Troppo

18/10/2026

Yesterday, I experienced something I don't think I'll ever forget.

I completely fell apart.

Not quietly. Not gracefully. Not with a few tears rolling down my cheeks. I mean the sort of crying that comes from somewhere so deep inside you that it almost frightens you. Uncontrollable, guttural sobbing that leave you struggling to breathe, with absolutely no ability to compose yourself.

And it wasn't one particular thing that caused it.

It was everything.

I'm in the middle of dismantling a life that has taken years to build. My home, my gardens, my food forest, my livelihood, my connection to a community I've been part of for 26 years. All of it being uprooted under circumstances and timeframes I never imagined I'd be facing.

There is no gentle transition. No opportunity to slowly say goodbye. Just an overwhelming amount of physical work, decisions, uncertainty and loss, with a clock ticking relentlessly in the background.

My body is already struggling. A back injury, a recent neck injury, and pain that has become an almost constant companion. Every day I wake up knowing I have more to do than I can reasonably manage, and every evening I discover another level of exhaustion I didn't know existed.

But yesterday wasn't really about the physical work.

I was moving the last few belongings of my best friend, who died some years ago. All that remained with me were some weights and a box of books.

It seems almost ridiculous that something so ordinary could hold so much meaning.

While trying to load the equipment, the whole thing tipped, twisting me around and aggravating my neck injury again. It was painful, frustrating and another setback I could scarcely afford.

Eventually, with some help from neighbours, I got everything loaded and delivered.

And then, driving away, it hit me.

Those weren't just weights. They weren't just books.

They were the last little pieces of my friend that had remained part of my everyday world.

For years, those things had simply been there. Quiet reminders of someone who mattered enormously to me. I didn't need to look at them or touch them every day to know what they represented.

And suddenly, they were gone too.

I think that was the moment I finally understood just how much I was saying goodbye to.

That home has witnessed some of the most significant heartbreak of my life. The end of my marriage. The death of my closest friend. Periods of loneliness, uncertainty and grief that changed me in ways I'm still discovering.

And somewhere amongst all of that, I started planting.

What began as gardening became something much more personal.

I poured myself into the soil. Into creating something beautiful, productive and alive. I spent years nurturing an environment where things could flourish, perhaps because I was trying to find a way to flourish again myself.

There was something deeply comforting about watching things grow when other parts of my life were falling apart.

The forest became a place where I could lose myself without losing who I was.

I never really thought about it as therapy. It was simply what I did. I built, planted, experimented, learned, created and kept going.

And now I'm digging up that same forest, watching years of growth disappear, trying to salvage what I can while accepting that so much of it simply cannot come with me.

It's an extraordinarily strange experience, dismantling something that helped put you back together.

I've also been thinking about what it means to spend so much of your life giving.

Not because I want recognition, repayment or applause. I've never wanted my relationships or contributions to be some sort of transaction.

I gave because I wanted to. Because I believed in people. Because helping others, building community and creating opportunities have always felt like worthwhile things to do with my life.

But I've discovered something uncomfortable about being the person who generally manages, organises, solves problems and gets things done.

People can become so accustomed to your capability that they don't always recognise when you're reaching your limits.

And sometimes you become so accustomed to being capable that you don't know how to ask for help yourself.

There's a quiet sadness in that realisation.

Especially when you're physically injured, overwhelmed by circumstances beyond your control, and wishing that someone might simply recognise the enormity of what you're facing.

Yesterday, I used the word 'broken' to describe how I felt.

I've thought about that word quite a lot since.

It's a confronting word. Perhaps even frightening for people who care about us.

But it was the most accurate word I could find in that moment.

I wasn't making some grand declaration about the rest of my life. I wasn't surrendering my future or abandoning hope.

I was trying to describe the condition of my heart at that particular moment.

I was broken by grief. Broken by exhaustion. Broken by physical pain. Broken by the relentless demands of a situation I cannot escape. Broken by the accumulation of losses that seem to have arrived without leaving me enough time to process any of them.

And I don't think there's anything shameful about admitting that.

What has surprised me most is how difficult it can be to communicate genuine emotional suffering.

We have so many words for strength, resilience, courage, perseverance and determination.

Yet when someone is genuinely overwhelmed, we sometimes seem uncomfortable allowing them to remain in that space.

We want to reassure them. Remind them of their strength. Promise them brighter days. Tell them they'll come through it.

Those sentiments are usually born from love, and I understand them.

But sometimes hope isn't what a person is struggling to find.

Sometimes they're simply trying to tell you how much something hurts.

And there's an extraordinary tenderness in being able to hear that without needing to change it into something more positive.

I've realised that what I've been longing for isn't someone to solve my circumstances. I know much of what I'm facing is mine to work through.

It's the comfort of being understood without having to carefully measure my words.

To be able to say that I'm struggling without feeling the need to immediately follow it with reassurance that everything will be fine.

To have a moment of absolute vulnerability without worrying about how that vulnerability might be perceived.

Because I am struggling.

More than I can adequately explain.

I'm struggling with the loss of a home that holds so much of my history. With the physical demands of leaving it. With the uncertainty of what comes next. With the memories that keep surfacing as I pack away the remnants of a life that once felt permanent.

I'm struggling with the realisation that some goodbyes happen long after we've already lost the people we're saying goodbye to.

And I'm struggling with the loneliness of carrying so much of this while trying to remain the person I've always been.

Perhaps the most confronting part is that life doesn't stop to accommodate any of it.

There are still things to lift, people to contact, arrangements to make, deadlines to meet, animals to consider, possessions to sort and decisions to make.

The grief doesn't get its own space in the calendar.

It simply travels with you.

Yesterday it travelled with me in the van until I couldn't contain it anymore.

Today I'm back amongst the work. Still sore. Still exhausted. Still facing the same enormous task.

I haven't miraculously recovered from yesterday's emotions. I've simply got things that need doing.

And perhaps that's something worth understanding about people.

We can appear remarkably functional while experiencing profound distress.

We can be productive and heartbroken at the same time.

We can laugh with someone in the morning and cry uncontrollably in the afternoon.

We can love our lives and still be devastated by what's happening within them.

I imagine there are many people quietly living through their own versions of this. A relationship ending. A death. A diagnosis. Financial hardship. Losing a home. Leaving somewhere they belong. Watching something they've devoted years to disappear.

Entire worlds can be collapsing behind perfectly ordinary conversations.

I don't have a profound lesson to offer from any of this.

I'm not interested in turning every painful experience into an inspirational story about personal growth.

Some things are simply devastating.

Some experiences are unfair.

Some losses cannot be neatly repackaged as opportunities.

And sometimes the most truthful thing a person can say is that they are broken by what they're experiencing.

That's where I was yesterday.

I don't know exactly what the coming weeks will bring, or how I'll feel when I finally close the door on this chapter of my life.

I know there are things ahead that I want to live for, people I love, possibilities I'm excited about and dreams I haven't stopped believing in.

But none of that makes what I'm losing today hurt any less.

I think what I wanted, more than anything yesterday, was to be allowed to feel the full weight of that loss.

Without explanation. Without expectation. Without having to turn it into a story of triumph before I've even finished grieving.

Just to be a man who has loved deeply, given generously, lost enormously, and finally reached a moment when the tears were stronger than his ability to hold them back.

And perhaps, somewhere amongst all those tears, there was also a lifetime of things I'd never properly allowed myself to grieve.

I don't know.

I'm still trying to understand it myself.

But I know that yesterday, driving away from the last belongings of someone I loved, I cried harder than I have in a very long time.

And today, that grief is still here.

So am I.

17/10/2026

Some people come into your life as friends and, somewhere along the way, become family. ❤️

Today I had the absolute pleasure of catching up over lunch with my beautiful Sri Lankan friend Ayoma, someone I met many years ago and who, over time, has become like a sister to me.

It was so lovely to see her again, share some laughs, catch up on life and enjoy each other's company. Although, as usual, we nearly needed a referee when the bill arrived because neither of us was prepared to let the other pay! 😂

But the funniest moment had to be when the waiter came to take our order.

Ayoma looked at the menu and said, "I Can't Be Bothered."

I genuinely thought she'd had enough of deciding what to eat and was telling him she couldn't be bothered ordering! Turns out "I Can't Be Bothered" was actually the name of the dish she wanted! 😂

You couldn't script it any better!

Ayoma, you're an absolute treasure. I'm so grateful that our paths crossed all those years ago and that we've remained part of each other's lives. Friendships like ours are special, and no matter how much time passes, the warmth and laughter are always there.

Sending you so much love, my dear friend and honorary sister. You're awesome!

And let's make sure our next lunch isn't another couple of years away! ❤️

16/10/2026

I'm finding it really difficult to put into words just how much I'm struggling at the moment.

I think one of the hardest things about going through something deeply painful is feeling misunderstood, especially when you're already questioning yourself, reflecting on your decisions and trying desperately to hold everything together.

I've always tried to live authentically, to be generous, to give where I can, to create things that matter and to make decisions that reflect the person I want to be.

I'm far from perfect. I know that.

I can be stubborn. I can be emotional. I can make mistakes. I can react when I'm overwhelmed. And believe me, nobody spends more time questioning my decisions or examining my own shortcomings than I do.

But I also know my heart.

I know how much thought I put into things, how deeply I care and how much of myself I've given to the people, places and things that matter to me.

Sometimes I just wish that was enough to be understood without everything needing an explanation.

Right now, I'm experiencing one of the most heartbreaking periods of my life.

I'm losing my home. I'm losing years of work, financial investment, gardens, plants, dreams and the physical environment I've poured so much of my life into creating. I'm facing uncertainty about my future, my stability and even the animals I love so dearly.

And when I say I'm losing everything, I'm not exaggerating how it feels.

So much of what has given my life purpose, meaning and a sense of belonging is being dismantled around me.

I've got just two weeks left.

Two weeks to somehow finish dismantling what took years to build.

The physical work alone is enormous. I'm doing it while struggling with two damaged discs in my back and a neck injury from last month. I'm in pain every day, and the exhaustion has reached a level I can barely describe.

But it's the emotional weight that's becoming the hardest to carry.

The grief. The uncertainty. The financial loss. The injustice I feel. The sadness of watching things I've nurtured and cared for disappear from my everyday life.

The tears that come when nobody is around.

The moments when I stand there looking at everything that's left to do and genuinely wonder how I'm going to find the strength.

And through all of this, I'm still trying to make good decisions. Still trying to be generous. Still trying to consider other people. Still trying to find something positive in a situation that feels overwhelmingly painful.

I know people see things differently. I know we all interpret situations through our own experiences, and I understand that not everyone will agree with the decisions I make or the way I respond to difficult circumstances.

That's part of being human.

But sometimes, when you're already carrying so much, even well-intentioned questions, opinions or criticism can feel incredibly heavy.

Sometimes you don't need someone to help you understand yourself better.

Sometimes you just need to feel understood.

To have someone sit beside you in the uncertainty without needing to fix it, explain it or find meaning in it.

Just a little kindness. A little patience. A little emotional space to be exactly where you are.

I wish I could say I'm handling all of this with endless positivity and a smile on my face.

I wish I could be the strong, optimistic person I usually try to be.

But I'm fu***ng exhausted.

I'm hurting.

I'm grieving.

And some days, just getting out of bed and facing what needs to be done takes everything I've got.

I'm not sharing this for sympathy, and I'm certainly not asking anyone to carry my burdens for me.

I'm sharing it because I think we sometimes forget that the people who spend their lives building, giving, helping and encouraging others can also reach a point where they have very little left to give.

Strength doesn't mean an absence of pain.

Generosity doesn't mean an absence of personal struggle.

And being resilient doesn't mean you don't occasionally fall apart.

I'm trying to accept that I don't have to turn every painful experience into a positive lesson while I'm still living through it.

I don't have to smile when my heart is breaking.

I don't have to pretend I'm okay when I'm not.

And I don't have to have all the answers about where life is taking me next.

I still believe there is another chapter ahead. I still believe there are beautiful things waiting to be created, new places to call home and reasons to be hopeful.

But right now, I'm standing in the middle of the ending of something that meant the world to me.

And it fu***ng hurts.

More than I can ever properly explain.

So if I seem quieter, more emotional, less available or not quite myself, please understand that I'm doing the best I can with what I have left.

I'm still me.

Just a very tired, very sore and very heartbroken version of me, trying to find my way through an enormous amount of loss.

And right now, a little gentleness means more than anyone could possibly know.

14/10/2026

13/10/2026

The deletion in progress. Soul destroying.

11/10/2026

A big shout-out to Jared from our food forest community! ❤️

Poor Jared's ended up in hospital after badly injuring his finger.

Sending you lots of love and positive thoughts, mate. Wishing you a speedy recovery!

Let's all send Jared some well wishes and support. ❤️

10/10/2026

The strange loneliness of being human.

“I am completely empty; I have nothing to say, no memory, no hope, only a dull desire to stay alive.”
— Attributed to Franz Kafka

There is something hauntingly familiar about Kafka's words. Not necessarily in their literal hopelessness, but in the emptiness they describe. That peculiar state of being where life has demanded so much of you that even the language to describe what you're experiencing seems to have abandoned you.

I've been thinking a great deal about this lately.

About identity. About loss. About the strange relationship between what we create and who we become through creating it. About how something outside of ourselves can become so deeply woven into our existence that losing it feels less like an ending and more like having a part of ourselves quietly removed.

Troppo was born from grief.

From the loss of a dear friend, from difficult chapters, from a need to find something meaningful in a world that, at times, had become extraordinarily difficult to navigate.

I planted things because I needed to grow something. I nurtured life because there had been so much loss. I created beauty because I needed somewhere for the pain to go.

And somewhere along the way, without really noticing, the garden became an extension of my inner world.

Every tree represented time. Every plant represented possibility. Every season carried the anticipation of something yet to come.

It was never simply about horticulture.

It was about the quiet relationship between a person and the living world. About finding purpose without needing to explain it. About having somewhere to put the parts of yourself that other people might never fully understand.

And now I find myself dismantling it.

Not gradually, not as some carefully considered transition, but under circumstances that have left me feeling exposed, overwhelmed, and profoundly disillusioned.

There is something almost Kafkaesque about it.

The absurdity of having to physically destroy what you spent years creating. The relentless pressure of a timeframe that seems indifferent to the magnitude of the task. The expectations of others continuing as though the emotional significance of what is happening barely exists.

And the strange experience of becoming a spectator to the dismantling of your own life's work, while simultaneously being the person expected to carry it out.

My body is exhausted.

The back and neck injuries have made an already overwhelming situation physically punishing. There are moments when I wonder where the energy is supposed to come from. When the sheer volume of what remains to be done feels impossible to reconcile with what my body is capable of giving.

Today, I cried.

More than once.

Not dramatically. Not for anyone to witness. Just those moments when something inside finally gives way and there is no longer any point pretending that the weight isn't there.

And I've found myself reflecting on another kind of loneliness.

The loneliness of not being able to express the full intensity of your experience without feeling that you must first consider how everyone else might interpret it.

It's a peculiar thing.

To be going through something profoundly personal and still feel responsible for managing the emotional comfort of the people around you.

To wonder whether silence will be mistaken for resentment. Whether frustration will be interpreted as anger directed at someone. Whether sadness will become a label. Whether an honest expression of hurt will somehow be turned into an accusation against your character.

At times, it feels as though the only acceptable version of yourself is the one that has been carefully edited for other people's consumption.

A quieter version.

A more agreeable version.

One that doesn't reveal quite how much something hurts.

And there is a terrible irony in that.

The moments when we are perhaps most in need of being understood can be the very moments when we become least capable of explaining ourselves.

Kafka explored this distance between the inner and outer worlds with extraordinary sensitivity.

His characters inhabit realities where their experiences are intensely personal, yet the world around them seems incapable of recognising their humanity. They are caught between what they know themselves to be and what circumstances, institutions, and other people make of them.

I've often wondered how much of human suffering comes not simply from what happens to us, but from the distance between what we experience and what others are prepared to understand.

How much of ourselves do we conceal simply because the truth would be inconvenient, uncomfortable, or too difficult for someone else to receive?

And what happens when that concealment becomes another burden we have to carry?

There have been moments throughout this experience when I've felt genuinely taken advantage of. When entitlement has overshadowed empathy. When the value of what I've created seems to have been reduced to what others might obtain from its dismantling.

And perhaps what hurts isn't even the material loss itself.

It's the feeling that something sacred to you can become so ordinary in the eyes of others.

A tree is just a tree.

A plant is just a plant.

A garden is just a garden.

Unless you know the grief that was buried beneath its roots.

Unless you understand the years spent nurturing something when you were quietly trying to nurture yourself.

Unless you know what it meant to stand amongst all that life and feel, perhaps for the first time in a long while, that you were exactly where you needed to be.

There are losses that cannot be measured by what disappears, because their true value existed in what they allowed us to become.

And yet, beneath all this exhaustion, something curious remains.

I still find myself imagining the future.

Still thinking about what might be possible. Still feeling that familiar pull towards creating, exploring, loving, and discovering.

It's almost absurd in itself.

To feel so utterly depleted by one chapter of life while another part of you continues dreaming about the next.

Perhaps human beings are full of these contradictions.

We can be deeply wounded without becoming hopeless.

We can feel betrayed without losing our capacity to trust.

We can mourn what is ending while quietly anticipating what has yet to begin.

And we can be profoundly exhausted without having lost our love for life.

I don't know that there is a neat conclusion to any of this.

Nor do I particularly want one.

Some experiences resist being transformed into lessons. Some losses deserve to remain losses, without being repackaged as opportunities or explained away through the language of personal growth.

I loved what I created.

I am devastated to be losing it.

I am exhausted by the circumstances surrounding its ending.

And I am still capable of imagining a beautiful future.

All of those things are true.

Perhaps what resonates most deeply with Kafka is not the emptiness itself, but the recognition that our inner lives are infinitely more complicated than the versions of ourselves the world gets to see.

Behind every silence, there may be an entire conversation that never found its words.

Behind every withdrawal, a thousand feelings that could not be comfortably expressed.

Behind every exhausted person, a history of things they carried long after they should have been allowed to put them down.

Tonight, I look at what remains of Troppo and feel a sadness that I doubt I will ever fully articulate.

Not simply for the plants, the trees, or the years of work.

But for the person I was when I began it. For the friend whose loss helped inspire it. For the countless quiet moments amongst the leaves. For the future harvests I imagined, the fruits I waited years to taste, and the seasons I thought I would still have there.

For a chapter I never expected to end this way.

And perhaps, somewhere within all of that, I am also grieving the loss of an imagined future.

The one I had already begun living in my mind.

There is no grand revelation tonight.

Just a tired man, a disappearing garden, an aching body, a heart carrying more than it can comfortably express, and a mind that somehow still wanders towards possibility.

I am not empty of dreams.

I am exhausted from having to let go of one that meant so much.

And perhaps that is the strange, beautiful, unbearable complexity of being alive.

To carry both the grief of what was and the possibility of what might yet be.

Without needing either one to cancel out the other.

10/10/2026

Sometimes, when you think you've reached the end of a chapter, life turns the page for you. Whether you're ready or not.

Today, I'm exhausted. And I don't mean just tired. I mean thoroughly, completely exhausted. Physically, emotionally, mentally. The kind of exhaustion that sleep alone won't fix.

Packing down Troppo has been one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my life.

What people see is a garden being dismantled. Plants being dug up, things being sold, years of work disappearing.

What they don't see is what that garden meant to me.

Troppo was born out of deep loss. The loss of a dear friend, amongst other things that life had thrown at me. It became my way of coping, of healing, of finding purpose when life was difficult. It gave me something to wake up for, something to nurture, something to believe in.

It wasn't just a garden. It was a part of me.

And now, through circumstances largely beyond my control, I'm having to tear it apart, with barely enough time to process what's happening, let alone physically manage it.

All while dealing with a back injury, a neck injury, and the enormous physical demands of moving and dismantling something that took years to create.

And then there's the human side of it all.

The entitlement. The feeling of being taken advantage of. The expectations, the judgements, the accusations, and the sense that even in the middle of losing something deeply personal, I'm somehow still expected to accommodate everyone else's needs, feelings and opinions.

There have been moments where I've felt thoroughly ripped off, not just materially, but emotionally.

I cried a couple of times today.

Not because I'm giving up. Not because I've lost hope. But because I'm human, and there's only so much a person can carry before it spills over.

What's perhaps been the hardest part is feeling that I can't even express the true depth of what I'm going through.

If I'm quiet, people might think I'm upset with them. If I'm frustrated, I'm labelled angry. If I'm overwhelmed, perhaps I'm depressed. If I speak honestly, someone might take it personally.

And so I find myself having to soften my words, suppress my emotions, and make my pain more comfortable for other people to be around.

But why should someone experiencing profound loss have to make their grief more palatable for everyone else?

Sometimes I simply cannot be around people. Not because I dislike them or don't appreciate them, but because what I'm carrying is so intense that I barely have the capacity to hold it myself.

I don't need to be analysed, judged, corrected, or told how I should feel.

I need the space to be human.

To grieve something that mattered enormously to me. To be disappointed. To be angry at the circumstances. To cry. To feel the injustice of it all without having to justify every emotion.

And to acknowledge that sometimes life is just bloody hard.

There is a tremendous difference between losing a collection of plants and losing a living expression of years of love, grief, creativity, resilience, and purpose.

Troppo was never just about growing plants. In many ways, it was about growing myself back together.

And perhaps that's why dismantling it hurts so much.

But there's something in that L. M. Montgomery quote that resonates deeply with me tonight.

Just when we think our story is finished, fate has a way of turning the page and revealing another chapter.

I don't know exactly what that next chapter looks like yet.

Right now, I'm not going to pretend this is some beautiful lesson, or dress up an incredibly painful experience as a blessing in disguise.

It hurts. Deeply.

But I also know that the part of me that created Troppo, the imagination, the passion, the determination, the ability to create something beautiful out of loss, hasn't disappeared with the garden.

They can take away the place. Circumstances can dismantle what I've built. But they cannot take away the person who imagined it into existence.

Tonight, I'm exhausted. I'm grieving. I'm hurting.

And that's okay.

Tomorrow, somehow, another page turns.

And maybe, just maybe, there's still something extraordinary waiting to grow.

10/10/2026

Feeis

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DeSA8t6CXvG/?obrf=MThtMjRqYnV2ZnVkNQ==