deeper, richer—food that simmers, that sighs, that fills the house with warmth long before it fills your plate. This is the season of unctuous fare: velvety soups, slow-braised meats, soft root vegetables melting into themselves. Food that asks you to linger.

There’s joy in that slowness. In chopping onions without urgency. In the gentle bubbling of a pot that doesn’t need your constant attention, only your occasional stir and quiet companionship. The kitchen becomes less of a workspace and more of a refuge—a place where the outside world softens at the edges.

And then there’s the deeper satisfaction: providing. Not in the grand, performative sense, but in the simple act of feeding the people you love. A table set, candles lit, plates filled, the small pause before everyone takes that first bite. It’s a kind of care that doesn’t need explaining. It speaks in warmth, in aroma, in the steady reassurance of “there’s enough here for you.”

What’s striking is how little it actually takes. No elaborate techniques, no rare ingredients—just good, honest food made with attention. A loaf of bread, a pot of soup, a dish that’s been made a hundred times before and still feels like a small triumph. There’s something grounding about returning to those basics, about remembering that nourishment doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.

Pottering in the kitchen isn’t about productivity. It’s about presence. It’s about letting the season guide you, letting the process unfold, and finding contentment in the small, sensory details—the warmth of the oven, the scent of garlic in butter, the quiet clatter of utensils.

And perhaps that’s the real gift of it: not just the food itself, but the feeling it leaves behind. A home that smells inviting. A table that gathers people in. A sense, however fleeting, that things are as they should be.

So when the chill sets in and the days shorten, consider answering that gentle call. Step into the kitchen, take your time, and let yourself potter. You might just find it feeds more than hunger.

Heres a favorite go to recipe from Kiwi Icon Annabel Langbein - a one-pot wonder you can literally throw together when the oven is on-

https://www.langbein.com/recipes/one-pot-spiced-apple-cake

Ingredients

CAKE

250 g butter

3-4 apples, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced

2 cups sugar

2 eggs, beaten

2 1/2 cups plain flour

1 tsp baking powder

2 tsp baking soda

3 tsp cinnamon

1 cup sultanas, raisins or golden raisins

1/2 cup walnut pieces, (optional)

Savouring simple daily pleasures

There’s an overwhelming feeling that comes with trying to keep up—your mind racing to make sense of a constant whirlwind of thoughts, tasks, and expectations. Days blur into one another. You meet the demands, tick the boxes, and yet feel as though life itself is slipping quietly through your fingers.

Precious time with family. Moments to savour. They get lost somewhere in the scramble of daily necessities and the race to get to bed at a reasonable hour—only to begin again the very next day, seven hours later, if we’re lucky.

Lately, I’ve felt a strong pull toward simplicity. Not in a grand, sweeping way, but in small, grounding elements: organising the home, nourishing myself with whole foods, reading more, spending time outside—not always on brisk, purposeful walks, but pottering, lingering, being still. Sitting on the step with the cats. Reading in the middle of the day. Even allowing myself a nap.

I’ve found comfort in familiar books—A Year in Provence, James Herriot—stories that speak of a slower, gentler rhythm of life. I find myself longing for that simplicity. In contrast, modern life feels saturated: screens, phones, AI, constant communication, endless scheduling, expectations, influencers. The quiet pull of old-fashioned manners, traditions, and gentle living has become something I deeply crave.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend lent me a book that had been sitting in my “to read” pile. You know how some things seem to find you at just the right moment? I came across it again while looking for something entirely different. I read the first few pages standing right there—and it felt as though it had chosen me.

The Brain That Breathes marked the beginning of my deeper reflection on this constant sense of overwhelm—the racing mind, the inability to pause, the feeling that we’re not even allowed to fully enjoy or savour life. It struck a profound chord.

In truth, my body had been trying to tell me this for quite some time—gently nudging me for the past 18 months, perhaps two years, to slow down and take stock. But I was too busy, too preoccupied to listen.

Long story short, among other health challenges, it culminated in severe flare-ups of eczema. I share this not for sympathy, but to offer context—it became another push toward simplifying my life.

I’ve started making intentional changes. I now use unscented, sensitive laundry detergents and body products. I’m choosing unfragranced creams and simplifying what I put on my skin. Slowly, I’m transitioning my wardrobe toward natural, organic fibres. I’ve always gravitated toward cotton, cashmere, silk, wool, and leather—but not always organic or sustainably sourced. That’s changing now.

I’m prioritising organic cotton, bamboo, and ethical, sustainable brands. I’ve had a significant clear-out, particularly of athletic wear and sleepwear, where synthetic materials were most prevalent.

In the home, I’ve removed plastic and silicone cooking utensils, replacing them with wood, stainless steel, and glass. Cleaning products are now non-toxic and environmentally conscious. I scent the house with essential oils and burn beeswax candles.

While there has always been a presence of organic produce in our kitchen, I’ve taken it further—I’ve ordered a weekly organic farmers’ box, and today, as a cyclone lashes outside, I’m undertaking a full pantry reset.

All of this is to say: take a moment—or several—to pause and reflect. What feels rushed, chaotic, or out of control in your life? How busy is your mind, really?

What can you simplify? What can you soften? Where can you reclaim balance and peace?

What has quietly crept into your home that no longer aligns with your values?

Years ago, when my girls were very young, I made almost everything from scratch—bread, laundry detergent, even dishwasher powder (though never clothes—I’ve never been a seamstress!). Somewhere along the way, those practices slipped away.

I’m claiming them back now. Slowly, intentionally.

The build-up of toxins—both physical and habitual—happened gradually, almost invisibly, until one day it felt undeniable.

Here are some of the changes I’ve been making. Perhaps they’ll inspire you to look at your own home and routines:

• Choosing ethical, skin-friendly, sustainable cosmetics
• Washing clothes in cold water, line-drying where possible, and using wool dryer balls
• Using sensitive, fragrance-free, earth-conscious laundry products
• Cleaning with reusable systems (like Skipper) and non-toxic solutions
• Diffusing essential oils and burning natural candles
• Opening windows every morning, regardless of the weather
• Walking to work where possible—or combining errands
• Cooking mostly from scratch using whole, locally sourced foods
• Picking flowers from the garden
• Shopping second-hand
• Meal planning to reduce food waste
• Using cotton bed linen and linen napkins daily
• Choosing stainless steel and wooden pegs
• Swapping books with friends
• Baking at home
• Wearing natural fibres

Right now, I’m sitting under our covered porch. Rain is falling in heavy sheets. I’m sipping freshly brewed organic coffee from beans I picked up on my walk to the village yesterday. Incense curls softly in the air while the mosquitoes insist we’re breakfast.

Soon, I’ll move into a gentle yoga practice before returning to the pantry. I feel deeply grateful that we still have power and water—something many across the country are without today.

After that, I plan to curl up with a book and simply enjoy a quiet, uncomplicated day.

And perhaps that’s the point of it all.

 Savoring simple daily pleasures

There is a particular kind of quiet that belongs only to Easter morning. It arrived softly today, wrapped in the gentle gift of daylight savings having turned back the clock while we slept. I woke at my usual early hour, but instead of rising, I stayed cocooned beneath fresh white linens, suspended in that rare luxury of unhurried time.

Outside, the sky began its slow performance. First a deep, burnished orange, rich and steady, then gradually softening into the palest blush of pink. The silhouettes of birds flickered in the trees at the end of the garden—small, purposeful movements against a sky still deciding what it would become. There was no rush, no demand—only a quiet invitation to notice.

I have always loved Easter. As a child, it carried with it a sense of ritual and place. Some years we were in Cornwall, in the wild and weathered southwest of England, where Easter meant Cadbury’s chocolate—cream eggs with their impossibly sweet centres, or hollow shells that rattled with Smarties when you shook them. Other years, we were in France with my father, where the story shifted entirely. There were no Easter bunnies there; instead, the bells returned from Rome, mysteriously delivering chocolate treasures. Not the everyday kind, but exquisite creations—artisan-crafted hens perched on nests, feathers etched in white and dark chocolate, surrounded by delicate Belgian truffle eggs. They felt less like sweets and more like small works of art.

Even then, I think I was drawn less to the chocolate and more to the ceremony. The anticipation. The quiet magic of tradition. My mother would sometimes find herself, months later, melting down untouched chocolate into a mousse in June—a gentle testament to how little the sweets themselves mattered to me.

This morning held that same sense of magic, though it has changed shape over time. It no longer arrives in foil-wrapped surprises, but in something deeper and more grounding. Yesterday we collected our eldest from the airport, and today I woke knowing my girls were safely home, tucked into their beds. There is a completeness in that thought that is difficult to put into words.

Grannie will visit later. A leg of lamb waits patiently in the fridge, ready to become the centrepiece of a meal that will gather us all around the table. And yet, there is no urgency to the day—no strict timetable to follow. Just the gentle unfolding of hours, mild and fresh, full of possibility.

It is, I realise, a different kind of Easter magic. Quieter, perhaps. But richer too.

It lives in the stillness of an early morning sky, in the comfort of shared space, in the knowledge that those you love are near. It is found in the absence of rush, in the presence of enough. And in that space, there is a deep and steady feeling—one of gratitude, of contentment, of peace.

Happy Easter.

 Savouring simple daily pleasures

There is a particular kind of magic that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. It slips in quietly, often unnoticed, waiting patiently for us to slow down enough to see it.

This morning, it was a cobweb.

Not just any cobweb, but one stretched delicately between two stems, each thread strung with droplets of dew like a constellation caught mid-thought. The fog hadn’t quite lifted yet, so everything felt hushed, softened—like the world was still waking up. And there it was, this tiny, intricate masterpiece, sparkling as if it knew it was being admired.

It’s easy to miss these things. Most days, we hurry past them with our minds already ten steps ahead. But every now and then, if we let ourselves linger, the smallest details begin to feel like quiet gifts.

Like the neighbourhood cat who appears as if summoned, winding lazily around your ankles as though your morning walk was arranged just for the two of you. Or the perfect shell on the beach—not the biggest or the brightest, but whole, unbroken, shaped just so, as if the ocean decided to hand you a small treasure.

There’s the scent of pine trees—rich, grounding, almost intoxicating in its freshness. It fills your lungs and makes you pause without quite knowing why. And the trees themselves, of course, shifting into their autumn finery, each leaf turning in its own time, painting the landscape in warm, fleeting hues.

And then there’s the fog.

At first, it wraps everything in mystery, softening edges and blurring distance. But as it lifts—slowly, almost ceremonially—it reveals the world in layers. Hills emerge, then trees, then the far-off horizon, each one stepping forward like a curtain being drawn back. It’s a quiet kind of spectacle, but no less breathtaking for its subtlety.

When we begin to notice these moments—really notice them—something shifts.

The mind, so often crowded with worries and what-ifs, starts to fill instead with these small, exquisite observations. A web. A shell. A scent. A flicker of colour. A passing connection. And somehow, there’s less room left for the heavy things. Not because they’ve disappeared, but because they’ve been gently outnumbered.

It’s a kind of quiet rebellion, really—choosing to gather these details, to let them accumulate until they brim over. Until your thoughts feel less like a to-do list and more like a collection of small wonders.

A deep breath helps. Or two. Or ten.

Inhale the pine. Exhale the noise.

Look up at a night sky scattered with stars, each one impossibly distant and yet somehow present. Watch a sunrise stretch across the horizon, slow and certain, as if the world is reminding you: I am still turning. I will keep turning.

There is comfort in that rhythm. In the steady, ongoing dance of things much larger than ourselves.

And perhaps that’s what these tiny details do best—they lift us, just slightly, out of our own heads. Not enough to disconnect, but enough to soften the edges. Enough to remind us that we are part of something vast and continuous and quietly beautiful.

All it asks is that we notice.

And once we do, it becomes surprisingly hard to stop.

 Savoring Simple Daily Pleasures

An inspiring evening to set a new path and trajectory

Last night is one I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon. Walking into the Mel Robbins live show, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but I left feeling lighter, clearer, and strangely more certain about who I am and where I’m heading. I was lucky enough to share the experience with a beautiful, like-minded friend, and that alone made the evening feel special before it had even begun.

There was something in the air from the start—an openness, a willingness from everyone in the room to show up honestly. As Mel spoke, I found myself unexpectedly emotional at times, not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, internal sense of recognition. She touched on things that felt deeply personal and incredibly relatable, like she was somehow putting words to thoughts I hadn’t fully formed yet.

Two ideas in particular stayed with me and seemed to echo long after the event ended. “Learning how to act like the person you wish you were” felt less like advice and more like permission. It reframed growth in a way that made it feel accessible, not distant or reserved for some future version of myself. And then there was, “Thinking doesn’t change your life, action does.” Simple, almost obvious, but hearing it in that space, at that moment, made it land differently. It cut through the noise of overthinking and reminded me that movement—however small—is what actually creates change.

I noticed myself slipping into deep personal reflection throughout the evening. Not the kind that feels heavy or overwhelming, but the kind that gently nudges you toward honesty. By the end, I didn’t feel burdened by the things I need to work on. Instead, I felt uplifted. Inspired. Like everything is actually possible if I’m willing to back myself. Like I have time to follow my dreams, and more importantly, that I don’t need to shrink or hesitate because of what others might think. There was a quiet but powerful shift toward trusting my own path.

One of the most moving moments of the night was also one of the simplest. We were asked to write down our “wild card”—the thing we would do with our lives if there were no boundaries or restrictions. No fear, no judgment, no practical limitations. Just truth. After writing it down, we were then asked to swap our piece of paper with a stranger sitting nearby.

There was something incredibly vulnerable about that exchange. The piece of paper I went home with doesn’t belong to me, and yet it feels strangely precious. It holds a dream from someone I may never meet again, a quiet hope that she trusted enough to put into words. Her deepest desire was to travel the world and live in Scotland. It’s simple, but it’s also everything. Freedom, adventure, belonging.

I find myself genuinely hoping it comes true for her. That somehow, in some way, her wild card materialises into reality. And in the same breath, I hope the person who received mine is holding it with the same care. There’s something beautiful about that exchange—two strangers briefly becoming guardians of each other’s dreams.

I walked away from the night feeling like something had shifted. Not in a loud, dramatic way, but in a steady, grounded sense of belief. That I can act now. That I don’t have to wait. That the life I want isn’t as far away as I sometimes make it seem. And maybe most importantly, that it’s okay to want what I want without needing to justify it to anyone else.