Last night, I had one of those evenings that fills you up and empties you out in equal measure.
I was surrounded by some of my closest friends. Good people. The sort of friends you laugh with, trust with your secrets, and lean on in hard times. We had a proper night out—one of those rare, golden evenings that makes you feel deeply human, deeply grateful, and, at the same time, deeply vulnerable.
Because one by one, in quiet moments between laughter and shared memories, they brought up my heart attack. Not dramatically. Not to make a fuss. Just honest concern, soft words, and the kind of care that doesn’t need grand gestures.
They told me how scared they’d been. How much they want me to look after myself. And for a moment, I was both incredibly moved and totally gutted.
Because what I’ve known in the background came crashing to the front: I can’t do my next tour. I work as a tour director, and I won’t be able to go to work anytime soon.
And that realisation hurts more than I expected.
A Job I Loved
Being a Tour Director wasn’t just a job I liked—it was a job I finally found that felt like me. The kind of job that gave me energy, purpose, joy, and pride. I got to use all the parts of myself I like the most: storytelling, caring for people, having adventures, solving problems, making people laugh, and sharing moments they’d remember for the rest of their lives.
And I wasn’t just working—I was thriving. I was working for one of the best companies in the business. The kind of company that others look at and say, “They’ve got their act together.” It felt like I’d arrived.
But now, I may be done.
I haven’t formally told them yet, but I know I can’t go. My body isn’t ready. And if I say no, there’s every chance I won’t be offered work again—not with this company. Tour work is freelance, and the next job isn’t guaranteed. Reliability is everything in this game.
And that? That’s breaking my heart.
The Weight of Uncertainty
There’s talk of work later in the year. A possibility. A maybe. But possibilities don’t pay the bills or soothe the ache of watching a dream stall.
I had plans. The money from this tour was earmarked for good things—some well-earned holidays, little trips away, funding our own tours again, maybe even finally getting that campervan we’ve dreamed of. The one we’d take across Europe, just the two of us, dogs in the back, the world outside our windscreen.
But now all those dreams are… paused. And the pause button has a nasty habit of looking a lot like “stop.”
Guilt: The Companion No One Invites
This morning, I sat at my computer, doing a bit of this and that. Trying to write. Trying to create. Trying to pretend that “productive” and “healing” are the same thing.
Meanwhile, my wife was outside working her socks off in the garden. Sweating. Shovelling. Creating life from dirt.
And I just sat there, indoors, feeling like a lump.
It’s hard to explain, but there’s a guilt that settles in your bones when you feel like you’ve become the one who’s being looked after. Especially when your whole identity has been built on being the one who fixes things, earns things, does things.
I feel like I’m failing. Failing her. Failing us.
And I know, logically, that recovery takes time. That sitting still doesn’t mean sitting idle. That healing is its own kind of work.
But my heart—my poor, bloody, recently rebellious heart—doesn’t always listen to logic.
The Cruel Twist
The hardest part of all this, honestly, is the timing. That cruel, almost comedic twist life throws at you.
You find the thing you’re good at. The thing that lights you up. The thing that makes sense of your winding path and makes you believe, “Ah, this is why I’m here.”
And just when you get going—when the train finally starts picking up speed—it derails.
I feel cheated. Not ungrateful. Just cheated.
Like life dangled happiness in front of me, let me taste it, and then yanked it away with a shrug.
Being a Burden
It’s a hard thing to admit, but here it is: I feel like a burden right now.
Not in a melodramatic way. I know my wife doesn’t see me that way. I know my friends wouldn’t want me to think like that.
But when the money isn’t coming in, when you can’t lift what needs lifting, when you spend more time on a sofa than doing something useful, that thought creeps in.
It whispers.
And when your mood dips, as mine has today, that whisper becomes a shout.
I’ve told my wife I’m just feeling introspective. She knows me well enough to not push. She gives me space—gentle, knowing space. And I love her all the more for it.
But deep down, I’m not just introspective. I’m hurting. I’m grieving.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A kind of grief.
Not just for the health I’ve lost or the job I can’t do, but for the version of my life I’d pictured, now suspended in fog.
The Fight for Hope
I wish I could wrap this post up neatly with a tidy little life lesson. A silver lining. An “ah-ha” moment.
But today, all I have is this: I’m trying.
Trying to be honest with myself.
Trying not to wallow but also not to fake optimism I don’t feel.
Trying to remember that I’m still here—and that means the story isn’t over.
There will be other tours. Maybe not with this company. Maybe not in the same way. But I was good at it. And I still am. My heart might be stitched together, but my spirit’s still kicking.
I’m trying to trust that the door closing now isn’t the only door. And that maybe, just maybe, there’s a window somewhere creaking open.
Maybe we’ll still get that campervan.
Maybe I’ll build something new, on my own terms.
Maybe the pause will give me time to find new adventures I hadn’t even dreamed of yet.
Maybe.
And for now, “maybe” will have to do.
Postscript
To anyone else out there recovering—not just from illness, but from disappointment, grief, burnout, or broken plans—I see you.
You’re not lazy. You’re not a failure. You’re not a burden.
You’re healing.
And healing is hard.
Let’s give ourselves a bit of grace, even if today’s a low day. Especially if it is.
The sun might not be out just yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.
We’re still here. We’re still breathing.
And that means hope hasn’t left the building.
Not yet.