Without realising it, I think I’ve been striving to be the same as everyone else, or at least, to be the same as everyone else’s version of the best.

I believe we live in a world which has become increasingly monotonised. As we travel more and share more online, our risk of merging our individual differences becomes higher. How is it that teenagers in France choose to dress the same as teenagers in England? How is it that the fashion in Land’s End can be the same as those in John O’Groats?

Whilst the sharing of cultures and our ability to travel the world has many, many benefits - particularly in terms of understanding and respecting other cultures and ways of doing and being - we must also be aware of our inclination as humans to fit in. We like groups and labels and feeling part of something: loneliness kills as much as cigarettes. Whilst a shared understanding of each other can only be a good thing (as generally, understanding allows for compassion), I think we have take care not to iron out our differences, or chastise our differences as weaknesses.

Happy Friday to you. I’m sure the beautiful weather this week has benefitted us all - it’s so lovely to see Brighton and Hove come alive in the sunshine again! As I write, I can see the sea is impeccably still and beckoning me for a dip…

I have been reflecting this week on being proactive, rather than being reactive.

I have thought a lot about reactivity before in the context of emotions, particularly when it comes to choosing how we respond to different circumstances. Our reactions are within our control; we can choose how we respond - even when we haven’t chosen the circumstances.

We talk in medicine about being proactive with our health - or, rather, we criticise the NHS and modern medicine for being far too “reactive” and often not heeding the old adage of “prevention is cure”.

Over the last week, I have been thinking about the value of opposites. We spoke about it a little when I returned from Costa Rica - about how every emotion has another side to the coin - but I suppose I’ve been thinking more about the role we play as individuals and how it’s important we see both sides of the story.

I remember in school how each assembly had to have some sort of moral message, fable-like in its delivery. I distinctly remember someone telling us about how when you point the finger, you have three fingers pointing back at you. (Were you ever told that one?)

I want to talk to you today about ‘Ma’. (And no, sorry, mum, this isn’t a post dedicated to you.)

‘Ma’ is a Japanese word, meaning negative space.

It is sometimes difficult to define a word that exists in another language; a direct translation is often inadequate. How beautiful, though, that the Japanese character meaning ‘ma’ depicts a door, through which a crevice of moonlight shines.

Some define ‘ma’ simply as emptiness, but somehow this seems too cold a translation. Rather, the concept of negative space lends significance to the emptiness as being something important in its own right, and not just the absence of something else.

Last week we spoke about music and how, when we play, we are searching for a colour. We spoke about working to create a soundscape in a way that keeps this bigger goal in mind; in a way in which we observe rather than criticise.

I have spent a few days this week on a chamber music course (I promise I do work sometimes), playing Haydn as part of a string quartet. There is an art to practising well as a group. We had the opportunity to observe our coaches, a professional string quartet, rehearsing. Some of you may have experience playing music in an orchestra or band, but there is a diplomacy that translates into other areas of our lives. It’s the same thing we wrote about in our personal statements all those years ago, about how being in an orchestra has “helped you hone the skill” of being part of a team. At the time it always felt like slightly forced and generic, but I can see now how the skills might be transferable.

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

Do you trust your instincts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it is written in Plato’s Symposium.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is being balanced always a good thing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advent 1955, by John Betjeman

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

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

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

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

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