I love reading about women from the past, those whose paths helped lead the way for me to live and breathe the way I want today. I am privileged in many ways to be able to say that, as we know millions of women globally have yet to experience freedom to the extent I have being a white woman in my forties in the UK.

Whilst we still have a long way to go to achieve equality in all corners of the world, and at times it feels as though we are moving backwards rather than forwards, I remain deeply grateful to the women who came before us and simply refused to stay inside the boxes they were born into. For anyone who knows my story, it’s clear I have been inspired by the rebels that came before me.

I love a list, and I am nosey, so I love to browse other people’s bookshelves. Today I’m sharing mine. In honour of International Women’s Day I’m showcasing women writers, some who I’ve seen speak in person and have followed for awhile, others who are new on the scene, but all have offered something of substance. In no particular order, directly from my bookshelf, here is a list of just a few of the non-fiction titles and authors that have helped support my learning journey over the years.

The Spring Equinox marks the moment in the year when day and night are held in near balance. In the Northern Hemisphere, it signals the beginning of astronomical spring and the gradual return of longer, lighter days.

After the quieter months of winter, this seasonal turning point offers a natural opportunity to pause and notice the shift taking place around us. Buds have begun to appear, evenings stretch a little further and there is often a renewed sense of energy and possibility in the air.

My life, whether through work, learning or creative projects, has brought me into contact with an extraordinary range of people who live close to death.

Some encounter it through their work as end of life doulas or companions, funeral professionals, healthcare workers, celebrants or therapists. Others arrive through lived experience, holding a deep personal commitment to death awareness as a value and way of living.

Again and again, one shared need has emerged.

I had an experience recently that has stayed with me.

I offered a simple creative activity in a small group of women I know well. It involved coloured paper, scissors, glue sticks, and an invitation to create a portrait of another person from our group based purely on “vibes”…what this person inspires through colours, shapes and textures. A playful attempt to reflect how we experience one another beyond physical appearance.

For some, it was joyful and unexpectedly moving. As often happens, people began cautiously, thinking their way through the task, before something softened and creativity took over.

Imbolc asks us to notice the first stirrings of energy shifting around us, and inside us. As we approach spring with lighter days, more energy and the first sparks of life making themselves known, Imbolc provides a moment to reflect on what is beginning to start within us that we’ll soon bring into fruition in the months ahead?

Most of us live by a calendar that has very little to do with how life actually moves.

We mark time by deadlines, school terms, tax years, and diary appointments. The months pass, the seasons change, and often we barely notice. We feel out of sync, tired in winter when we think we “should” be productive, restless in summer without knowing why, and slightly unmoored from any real sense of natural rhythm. The Wheel of the Year offers a different way to mark time. One that is rooted in the earth, the seasons, and the steady, reliable turning of nature.

An attempt to make sense of what does not make sense.

I get the impression there are a lot of people who are not intentionally choosing the lives they are living. They are responding to what is in front of them: deadlines, responsibilities, news headlines, financial pressure, social or family expectations. Life becomes a series of reactions rather than a series of conscious decisions. And over time, a quiet misalignment sets in. It is hard to name, but it can feel like being in a constant struggle with yourself, a misalignment.

This is rarely a motivation problem, or a time management problem. I think it is often a values problem.

One thing I find endlessly fascinating is learning how many of our modern traditions are essentially mashups of cultural practices layered over centuries. Humans have always sought meaning and connection, weaving folklore and mythology steeped in seasonal wisdom to make sense of everything from weather patterns to fertility, loss, and renewal.

Every life is touched by loss at some point. Some losses are seismic…life-altering, identity-shifting, world-rearranging. Others are small and quiet, almost imperceptible to anyone but us. Yet all of them matter. All of them deserve room.

During Grief Awareness Week, I want to offer a reminder that feels central to the ethos of This Mortal Life: Grief is a natural part of being human. It doesn’t need to be fixed, solved or pushed away. It needs room, recognition and companionship.

The act of making something: writing, stitching, collaging, painting, etc. engages parts of us that don’t always speak in clear sentences. Creativity allows our interior world to surface without needing to explain or justify it. It’s a language of colour, shape and texture that often feels safer, especially when touching on grief, identity, memory or endings.

As the year draws to its quiet close, we gather to mark the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year and the turning point toward the returning light. Across cultures and centuries, this has been a time to pause, reflect, and honour both the darkness and the promise of renewal.

What’s it look like to explore themes of mortality and grief through reading? Here’s a curated mix of fiction and non-fiction titles to add to your ‘to be read’ pile, all exploring death, loss, grief and the practicalities around our cultural practices and rituals.

As we enter the Christmas season, let’s consider our priorities and how we can be more intentional in our gift giving.

A little insight into our recent Samhain Gathering at the Front Room theatre in Weston-Super-Mare. It was a magical evening of community and remembrance.

As the days shorten and the year begins its quiet turn toward winter, we are invited to slow down and look inward. The ancient festival of Samhain marks this time as one of remembrance; when the veil between the living and the dead is said to be thin, and we pause to honour those who came before us.

There’s a quiet revolution taking root, not in corporate boardrooms or our government’s offices (sadly!) but in gardens, art studios, neighbourhood parks and community projects. It’s a revolution that begins with small acts of care and imagination, where people are daring to envision a world that prioritises life, in all its forms, over profit.

As the year turns and the light begins to fade, we find ourselves standing at a threshold: the space between autumn and winter, life and death, what has been and what is yet to come. Across centuries and cultures, this time has always been understood as one of reflection, remembrance and renewal.

Here in the northern hemisphere, Samhain marks the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the darker half of the year. It is a moment to pause, to take stock and turn inward to honour the cycles of life that hold us all.

To mark the Autumn Equinox we held a gathering on the beach, connecting with nature and welcoming the seasonal changes as we looked towards the darker months of the year. We were blessed with a calm breeze and a nearly cloudless sky to enjoy a meditative nature walk, the creation of a nature-based art installation and a bring-and-share feast around the fire. We reflected on our experiences of the year so far and gave ourselves permission to be present with ourselves, each other and the sounds of the waves as high tide rolled in.

Twenty years is a long time, and yet it passes so quickly. Today marks two decades since I first set foot in the UK. What was meant to be a ten-month gap year became something altogether different and unexpected. If I’ve learned anything over the past couple of decades, it’s that life rarely unfolds as planned.