Author: Margaretha Montagu

What this is: A practical exploration of how your brain responds to life’s curveballs, and why understanding the difference between reactive and responsive thinking is the single most important skill for anyone ready to write their next chapter (especially when your previous chapter ended in a way you didn’t choose).

What this isn’t: Another “just think positive” pep talk, a neuroscience lecture that requires a medical degree to understand, or a suggestion that you should suppress your very legitimate feelings about whatever storm you’ve just weathered.

Read this if: You’re tired of feeling hijacked by your own emotions, you want to make decisions you’ll still respect six months from now, or you’re simply done with the exhausting cycle of reacting to life instead of responding to it with intention.

5 Key Takeaways

1. Your reactive brain kept you alive during the crisis, but it will sabotage your next chapter if you let it stay in charge. The same neural pathways that protected you when everything fell apart will keep you stuck in survival mode long after the danger has passed.
2. The gap between stimulus and response is where your power lives. That pause, even if it’s just three seconds, is the difference between a life you’re proud of and a life that happens to you.
3. Responsive thinking isn’t about being calm or zen, it’s about being choiceful. You can still feel all the feelings and choose what you do with them.
4. Your brain’s default setting after trauma is hypervigilance, not wisdom. Understanding this removes the self-judgement when you find yourself overreacting to small things.
5. Christmas (and other emotionally loaded occasions) is your annual training ground for building a responsive brain. Master the holidays, master your life transitions.

Introduction: The Chapter You Didn’t Choose

Here’s something nobody mentions in those “embrace change” Instagram posts: most of us don’t get to choose when our old life ends. Death doesn’t check your calendar. Illness doesn’t wait for a convenient moment. Redundancy letters arrive on Tuesday mornings. Relationships implode spectacularly, often just when you thought you’d finally got things sorted.

And then, after the initial shock wears off and the casseroles from well-meaning neighbours stop arriving, you’re left with this enormous question: Now what?

This article is for you if you’re over 40/50/60, you’ve been through something that fundamentally changed your life’s trajectory, and you’re ready (or at least ready-ish) to start your next chapter. Not because you’ve “moved on” or “got over it” or any of those other phrases people use when they’re uncomfortable with grief, but because staying stuck in the wreckage isn’t serving you anymore.

What you’re feeling, by the way, is completely normal. The confusion, the second-guessing, the 3am anxiety spirals, the days when you feel ridiculously hopeful followed by the days when you can barely get out of bed. Your brain is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do after massive disruption. The problem is, what kept you safe during the crisis will keep you small during your comeback.

Here’s what you’ll gain from the next 2,000 words: you’ll understand why your brilliant, capable brain keeps betraying you at crucial moments, you’ll learn the neurological difference between reacting and responding (and why it matters more than any other skill you’ll develop), and you’ll discover how to catch yourself mid-spiral and choose differently. Not perfectly. Just differently enough to matter.

The Story of Claire Hartwell: When Loss Rewires Everything

Claire Hartwell was 53 when her husband died. Not dramatically, not after a long illness that gave everyone time to prepare, but suddenly, on a Thursday, from a massive heart attack in the cereal aisle at Tesco. One moment he was debating between bran flakes and granola (bran flakes always won; he was that sort of man), and the next moment he was gone.

The first six months were a blur of paperwork and platitudes. Claire moved through the necessary rituals with impressive competence. She organised the funeral, sorted the life insurance, fielded the endless “how are you holding up?” questions with appropriate responses. Her adult children marvelled at how well she was coping.

But Claire wasn’t coping. Claire was reacting. Her brain had shifted into pure survival mode, and every decision, every interaction, every thought was filtered through her amygdala’s primitive binary: threat or safety? The problem with this mode is that it’s exhausting to maintain, and it results in terrible decisions about your future.

Eight months after David died, Claire’s daughter Emma announced her engagement. The wedding would be in June, eighteen months away. Plenty of time. Emma was glowing, talking about venues and flowers and guest lists, and Claire heard herself say, “I don’t think I can come.”

The silence in the room was spectacular.

“Mum,” Emma said carefully, “it’s not for another year and a half.”

“I know. But I can’t. I just can’t.” Claire’s chest was tight, her hands were trembling, and she could feel the tears coming. “How can I go to a wedding without your father? How can I watch you walk down an aisle he’ll never see? I can’t do it. Don’t make me do it.”

Emma left shortly after, confused and hurt. Claire sat in her kitchen, the same kitchen where she and David had shared thirty years of breakfasts, and felt something crack open inside her chest. Not grief this time. Something else. A terrible clarity.

This was the moment Claire realised her brain had been hijacked. For eight months, she’d been operating from her reactive brain, the part that perceives everything through the lens of threat and loss. The wedding wasn’t happening for eighteen months, but her amygdala was treating it like an immediate danger, flooding her system with cortisol and adrenaline as if she were being chased by a predator.

She could smell the coffee going cold in her mug, bitter and metallic. She could hear the clock ticking in the hallway, each second marking another moment David wasn’t there to hear. She could feel the worn wooden edge of the kitchen chair pressing into her thighs, the same chair where David used to sit and do the crossword every Sunday. The house felt too quiet and too loud simultaneously.

Claire picked up her phone and called her sister, Ruth, who’d been gently suggesting therapy for months.

“I need help,” Claire said. “I nearly missed my own daughter’s wedding because my brain is broken.”

“Your brain isn’t broken,” Ruth said. “It’s just stuck. There’s a difference.”

That phone call led Claire to a life transition coach (not immediately; first she tried three therapists who were lovely but wrong, which often happens). The coach introduced her to the concept of reactive versus responsive thinking. The reactive brain, Claire learned, is your body’s emergency broadcast system. It’s brilliant in actual emergencies. It makes you jump out of the way of speeding cars and grab children before they touch hot stoves. It kept Claire functioning during those first impossible weeks after David died.

But the reactive brain has no nuance. It treats Emma’s wedding announcement the same way it treats a smoke alarm. Everything is urgent, everything is dangerous, everything requires an immediate, protective response. It’s why Claire, who was normally thoughtful and measured, found herself saying “I can’t come” before her conscious mind even caught up.

The responsive brain, by contrast, creates space. It says, “I’m feeling triggered right now. That’s information. What do I actually want to do with this information?” It allows for complexity, for holding multiple truths simultaneously: I miss David desperately AND I want to celebrate Emma’s joy. This moment is painful AND it’s also an opportunity to show up for my daughter. I’m grieving AND I’m still living.

Claire started practising the pause. Three seconds. Just three seconds between stimulus and response. When Emma mentioned wedding details, instead of immediately reacting from her fear brain, Claire would breathe, count to three, and then choose her response. It felt mechanical at first, almost stupid. But gradually, incrementally, it changed everything.

By the time June arrived, Claire walked Emma down the aisle. She cried through the entire ceremony, yes. She had David’s photo in her bouquet, yes. She needed to step outside twice to breathe through panic attacks, yes. But she was there. Present. Responsive. Choosing her life instead of being steered by her fear.

Understanding the Reactive vs Responsive Brain: The Neuroscience of Next Chapters

Here’s what’s actually happening in your skull when life implodes: your brain’s threat detection system, the amygdala, goes into overdrive. This almond-shaped cluster of neurons is remarkably efficient at keeping you alive, but it’s catastrophically bad at helping you build a meaningful life after crisis.

The reactive brain operates from your limbic system, the ancient part of your brain that predates language and logic. When it perceives a threat (and after major life disruption, everything feels threatening), it triggers the sympathetic nervous system’s fight, flight, or freeze response. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your digestion shuts down, and your prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for rational decision-making, essentially goes offline. You’re operating on instinct, not insight.

This is magnificent if you’re escaping a burning building. It’s disastrous if you’re trying to decide whether to sell your house, change careers, or repair a damaged relationship.

The responsive brain, by contrast, engages your prefrontal cortex, the newest part of your brain in evolutionary terms. This is where executive function lives: planning, impulse control, emotional regulation, and the ability to consider long-term consequences. The responsive brain can hold paradox. It can acknowledge fear without being controlled by it. It can feel grief and still choose joy.

As a Life Transition Coach and NLP Master Practitioner with 15 years’ experience hosting transformational retreats on the Camino de Santiago, I have witnessed dozens of people make this crucial shift from reactive to responsive thinking. The pattern is consistent: those who learn to pause between stimulus and response, even for mere seconds, consistently make choices they’re proud of six months later. Those who remain stuck in reactive mode often report feeling like their life is happening to them, rather than being shaped by them.

This isn’t about positive thinking or suppressing legitimate emotions. The responsive brain doesn’t deny reality; it chooses how to engage with reality. It’s the difference between “this is terrible and I can’t cope” (reactive) and “this is terrible and I’m struggling, so what support do I need?” (responsive). Both acknowledge the difficulty. Only one opens a door.

The implications extend far beyond individual wellbeing. When you shift from reactive to responsive, you stop unconsciously spreading your stress to everyone around you. Your children, your colleagues, your friends, they all benefit from your increased emotional regulation. You become a stabilising presence rather than an amplifying one. In communities recovering from collective trauma, the presence of even a few responsive individuals can shift the entire group’s trajectory. Your personal healing becomes a form of service.

This matters because life transitions don’t happen in isolation. Your divorce affects your children’s sense of security. Your career crisis influences your partner’s stress levels. Your grief ripples out through your entire social network. When you develop a responsive brain, you’re not just changing your own life; you’re changing the emotional ecosystem of everyone who depends on you.

Why the Holidays Demand a Responsive Brain (And Why Christmas Is Your Annual Stress Test)

If you want to understand the difference between reactive and responsive thinking, spend Christmas with your family of origin. Nothing reveals your default neural pathways quite like navigating the emotional minefield of festive family gatherings, especially during your first major holiday season after a significant loss or life change.

Christmas triggers our reactive brain for several neurological reasons. First, it’s saturated with memory cues: specific songs, smells (cinnamon, pine, roasting chestnuts), visual triggers (twinkling lights, familiar decorations), and rituals that have been encoded in your neural pathways since childhood. When you’ve experienced a major loss, every single one of these triggers can activate your amygdala before your conscious mind even registers what’s happening.

Second, the holidays carry enormous social expectations. You’re “supposed” to feel joyful, grateful, and connected. When you’re actually feeling bereaved, anxious, or resentful, the gap between expectation and reality creates cognitive dissonance that your reactive brain interprets as threat. Your stress response activates not because anything is objectively dangerous, but because you’re failing to meet an imagined standard.

Third, family gatherings often involve people who knew you before your life changed, which means they’re relating to a version of you that no longer exists. Your reactive brain perceives this as invalidation, even when no harm is intended. Aunt Margaret asks about your husband at the Christmas dinner table, forgetting (or not knowing) that he left you six months ago. Your reactive brain wants to flip the table. Your responsive brain recognises this as an opportunity to gently update her and then redirect the conversation.

How Does a Responsive Brain Navigate Family Dynamics During Christmas?

A responsive brain practices what I call “strategic withdrawal.” You recognise that you have limited emotional bandwidth during this vulnerable season, and you budget it accordingly. You don’t attend every party. You don’t stay for every course of Christmas dinner. You create exit strategies before you arrive.

The responsive approach involves:

Acknowledging your triggers beforehand. You know that carol service will be difficult because you attended it with your late partner for 25 years. You prepare for this. You bring a trusted friend. You allow yourself to leave early. You don’t shame yourself for finding it hard.

Setting boundaries clearly and kindly. “I’m only staying until 3pm this year” is a responsive statement. “I suppose I should stay longer because it’s Christmas” is reactive thinking disguised as obligation.

Choosing your responses instead of defaulting to patterns. When your sister makes that comment she always makes about your life choices, your reactive brain wants to engage in the familiar argument. Your responsive brain thinks, “I’ve had this fight 47 times. It never goes well. What if I just smiled and changed the subject?”

Building in recovery time. The responsive brain knows that difficult interactions deplete your resources, so you schedule empty days after intense family gatherings. You don’t fill every moment of the holiday season with obligations.

What Happens When You Stay Reactive During the Holidays?

You snap at people you love. You drink too much to numb the discomfort. You commit to things you don’t want to do and then resent everyone for “making” you do them (even though nobody actually forced you). You end up creating the very drama you were trying to avoid. You start January exhausted and disappointed in yourself.

The Christmas season becomes a magnified version of whatever neural pattern you’re running. If you’re stuck in reactive mode, the holidays will amplify your stress, your grief, and your sense of being overwhelmed. If you’ve cultivated a responsive brain, the holidays become practice for the harder moments ahead. You learn that you can feel difficult emotions and still make wise choices. You discover that you’re more resilient than you thought.

5 Critical Mistakes That Keep You Stuck in Reactive Mode

1. Mistaking Intensity for Urgency

The mistake: Your reactive brain treats every uncomfortable emotion as an emergency requiring immediate action. You feel anxious about your financial future at 2am, so you start googling “sell house fast” and making major decisions from panic mode.

Why it sabotages you: Intensity and urgency are not the same thing. Most life transition decisions don’t require immediate action, even when the feelings about them are overwhelming. The responsive brain asks: “Is this actually urgent, or does it just feel urgent because I’m triggered?”

The fix: Implement a 48-hour rule for any major decision that isn’t genuinely time-sensitive. If it still feels right after two days, proceed. If it doesn’t, you’ve saved yourself from a reactive mistake.

2. Avoiding All Discomfort Because You’ve Already Survived Enough

The mistake: After a major crisis, your brain becomes hypervigilant about protecting you from any additional pain. So you start declining invitations, avoiding difficult conversations, and shrinking your life to only what feels completely safe. This seems like self-care, but it’s actually self-imprisonment.

Why it sabotages you: Growth lives just beyond comfort. The responsive brain distinguishes between unnecessary pain (which should be avoided) and necessary discomfort (which builds capacity). Your next chapter requires you to tolerate some discomfort, whether it’s the awkwardness of dating again, the vulnerability of starting a new career, or the grief that comes in waves at unexpected moments.

The fix: Practice distinguishing between danger (which requires protection) and discomfort (which requires courage). Ask yourself: “Is this situation actually unsafe, or does it just feel uncomfortable because it’s unfamiliar?”

3. Believing You Should Be “Over It” By Now

The mistake: You set arbitrary timelines for your healing based on what you think you “should” feel. Six months after the divorce, a year after the redundancy, two years after the death. When you’re still struggling past these imaginary deadlines, you add shame to your already heavy load.

Why it sabotages you: The reactive brain loves binary thinking: healed or broken, coping or failing, moving forward or stuck. Real life is messier. You can be healing and still have terrible days. You can be moving forward and still miss what you’ve lost. The responsive brain allows for complexity.

The fix: Eliminate the word “should” from your vocabulary about grief and healing. Replace it with “am”: I am where I am. This is where I am today. What do I need right now, from this place, not from where I think I should be?

4. Isolating Because Nobody Understands

The mistake: After major life disruption, many people retreat from their social connections because “nobody understands what I’m going through.” This feels protective but actually increases your brain’s threat response. Isolation signals danger to your nervous system, which keeps you stuck in reactive mode.

Why it sabotages you: You don’t need people who understand everything you’re experiencing. You need people who are willing to sit with you while you experience it. The responsive brain recognizes that connection, even imperfect connection, is regulating. Your nervous system literally calms down in the presence of safe others.

The fix: Lower your bar for connection. You don’t need deep understanding; you need consistent presence. A friend who shows up with coffee and doesn’t need you to perform “fine” is worth more than a dozen people offering advice.

5. Trying to Think Your Way Through a Body Problem

The mistake: Your reactive brain is a physiological state, not just a mental one. Yet most people try to manage it purely through cognitive strategies, reading books and setting intentions while their nervous system remains dysregulated. You can’t think your way into a responsive brain when your body is stuck in threat mode.

Why it sabotages you: As I observed over two decades of clinical practice, stress and trauma are stored in the body. Your racing thoughts are often a symptom of your activated nervous system, not the cause. Trying to calm your mind without addressing your body’s stress response is like trying to drain a bathtub without turning off the tap.

The fix: Engage your vagus nerve through embodied practices: walking in nature, deep breathing, cold water on your face, humming, gentle movement. Your body needs to feel safe before your brain can access responsive thinking.

Intention-Setting Exercise: Building Your Pause Practice

This exercise takes five minutes and can shift your entire day. Do it before situations you know will trigger your reactive brain (difficult phone calls, family gatherings, important decisions).

Step 1: Ground yourself physically. Place both feet flat on the floor. Feel the pressure of your feet against the ground. Notice the temperature of the air on your skin. This signals safety to your nervous system.

Step 2: Acknowledge what you’re feeling without judgment. “I’m noticing anxiety in my chest.” “I’m aware of anger in my shoulders.” “I’m feeling grief in my throat.” Name it, don’t fight it.

Step 3: State your intention. Not what you hope will happen, but who you want to be in this situation. “I intend to stay present even when this gets uncomfortable.” “I intend to respond rather than react.” “I intend to honour my boundaries without apologising for them.”

Step 4: Identify your pause trigger. Choose a physical anchor that will remind you to pause before responding. It might be pressing your thumb and forefinger together, taking one deep breath, or silently counting to three. This becomes your circuit breaker between stimulus and response.

Step 5: Grant yourself permission to be imperfect. Say this out loud: “I will probably get this wrong at some point today, and that’s part of the practice.” This removes the pressure of perfection, which is often what triggers the reactive brain in the first place.

Further Reading: Books That Actually Help

1. “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessel van der Kolk

Why this one: Van der Kolk explains brilliantly why trauma lives in your body, not just your mind. If you’re wondering why you’re still reacting intensely months or years after an event, this book provides the neuroscience behind it without being overwhelming. Essential reading for understanding why thinking differently isn’t enough.

2. “Rising Strong” by Brené Brown

Why this one: Brown’s work on emotional resilience focuses on the “in-between” space after you fall and before you rise. This is exactly where most people get stuck after major life transitions. She provides a framework for processing difficult emotions without either suppressing them or being consumed by them.

3. “When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chödrön

Why this one: This Buddhist nun writes about groundlessness, the terrifying sensation that nothing is stable anymore. Her approach is practical, not preachy, and she genuinely understands what it feels like when your entire life structure collapses. Particularly helpful for those who want depth without religious dogma.

4. “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brené Brown

Why this one: After crisis, many people become perfectionistic about their healing, which creates a reactive cycle of shame and striving. Brown’s work on embracing imperfection is liberating for those who are exhausted from trying to “do recovery right.”

5. “Man’s Search for Meaning” by Viktor Frankl

Why this one: Frankl survived Nazi concentration camps and went on to develop logotherapy, a psychological approach based on finding meaning even in suffering. This isn’t light reading, but if you’re someone who needs to find purpose in your pain, Frankl provides a framework for doing exactly that.

P.S. If you want a practical, daily approach to navigating change, my book “Embracing Change, in 10 Minutes a Day“ provides short, accessible exercises designed specifically for people who are overwhelmed and time-poor but committed to moving forward. It distils 20 years of clinical experience into manageable daily practices. Available at

A Voice from the Circle

“I joined Dr Montagu’s storytelling circle as part of her Purpose Pivot Protocol course thinking I’d learn some narrative techniques for my business. What I actually learned was how to stop telling myself the story that I was broken. Each week, as we shared our experiences and witnessed each other’s struggles and victories, I realised my reactive brain had been narrating my life as a tragedy. The circle taught me to pause that narrative and choose a different story, one where I was the protagonist, not the victim. The combination of Dr Montagu’s gentle guidance and the collective wisdom of women who truly understood the terrain of loss changed not just how I tell stories, but how I live my life. Six months after finishing the course, I’ve started the business I’d been afraid to launch for three years.” — Jennifer M., Purpose Pivot Protocol participant

5 Frequently Asked Questions About Reactive vs Responsive Thinking

How Long Does It Take to Shift from Reactive to Responsive Thinking?

There’s no fixed timeline, and anyone who promises one is selling you something. However, most people notice a difference within 2,3 weeks of consistent practice. The shift isn’t binary; you don’t suddenly “become” responsive. Instead, you gradually catch yourself reacting and choose differently. Early wins are small: you pause before sending an angry text, you take three breaths before responding to a triggering comment, you notice your body’s stress response before it hijacks your decision-making. These micro-shifts accumulate into macro-changes. After about three months of practice, the responsive approach starts feeling more natural than the reactive default. But expect setbacks. Stress, exhaustion, and triggers will still activate your reactive brain. The difference is that you recover faster and with less collateral damage.

Can You Ever Really Stop Being Reactive After Major Trauma?

The goal isn’t to eliminate reactivity; it’s to reduce how long you stay in that state and how much control it has over your choices. Your reactive brain served a crucial protective function during your crisis. The neural pathways it created aren’t erased just because the immediate threat has passed. However, neuroscience tells us that brains are remarkably plastic, meaning new neural pathways can form throughout your life. Every time you pause and choose a response instead of defaulting to a reaction, you strengthen the responsive pathway. You don’t “get over” major life disruption, but you can build new capacity around it. Think of it less like curing a condition and more like building a muscle. The reactive tendency will always be there in extreme stress, but the responsive muscle gets stronger with use.

What If My Reactive Brain Is Protecting Me from Real Danger?

This is the crucial question. Sometimes your reactive brain is absolutely correct, and the responsive pause would be dangerous. If someone is behaving in genuinely threatening ways, your amygdala’s alarm bells deserve attention. The key is discernment: is this situation actually dangerous, or does it just feel dangerous because it’s activating old trauma? Ask yourself: “If I explained this situation to a trusted, objective friend, would they agree this requires an emergency response?” If you’re uncertain, err on the side of safety. The responsive brain isn’t about ignoring red flags; it’s about distinguishing between red flags and old triggers. A helpful rule: physical danger requires reactive speed. Emotional discomfort benefits from a responsive approach.

How Do You Develop a Responsive Brain When You’re Completely Alone in Your Crisis?

This is genuinely one of the hardest aspects of life transitions: developing regulation capacity when you have no external support. First, acknowledge that this is harder, not impossible. Your nervous system naturally regulates through connection, so doing this work in isolation requires more intentional effort. Start with very small practices: five minutes of walking outside daily (nature regulates your nervous system), writing three pages of uncensored thoughts each morning (externalising reduces rumination), or listening to guided meditations designed for trauma recovery. Consider online communities of people navigating similar transitions; they’re not substitutes for in-person connection, but they reduce the sense of being the only person who’s ever felt this way. If finances allow, even occasional sessions with a therapist or coach create an anchor of support. My Radical Renaissance Protocol exist precisely because isolation compounds crisis. You don’t need a large support network; you need one or two people (or even one online community) that feels safe enough to be honest with.

Designed for those navigating a life transition, the Radical Renaissance Protocol guides you through an identity reset, helping you reconnect with your purpose, realign your values, and reclaim the clarity you thought you’d lost. This isn’t about fixing what’s broken: through reflection, strategic reinvention, and soul-anchored mentoring, you’ll transform uncertainty into direction and dormant potential into meaningful impact.

Is There a Difference Between Being Responsive and Just Suppressing Your Emotions?

Yes, and it’s an enormous difference. Suppression is “I shouldn’t feel this way, so I’ll push it down and pretend it’s not happening.” Response is “I do feel this way, and I’m going to feel it fully, and then I’m going to choose what I do about it.” The responsive brain makes space for emotion without being controlled by it. You can acknowledge rage and not send the email. You can feel grief and still show up for your responsibilities. You can experience fear and still take the next step. Suppression creates pressure; eventually, the lid blows off and you react explosively. Response creates flow; emotions move through you rather than getting stuck or erupting. A helpful test: After an interaction, do you feel relieved (suppression often brings temporary relief followed by later eruption) or do you feel integrated (responsive choices often feel hard in the moment but aligned afterwards)? Your body knows the difference.

Conclusion: The Space Between

Here’s the truth that nobody tells you about life transitions: the hardest part isn’t the crisis itself. It’s the long, uncertain stretch afterwards when everyone else has moved on but you’re still figuring out who you are without the life you used to have. That’s where most people get stuck, caught between a past that no longer exists and a future they can’t yet imagine.

The difference between reactive and responsive thinking isn’t just a clever cognitive trick. It’s the skill that determines whether this chapter break becomes a breakdown or a breakthrough. Your reactive brain will keep you safe, but small. Your responsive brain will require courage, but it opens every door.

As Maya Angelou wrote: “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” The story of your next chapter is waiting to be told, not by your circumstances, but by the choices you make in the space between what happens to you and how you respond to it. That space, however narrow, is where your power lives.

What would become possible in your life if you paused for just three seconds before your next difficult decision?

Your Invitation

If you’re reading this and recognising yourself in these patterns, you’re already halfway to transformation. The other half requires more than reading; it requires experience, embodiment, and the kind of deep work that only happens when you step away from your daily triggers and into a space designed for emergence.

My 7-day Camino de Santiago Crossroads hiking retreats in the southwest of France exist precisely for people at your juncture: those who’ve survived the crisis and are ready to move from reactive survival to responsive living. These retreats combine the ancient transformative practice of walking the Camino with daily storytelling circles alongside my Friesian horses, whose presence alone regulates nervous systems in ways I’ve witnessed hundreds of times but still find quietly miraculous.

You walk the Camino, both literally and metaphorically. The physical movement releases what talk therapy alone cannot touch. The rhythm of daily hiking builds exactly the pause between stimulus and response that this article describes. The storytelling circles create the safe container where you practice crafting a responsive narrative about your life, supported by others who understand the geography of loss. And the horses, with their extraordinary capacity for presence, mirror back your emotional state without judgment, teaching you to recognise reactive patterns before they fully activate.

This isn’t a holiday. It’s a recalibration, a chance to reset your nervous system and rebuild your responsive capacity in an environment where every element, from the landscape to the horses to the group process, supports your emergence.

Details and dates

Your next chapter is waiting. But first, you need to learn how to direct it instead of letting it direct you.

Stress destroys Lives. To find out what you can do to safeguard your sanity by taking my insight-giving quiz, subscribe to my mailing list.

“I am an experienced medical doctor – MBChB, MRCGP, NLP master pract cert, Transformational Life Coach (dip.) Life Story Coach (cert.) Stress Counselling (cert.) Med Hypnotherapy (dip.) and EAGALA (cert.) I may have an impressive number of letters after my name, and more than three decades of professional experience, but what qualifies me to excel at what I do is my intuitive understanding of my clients’ difficulties and my extensive personal experience of managing major life changes using strategies I developed over many years.” Dr M Montagu

Research

Goldin PR, Manber T, Hakimi S, Canli T, Gross JJ. Neural Bases of Social Anxiety Disorder: Emotional Reactivity and Cognitive Regulation During Social and Physical Threat. Arch Gen Psychiatry. 2009;66(2):170–180.

Goldin PR, McRae K, Ramel W, Gross JJ. The neural bases of emotion regulation: reappraisal and suppression of negative emotion. Biol Psychiatry. 2008 Mar 15;63(6):577-86. Epub 2007 Sep 21. PMID: 17888411; PMCID: PMC2483789.

Ironside M, Browning M, Ansari TL, Harvey CJ, Sekyi-Djan MN, Bishop SJ, Harmer CJ, O’Shea J. Effect of Prefrontal Cortex Stimulation on Regulation of Amygdala Response to Threat in Individuals With Trait Anxiety: A Randomized Clinical Trial. JAMA Psychiatry. 2019 Jan 1;76(1):71-78. PMID: 30347011; PMCID: PMC6583758.

Alexandra Kredlow, M., Fenster, R. J., Laurent, E. S., Ressler, K. J., & Phelps, E. A. (2021). Prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and threat processing: Implications for PTSD. Neuropsychopharmacology, 47(1), 247-259.

Author: Julia Cameron
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5 out of 5 stars)
Read if: You’ve been telling yourself “I used to be creative” for longer than you’d like to admit.

The Backbone of the Book

According to Julia Cameron, your creative self isn’t dead—it’s just buried under years of self-criticism, practical concerns, and that one time your third-grade teacher said your drawing looked “interesting.” The Artist’s Way promises that in just 12 weeks of structured exercises, you can excavate your inner artist from beneath the rubble of adult responsibility and rediscover the joy of creating without the nagging voice that insists everything must be profitable, perfect, or LinkedIn-worthy.

The book’s central thesis is refreshingly straightforward: creativity is a spiritual practice, creative blocks are essentially spiritual blocks, and recovery is possible through consistent, gentle effort. Cameron presents creativity not as a rare gift bestowed upon the chosen few, but as a natural human function that’s been beaten out of most of us by well-meaning parents, budget-conscious partners, and our own merciless inner critics. You’re not uncreative—you’re just creatively injured, and Cameron has written you a 12-week rehab program complete with exercises, pep talks, and the kind of earnest spiritual optimism that somehow doesn’t feel cloying.

Useful Take-aways

Morning Pages: This is the book’s cornerstone practice, and honestly, it’s genius in its simplicity. Every morning, before you do anything else, you write three pages of longhand, stream-of-consciousness rambling. It doesn’t matter what you write—grocery lists, complaints about your commute, anxiety spirals about that email you need to send. The point isn’t to produce good writing; it’s to drain the mental static so your actual creative thoughts can surface. What makes this different from regular journaling is the non-negotiable “before anything else” timing and the “absolutely no one will read this” freedom. I was sceptical about the longhand requirement, but there’s something about the slower pace of handwriting that really does short-circuit your internal editor. It’s like a daily brain dump that prevents your mental trash from contaminating your creative well.

Artist Dates: Once a week, you take yourself on a solo expedition to do something that delights or intrigues you. Not networking, not research for a project, not something productive—just play. Cameron is adamant that these must be solo because you need to learn to trust and enjoy your own company, to hear your own creative whispers without someone else’s agenda drowning them out. The beauty of this practice is that it trains you to notice what genuinely appeals to you, not what you think should appeal to you. Maybe you spend an hour in a hardware store marvelling at paint chips, or you go to a matinee of a terrible action movie, or you visit a pet store with no intention of buying anything. These dates refill your creative reservoir with images, textures, experiences, and joy—the raw materials of art.

The Concept of Creative Recovery: Cameron reframes creative blocks not as laziness or lack of talent, but as wounds that need healing. She identifies specific “creativity monsters” like perfectionism, comparison, and the internalised voices of people who discouraged you. There’s something deeply liberating about understanding that the voice saying “who do you think you are?” isn’t actually you—it’s your fourth-grade teacher, or your practical father, or the culture that insists art is only legitimate if it pays the bills. The book offers targeted exercises to identify whose voice you’re really hearing and permission to gently tell them to shut up. This psychological archaeology approach resonated far more than generic “believe in yourself!” platitudes because it acknowledges that creative blocks have specific, often painful origins.

Less Useful Suggestions

Cameron writes from a place of considerable privilege that occasionally shows. The assumption throughout is that you have mornings available for lengthy writing sessions (where does one find 30 minutes every morning?), afternoons free for artist dates, and the financial breathing room to potentially quit your soul-crushing job to pursue art full-time. For the single parent working two jobs, the suggestion to “take yourself to a museum mid-week” lands differently than for someone with a flexible schedule and disposable income.

The spiritual language can be a barrier for some readers. Cameron uses terms like “the Great Creator” and frames creativity as fundamentally spiritual work, which is beautiful if you’re on that wavelength but potentially alienating if you’re not. She does say you can substitute whatever higher power concept works for you, but the book is pretty consistently “woo-woo” in a way that might make hardcore sceptics roll their eyes hard enough to sprain something.

Some of the exercises feel dated or oddly specific to Cameron’s own creative wounds. There are tasks about calling people who discouraged you (anxiety-inducing and sometimes impossible) and multiple exercises involving making collages (not everyone’s jam). The book was published in 1992, and occasionally you can feel it—the cultural references, the assumption that everyone has access to physical art supplies, the pre-Internet framework for how creative careers work.

The 12-week program is genuinely demanding. Morning Pages alone require about 30-45 minutes daily. Add the artist dates, the weekly tasks, and the reading, and you’re looking at a serious time commitment. Cameron is somewhat dismissive of excuses here, which can feel harsh when your excuses are actually called “children” or “chronic illness.”

Who This Book Is For

Perfect for you if:

• You used to draw/write/dance/make music and have no idea when you stopped or why
• You’re a recovering perfectionist who needs permission to make bad art
• You find yourself saying, “I’m not creative” while simultaneously envying people who are
• You’re willing to engage with spiritual/metaphysical language about creativity, or at least not be bothered by it
• You have enough life stability to commit to a daily practice (even if imperfectly)

Maybe skip it if:

• You’re looking for technique-specific instruction (this isn’t about how to paint or write—it’s about unblocking yourself)
• Spiritual or New Age-y language makes you physically recoil
• You’re currently in crisis mode and barely keeping your head above water (maybe come back to this during a calmer season)
• You need creativity advice that’s explicitly tailored to balancing art-making with caregiving, disability, or financial precarity

The One Thing You’ll Remember in Six Months

You probably won’t maintain the full Artist’s Way program with religious devotion forever, but Morning Pages has converted enough people to become a legitimate cultural phenomenon. Six months from now, you’ll likely still be doing some version of brain-dump writing most mornings, and you’ll notice how much clearer your thinking is on days when you do it versus days when you skip. The specific weekly tasks will blur together, but the permission to be a beginner, to make bad art, to create just for the joy of it—that shift in mindset tends to stick.

“Perfectionism is not a quest for the best. It is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves, the part that tells us that nothing we do will ever be good enough.”

“Creativity is not a business, though it may generate business. It is not a career, though it can lead to a career. Creativity is a spiritual experience.”

Bottom Line

The Artist’s Way is the rare self-help book that has earned its classic status. Yes, it asks a lot of you, and yes, some parts feel dated or privileged, but the core practices are genuinely transformative if you commit to them. Cameron writes with the conviction of someone who has walked this path herself and guided thousands of others down it, and that authority comes through on every page.

Recommendation: Buy it if you’re serious about creative recovery, borrow it if you want to test the waters, read a summary if you just want the Morning Pages concept.

Personal Note on Artist’s Way

I picked this up after years of calling myself a “recovering creative”—which is a very pretentious way of saying I stopped making things and felt sad about it. I expected either magic-bullet thinking or tedious art therapy exercises. What I got instead was something more like a firm, loving friend who refuses to let you keep talking shit about yourself while also not accepting your excuses.

The Morning Pages practice genuinely changed my mental landscape. It turns out that when you pour out all your petty resentments and anxious thought loops onto paper every morning, there’s actually space left over for ideas, wonder, and the quiet voice that says “hey, what if we tried making something today?” I abandoned most of the weekly exercises, but the core practices of Morning Pages have stuck with me for decades now.

Did I become a wildly successful artist? No. But I started writing things again without the crushing weight of “is this good enough?” constantly on my shoulders. I write terrible first drafts. I take blurry photos. Somehow, after years of creative constipation, things are moving again. That’s worth considerably more than the price of the book.

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  Walking to Reduce Anxiety: The Ancient Art of Walking Your Worries Away on the Camino de Santiago
  by Margaretha Montagu
  Why five days on the Camino de Santiago does what three months of therapy cannot — and costs less than your gym membership What This Article Is About (And Whether It’s Worth Your Next Five Minutes) You are probably carrying more than you should be right now. Not in your bag — in your head. …

  Continue reading “Walking to Reduce Anxiety: The Ancient Art of Walking Your Worries Away on the Camino de Santiago”

• 
  Solo Travel for Women Who Are Scared of Solo Travel
  by Margaretha Montagu
  Practical, honest, and occasionally hilarious — a guide to taking the trip you’ve been putting off because no one will come with you The Short Version (For the Busy and Slightly Sceptical) You have wanted to go somewhere wonderful for longer than you care to admit. You have a list somewhere — possibly on your …

  Continue reading “Solo Travel for Women Who Are Scared of Solo Travel”

• 
  How to Maintain a Friendship: Why a Shared Adventure Beats Another Restaurant Dinner
  by Margaretha Montagu
  You’ve been ‘meaning to do something memorable‘ together for years to maintain a friendship. This is the trip that finally counts — and the story you’ll still be telling at 80. What This Article Is About Somewhere in your life there is a friend — possibly two, possibly three — with whom you have been …

  Continue reading “How to Maintain a Friendship: Why a Shared Adventure Beats Another Restaurant Dinner”

• 
  The Camino de Santiago for Sceptics: Do You Have to Be Religious to Walk the Camino?
  by Margaretha Montagu
  You don’t need to be religious, mystical, or even particularly outdoorsy. But something happens on the Camino that even the most committed cynic finds hard to explain. What This Article Is About This article is specifically for you if you have heard about the Camino de Santiago, felt a flicker of something that might generously …

  Continue reading “The Camino de Santiago for Sceptics: Do You Have to Be Religious to Walk the Camino?”

• 
  Solo Travel for Women Who Are Scared of Solo Travel
  by Margaretha Montagu
  Practical, honest, and occasionally hilarious — a solo travel guide to taking the trip you’ve been putting off because no one will come with you What This Article Is About You have a list. You’ve had it for years. It lives somewhere between your to-do app and your heart, and near the top of it …

  Continue reading “Solo Travel for Women Who Are Scared of Solo Travel”

Book Review Disclaimer

These book reviews represent my personal reading experience and interpretation. Your mileage may vary—and that’s not only okay, it’s expected.

What these reviews are:

• One reader’s honest take on books that made me think, feel, or occasionally throw things across the room
• A blend of summary, analysis, and subjective response
• An attempt to help you decide if a book is worth your time and money
• Written with warmth, wit, and the occasional tangent

What these reviews are not:

• Professional literary criticism or academic analysis
• Comprehensive summaries of every concept in the book
• A substitute for reading the actual book (though sometimes they might save you the trouble)
• Sponsored content—I buy my own books and all opinions are genuinely mine

About Self-Help Books Specifically

• These reviews discuss psychological concepts as they appear in books, not as professional advice
• If you’re struggling with mental health issues, please seek support from qualified professionals
• Books can be powerful tools for self-reflection, but they’re not replacements for therapy
• I bring my own background, experiences, and biases to every book I read. I do my best to recognise when my perspective might limit my understanding, but I’m sure I miss things. If you notice gaps in my perspective or feel I’ve misrepresented something, I’m always open to thoughtful discussion.

About recommendations:

• When I suggest a book might help with certain issues, I’m sharing what resonated with me—not making clinical recommendations
• Everyone’s healing journey is different; what works for one person may not work for another
• Some books can be triggering or emotionally difficult—please practice self-care in your reading choices

I don’t use affiliate links.

Copyright and Fair Use

Reviews may include brief descriptions of concepts and ideas from books, but I never reproduce substantial excerpts or copyrighted material. All paraphrasing is in my own words. If you’re the author or publisher and have concerns about a review, please contact me at margarethamontagu@gmail.com

The Bottom Line

These reviews are written in good faith to foster conversation about books and ideas. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t, and always apply your own judgment about what you choose to read.

You Don’t Owe Anyone Your Story: Why Privacy Matters During Major Life Changes

What This Is: Permission to protect your tender, transforming self from well-meaning interrogators, social media pressure, and the exhausting expectation that you owe everyone an explanation. This is about choosing wisely who gets access to your unfinished story.

What This Isn’t: Advice to become a hermit, cut everyone off, or hide under your bed. This isn’t about secrecy, isolation, or pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t.

Read This If: You’re tired of fielding invasive questions, you’ve been oversharing out of obligation, or you’re wondering why you feel worse after “updating” people about your divorce, illness, job loss, or other major life shift.

5 Key Takeaways

1. Privacy creates the psychological space needed for authentic transformation – constant explanation keeps you stuck in the past rather than writing the next chapter.
2. You’re not obliged to satisfy others’ curiosity – their discomfort with your silence is not your emergency to solve.
3. Selective sharing with trusted friends deepens genuine connection – whilst broadcasting to everyone dilutes your energy and invites unhelpful input.
4. Protecting your privacy isn’t the same as hiding – it’s a strategic choice that honours the sacred work of rebuilding.
5. The right people will respect your boundaries – and those who don’t are showing you exactly who shouldn’t have a front-row seat to your next chapter.

Introduction: The Questions That Corner You

You’re in the supermarket queue, mentally calculating whether you have enough energy to cook tonight, when someone from your old life spots you. Their face lights up with that particular mix of curiosity and concern that makes your stomach drop. “So,” they say, leaning in, “how are you? I heard about… everything.”

If you’re over 40/50/60 and navigating a major life transition—divorce, redundancy, illness, loss, an identity shift that’s shifted your world sideways—you know this moment intimately. The expectation hangs in the air like humidity before a storm. They want the story. The details. The drama. And somehow, you’re supposed to package your messy, unfinished transformation into a tidy two-minute update whilst your frozen peas defrost.

You don’t have to do that.

Not with colleagues. Not with distant relatives. Not with Facebook friends or the yoga instructor or your neighbour who “just wants to check in.” You are allowed—gloriously, unapologetically allowed—to keep your private life private.

This isn’t about shame or secrecy. It’s about something far more valuable: protecting the tender, uncertain space where real change happens. It’s about recognising that your life transition isn’t a spectator sport, and that the people who truly love you will respect the boundaries you set.

What you’re feeling right now—the exhaustion of explaining, the resentment of intrusive questions, the guilt when you don’t want to share—is completely normal. You’re not being difficult or closed off. You’re being wise. And by the end of this article, you’ll understand why privacy isn’t just acceptable during major life changes; it’s essential.

You’ll gain clarity on who deserves your trust, strategies for protecting your energy, and permission to build your next chapter without a live studio audience. Because the truth is, the most profound transformations happen in the quiet spaces we guard carefully.

Sarah Mitchell’s Story: The Woman Who Learned to Close the Door

Sarah Mitchell had always been an open book. As a secondary school teacher and mother of three, she prided herself on her transparency. “I’m an authentic person,” she’d say, posting candid updates about parenting struggles, marriage challenges, even her mother’s dementia on social media. Her friends called her brave. Her followers called her relatable.

So when her 22-year marriage ended—not with betrayal or drama, but with the quiet, mutual acknowledgement that they’d become strangers who happened to share a mortgage—Sarah did what she’d always done. She shared.

She posted about it on Facebook (a thoughtful, mature announcement). She told her book club the whole story over Pinot Grigio. She explained the details to concerned parents at the school gate, to the hairdresser, to her dentist. Within three weeks, she’d told the story of her marriage’s ending perhaps forty times, each retelling a performance that left her more depleted than the last.

The breaking point came on a Sunday evening. Sarah sat in her newly rented flat—the one that still smelled of paint—and realised she couldn’t remember what she actually felt about her divorce. She’d been so busy narrating it, explaining it, reassuring everyone else that she was “fine, really,” that she’d lost touch with her own experience. The story had calcified before she’d had a chance to understand it.

That night, something shifted. She could taste the metallic anxiety in her mouth, feel the weight of expectation pressing on her chest like a sandbag. The next morning, when a colleague cornered her in the staffroom with “So, tell me everything,” Sarah heard herself say, “Thank you for asking, but I’m keeping things private whilst I figure it out.”

The colleague’s face flickered with surprise, then—was it disappointment? But Sarah felt something else entirely: relief flooding through her body like cool water.

She began practising what she came to call “strategic silence.” When her sister pressed for updates, Sarah said, “I’ll share when I’m ready.” When a Facebook friend messaged asking for “the real story,” she didn’t respond. She stopped posting altogether. The silence felt strange at first, like wearing someone else’s clothes. But gradually, it began to fit.

Within that protected space, Sarah discovered something remarkable. Without the constant obligation to explain herself, she could actually feel what was happening to her. The grief came—properly, messily. So did the unexpected moments of lightness. She started swimming at dawn, the chlorine sharp in her nostrils, the rhythm of her breath the only story she needed to tell. She filled notebooks with thoughts she’d never share. She had long, meandering conversations with two trusted friends who asked questions not out of curiosity but genuine care.

Six months later, Sarah barely recognized the woman who’d felt obligated to narrate her pain to anyone who asked. She’d learned that privacy wasn’t about hiding; it was about having the space to become someone new without an audience rating the performance. Her next chapter was being written in the margins, away from commentary and advice and the exhausting work of managing other people’s reactions to her life.

“I thought being private meant I was ashamed,” Sarah told me over coffee, her hands wrapped around the mug, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “But actually, it meant I finally had the courage to be honest with myself.”

Why Privacy Matters More Than You Think During Life Transitions

When you’re navigating a major life change, your psyche is doing extraordinarily delicate work. You’re not just dealing with external circumstances—you’re reconstructing your identity, questioning long-held beliefs, and discovering who you are when the old structures fall away. This process requires what psychologists call “psychological space”: room to experiment, fail, contradict yourself, change your mind, and slowly feel your way towards a new version of normal.

Every time you explain your situation to someone, you’re doing several things simultaneously. You’re activating the stress response in your body as you relive the events. You’re managing their emotional reaction (the shock, the pity, the unsolicited advice). You’re editing your experience to fit the social context. And crucially, you’re reinforcing a particular narrative before you’ve had time to truly understand what your story is.

As a GP for over 20 years with a particular interest in stress management, I’ve witnessed countless patients whose healing was complicated—not by their circumstances, but by the exhaustion of constant explanation. The nervous system needs calm to process trauma and transition. It needs predictability and safety. Broadcasting your unfinished story creates the opposite: an environment of vigilance where you’re constantly bracing for others’ reactions.

But here’s what’s even more profound: when you protect your privacy during transitions, you’re not just protecting yourself. You’re creating the conditions for genuine transformation that ripples outward.

The person who guards their healing space carefully becomes more present with their children because they’re not depleted by managing thirty different people’s opinions. They have energy for the friendships that truly matter. They model healthy boundaries, showing others (especially younger women watching and learning) that it’s possible to go through hard things with dignity rather than drama.

In my 15 years hosting transformational retreats on the Camino de Santiago, I’ve observed this pattern repeatedly. The guests who transform most deeply are those who initially resist the urge to text updates to everyone back home. They allow themselves to be unavailable, in process. They write in journals no one will read. They have conversations that stay on the path. And when they return home, they’re changed in ways that those who documented every step never quite achieve.

Your community doesn’t need a blow-by-blow account of your transition. What it needs is the healthier, more integrated version of you that emerges when you’ve had space to actually heal. Your silence now is an investment in the person you’re becoming—someone who knows the difference between authentic vulnerability with safe people and performative oversharing with everyone.

5 Mistakes to Avoid When Protecting Your Privacy

Mistake 1: Confusing Privacy with Secrecy

Privacy is a healthy boundary; secrecy carries shame. You can be private about your divorce without pretending it didn’t happen. You can decline to discuss your illness without lying about it. The difference? Privacy says, “This is happening, and I’m choosing to process it privately.” Secrecy says “I must hide this because there’s something wrong with me.” One is strategic; the other is corrosive. When you catch yourself lying to avoid a conversation, you’ve crossed from privacy into secrecy. Instead, practice the simple truth: “Yes, things are changing for me, and I’m keeping the details private whilst I work through it.”

Mistake 2: Setting Boundaries Without Communication

Simply disappearing creates anxiety in the people who genuinely care about you. Your close friends and family aren’t mind readers. If you’re pulling back to protect your privacy, tell them explicitly. “I’m going through something significant, and I need some space to process it privately. It’s not about you; it’s about what I need right now. I’ll reach out when I’m ready.” This prevents the hurt feelings and misunderstandings that come when loved ones think they’ve done something wrong.

Mistake 3: Treating Everyone the Same

Not all relationships require the same level of boundary. Your best friend of twenty years who’s proven her trustworthiness deserves a different level of access than your colleague who’s essentially a professional acquaintance. Create tiers: inner circle (2-3 trusted people who get the real story), middle circle (people who get basic updates), outer circle (people who get “I’m fine, thanks for asking”). The mistake is either shutting everyone out or letting everyone in equally.

Mistake 4: Apologising for Your Boundaries

“I’m sorry, but I’m not really talking about it right now.” That apology undermines your boundary before you’ve even set it. You’re teaching people that your needs are an inconvenience you’re embarrassed about. Instead: “I’m not discussing the details right now.” Full stop. No apology. You don’t owe a justification for protecting your psychological wellbeing. The people who love you will respect this. The people who don’t… well, that’s information worth having.

Mistake 5: Filling the Silence with Substitutes

When you stop oversharing about your real struggles, there’s a temptation to fill that space with superficial updates—constant posts about your new hobby, your fitness journey, your redecorated flat. This is often a different version of the same problem: performing your life for an audience rather than living it privately. The goal isn’t to replace deep oversharing with shallow oversharing. It’s to reduce the need for external validation altogether and become more comfortable with the quiet, unseen work of transformation.

Intention Setting Exercise: The Circle of Trust

Find a quiet moment and take three deep breaths. On a piece of paper, draw three concentric circles.

In the innermost circle, write the names of 2-3 people who have earned your complete trust. These are people who’ve proven they can hold your story with care, who don’t gossip, who respect boundaries, who can sit with your pain without trying to fix it. These are the only people who get the full, unedited version of your transition.

In the middle circle, write the names of people who care about you but don’t need every detail. These are solid, well-meaning people who deserve to know the basics but not the nuances. They get the “I’m going through changes, here’s the broad outline” version.

In the outer circle, write categories of people rather than names: work colleagues, acquaintances, social media friends, distant relatives. These people get the most basic acknowledgement: “Things are changing, I’m managing, thanks for your concern.”

Now, here’s your intention: “I commit to honouring these boundaries. I will not upgrade people to inner circles they haven’t earned. I will not feel guilty for having these tiers. I will protect my energy by being strategic about who gets access to my unfinished story.”

Keep this paper somewhere private as a reminder that your story is valuable—too valuable to be given to anyone who asks.

Further Reading: 5 Books on Privacy, Boundaries, and Life Transitions

1. “Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life” by Henry Cloud and John Townsend

I’ve recommended this book to hundreds of patients over the years because it elegantly unpacks why boundaries aren’t selfish—they’re essential for healthy relationships. The authors use clear examples to show how setting limits actually creates more authentic connection, not less. For anyone struggling with guilt about protecting their privacy, this book provides both permission and practical tools.

2. “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brené Brown

Brown’s research distinguishes between vulnerability (sharing with people who’ve earned the right to hear your story) and oversharing (using disclosure as a strategy to manage anxiety or seek validation). This distinction is crucial for anyone navigating life transitions. Her work helps you understand why you might be oversharing and how to choose connection over confession.

3. “Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes” by William Bridges

This classic maps the psychological journey through life transitions with remarkable insight. Bridges identifies the “neutral zone”—that uncomfortable in-between space—as where the real transformation happens. Understanding this phase helps you see why privacy is so critical: you can’t rush through the neutral zone, and you can’t do it well with an audience.

4. “The Dance of Connection” by Harriet Lerner

Lerner offers brilliant guidance on staying true to yourself in relationships whilst maintaining connection. Her chapters on managing intrusive questions and protecting yourself from other people’s anxiety are particularly relevant. She helps you understand that setting boundaries is an act of respect—for yourself and for the relationship.

5. “Sacred Rest: Recover Your Life, Renew Your Energy, Restore Your Sanity” by Dr. Saundra Dalton-Smith

This book explores seven types of rest we all need, including “social rest”—the freedom from social obligations and performance. During major life transitions, social rest is often the most depleted resource. Dalton-Smith gives you permission to see privacy not as antisocial behaviour but as essential restoration.

PS: “Embracing Change: In 10 Minutes a Day” by Dr. Margaretha Montagu

My own book offers daily practices designed specifically for people navigating major life transitions. The ten-minute format acknowledges that when you’re in crisis or change, you don’t have hours to dedicate to self-improvement—but you do have moments. Many readers tell me the privacy-focused exercises were particularly transformative in helping them create space for authentic healing. Available here

A Voice from the Circle

“I joined Dr. Montagu’s virtual storytelling circle as part of the Purpose Pivot Protocol online course, thinking I needed to ‘share my story’ to heal from my divorce. What I discovered was the opposite. In our small, trusted group of five women, I learned the difference between sharing with strangers for validation and sharing with the right people for connection. The storytelling exercises taught me how to honour my experience without broadcasting it. For the first time in eighteen months, I felt permission to keep parts of my journey just for me. The circle didn’t push me to reveal everything—they created space for me to discover what was truly mine to keep and what was ready to be shared. That discernment changed everything about how I’m approaching my next chapter.”
— Emma, Manchester, Age 47

5 FAQs: What People Are Really Asking About Privacy During Life Transitions

How do I handle people who say “I’m just worried about you” when I set boundaries?

Recognize this for what it often is: anxiety disguised as care. Respond with warmth but firmness: “I appreciate your concern. The best way to support me right now is to respect that I’m processing things privately. I promise I’ll reach out if I need help.” Their worry doesn’t obligate you to manage their feelings by giving them access they haven’t earned.

What if keeping quiet makes people think I’m ashamed of what happened?

This fear is common, particularly for women who’ve been socialised to believe that silence equals shame. Here’s the truth: the people who matter know the difference. Your dignity speaks louder than any explanation. And frankly, what people speculate about in your absence says far more about them than about you. Focus on your healing, not their misinterpretations.

How much should I share on social media during a major life change?

Consider this guideline: only post what you’d be comfortable with a future employer, your children, or a stranger reading five years from now. Social media creates a permanent record of your most temporary feelings. During transitions, emotions are volatile. The angry post you make at 2am, the cryptic quote you share, the photo meant to show you’re “fine”—these often complicate your healing rather than support it. When in doubt, stay silent online.

What about people who helped me through hard times? Don’t I owe them updates?

Gratitude doesn’t equal obligation. You can thank someone sincerely for their past support whilst still maintaining boundaries now. “You were such a help when Mum died. I’m so grateful. Right now, I need to work through this next thing more privately, but please know your kindness hasn’t been forgotten.” True supporters will understand. Those who get offended were helping for the wrong reasons anyway.

How long should I keep things private? When do I “go public” with my new chapter?

You’ll know. There’s a felt sense when a story shifts from raw and unfinished to integrated and yours to share. Generally, wait until you can talk about it without your nervous system activating, without needing validation, and without editing for your audience’s comfort. This might be three months or three years. Trust your gut, not the calendar. And remember: you never have to “go public” in any formal sense. Your life isn’t a press conference.

Conclusion: The Quiet Courage of Guarding What Matters

There’s a particular kind of bravery that our culture rarely celebrates: the courage to be unknown, to move through transformation without fanfare, to resist the constant pressure to explain yourself. This isn’t the loud, public courage of grand gestures. It’s the quiet, private courage of saying “This is mine to hold for now.”

When you’re navigating a major life transition, every ounce of energy matters. Every conversation you don’t have to have is energy reclaimed for your actual healing. Every boundary you set is a small act of self-respect that compounds over time. Every time you resist the urge to overshare, you’re choosing depth over breadth, quality over quantity, genuine transformation over performed recovery.

You are allowed to be a mystery, even to people who think they deserve your story. You are allowed to close the door on curiosity that isn’t rooted in genuine care. You are allowed to save your words for the two or three people who’ve proven they can hold them safely. This isn’t cold; it’s wise. This isn’t closed; it’s boundaried. This isn’t hiding; it’s growing.

Your next chapter deserves to be written without a live studio audience offering commentary on every sentence. It deserves the sacred space of privacy, where you can try on new versions of yourself, make mistakes, change direction, and slowly discover who you’re becoming when the old story falls away.

As Bruce Schneier says: “Privacy is an inherent human right, and a requirement for maintaining the human condition with dignity and respect.” – the kind of privacy that lets something new grow without being scrutinised.

You don’t owe anyone the unfinished chapters. Keep them close. Guard them carefully. Share them only when you’re ready, only with those who’ve earned the right to hear them. This is how transformation happens—quietly, privately, one protected moment at a time.

Walk Your Way to Clarity: The Camino Crossroads Retreat

Sometimes the most profound way to create private space for transformation is to physically remove yourself from the demands of daily life. My 7-day Camino de Santiago Crossroads hiking retreats in the southwest of France offer exactly this: a held, intentional space where you can process major life transitions without the pressure to explain yourself to anyone back home.

These aren’t typical wellness retreats with packed schedules and constant group activities. Instead, you walk short sections of the ancient Camino—your body finding its rhythm, your mind slowly quieting, your heart beginning to unpack what it’s been carrying. The landscape holds you. The silence restores you. And in our evening storytelling circles with my Friesian horses (whose non-judgmental presence has a way of unlocking things words alone can’t reach), you practice sharing your story with a small group of fellow travellers who understand the value of privacy and trust.

This retreat is specifically designed for people navigating crossroads moments—divorce, empty nests, loss, career changes, identity transitions—who need to step away from the questions, the pressure, the constant explaining. You’ll learn to distinguish between isolation and sacred solitude, between secrecy and healthy privacy. You’ll return home with clarity about who deserves access to your unfolding story and the confidence to protect the space your next chapter needs to emerge.

Discover the Camino Crossroads Retreat

A question for reflection: What would become possible for you if you gave yourself permission to keep the next six months of your life transformation completely private from everyone except your most trusted friends? What might emerge in that protected space?

Ready to gain clarity on your next chapter? Take my Turning Point Quiz to discover where you are in your life transition and what specific support might serve you best right now.

What Life Lessons Can You Learn While Walking the Camino de Santiago? – a free guide filled with 10 not just “quaint anecdotes” or Instagram-worthy moments (though there are plenty of those) but real transformations from real people who walked this insight-giving trail – Subscribe to my monthly newsletter to Download the Guide

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“I am an experienced medical doctor – MBChB, MRCGP, NLP master pract cert, Transformational Life Coach (dip.) Life Story Coach (cert.) Stress Counselling (cert.) Med Hypnotherapy (dip.) and EAGALA (cert.) I may have an impressive number of letters after my name, and more than three decades of professional experience, but what qualifies me to excel at what I do is my intuitive understanding of my clients’ difficulties and my extensive personal experience of managing major life changes using strategies I developed over many years.” Dr M Montagu

Research

Petelka J, Van Kleunen L, Albright L, Murnane E, Voida S, Snyder J. Being (In)Visible: Privacy, Transparency, and Disclosure in the Self-Management of Bipolar Disorder. Proc SIGCHI Conf Hum Factor Comput Syst. 2020 Apr;2020:10.1145/3313831.3376573. 

Ben Zefeng Zhang, Tianxiao Liu, Shanley Corvite, Nazanin Andalibi, and Oliver L. Haimson. 2022. Separate Online Networks During Life Transitions: Support, Identity, and Challenges in Social Media and Online Communities. Proc. ACM Hum.-Comput. Interact. 6, CSCW2, Article 458 (November 2022), 30 pages.

18 months ago, I wrote the post below (see extract).

At the time, I asked my faithful newsletter readers for advice, as I wanted to amalgamate all my different retreats into one signature retreat. They replied, “You do you.” In that post, I looked at what “You do you” means to me. Again and again, I came back to what I believe I’m best at: helping people through difficult life transitions like career changes, divorce, relocation, menopause, empty nest syndrome, loss of a spouse/friend (including 4-legged ones) or family member, retirement, starting a business, getting used to living alone, facing health issues etc. I have been through many life changes and learned a bit more about coping with the stress generated each time. I remain convinced that:

“Change can be exhilarating, intimidating, overwhelming, challenging, or liberating, depending on your perspective. Changing your perspective can positively influence your ability to cope with change, whether voluntary or involuntary.” Dr Margaretha Montagu

More Time For Change Quotes

What anchors me during times of change is:

• Spending time in Nature, preferably while walking – the Camino de Santiago is easily accessible from here, but sitting in my courtyard watching the sun come up with a cup of coffee to hand is pure bliss too.
• Spending time with my horses, even watching them chomp away at their hay makes me happy. What makes me happiest is when they help my guests master stress-eradicating coping strategies.
• Reading – I am unashamedly addicted to historical murder mysteries in English, French or, on occasion, Dutch.
• Writing – I am a devoted daily gratitude journaler, a member of 2 writing groups and I am a productive writer of articles, stories (mostly about dragons,) courses and books.
• Giving my time to a charity – the one I spend most time supporting has irresistible side benefits – it sells vintage clothes, shoes, books and bric-a-brac.
• Looking after myself mentally, physically and spiritually. I have managed to slow the progression of my eye disease by eating healthily and sticking to intermittent fasting for nearly 5 years now.
• Spending time with my friends, good food, good wine, good company and all that – but what I especially love is sharing my house, my little farm, and Gascony, the awesome region where I am blessed to live, with them.

As I gradually transitioned from hosting a variety of shorter retreats into one signature longer-but-less-frequent retreat, these anchors held my little boat steady. The result is:

18 months ago, I grabbed the bull by the horns and decided that if I changed nothing, nothing would change. Keeping in mind that what I also want for my retreat guests, more than anything else, is time to relax, rest and recharge their batteries, in their own good time, at their own pace, spend time with my Friesians and Falabella horses and reconnect with Nature in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, I created the Camino de Santiago Crossroads retreat. Initially named the From Troubled to Triumphant retreat, it is structured in such a way that my guests will want to come back year after year for their reconnect-and-reset fix, to spend one blissful week in an as-familiar-as-a-favourite-winter-cardigan sanctuary, lightyears away from the overwhelming demands of their personal and professional lives.

I did not have that much of a choice because my eye problems were getting worse again, and it became clear that I would not be able to offer retreats as frequently as I did before.

Looking back over this year, a year of transition, I am more or less satisfied with what I have achieved. I started offering my 7-day signature retreats, and I have met the most awesome people. I have learned loads from them and changed the retreats accordingly. I knew I would not be able to make a clean break from 5-day to less frequent 7-day retreats, so I still do the reading retreats (I just love them), the writing retreats (ditto) and the Camino appetiser retreats.

Next year?

A slight shift of focus. The spotlight will now be more on “starting a new chapter” than “surviving a life quake”, and I’m launching my courses-with-coaching as an online alternative to my retreats – in this mind-bending, new AI-altered world.

I miss the one-on-one conversations with patients that characterised my working life as a medical doctor, so this is a looking-forward change as much as a reviving-the-past change.

These 18 months of transition have taught me that courage isn’t about making one big, dramatic leap. It’s about showing up each day, even when you’re not sure it’s working. It’s about trusting that small, consistent steps in the direction of your values will eventually get you where you need to be.

I’ve learned that:

• Change requires both structure and flexibility. I had a clear vision for my signature retreat, but I also had to remain open to feedback and adapt as I went along. The retreats I run now are better because I listened to my guests and made changes accordingly.
• You can’t rush change. Letting go of the way things were – even when you’re excited about what’s coming – takes time. I had to let go of offering retreats as frequently as I did before, even whilst celebrating the new rhythm that protects my health and energy.
• Your anchors matter more during transitions than at any other time. Those daily walks, time with the horses, gratitude journaling, and connection with friends weren’t luxuries – they were lifelines. They reminded me who I am when everything else felt uncertain.
• Sometimes the best changes are forced upon us. I didn’t choose deteriorating eyesight, but it forced me to create something more sustainable and, ultimately, more aligned with how I want to live and work.

Why this matters

Perhaps you’re reading this because you’re standing at your own crossroads, wondering if you have the courage to make a change. Maybe you’re exhausted by a job that no longer fits, a relationship that’s run its course, or a version of yourself that feels too small. Or perhaps, like me, circumstances beyond your control are pushing you towards a change you didn’t ask for.

You don’t need to have it all figured out before you start, you know. You don’t need to make the perfect plan or wait until you feel “ready”. You just need to take one small, decisive step in the direction of the life you long for.

That might mean:

• Having one conversation with someone who’s made a similar change
• Blocking out one hour this week to dream about what could be different
• Setting one small boundary with something that’s draining you
• Saying “yes” to something that scares you a little but excites you more

The courage to change grows as you use it. Each small act of bravery makes the next one a bit easier.

Conclusion:

If I could go back 18 months and whisper something to myself at the start of this transition, I’d say: “Trust the process. Trust your anchors. Trust that even when it feels messy and uncertain, you’re moving in the right direction.”

Change is rarely neat or linear. There will be days when you question everything, days when you want to retreat to the familiar, and days when you feel utterly lost. But there will also be days – more than you expect – when you catch yourself thinking, “Yes. This is it. This is what I was meant to do.”

My Camino de Santiago Crossroads retreat exists because I found the courage to change. It exists because I listened to the whisper that said, “If you change nothing, nothing will change.” And it exists because I believed that creating something more sustainable and aligned with my values was worth the uncertainty and discomfort of transition.

Now, I want to create spaces – both in-person and online – where others can find their own courage to change. Where you can rest, reflect, and reconnect with what matters most. Where you can figure out what “you do you” means for your life, right now, in this season.

Because you deserve a life that fits who you’re becoming, not just who you’ve been.