The Gentle Rebel Podcast

What does it mean to live well as a highly sensitive person without turning sensitivity into another thing to optimise?

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, I’m joined by psychotherapist and author April Snow to talk about her book, Big Feelings, Big Joy: The Essential Practices to Reclaim Your Strengths as a Highly Sensitive Person.

April discovered the language of high sensitivity while training to become a therapist, after years of wondering why she experienced the world so intensely. Since then, she has spent more than a decade working with HSPs and exploring what helps us find balance, make sense of our experiences, and create lives that work with our sensitivity rather than against it.

We talked about the positive aspects of sensitivity, the problems with some of the advice circulating through wellness and personal development culture, and the importance of giving ourselves enough space to notice what actually works for us.

In the episode, April describes her ORCHID framework, which offers a more human, positive way to describe the characteristics associated with high sensitivity. We discuss the difference between understanding sensitivity as a way of making sense of our experiences and turning it into a tightly defining identity.

Sensitivity isn’t only about being affected by difficult or overwhelming experiences. It can also mean experiencing music, art, awe, excitement and other positive experiences very deeply. This positive capacity is central to the title and approach of April’s book.

We talk about the endless routines and protocols found in wellness and productivity culture, and why HSPs might want to be particularly cautious about turning self-care into another long list of things to get right.

April suggests that small changes can make a surprisingly large difference for HSPs. Rather than adding more practices to an already crowded morning, it might be more useful to prioritise one thing and let that be enough. Differential susceptibility shows that HSPs are more affected by our environment, which extends to the things we do as well.

We explore the idea that a healthy nervous system isn’t one that stays permanently calm. We need activation, stimulation and meaningful experiences too. The important thing is having enough flexibility to come back and re-regulate afterwards.

We talk about the value of giving ourselves time to move from one state or activity to another, rather than constantly switching gears. Sometimes the transition itself is where we need to slow down.

April and I explore how an immediate “no” can sometimes be a default response to an invitation or new experience, especially when we’re tired or overwhelmed. Giving ourselves time before responding can create space to discover whether something is actually a no, a yes, or a “maybe, let me think about it.”

Our energy and capacity aren’t fixed. We talk about leaving room in our plans so we can respond to how we’re actually feeling, rather than following a rigid schedule no matter what life brings.

Because highly sensitive people may be more affected by both positive and negative experiences, small moments of joy, comfort and connection can have a powerful effect. April shares childhood memories that helped her stay grounded during harder times, and we explore how this might work in adult life too.

Even when our wider environment is noisy, chaotic or simply not suited to us, we may be able to find small spaces or rituals that give us somewhere to breathe. Sometimes that might be a whole room; sometimes it’s a car, a park, a library, or five minutes of something that feels like ours.

We also talk about April’s experience of writing the book itself. If she were doing it again, she says she would spend longer at the beginning researching, reflecting and allowing the ideas to simmer before diving into the work. It’s a lovely example of applying the very principles she’s writing about to a creative process.

You can listen to the full conversation in this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast. I will also be exploring some of these themes in more depth in a series of videos.

April Snow, LMFT, is a licensed psychotherapist, author, and consultant. She specialises in working with highly sensitive people to help calm the storm of overload, guilt, and self-doubt to allow their innate sensitive strengths to shine through. Deeply committed to changing the narrative of what it means to be highly sensitive, April supports HSPs around the world through her Sensitive Circles community, Sensitive Sessions workshops, and Sensitive Stories podcast. In addition to Big Feelings, Big Joy she has written Find Your Strength: A Workbook for the Highly Sensitive Person.

April holds a Master’s Degree in Integral Counselling Psychology and is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in California, where she lives with her wife. In her free time, she enjoys being at the beach, curled up in bed, on her yoga mat, spending quality time with her nieces and nephews, or seeing live music.

Have you ever felt judged by standards that simply don’t fit who you are?

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel, we explore Aesop’s fable of the “useless tree” and unpack why introverted and highly sensitive people internalise criticism from those who don’t understand what they bring to the table.

The fable describes two travellers who find a plane tree in the midday sun. They take refuge beneath its branches but complain that it’s useless because it produces no edible fruit or nuts.

In another version, the tree is an oak. When the rain arrives, they stay dry beneath its leaves. It gets cold, and they make a fire from its broken branches. They get tired and use the leaves to make a bed.

The moral is usually told from the travellers’ perspective: don’t overlook the unexpected gifts you might take for granted.

But it was interesting to look at the story from the tree’s perspective. And how it feels to overhear the judgement from the people it has sheltered. What story does it tell itself about itself as a result?

It is providing exactly what the travellers need. Yet they judge it according to something it doesn’t, and can’t, provide.

And what happens when the tree overhears itself described as useless?

Have you ever tried to change something about yourself because of a judgement you heard from someone else?

Maybe it was directed at you. Maybe it was directed at someone else, but it punched you in the gut when you overheard it because it felt familiar.

Many of us get measured against standards that don’t make sense for us. We might know that intellectually, but it doesn’t take much for the message to seep in and get under our skin, especially if it’s repeated enough times.

Maybe it’s the story that you need to be more outgoing, toughen up, or stop caring what other people think.

We might start looking for ways to turn ourselves into the proverbial apple tree. Or we might shrink back into the shadows and try to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.

The judgement doesn’t have to be true to have an impact. It just has to be believed.

Like many introverted and highly sensitive people, I grew up absorbing a story about my behaviour going against the grain of what I should be doing.

I wasn’t disruptive and loud. Quite the opposite. I often saw “speak up more” and “put yourself forward” on school reports.

This even became a target: “Put your hand up once in every lesson to volunteer an answer.”

Was that what I needed?

Did it help me connect with the subject and learn better?

No. It had the opposite effect.

Interestingly, a few teachers never made me feel bad for being quiet. In those classes, I felt much more confident speaking up…if and when I had something to say.

The safety to stay quiet made it comfortable to speak up.

There’s a big difference between changing yourself and changing yourself.

We are presented with moulds to fit ourselves into, with the assumption that to belong we have to change who we are.

But there’s a difference between changing because you’ve decided something matters to you, and changing because you’ve overheard someone saying there’s something wrong with the way you are.

An oak tree grows. It loses branches, extends its roots, and takes shape in response to the weather. But it changes as it is. It doesn’t become an apple tree (it can’t).

There’s something liberating about knowing that. Because the judgements we overhear can sting, but they can also become stories about who we think we’re supposed to be.

What could change when you stop trying to be somewhere other than where you are?

I’m sure you’re aware of the controversy surrounding Ed Sheeran’s 2026 Loop Tour. The situation escalated after billionaire tycoon and sports mogul Robert Kraft blocked Ed Sheeran’s support artist, Macklemore, from performing at Gillette Stadium in Massachusetts, following Macklemore’s declaration of solidarity with Palestinians in the face of the genocide being perpetrated by Israel.

Under pressure from other stadium owners, Sheeran dropped Macklemore from the entire tour. After the other support artists and his backing band dropped out in solidarity with Macklemore, he continued on his own.

He played the first show in Philadelphia last weekend, which he began by reading a prepared statement.

This was uncomfortable for him because Sheeran has repeatedly described his commitment to being apolitical and inclusive. He has never wanted to be an “activist musician”. His goal is to create safe spaces where people can sing his songs together without bringing politics into the arena.

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, I explore how this situation has revealed that it’s not about the politics we carry into that arena (or leave at its door). It’s that politics IS the arena, which is what I want to explore a bit today.

Despite a strong interest that I’ve had for decades, I don’t explicitly talk about politics very often. I graduated in 2008 with a degree in Politics and International Relations from the University of Southampton. I would certainly say my interest in the subject underpins a lot of what I do and how I do it. It definitely informs my philosophical framework, especially to things like my critique of the self-help industry.

I’ve always been more drawn to the underlying structure than the everyday spectacle of politics: how power, resources, and violence organise themselves, and how ideological narratives normalise those arrangements and maintain stability within society.

Robert Kraft opened a rift and exposed a dimension that is usually well hidden. That rupture has revealed the political structure behind Ed Sheeran’s apolitical stance, which isn’t a particular political expression or belief.

The author David Foster Wallace opened his famous commencement speech with the story, This Is Water. You’ve likely heard it.

He described two young fish swimming along who meet an older fish swimming the other way.

The older fish nods and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?”

The two young fish swim on for a bit, until one looks at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

Wallace’s point was that the most obvious and important realities are often the hardest to see.

The Italian thinker Antonio Gramsci talked about this in terms of ideological hegemony. Political power doesn’t operate only through laws, coercion, or direct force. It also operates through the things that come to feel normal, natural and obvious. The assumptions and boundaries we don’t think to question because we don’t notice them.

Gramsci was interested in how systems of power could persist without constantly forcing people into submission, and how a particular social arrangement becomes Common Sense.

Mark Fisher explored a similar idea through Capitalist Realism: the way capitalism has become so pervasive that it can feel less like an man-made idea than the water we move in, breathe in, think in, dream in, and relate to one another in.

Ideology, in this sense, isn’t only a belief system someone actively subscribes to. It’s also the structural power relations beneath our words, actions, and beliefs. We can find ourselves acting within systems that tell a different story from the one we consciously believe.

Political moments and political art can expose these structures.

Ed Sheeran describes his massive stadium tour as a neutral, apolitical space where people are free to sing together and love one another. I don’t doubt that he believes that’s what he is creating.

Nothing implies he is being deliberately deceptive. He is describing the experience he wants people to have.

But the concert doesn’t float outside of a power structure. And therefore, it doesn’t exist outside of a political context. It is anchored in labour relations, the flow of capital, and the decisions ultimately made by those who own the platforms the rest of us create and consume inside. Most of the time, this happens without us noticing.

But in this situation, that rift opened, and we’ve had a little peek beneath the surface. We’ve been reminded that this is water.

When we look around so much of life right now, it feels abundantly clear that we are in so many rooms we don’t have a meaningful power stake in. Most of the time we don’t notice. But every so often something happens to remind us. The rent goes up. We get closed down, lose access, or we can’t afford to stay.

That is water.

Have you ever experienced the joy of unblocking a drain?

I know, I know. But if you know, you know…it’s satisfying! Not least because a blocked drain is the opposite of satisfying.

We’re not going to focus on blocked drains in this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, don’t worry. It’s just a metaphor for what happens sometimes in life, when things that feel like they’re supposed to be free-flowing get stuck, festering in a stagnant pool of unwanted water.

Sometimes something gets stuck because stuff around it jams it. Sometimes we might even put that stuff there ourselves, not realising it doesn’t really fit…or help.

I’ve often added so much around the edges of a meaningful endeavour or important project that it eventually comes to a grinding halt because it becomes so overly complicated.

I love planning. I love making systems and creating templates.

When I was at school, I liked making revision timetables so much that I ran out of time to actually revise because I was too busy planning.

I love dreaming up everything that could happen. Those dreams can get derailed under the weight of their plans.

This year I’ve been experimenting with paring back parts of life that have become over-complex, and making space for my tendency to add complexity when I notice that temptation arises.

I’ve also been trying to create breathing room to simplify after complexity has occurred, before committing it to anything concrete or permanent.

Because I’ve also noticed that sometimes complexity is actually a necessary part of the process.

Shutting it down as soon as it starts might mean pulling the plug on something that could be important later. So I don’t want to do that.

The key is recognising that complexity might simply be part of what is going on under the soil for a while, rather than something that means I ought to rewrite every page on my website, add new channels and announce my commitment to a bunch of things that are both impossible and undesirable to maintain once I eventually strip back to the simple heart of things at the right moment.

I’ve been to Finland twice this year. The first trip involved gout threat, a painful shoulder injury caused by reaching for a seatbelt, and a realisation when I got home that something needed to change.

I’d been trying to improve my health and fitness for years. But this time I decided to keep things small and simple rather than following an elaborate plan.

You may be familiar with the idea behind Gates’s law:

We overestimate what can happen in the short term and underestimate what can happen in the long term.

Over the past five months, I’ve seen a lot of progress with my weight and fitness. In large part because I’ve kept it small and simple, resisting the urge to overcomplicate things, make elaborate plans and build complicated systems and processes.

Something just sort of clicked in April. Along with a meaningful motivation, it’s the fact that I haven’t got in my own way by demanding too much, too fast.

When I’m motivated to change and thinking about it a lot, I want it now. The more urgently I want change to happen, the more likely I am to overengineer the process.

And that’s what drives me to make elaborate plans to get as much done in as little time as possible.

Not only does this risk burning the desire out, but it can also divert important resources from other parts of life, leading to a compounding negative effect.

So how do we stop ourselves from adding complexity to systems that just need time to blossom?

The big secret?

I guess it’s about being patient.

Oh wow. How boring.

Yeah, I know. Sorry.

It’s also about avoiding overplanning and making everything elaborately complex.

Oh, but I really like making detailed plans and timetables.

I know! Sorry. We’re going to need to find other ways to scratch that itch, because I’ll concede it is a fun one to go at.

For highly sensitive people, this might matter even more.

Research into differential susceptibility shows that people with sensory processing sensitivity can be more strongly affected by their surroundings, both positively and negatively.

When we add layers of complexity around our goals, we can create cognitive chaos: a foggy mess of stimulation that eventually leads us to check out and pull the plug on the goal altogether.

On the other hand, a few simple habits and environmental cues can have a surprisingly positive effect.

This doesn’t mean that highly sensitive people need empty lives. Complexity is sometimes unavoidable, and sometimes valuable. It means that unnecessary complexity can have a disproportionately large effect when we’re already processing a lot.

If you’re struggling to let something flow without blocking the drain with too much planning and complexity, you might try…

For me, planning has often meant time-blocking activities on the calendar and assuming I can switch gears and get things done during an allotted window.

I’ve done this many, many times, even though I know it’s not how I function best. It always feels like a nice ideal.

But patience is a resource that requires energy.

If you overcomplicate your process with rigid trackers, strict rules and unnecessary concrete time commitments, you drain your mental battery.

Simplicity can be a strategic choice because it preserves the energy patience requires.

Identifying one or two actions you’re committed to doing without tying them to a specific timetable means you can match your available energy to the action. And it takes the pressure off doing it every day.

Right now, I generally like running three times a week: Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday are my placeholder days. But this is subject to change. One is enough to move me in the direction I want. I won’t go more than three times in a week.

I’ve figured out what works best for me.

I don’t think it would be quite so good if I said, “Right, I’m getting up at 5:30 every morning to work out.”

I would resist that kind of injunction, and would have given up months ago. If it feels like a rule, it is there to be broken.

When we don’t see results in a week or two, our instinct might be to change the plan.

We might tweak the dial, add something new, buy a different running programme or rewrite the habit tracker. Every time we do this, we interrupt the consistency that allows small changes to accumulate.

Patience is about trusting the process of consistency. It’s about getting those basic, ridiculously small and simple habits in place and then keeping the proverbial seed watered.

For a while, we don’t see the fruits of that seed. It’s just trusting that it is growing beneath the soil.

If measuring things motivates you, find alternative measures in the short run.

Notice how something feels. Notice what else might be changing as you go. Tick off each time you do something that contributes to the broader goal.

In other words, track the thing that helps you water the seed, rather than trying to track the progress of the seed itself when you can’t yet see what’s happening underneath the soil.

I’ve heard people talk about “arrival amnesia”. Along with underestimating what can change over the long term, we often underestimate what has already changed.

I definitely forget how far I’ve come and how quickly I can adapt to new normals.

This is one reason I find journaling so useful. Looking back at old entries can show me the difference between what was going on then and what is happening now.

It highlights the things I can’t imagine not having today, but that grew so gradually over time that I almost took them for granted. And how some things change simply because I get out of the way and let them change, one day at a time.

We don’t always need a plan, a system, or a process. We just need to identify the small, simple thing that makes a difference. And keep doing that whenever we can and as often as we’ve decided works best.

Why do we bother doing what we do?

What tone do you hear in that question?

To bother: taking the trouble or effort to do something.
To be bothered: to be affected by something and/or to care about it.

I hadn’t really thought much about this phrase until it came up in a conversation related to stuckness a few days ago. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.

Someone shared that, despite having written a huge number of words, they felt self-doubt, uncertainty, and boredom were why they hadn’t yet managed to complete a draft of the novel they’d been working on for the past couple of years.

Exploring the map, watching the videos, and using the reflection guide helped them realise there might be more to it than an internal issue. In reality, the publishing industry is going through a period of deep uncertainty, and it’s harder than ever to get into. That adds a very real obstacle to the stuckness.

Feeling stuck is often a dance between internal and external factors. And it always happens within a broader context. Unstable material conditions, unhelpful environments, and systemic inequalities make stuckness more than a mindset or attitude issue.

I’ve known people struggling to stay afloat amid overwhelming busyness, grief, and health challenges, who believe they have the wrong attitude because they wish they could feel better and move forward.

As if you haven’t got enough to deal with, there’s the added pressure of personal responsibility to respond positively to things beyond your control.

The focus on mindset and positive thinking as a solution to stuckness can implicitly misdiagnose its source as lying squarely within the individual. It places us in charge of our own reality, a common position we’ve noticed throughout the history of the self-help movement.

At its most extreme, this becomes the belief that we can literally manifest material wealth, health, and prosperity through the power of positive thinking.

At one level, this way of thinking seems harmless enough. But when we peel back the layers, it reveals some more insidious assumptions. Not least, it assumes that if everything boils down to individual responsibility for the quality of our own life through positive thinking, then we are personally to blame for our suffering.

This can be a really lonely place to be.

We feel stuck because of the projected images we see from others who tell stories of self-made success. These tell us what we SHOULD want and aspire to. Then, when we struggle to get there, we beat ourselves up for not having what those successful people seem to have.

A lot of smoke and mirrors surround those stories.

When you believe that you’re the only one finding it hard, but that the result is necessary for your value as a human, you are more likely to act from desperation rather than curiosity.

And the cycle continues.

Good question. Glad you asked.

These pressures subtly influence our response to the question. So do the ways we’re encouraged to measure value.

I remember reading a blog post many years ago about the difference in quality between the amateur and the professional. It referenced Steven Pressfield’s archetypes of The Professional and The Amateur in The War of Art, his book about what he coined as The Resistance, the enemy force that derails a creative pursuit.

I haven’t read it for about 15 years, but I remember it containing some helpful ideas and some that made less sense to me.

In it he writes:

“The word amateur comes from the Latin root meaning “to love.” The conventional interpretation is that the amateur pursues his calling out of love, while the pro does it for money. Not the way I see it. In my view, the amateur does not love the game enough. If he did, he would not pursue it as a sideline, distinct from his “real” vocation.

The professional loves it so much he dedicates his life to it. He commits full-time.”

I’ll save my greater exceptions for another day, perhaps. But at a basic level, and in response to “why bother?”, we can see the pressure potentially undermining Pressfield’s message.

Although he presents the distinction as archetypes of attitude, it’s hard to escape the implication that the creative pursuit must provide a person’s main income (or full-time occupation) if the person truly loves it.

When the thing becomes a means to an end, the end can begin to determine whether the thing itself feels worth doing.

This can leave us feeling stuck. Confused about why we bother.

I know people who have become derailed after being encouraged to take something they had great passion, love, and drive for and turn it into a source of income.

They used to bother because they cared.

It was a catalyst for creativity and imagination, providing a way to express themselves freely. They were curious, explored, and grew, pouring resources into their passion regardless of profitability. And they gave their time to it without a second thought.

But when they went professional, things changed.

Concerns about marketing, efficiency, avoiding waste, and so on meant their relationship with what they used to do out of habit and ease became something only worth doing if it yielded a profitable outcome.

This isn’t to say it’s a bad idea to make something your profession. Rather, I think it’s a bad idea to assume that a professional is simply a more serious amateur.

It’s a radically different position.

In many cases, the amateur can maintain their connection, love, and raw, organic passion for what they do because professionalism brings separate pressures, not necessarily linked to quality and care for the work.

I know amateurs who love their work so much that they free it from market pressure and find other ways to fund a life they can dedicate what they love doing around the edges. And some are more skilled, passionate, and dedicated than their professional counterparts in the same field.

It’s ironic that for all his talk of Resistance, Pressfield may have inadvertently introduced and exacerbated a source of it by drawing this distinction.

This may also be linked to something psychologists call the overjustification effect. An external incentive, like money, praise, or professional status, can change our relationship with an activity we already do for love.

External rewards can make us less interested in doing something for its own sake.

Why bother? It’s only worth it if I see results.

And when it feels like the odds are stacked against you, why bother?

It would be easier to find another way to make a living.

Bothering can become futile when the outcome we’ve attached to the endeavour becomes harder to achieve. And this can happen when we become less intrinsically connected to it.

If things feel like a struggle, maybe business is slow, and external events are making it worse, we might hear someone say, “Why bother?” and try to help them stay positive.

“Come on, you’ve got to have a positive mental attitude. You’ve got this. Don’t give up. Believe in yourself. You’ll get through it.”

Maybe there’s a time and place for that.

But sometimes there are immovable objects in the way, and the question “why bother?” asks something else of us.

It’s also apparent that when we’re already struggling, another person’s extraordinary success story can leave us feeling more alone.

While inspiring or motivational stories are meant to give us hope, hearing from people who tried just as hard and didn’t get the same result can be more grounding and encouraging. I love a good failure story. Yeah, I know I’m a bit odd.

But survivorship bias gives us a rather skewed impression of the link between working hard and succeeding. But when we come together around these shared struggles, we can find a motivating energy far more powerful than hearing that it IS possible to win the lottery because, look, someone won it.

They won millions of pounds.

Why?

Because millions of people didn’t win.

The story of the collective experience is less romantic, but it’s much warmer. It’s the reminder that we’re not alone. This is just hard. Success isn’t guaranteed by hard work alone. No matter what we do, factors beyond our control limit our chances of succeeding.

Well, that’s depressing…why bother then?

I’m glad you asked…

We can dig back into that question with a fresh perspective and a personal connection. We can rediscover why we want to do what I want to do. What sparks our care, passion, and creative drive. Knowing and accepting that sometimes things don’t work out.

The book doesn’t get finished, let alone published. But it is worth it anyway.

Why?

Because there is something about the endeavour that brings you to life. That’s the bit that matters. And everything else is gravy.

And there is something beautifully rebellious and defiant about being alongside others in this spirit. Rejecting the assumption that we are in it alone. And finding solace in our shared experiences of things not necessarily going to plan, yet being bothered enough to continue anyway.

That’s really what I’m hoping we get to experience in Pick The Lock: Growing In Circles.

If you’d like to explore your own relationship with something you’re currently feeling frustrated or stuck around, you can find out more about the group and join us here.

The movie Hook begins with the premise that Peter Pan has been away from Neverland for so long that he has forgotten who he is. He is all grown up, with two children and a high-flying legal job that leaves him little time or patience for them.

When Captain Hook (Peter’s arch-nemesis, whom he now has no memory of) kidnaps his kids, he quickly learns that his attempts to use the logic of his reality to buy them back or to threaten legal action aren’t going to fly here (pun intended). Instead, he needs to do the opposite of ‘grow up’ and rediscover his imagination and ability to play if he is going to survive and accomplish his objective.

This kind of Adult Fog can creep in, obscuring our view of something that’s still there.

I describe this as Adult Fog in The Return To Serenity Island. I’m not imagining something huge descending on us that suddenly stops us from being ourselves. Fog can arrive with a subtle creep. We might not notice the visibility getting worse until we look up and try to see the path ahead.

The path hasn’t disappeared, but our ability to see it has become clouded by other people’s expectations, judgements, and assumptions.

Last week, I was on the clifftop, saying my goodbyes to one of my favourite spots overlooking the Baltic Sea in Espoo, after a month in Finland. As I did so, I happened upon something that inspired me to play…

A nest full of abandoned eggs.

Well, technically they were small pine and/or spruce cones. But that’s not what my imagination and I decided to believe.

And so I made a silly video.

After an uber-quick editing job, I posted it online and got in the sauna.

Comments began to arrive. The first one said “they are acorns, not an egg”, which was a slightly strange yet potentially endearing attempt at correcting the details of a joke that hadn’t landed.

But the next two comments really caught my attention. One said, “Grow Up FFS”, and the other said “grown man 😂😂”.

I replied to the comment “grown man” with “I was told it was a Spanish slug”, innocently (playfully) assuming he was referring to the slug. It turns out these “killer” slugs are an invasive species that can harm the native ecosystem. He dismissed this as ragebait, refusing to believe a slug could have made it all the way from Spain to Finland. I’m pretty sure he was serious, too.

His comment was a helpful reminder that growing up doesn’t necessarily equate to knowing better.

Then another comment arrived.

“They are not eggs,” it began.

Oh, here we go again, I thought.

“Anyone can see, they are turds from a walrus. Look up in the trees, and you should see it unless it has flown away.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. Especially because this looked like a mature, fully grown adult man. And he had come to play. He got it.

It amazes me how much of an impact we can have on other people, including strangers online. It made me think about the power of words and the stories we can create from them without realising. Words can give us wings to fly and explore, and they can give us great weight that brings us down to earth with a great thud.

My natural childlike spirit tends to express itself through silliness and absurdity. When that element of me can emerge, I know I feel safe, which is an important part of this equation.

When I got back to the apartment, I knew I could share what I’d made with Tuula (with whom I was staying), and she’d get it, even if she was confused about what I was banging on about.

Our childlike spirit looks different for each of us. Maybe it’s collecting things, getting absorbed in researching obscure subjects, role-playing, historical re-enactment, making things, nurturing something and watching it change, or getting excited about stuff you are into and looking forward to.

It’s not about being silly or even about “play” in the conventional sense. It’s about having the freedom to engage with the world in a way that feels naturally ours.

And I think the people around us can make a huge difference to whether that part of us gets to emerge. When we feel safe from judgement, ridicule or criticism, we have more freedom to explore it. But when those things are present, the Adult Fog can descend before we’ve even given ourselves a chance.

“That’s stupid.”
“That’s not realistic.”
“We don’t do things like that here.”
“That’s childish.”
“That’s selfish.”
“You’re showing off.”
“That’s unwise.”
“You should know better by now.”

And there’s an interesting link to research showing that when humans lose their bearings, we tend to walk in circles rather than in a straight line. When we can’t see landmarks, natural reference points, or otherwise establish where we are, we can end up returning to where we started.

Perhaps something similar happens when the Adult Fog descends, and these stories obscure the landmarks we use to orient ourselves.

As a result, we might keep moving and try to gather more information, but without our personal bearings, we can burn a lot of energy believing we’re making progress only to find ourselves back where we started.

For Highly Sensitive People, these fog-inducing stories can leave us particularly stuck. We’re often highly attuned to the social environment, noticing other people’s reactions and picking up on subtle signals of approval, disapproval, safety and threat. We can internalise words and judgements that were never directed at us.

“Don’t they realise how silly they look?”

“People like that are so selfish.”

“They never think about the impact of their actions on others.”

These judgements can resurface when we are about to do something important to us. What would that person think of me? Silly, selfish, childish, thoughtless. And so we might pull back and avoid doing what could upset others.

And “selfish” can pack a special punch. We might absorb the message that addressing our own needs, pursuing something we find meaningful, or experiencing joy despite the suffering we see in the news is somehow morally suspect.

For many sensitive people I’ve known over the years, thinking of others comes naturally. The trait has care, connection, and community baked into it. But things can get foggy if we forever de-prioritise our own needs.

What does YOUR childlike spirit look like?

When it’s unclouded by Adult Fog, how do you come out to play?

When do you feel most like yourself?

If you’d like to explore what might be getting in the way of finding your own bearings, I’m going to be exploring more of this over the coming weeks. Sign up below, and I’ll keep you posted.

A post on Threads caught my attention this week. It spoke to me about a common form of stuckness that we may overlook.

It felt like a good example of the insidious reach of toxic productivity. In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, I attempt to explain why…

In his language-learning audio courses, Michel Thomas usually spoke with two participants. Every so often, he would respond to them by saying, “stop trying to remember”. His methodology rested on the assumption that if you’re stressed and putting effort into conscious memorising, you sabotage your ability to learn. When he heard them racking their brains for the answer, he told them to stop.

The same happens in creativity.

We get inspired when we’re not trying to remember. When we’re not forcing dots to connect. Like in the shower, swimming pool, or sauna. Yes, for me it often accompanies being wet and somewhat nude. Don’t ask me why.

Inspiration often strikes when we’re busy looking elsewhere.

But I don’t believe it’s a bolt from the blue. One of the reasons it appears to arrive in meditation or in the shower, is because we engage with a stillness that allows us to hear.

And as such, it’s not a scarce resource. There is always something speaking. Waiting to be noticed.

But sometimes, we need to stop trying to remember. Stop trying to control. Stop trying to turn it into something useful, productive, or profitable.

This episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast is a bit different from normal. It contains the audio from It Just Sort of Happens, the short film I produced for the HSP Gathering in Oulu, Finland, at the start of August. You can watch it here.

The film is an audiovisual collage of stories from throughout my life. It has a particular focus on the role of songwriting and music-making in helping me make sense of myself, my experiences, and the way the world is.

I believe creativity is especially in nurturing our relationship with our innate sensitivity. But when we absorb messages from the cultures we swim in, they can disconnect us from these natural aspects of ourselves.

I hope ‘It Just Sort of Happens’ gives you reassurance and confidence that you’re not alone.

Music has always been my natural language.
It speaks when words aren’t enough.
Music helps things make sense.

What about you?

These aren’t stories about what sensitivity or creativity should look like for everyone. I don’t believe that’s how it works. Rather, they are just a handful of my stories, which I hope may encourage you to notice, connect with, and continue developing your own.

At the HSP Heimojuhlat gathering in Oulu, I scattered mini-zines around the room. They contained questions to help people consider their relationship with the film’s themes.

They may be especially useful if you’re feeling stuck in some way right now, or if you’re ready to let your creativity give voice to your sensitivity and your sensitivity give shape to your creativity…

Let the film’s sound wash over you and see what catches your attention. It’s worth finding somewhere quiet to listen, and with headphones if possible.

And if anything connects for you, or you have a question about something I’ve shared, I’d love to hear from you. Head to this page for links to the original source materials and to get in touch.

Log in below to view the replay of our community conversation in response to the film. It will be available until the end of August 2026. Or become a Courtyard member if you don’t yet have an account.

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What do people who believe they are writing songs when they use Suno AI, YouTuber Hank Green, and Narcissus from Greek mythology all have in common?

Quite a lot, it turns out. And they can help us recognise a form of stuckness that’s becoming increasingly common as people’s relationship with generative AI begins to blur the boundary between ourselves and the technologies we use, making it more difficult to know where the human ends and the machine begins.

Our relationship with technology and, in particular, large language models (LLMs) like ChatGPT and Suno poses a really interesting existential dilemma.

I’ve been fascinated to see how these are often sold as tools to overcome stuckness. While at the same time, they create a whole different form of stuckness when we become attached to them.

The demise of Narcissus came through an obsession with his own reflection. Perhaps the price of looking away from his reflection brought its own kind of departure and death. Maybe the image had become more real, perfect, and desirable than the human staring at it.

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, we consider how the reflection of ourselves in the machines we use can bend us out of shape and leave us uncertain of who we are and what we’re capable of.

Fil Henley, AKA Wings of Pegasus, asked this simple question in a recent video. He analysed an advert from the AI music generation platform Suno, which features producers and songwriters using it to make songs.

Fil says, “If you don’t know what the song is going to sound like before you hear it, then you haven’t written the song.”

Platforms like Suno act like fruit machines. The output is based more on luck than judgement.

What makes them compelling and perhaps even addictive, is that the result is impossible for us to predict. It’s a surprise each time that feels exciting to reveal. And it can turn any old crap into something you might hear on the radio. As we see in the video.

This is what makes these services different from tools.

A tool reliably enables us to carry out a task without doing everything and more autonomously. So when the producer says that Suno is showing him stuff he never would have thought about, he is revealing the blurred boundary between us and these machines. It is more than a tool for songwriting. It’s generating the song itself.

Suno isn’t like a digital audio workstation (a tool), where a songwriter records, edits, and produces music they have written and performed. It goes further, making many of the creative decisions that normally require time, judgement, and consideration throughout the songwriting process. In other words, the user doesn’t need the skill required to produce the result.

So if YOU didn’t think of them, whose ideas are they? And if it’s outputting stuff based on something you haven’t thought of, what’s the point in you being there at all?

The song is found in the mirror as generative AI reflects back an image of a reality that doesn’t exist above the surface.

In reality, human creativity emerges through the energy generated by those moments of friction, uncertainty, and obstacle.

By intervening early with generative AI before we have taken the opportunity to grapple with a block, we deprive ourselves of that bittersweet joy of finding something that comes to life THROUGH US.

Instead, a service like Suno short-circuits the block. It presents fully formed solutions that we “never would have thought about”.

Perhaps, we would have thought of something much better and more “us” if we had been patient and given ourselves time to grapple with the block.

When you listen to these outputs, there is a professional sheen to them that feels sharp. It sounds just like stuff you hear on the radio. But it sounds like stuff you hear on the radio. There is a sameness to it. An increasingly homogenous stasis.

Maybe this technology is attractive precisely because it DOESN’T sound like us. It’s familiar enough for us to to glimpse ourselves. But we look different. It cleans up the parts we might cringe at and be afraid of revealing. Those bits that feel messy, broken, chaotic, and weird.

We don’t argue with the machine that makes us sound like something you’d hear on the radio, see on TV, or LinkedIn. Slick, clean, authoritative, clinical, soulless, indistinguishable, unremarkable, dull.

Incidentally, this is a good way to identify the best producers, editors, and coaches to work with. They don’t try to make us sound like them or force us to emulate their processes. Instead, they seek to understand and support us. They are able to help us notice, accept, and amplify those parts that we would try to shrink down and hide when left to our own devices.

The machine holds a mirror with some perfected image that we believe is us, but is stripped of blemishes, stains, and imperfections. But rather than being the Platonic ideal version of us, it’s more like an aggregate approximation of who everyone else is in the land of mediocre homogeneity. We arrive in this territory when we sand off our edges and lose our spark.

In his 1979 book The Culture of Narcissism, Christopher Lasch offers a fresh way of thinking about the myth of Narcissus. We tend to think that Narcissus died because he fell in love with his own reflection and couldn’t look away, so was unable to do anything other than stare obsessively at himself in the water.

Lasch adds another layer, depicting cultural narcissism emerging as the image of the human in the water becomes more important than the human it reflects.

YouTuber Hank Green recently revealed that he had become over-reliant on ChatGPT after viewers pointed out something in a video that felt off to them.

When viewed in context, the clip actually makes more sense than the reactionary commentary suggested. But while he said he didn’t accidentally read something from ChatGPT left in the script, Green didn’t dismiss the criticism. Instead, he agreed, “I think what people have said in this thread about me diluting myself is spot on”.

Diluting oneself through the use of technology indicates how a separation between the image and the self can get blurred.

This is perhaps why those using Suno to make songs believe they themselves are writing songs.

It’s not necessarily a deliberate deception being perpetrated by people pretending to know more than they do or pretending they’ve done things they haven’t. There is a real belief being seeded and nurtured that means people genuinely struggle to distinguish between themselves and the output generated by these technologies.

There is a gift in getting stuck along the way during the creative process. It invites us to be resourceful problem solvers. It builds character and reveals more about who we are as we experiment, test, and try things without guaranteed results. Imperfectly. Clumsily.

Grappling with creative friction gives opportunities to deepen our confidence and grow our experiences of being okay after failing. These tools are sold to us as ways to avoid that friction. But in so doing, we avoid strengthening the tension wood of creativity altogether, grown in a dance with the rhythm of life’s winds and storms.

In this Sunotopia, depicted through their advert, we see many people gathered in the studio. Yet, the future reality that will come through the success of these platforms appears to be very different.

The technology is moving us away from others so we don’t need a producer, an engineer, or other musicians to work with. All we need is Suno because Suno doesn’t get blocked. It will work with whatever crap you feed it. And it will turn any old noise into the kind of song you might hear on the radio.

Christopher McCandless’s diary concluded that “happiness is only real when shared”. An observation made under tragic circumstances.

I think there is a lot of truth in this. I’ve found many times that even the happiest experiences I’ve had on my own feel more complete when they are witnessed through sharing a story with someone else.

When we’re feeling the pressure to conform to the schedule of our unrelenting world, we need the courage to give it time. To give OURSELVES and ONE ANOTHER time.

Maybe our intuition and imagination will start to show us stuff an LLM never would have thought of…

It is rebellious to release ourselves from the pressure to rush and force output for the sake of it. Technologies like Suno and ChatGPT can become an attractive crutch when they are sold as ways to keep going amidst the limitless demands of a productivity-obsessed world. But they gradually erode confidence in our own creative capacity.

We would do well to remember, “it is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society”.

This is where we become unstuck (in the best possible way).

There is something strange in the space between languages. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it’s fun to explore. It poses a question and presents a challenge…what am I actually trying to say here?

When I started work on a video about the relationship between sensitivity and creativity for this year’s HSP Gathering in Oulu, Finland, which happened a few days ago as I’m recording this, I didn’t really think about the process of translating it from English into Finnish for the subtitles. I assumed it would be a straightforward part of the process, which it could have been on one level, given the technology we have at our fingertips these days, where language translation can happen more or less instantly.

But it doesn’t take much for meaning to go adrift in the basic translation these tools provide.

I was grateful for human assistance, as my friend Tuula was on hand to translate. My gratitude was not only because of her bilingual skills, but because I know she understands what I’m trying to say beneath and beyond the words.

It seems obvious that translation requires far more than vocabulary, grammar, and syntax across multiple languages. An idiom or joke in one language might be complete gobbledegook when translated directly into another. But when the translator understands the two cultures, including the soul of their humour and their general relationship with tone and subtext, they can find appropriate options to bridge intent so it makes sense across the linguistic surface.

Even with its sophisticated capabilities, there were a bunch of times when an initial chatbot translation missed the heart of my words. It made several incorrect assumptions and predictions about my intended meaning without any basis or clarification.

Fortunately, Tuula felt this too, and we were able to hone our way to better ways of expressing what I meant. This was extra challenging when some of the original ideas and wording were intentionally poetic and infused with ambiguity. Machines are often eager to sand down nuance and replace it with familiar clichés and well-worn turns of phrase.

The whole process showed me the importance of having someone who knows me and understands my ‘thinking’ for a task like this. This principle might apply to a range of contexts and situations in life. Who we are can get lost in a bad translation and found in a good one.

I believe this is one reason so much of the creative coaching I do is with highly sensitive and more introverted people. It’s a translation issue.

In a world that makes many assumptions about what ‘normal’ looks like and assumes the goal is to fit the mould to get on in life, I tend to work from the premise that it’s not us that doesn’t fit society; it’s usually society that doesn’t fit us.

I don’t do this to cultivate an ‘us versus them’ mentality. Quite the opposite, in fact. We are attempting to translate across a bridge, which so often leaves us misunderstanding one another.

Likewise, I am very aware of the language used to describe the trait of high sensitivity. In the introduction to the HSP Gathering film I shared on Saturday, I talked about how adopting language around sensitivity has helped us better understand ourselves and our experiences alongside others. But while we have the trait of sensitivity in common, it also takes unique forms for each of us.

That shared language can only take us so far, and we don’t want to overdo it. High sensitivity isn’t an identity or a personality type, nor does it dictate what we should like, value, or create. Over the years, I’ve noticed how easily one person’s experience of sensitivity can become the dominant narrative, leaving others wondering whether they’re a “proper HSP”.

The translator plays an important role in bringing their cultural understanding and experience, without letting it outrun the intention behind the person’s words. And as highly sensitive people, I think we’ve got to be aware of this in the way we listen to and interpret HSPs. To put the person first.

That’s why I’m drawn to stories and anecdotes individuals share about their experiences of sensitivity. Not to universalise the experience or assume it’s the same for everyone, but to open the door so that each of us can feel at home with our differences.

Which is what I wanted to do with the film I shared at the gathering. “It Just Sort of Happens” is a series of stories about the relationship I’ve noticed between my sensitivity and creativity, and how they have helped me make sense of the world, my personal experiences, and myself throughout my life.

I wanted to use the stories as examples to help others map their own experiences and notice what they hear beneath the surface of my words.

If you’d like to watch it, I’ll be sharing it in The Courtyard on Sunday, when we’ll also chat about any comments and questions afterwards. Learn more about it and register for your free Courtyard Membership (there will be a replay for those who can’t make it live).

If you have any questions or comments in the meantime, please drop me a message and let me know.