Holding My Breath: Notes From Our Move To The Countryside

Last Thursday we moved house. I had not anticipated quite how “holding my breath, tense shoulders, WHAT IS IT NOW overwhelming” it would feel.

Somewhat damningly (I damn myself), the complete lack of internet and phone signal has undone me in ways I didn’t see coming. I pride myself on living a rich, joyfully analogue life... but it turns out I rely on those two bars of 5G for, well, practically everything.

My morning ritual of checking my banking app and updating my spreadsheet (yes, seriously, I do this): gone.

Logging on to do my exercise class: gone.

My inability to work out what the weather is by simply looking outside, and instead wanting to refresh a weather app that won’t load: worrying.

The endless buffering of BBC Sounds and no downloads of my favourite podcasts: utterly hideous.

All the while, I’m trying to be a half-decent nervous system for my three children, who find the new house wonderful and awful in equal measure (because change always asks us to hold hands with both states).

There are more potholes, more single-lane tracks, more mud and more roadworks than I expected. I couldn’t find my pants for three days. I keep telling myself off for being whingy. And yet… I’m trying to allow myself to hold both truths: overwhelmed and grateful, tired and energised, confused and inspired.

There was an interesting discussion on inner dialogue versus inner monologue on a recent episode of Elis James and John Robins’ magnificent podcast (and yes, I agree: it’s Elis, John and Dave). It made me notice how quickly I flip between contradictory emotions. Perhaps that’s simply part of being human in transition.

And yet, even in the chaos: beauty.

The snowdrops appear in drifts.
There’s a daphne by the front door whose fragrance feels like divinity made tangible.
The views are everywhere—open, ancient, humbling.

We are living with my parents (and soon my Grandpa). On Sunday we cooked a roast together and my three-year-old cuddled my 94-year-old Grandpa. The tenderness of that moment is something I’ll hold for a long time.

I’ve carried a vision of my “forever home” for years. I’m a maximalist with limited aesthetic imagination, but there were always a few scenes I could picture clearly:

My kids bursting through the door, dumping their bags on a large pine kitchen table.

A farmhouse kitchen with utensils suspended above an island.

A kitchen maid pulley clothes airer with tiny socks and larger school jumpers swaying gently.

A garden I could step straight into, grounding my feet in the grass with my morning Earl Grey, having a quick chat with the birds.

A house that feels like safety, like love, like home. A place of parties and long meals where I can slip into my pyjamas whenever I choose because the people around me are mine.

And on Sunday, as I hung up washing on the pulley, used the utensils hanging above my head, devoured salty chicken skin, threw open the French doors and chatted to a robin, I said a quiet prayer of thankfulness.

(Then immediately tripped over a box, because they’re everywhere.) And at night: the stars. More awe than I know what to do with.

I’m sharing this partly because I want to open a whole new section of my Substack dedicated to this country life: this privilege of living closer to the seasons, witnessing the daily shifts in light, texture and scent.

I want to document the buds and blossoms, the mud and frost, the light and the long exhale of summer evenings. I want to find a local community I choose. I want a “local” pub, a rhythm, a routine that feels like deep breath rather than sprint.

But I’m also sharing it because when we create our own income, content and story, pretending our personal seasons don’t influence our work is a fallacy. Our lives are our material. Our shifts become our chapters. Our nervous systems write the next sentence before we do.

It’s why I encourage my clients inside The Kindling Academy to pay attention to what’s actually happening in their lives. This move is teaching me the same thing I teach them: you cannot separate your work from your reality, your creativity from your environment, your ideas from the season you’re living in.

This chapter is muddy and bright, exhausting and hopeful, scattered and deeply rooted. And I absolutely love it.