Every Wednesday I work out of my office in Harley Street in central London.  On this Wednesday just gone, my first client of the day had cancelled so I had an hour and a half of time going spare.  I should probably have used that time productively to catch up on work – answer long-neglected emails, prep for clients later in the day, respond to enquiries etc…

But I’ve banned the word ‘should’ from my vocabulary.

Besides, the sun was shining, I had my camera with me and I really felt the need for some fresh air.  So I decided to feed my soul and head up to Regents Park for a walk.

I enjoyed a half hour of meandering through the place that feels so familiar to me.

It’s literally a two-minute walk from Regents University, where I did my Cognitive Hypnotherapy training with The Quest Institute.

I have spent countless happy lunch-breaks quietly wandering through the rose gardens, past the Open Air Theatre and up to the top of the waterfall.

I love watching it change through the seasons, and Spring is always a particularly beautiful time of year.

After I’d had my fill of soaking up all the wonderful beauty, I figured it was about time to head back to my office to get ready for the rest of my clients.  As I walked along the Marylebone Road, pleased with the shots I’d captured on camera and enjoying the gentle warmth from the sun, I heard an almighty BANG, followed by a squeal of tyres, the unmistakeable tinkle of broken glass and a sickening crunching sound that made my heart thud into my chest.

In my mind I was instantly transported back to the car accident I’d been involved in five years ago, when I fell asleep on the motorway for a millisecond and nearly killed myself and my three girls (then aged 3, almost 2 and just five months old).   I had some therapy for it about nine months afterwards, but the proximity of the sound of the vehicles crumpling triggered a flashback so strong and so violent that I almost lost it completely.

Somehow managing to bring myself back to the now, I looked to my left and on the other side of the road I saw a shattered motorbike on it’s side on the floor, half underneath the rear of a car that was stopped at a set of traffic lights.  The rider was lying on the floor, completely motionless.  Horrified, I dodged across three lanes of fast-moving traffic to the central reservation, calling an ambulance as I ran, shouting urgently into my phone, frantically looking around to see if anyone else was going to stop and help.  No-one did.  The driver of the car was slowly emerging by now and the rider of the motorbike had got up and was swaying alarmingly as he stood up and tried to get his bearings.  Thankfully a police car had been just two cars back and arrived at the same time that I did.  The police officers managed to grab the motorcyclist and convince him to sit down – he’d been attempting to wander off into the still-moving traffic in the other two lanes, muttering something about having to get to New York to tell his girlfriend what had happened.  He must have hit his head pretty hard – there is no doubt in my mind that if he hadn’t have been wearing his helmet he’d be dead.

The ambulance quickly arrived to check everyone over and I gave a statement and waited a few minutes more to check that everyone was as ok as they could be given the circumstances.  I got numerous hugs off the driver of the car (who was shaking dramatically from the adrenaline that was by now pumping through his system, totally in shock as to what had happened) and the police took my details in case the needed to talk me further.  There was nothing more I could do, so I went back to my office and arrived just in time for my client.

I focused fully on my work and had three great sessions with my clients.  It wasn’t until after I’d said goodbye to the last one and started packing up my stuff ready to go to the station to catch my train home, when the shock hit me.  I gave myself five minutes to shake and go hot and cold and think about what could have happened and what very nearly did happen five years ago, and then I told myself sternly that I needed to pull myself together because I had a train to catch.

When I arrived at Euston Station, it was packed – even more so than usual.  There were no trains displayed on any of the departure boards and chaos reigned.  An announcement came over the tannoy: “We would like to apologise once again for the severe delays to your journey.  All trains have been cancelled until further notice due to a person being hit by a train in the Hemel Hempstead area.”  People around me tutted and swore and pulled out their phones to grumble about the state of National Rail to unseen loved ones on the other end of the line.

But all I could think to myself was “Another one?”

You see, since I started commuting to London two years ago there have been numerous fatalities on the line.  I have unwittingly been a part of far-too-many-to-count suicides committed by people jumping or stepping in front of trains. And I have felt immense grief at every single one of them.

There is so much sadness in the world.  So much despair.  So many horrible things happening.  And so many people who feel that the world will be better off without them.

I want to help them all.

It was my now-husband who first gave me the nickname ‘Good Samaritan’ back when we first met, when he was the manager of the pub I worked at.  It came from trying to break up a fight outside the pub (which involved a knife).  It came from listening to customers stories and giving them my brightest smile to cheer them up if they’d had a bad day.  And it came from stopping to check that the lonely old drunk sat outside a charity shop at midnight had a way to get home.  The nickname stuck.

I’ve always been a helper though, even from when I was very small.  Whilst I was still in middle school I’d do events to raise money for charity – sponsored swims, sponsored reads, sponsored walks.  I wanted to be a vet when I grew up, so I could help animals.  During my recovery from anorexia I volunteered at a pregnancy crisis centre for teenage girls.  On my return from travelling I worked as a trust fundraiser for a national charity, applying for money for our projects from organisations like the National Lottery and Children in Need.  Even in my personal life I’ve always tried to help through listening to and encouraging my friends when they’ve struggled with something.

My whole life, all I’ve wanted to do is help.

Ever since my Dad died, I have felt so very lost.  I’ve questioned everything.  Literally everything.  Where we live, my friendships, my marriage.  All the decisions I’ve ever made in my life.  Even my career.

I’ve seriously doubted whether I want to carry on doing what I’m doing.

It’s hard work, what I do.  All the heart-breaking stories I hear from my clients, day in, day out.  All the tragedy and difficult stuff they’ve been through, whether it’s bullying or abuse or cruel words spoken by people who were supposed to love them.  How much they despise themselves.  How anxious and depressed they feel all the time.   It’s virtually impossible not to take some of it on board, even with the fantastic training I’ve had which teaches how to prevent that from happening.

A couple of weekends ago I was in London for the NCH Extravaganza – an annual conference organised by the National Council for Hypnotherapy.  It’s a chance to listen to interesting speakers and catch up with colleagues that I don’t get to see very often.  My good friend Kirsty was there, and during one of the conversations we had, she briefly mentioned something called The Enneagram.  I’d not come across it before and made a mental note to look it up at some point.  A week or so later it had completely slipped my mind until I saw it pop up again, this time on the website of someone I was researching.

Intrigued, I immediately investigated.  I took the test and came out as almost equal parts The Loyalist and… The Helper.

I’ve mentioned in a previous post that I’m unsure about the power of the Universe.  I’m beginning to believe a lot more in the power of connection.  There is a reason, coincidence or not, that I am where I am today.

Everything I’ve done in my life so far has led me to this point.

This point, right here.

This place where I listen, and do therapy, and believe in people when they’ve all but given up, and love people even when they don’t feel worthy of love.

This is what I am meant to be doing, no matter how hard it is.

It is my job to listen to people tell their stories and then help them re-write them.  I do that through therapy and coaching.

It is my job to tell my own story, to be real, honest and authentic, so that it may help others.  I do that through my writing and, to some extent, through my photography.

The motorbike accident on Wednesday was the catalyst for writing this blog post, because it was the final piece in the puzzle that I’ve been trying work out for so long now.  I finally understand why I’ve made the choices I have and why I continue make the choices I do.  I could have just carried on walking.  But I didn’t.

And that is the difference that makes the difference.  That is the difference that makes me who I am.  That is the difference that means that I will keep doing the work I do, because if I can help make a difference to even one person’s life, it will all have been worth it.

 

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