Biography

There were moments in my life when I was certain I was lost.

Not loudly lost. Not obviously broken. But quietly, internally, lost. The kind of lost where you carry grief and confusion without language for it, where you keep moving because you must, not because you know where you’re going. At the time, I didn’t know those moments were shaping me. I only knew they hurt.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the life I’ve lived.

Not because it’s been easy, but because it’s been honest.

There were seasons that felt unbearable while I was living them. Seasons of fear, denial, guilt, and deep uncertainty. Times when survival mattered more than reflection, and getting through the day felt like enough. Only later did I realise those moments weren’t failures or wrong turns, they were thresholds.

They were shaping who I was becoming.

What didn’t break me, made me.

And if you’re reading this, it didn’t break you either.

I’ve come to believe that we don’t simply go through life, we grow through it. Growth is rarely gentle. It often arrives disguised as worry, loss, or struggle. But it leaves behind something invaluable: perspective.

Think back to a time when worry consumed you completely.

Maybe it was money. Maybe illness. Maybe work, or a relationship slowly slipping through your fingers. At the time, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, only the heavy certainty that tomorrow would feel exactly like today. Fear looping endlessly. Stress without pause.

And yet... here you are.

That worry no longer defines your days. Life moved. You moved with it. Time didn’t erase the pain, but it changed its shape. What once felt impossible loosened its grip, and space opened up to breathe again.

Every one of those experiences, especially the painful ones, has made my life deeper and more meaningful. And by sharing them, my hope is that you’ll begin to recognise the quiet strength already woven into your own story.

Where Writing Truly Began

My first book was never meant to be a book.

In 2020, my beautiful mother passed away after suffering from dementia. Grief arrived in waves I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t know how to talk about it, how to process it, or how to carry it. So I did the only thing I could, I wrote.

I wrote everything.

Every moment. Every regret. Every heartbreak. Every memory that refused to let go.

The pain went onto paper.

It wasn’t structured. It wasn’t polished. It certainly wasn’t written with the intention of publication. It was written as a way to survive loss.

When people read it, they insisted it needed to be shared. They told me it helped them feel seen. That it gave language to emotions they’d been carrying silently. They encouraged me to turn it into a book.

I had no idea how.

The result was, by my own admission, badly written, badly laid out, with a bad cover, and absolutely no expectations. I didn’t make money from it. I gave it away more often than not, because helping someone else mattered more than sales.

And yet, that book went on to worldwide success.

More importantly, it opened doors I never expected. It led me to speaking to organisations across the country about dementia, not from theory or training, but from lived experience. From the raw, complicated truth of loving someone through memory loss and learning too late what I wish I’d known sooner.

That was the moment I understood something fundamental.

People aren’t moved by perfection.

They’re moved by truth.

Lived experience reaches people in ways expertise alone never can. And that is where my journey as an author truly began.

A Life Lived (So Far)

Over the last six decades, I’ve lived many lives in one.

I’ve worked in countless roles, from mystery shopper to prison officer, each one teaching me something about people, pressure, and myself.

I lived for long periods in denial and deceit, believing it was the only way to cope, the only way to survive.

I somehow ended up with my own television series, chosen to help get the West Midlands fit at home, despite having no formal qualifications.

I built the largest Indian dance fitness company in the UK, growing it to over 200 instructors and more than a dozen dance workouts... despite not being able to dance.

I started and ran one of the biggest martial arts schools in the country, despite being terrified of being hit and knowing that I wasn’t a natural fighter.

I wrote multiple books, despite always believing I didn’t have the time.

I travelled extensively and took my three children around the world when they were little, despite not having the money.

I stood on stages and spoke to audiences, including one of over 5,000 people, despite having no confidence and lingering unease with public speaking

When I look back now, the pattern is clear.

The one thing I consistently had wasn’t talent, money, time, confidence, or fearlessness.

It was belief.

And a refusal, quiet but relentless, to focus on the reasons why I couldn’t.

So let me ask you something.

Is there something you’ve always wanted to do, but keep postponing?

Telling yourself you’ll begin when the time is right is one of the most subtle ways to step away from your own life. Because the time is rarely perfect. And there are no guarantees that “someday” will arrive.

What You’ll Find Here

This site is a reflection of what I’ve lived, built, written, and learned. You’ll find my books, work, events, and, if you’re curious, the fuller story behind them.

I also write a regular blog. It isn’t based on theory, trends, or borrowed wisdom. It’s based on experience. On things I’ve lived through, things I’ve failed at, lessons learned too late, and truths I’m still uncovering.

It’s honest. It’s imperfect. It’s real.

Signature Closing

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Your pain doesn’t disqualify you, it deepens you.

Your story doesn’t need polish to matter.

And the things you survive often become the very things that help others survive too.

If something here speaks to you, stay awhile.

And if even one sentence helps you feel less alone, then this journey, every part of it, has been worth it.