I used to joke that my instincts were so bad, I would do whatever the opposite was of what I felt. Now, that feels like such an intense betrayal to the deepest, most basic part of myself. I say ‘basic’ not as in simple, but as in most base: the most innate, primal, ready part of us; the first layer around ourselves that we build.

Do you trust your instincts?

Perhaps day-to-day we are not aware of our instincts being in action, but they are always there, keeping us safe, like simple background code that keeps us ticking over.

Our senses extended beyond ourselves: we have an awareness of our body in space; we can sense when someone is standing directly behind us (don’t look now). We feel our clothes going on, but we forget about that sensation unless we call it to mind. Some of this awareness exists as part of mindfulness: bringing our attention to our senses helps to stabilise us into the present moment. Our bodies are constantly relaying information and deciding what needs to be brought to our attention.

I did that thing that retired people do: forgetting the days of the week, yet every now and again I would realise another Friday had passed, and no Mindful Moments written. Rest assured, I was thinking of you.

Having a full inbox when I got home helped me to clarify which email lists I wanted to stay subscribed to. I hope, after our little hiatus apart, you will either be more inclined to keep me, or more sure that you no longer require my mindful addition to your inbox. Either way, I salute you for honouring what you need.

It’s hard to distill five weeks of travel experience down into something readable, meaningful or accurate. “Your trip looks so great!” or “Yes, it was fab, thanks!” are the usual routes we take. But how do we describe the internal route we took, the emotions we traversed? Much like We’re Going On A Bear Hunt (clearly, I’ve been to a few baby showers recently), emotions are things we can’t go around, or under or over: we have to go through them.

I want to tell you a story about the origin of love.

In the beginning, there were three types of humans: male, female and androgenous. Each was round, with four hands, four legs and two faces. Because of this, they were strong and a threat to the gods. Zeus decided to cut them all in half to reduce their strength.

But in so doing, each part was no longer whole. Each part longed for its other half - whether male or female. Those who found their half would stay as one, never separating, even if it meant suffering a single death.

So it is written in Plato’s Symposium.

Bringing this late-night edition to you straight from the sofa. I’ve eschewed the desk for something altogether comfier.

Often, I find myself getting annoyed at various Instagram posts. I’ve been spending more time on there; who knows why, really, other than habit and a lack of intention (all fuelled by the algorithm’s joyous discovery of my love of cats and bad (dad) jokes).

We’ve spoken before on here about our perceived “negative” emotions (anger, jealousy, frustration etc.) as being indicators of where we place value and desire: we feel jealous of that which we want most; we feel angry when we feel injustice.

I feel impatient with many of the poetry accounts on Instagram. (Alongside dad jokes and a healthy feline following, poetry accounts are my next favourite poison on social media.)

90% of the time, when I see my acupuncturist, I tell him I’m looking for balance. I’m looking for emotional stability and a calmness away from the fluctuations of life.

When I fell off my bike, I lost my balance. We can always choose to seek the silver lining out from behind the cloud, and I decided that perhaps this was just the universe’s/God’s/[insert other intangible culprit] way of teaching me about balance.

Is being balanced always a good thing?

Sometimes, I find myself far too balanced when it comes to making decisions; I’d really rather the scale tipped more obviously in one direction than the other.

In many ways, I’ve not had a great two weeks. I apologise for not writing last week; I woke up feeling very anxious and couldn’t bring myself to write: on Thursday last week, I fell off my bike. Twice, in an hour! (Don’t worry, I’m completely fine. Both times there was no-one else involved, just me in a sort of slightly comic cow-tipping toppling to the ground.)

I got home and cried for about 20 minutes straight and then proceeded to watch all eight episodes of the new Harlan Coben on Netflix. I thought, is this January?

I’m reading an excellent book at the moment: The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood - best known, I suppose, for her dystopian novel The Handmaid’s Tale.

She is an amazing writer. I think to be a good writer of fiction is a very different thing to just being good at writing. You can write beautifully, but without a successful plot, it won’t be a “good book”. Margaret Atwood has both.

Welcome to the little space that exists between Christmas and New Year’s. It feels akin to a corridor, laid out on all sides by plates of leftover foods, board games and jumbled days of the week. If you are working, I applaud you.

Many people I speak to are not keen on a big New Year’s Eve. Perhaps we are wearied by Christmas festivities, or perhaps it feels too heavy with the weight of expectation. Do you feel a certain pressure at this time of year - either the pressure to have big New Year’s Eve, or the pressure of expectation for the coming year itself? Or perhaps both?

I know I’m no Taylor Swift, but I’d like to take you on a little Eras Tours of my own.

Today is my last day working as a junior doctor. Not because I’m jumping ship (although would you blame those who left The Titanic?) but because I’ve completed my training and, as of January 1st, I will be a fully-qualified GP.

Is there something to be said for letting sleeping dogs lie? In our modern era of information-gathering, it seems we are constantly seeking answers.

Over this last year of my medical training, I’ve realised that the training of being a junior doctor prepares you for hospital medicine, not for General Practice. In General Practice, there are fewer diagnostic tools and less uncertainty. Dis-ease is often transient; ill health is abundant but often without overt limitations on functioning.

Advent 1955, by John Betjeman

A wise friend recently said these words to me: “All jealousy is really insecurity” and I remember thinking (the idea burglar that I am) that I would love to write about this and explore it more.

I was raised to consider television a waste of time. Books and reading - these were the pastimes of successful, intelligent people. We had five channels and a TV rota.

My friend (thank you, Sam) has coined the term ‘boxer short moments’ and I have likewise coined the term ‘butterfly moments’. Short of Kafka’s slightly more terrifying Metamorphosis, these moments are all about transformation into something more beautiful, more learned and more expansive than before.

The story of the boxer shorts is a story of self-worth. It’s realising you’ve been wearing underwear with holes in for far too long; it’s the noticing of old patterns that no longer serve you and the - almost guilty, almost shameful - realisation that you haven’t been taking care of yourself.

Therapy is an investment - a treat if you will. But this week, I have felt somewhat tricked. Therapy is a deep unearthing, a deep excavation of the self. And this digger-like drilling can be deeply uncomfortable, painful and unpleasant. It’s the trick, not the treat. It’s the egging of the houses and the hiding behind corners with scary masks on, jumping out when you least expect it.

What does it mean to have hobbies?

It’s a very strange word, ‘hobby’, isn’t it? To me, it is one of those words that if you think too hard about it, or look too long at it, it suddenly seems nothing more than five strange letters strung together and loses all meaning.

When my brother moved into his new house a few months back, he showed us how the previous owners had written an inspirational quote on each step of the stairs; I’m not sure it was their favourite feature. Now, I’ve not quite taken it to that level, but I do love a quote and those who know me well will attest to that.

There’s something about a good quote that makes me feel calm, as if all the wisdom of others’ lived experiences has been distilled and is ours to now know and hold.

Did I mention that last week I turned 30? I have jokingly said to various people this week that I feel so much better now I’m 30. It seems like a slightly ridiculous thing to say, because what has changed, really? It seems to me that turning 30 has been a sort of “scape goat”, or at least proxy measure of change; an excuse for long overdue decisiveness on my part.

I write this today, on my 30th birthday, a quite significant milestone, I think you’ll agree. Once a distant point on the horizon, ‘30’ now sits bold and brave in front of me, heady with anticipation.

I went for a walk along the beach this morning with a friend and, as we drank tea and chatted, I noticed all the pebbles. I noticed them in all their uniqueness, no two pebbles the same. Each one has been shaped uniquely by the passage of time, marked by weather and multiple contacts. Perhaps you can see where I’m going with this: we are like pebbles. Each one, in its own way, a milestone.

In the build-up to turning 30, I’ve thought a bit about what I might caption a supposed or real post about my twenties and I keep landing on ‘The Turbulent Twenties’; I suppose I find the alliteration quite satisfying. The original ‘Roaring Twenties’, complete with the hedonism of the prohibition era, appeals to me in so much as I enjoy the drop-waist dresses, headbands and glamour, but beyond that I’m not really sure I did much ‘roaring’ in my twenties; did you? To roar, both literally and in this context, requires a complete letting-go. There were, of course, times in my twenties where I have let my hair down (ironically, I rarely wear it up), but there have also been times of deep self-consciousness; deep doubt about myself and the future; deep sadness, grief and confusion. Hence, ‘The Turbulent Twenties’.