I built my first business with friends while we were at university. It started out in bedrooms and borrowed meeting rooms - scrappy, fast-moving, and a bit chaotic. But it worked. We grew it and eventually sold it.

Just before the sale, my first wife was diagnosed with cancer. I lost her shortly afterwards. The grief hit hard. I still signed the deal, but it didn’t feel like a success.

After the sale, I joined the acquiring company as an entrepreneur in residence. Helped them build a new brand from scratch. On paper, things were moving. But I felt like a shadow of myself.

Then came over a decade in corporate product and marketing strategy. I worked on some major launches, including products that became household names and drove significant growth. I got used to the speed, the pressure, the expectations. Somewhere in that time, I also mentored startups through a business accelerator. I loved that work - it gave me the energy I’d been missing. Founders would come to me for advice, especially around value proposition design, messaging and marketing strategy.

But under the surface, the grief was still growing. And eventually, I cracked.

My second wife’s mother passed away - the same cancer. My mental health spiralled. I left the accelerator after having a panic attack on the way to a launch event. I started dropping clients. Sabotaging opportunities. I just couldn’t keep going. I was eventually diagnosed with PTSD, acute anxiety and acute depression.

Therapy helped. And so did the forest.

After each session, I started walking in the woods. No goals. No targets. Just space to breathe. I picked up a camera again - not to make something, just to notice what was there.

That’s when things started to shift. Not suddenly. Slowly. Photography became a way to stay present. To see clearly. Light on bark. A fallen leaf. Stillness.

Then, in 2024, I nearly died. A severe case of sepsis - coma, four operations, multiple organ failure, total physical collapse. I was being kept alive with machines. Nine weeks in hospital, seven in intensive care.

And, strangely, a reset.

I came out of that with a different sense of time. Less push. More presence. More honesty.

That’s how I got here. Not a perfect arc. But real.

I’m not here to tell people what to do. That was part of the old world I used to live in - the corporate one, the one with roadmaps and frameworks and high-stakes meetings where you had to be certain. These days, I don’t think certainty is all that helpful.

What I try to offer now is space. Room to think. To notice. To sit with things without rushing to fix them.

I’ve sat with a lot myself - grief, burnout, illness. And I’ve learned that sometimes the best thing you can do is stop trying to get somewhere and just pay attention to where you are.

That’s how I approach everything I do - whether it’s photography, coaching, or working with a client on a commercial shoot. It’s not about forcing a result. It’s about being fully present. Seeing clearly. Slowing down enough to spot what you might otherwise miss.

That might be a shaft of light through fog. Or the moment someone finally names something they’ve been avoiding. Or a subtle shift in how a space feels when it’s captured honestly.

So no, I’m not a guru. I’m just someone who’s walked through the fire and come out with fewer answers and more willingness to listen.

If that sounds like the kind of person you want in your corner (or the kind of lens you want on your work) you can find my photography here, my commercial portfolio here, and my coaching site here.

And if you’re curious about the first in a series of books I’m working on, they will live at theforestmindset.com. The first book is part reflection, part journal. A quiet companion for when you’re pausing, noticing and beginning again.