Why Decluttering Can Be Dangerous During Major Life Upheavals

What this is: A frank, compassionate exploration of why the popular advice to “declutter your life” during major transitions can backfire spectacularly, leaving you grieving not just your circumstances but also the irreplaceable pieces of yourself you discarded in haste.

What this isn’t: An anti-decluttering manifesto or permission to hoard. This isn’t about keeping everything. It’s about understanding the profound difference between clearing space and erasing identity.

Read this if: You’re navigating divorce, bereavement, illness, career change, or any significant life transition and everyone keeps telling you to “let go” and “start fresh.” Read this especially if you’ve already thrown something away and can’t shake the gnawing feeling that you’ve made a terrible mistake.

Five Key Takeaways

1. Identity erosion happens faster than you think. During major transitions, our sense of self becomes fragile. That box of old business cards isn’t clutter, it’s proof you once knew exactly who you were.

2. Grief hijacks decision-making. Research shows that merged self-identity following bereavement is a stronger predictor of prolonged grief than pre-loss identity, suggesting we’re particularly vulnerable when processing loss.

3. Memory isn’t as reliable as mementoes. In crisis, our brains prioritise survival over preservation. Photographs, letters, and “unnecessary” objects serve as external hard drives for experiences that stress threatens to delete.

4. Regret compounds grief. The acute pain of divorce or job loss is difficult enough. Add the regret of discarding your grandmother’s tea set in a purge frenzy, and you’ve created a second, entirely preventable loss.

5. “Starting fresh” is a myth. You cannot build a meaningful future by severing all connections to your past. Integration, not obliteration, is the path to sustainable change.

Decluttering can dramatically increase your Stress Levels

Do you realise that major life transitions make terrible backdrops for decision-making?

Yet there you are, life in tatters, and everyone from your well-meaning sister to that minimalism influencer you follow is cheerfully suggesting you “clear the clutter” and “make space for what’s coming.” Marie Kondo wants you to thank each item for its service before tossing it. Pinterest boards promise that a decluttered home equals a decluttered mind. Self-help books insist that holding onto your past prevents you from embracing your future.

It all sounds so reasonable, so empowering, so… necessary.

Until you’re standing in your garage at 2 AM, holding your deceased father’s worn leather briefcase, and realising you donated his reading glasses to charity three days ago. Now you’ll never again see the world through the lenses that witnessed your childhood, that magnified the bedtime stories he read, that reflected his proud tears at your graduation.

They’re gone. And no amount of “space” can fill that particular void.

During major life upheavals, divorce, bereavement, unexpected illness, career implosion, decluttering isn’t just risky. It can be dangerous. Not to your physical safety, but to something arguably more precious: your sense of continuity, your connection to who you’ve been, and your ability to integrate loss without compounding it with regret.

The Story of Catherine Brennan: A Purposeless Fresh Start

Catherine Brennan had always prided herself on efficiency. As Chief Operating Officer of a mid-sized pharmaceutical company, she’d built a career on making tough calls quickly. Analyse. Decide. Execute. Move forward.

So when her husband of twenty-three years announced over a Tuesday breakfast that he’d been having an affair and wanted a divorce, Catherine did what she’d always done: she made a plan.

By that weekend, she’d hired a solicitor, opened a separate bank account, and started sorting through two decades of shared possessions. The house felt like a museum of a life that no longer existed, each room crowded with artifacts of a marriage that turned out to be fiction. Or so it felt.

The wedding china had to go, obviously. She’d never liked that pattern anyway; his mother had chosen it. She pulled it from the cupboard with grim satisfaction, each piece wrapped and boxed for charity. The silver photo frames, wedding gifts from colleagues whose names she could barely remember, followed into the donation pile. She was efficient about it. Methodical. By Sunday evening, four boxes sat by the front door, and Catherine felt, for the first time since Tuesday, like she could breathe.

Monday brought a recycling frenzy. Those stacks of birthday cards he’d given her over the years, the ones with generic messages and his barely legible signature, into the bin. The ticket stubs from concerts and plays, evidence of evenings she now suspected he’d spent wishing he was elsewhere, gone. By Wednesday, she’d cleared three shelves in the study, creating what one magazine article called “space for your authentic life.”

The smell of lemon cleaning solution became her companion. The sound of things being dragged to the curb, a rhythm she found strangely soothing. Her friend Sarah stopped by with wine and words of encouragement: “This is so healthy, Cath. You’re not letting him take up any more of your life.”

It felt like progress. It felt like control. It felt, Catherine told herself, like healing.

But three weeks later, sitting in her newly spacious, achingly quiet living room, Catherine reached for the small wooden box where she’d always kept her mother’s letters. Her mother, who’d died five years earlier from pancreatic cancer. The woman who’d been her anchor, her adviser, her safe harbour.

The box was empty.

Catherine’s hands trembled as she searched the shelf, then the cupboard, then the entire study. She’d been so systematic in her purge that she’d lost track of what was his and what was hers, what was “before” and what was essential. In her determination to erase the marriage, she’d somehow erased her mother too.

The letters had been stored in a larger box with greeting cards. The birthday cards from him, yes, but also cards from her mother, written in that distinctive slanting handwriting, each one containing small observations about the garden, questions about work, and always, always, those three words at the end: “You are loved.”

Catherine had thrown them all away. The physical objects that carried her mother’s voice, her touch, the weight of her pen on paper, gone. Collected by the council on Thursday morning. Compacted somewhere in a landfill by now.

She called Sarah, voice breaking. “I threw away my mum’s letters. I threw them away.” Sarah tried to comfort her: “But you remember what they said, right? The important things?”

No. Catherine couldn’t remember. Under the weight of divorce and betrayal, under the driving need to purge and cleanse and start fresh, she’d forgotten that memory is unreliable, that stress corrodes our ability to recall, that sometimes we need external anchors to hold onto who we were before the crisis tried to redefine us.

The irony was excruciating. She’d been trying to reclaim her identity, but in the process, she’d erased evidence of the person who’d most shaped it. Her mother’s words, her mother’s love, tangible proof that before she was a woman getting divorced, she’d been a daughter, deeply cherished.

Catherine sat on her pristine, uncluttered floor and wept for a loss that was entirely, devastatingly preventable. The divorce had destroyed her marriage. Her own hands had thrown away her history.

Why Do We Declutter When We Should Be Deliberating?

Identity loss is defined as a state of confusion or uncertainty about your sense of self, often caused by major life changes such as retirement, job loss, divorce, or death of a loved one. When our identity fractures, we instinctively reach for control wherever we can find it. Enter: decluttering.

Physical spaces, unlike grief or unemployment or illness, can be controlled. You can’t fix a broken marriage, but you can definitely clear out a wardrobe. You can’t resurrect your old job, but you can create the illusion of forward momentum by hiring a skip. It’s action when we feel paralysed. It’s visible progress when everything else feels stagnant.

The problem is that decluttering during acute grief or crisis isn’t really about creating space. It’s about trying to outrun pain.

Consider the psychological mechanics at play:

The Cognitive Load of Transition

Major life changes devour mental resources. Your brain, busy processing loss and recalibrating your entire worldview, has precious little capacity left for nuanced decision-making. Research into midlife transitions suggests that when multiple disruptions occur simultaneously, such as ageing parents, illness, divorce, job setbacks, or new opportunities, it becomes easy to feel overwhelmed. This is precisely when we make our worst choices about what to keep and what to discard.

The Illusion of Catharsis

Throwing things away feels powerful. Each bag dragged to the curb seems to lighten the load. But this catharsis is temporary. While we may temporarily bypass grief by focusing on something else, dismissing or minimizing it as less important, grief will inevitably resurface later. You haven’t processed the pain; you’ve just distracted yourself from it.

The Identity Confusion Trap

Significant grief and loss can impact our very sense of identity, how we define who we are, making us feel as if the person we once were is lost and the person facing us in the mirror is a stranger. When you no longer recognise yourself, every object becomes suspect. That framed degree on the wall? It belongs to the person who had that career. Those family photos? They’re from when you were someone’s spouse, someone’s child, someone who believed the future was secure.

In this state, we don’t declutter to simplify. We declutter to escape. And in our escape, we abandon pieces of ourselves we’ll desperately need later.

The Permanence Problem

Here’s the cruelest aspect: life transitions eventually stabilise. The acute phase of grief subsides. Your brain regains its capacity for complex thought. You begin to integrate your loss and construct a new sense of self.

And that’s precisely when you’ll need the things you threw away.

You’ll want to show your new partner the photos from your backpacking trip through Asia, proof that you were once young and adventurous and unbroken. You’ll need that portfolio of your old designs to remember that creativity existed before the redundancy destroyed your confidence. You’ll search for your late spouse’s handwriting because, now that the numbness has faded, you’re desperate for any tangible connection to the person they were.

But those items are gone. And unlike the psychological wounds that time can heal, physical objects, once discarded, are irretrievable.

The False Promise of “Starting Fresh”

Our culture worships reinvention. Every lifestyle magazine, every social media influencer, every well-intentioned friend suggests that major life transitions offer opportunities to “start fresh,” to “become the person you’ve always wanted to be,” to “let go of the past.”

This is largely nonsense.

You are not a blank slate. You cannot erase forty, fifty, or sixty years of experiences and relationships and simply begin again as someone entirely different. Nor should you want to. Those experiences, even the painful ones, are the raw materials of wisdom. Those relationships, even the ones that ended, taught you how to love, how to trust, how to recover.

Integration, not obliteration, is how humans successfully navigate transition. We take what was, acknowledge what is, and slowly construct what might be. This requires keeping enough of your history to maintain continuity of self.

What Happens in Your Brain During Major Transitions

From a neurological perspective, stress and grief hijack your prefrontal cortex, the part of your brain responsible for executive function, planning, and rational decision-making. Meanwhile, your amygdala, the brain’s threat detection system, goes into overdrive.

The result? You’re operating from a place of hypervigilance and survival, not wisdom and discernment. This is precisely the wrong state for making permanent decisions about what to keep and what to discard.

Add to this the way trauma impacts memory. During periods of extreme stress, your hippocampus, crucial for memory formation and retrieval, functions less effectively. This means your ability to recall the significance of certain objects, to accurately assess their emotional value, is compromised.

Six months from now, when your brain has recovered, you’ll remember. But by then, it will be too late.

The Ripple Effect: How Personal Loss Becomes Communal Loss

Catherine’s story doesn’t end with her own regret. It extends outward, touching her adult daughter Emma, who’d been counting on inheriting those letters from the grandmother she adored. It affects her sister, who’d hoped to someday share memories of their mother’s wisdom through those written words.

When we declutter our history during crisis, we’re not just erasing our own memories. We’re severing threads that connect us to our communities, our families, our shared stories.

Your mother’s recipe cards, scribbled in her handwriting with notes in the margins (“Add extra vanilla,” “Perfect for Christmas”), aren’t just yours. They belong to your children, who’ll someday want to cook the meals that defined their childhood. They belong to your grandchildren, who won’t remember your mother but who deserve evidence that she existed, that she contributed, that her hands created things that nourished people she loved.

The photographs from your old workplace aren’t merely professional mementoes. They’re historical documents of projects completed, problems solved, collaborations forged. They’re proof to younger colleagues that this industry existed before they arrived, that others grappled with similar challenges and found solutions.

Your late spouse’s clothing, which everyone insists you “should” donate after a “reasonable” period, carries their scent, their presence. Your children might need to bury their faces in those jumpers years from now, seeking comfort when their own losses arise.

We are not isolated individuals decluttering isolated spaces. We are custodians of collective memory, holders of family history, keepers of stories that matter beyond our own lives.

This doesn’t mean keeping everything. It means recognising that during major transitions, we’re particularly ill-equipped to judge what future generations might treasure. Better to err on the side of preservation during the acute phase, then reassess when our brains have recovered.

An Empowering Action Plan: Decluttering Safely During Life Crises

If you’re navigating a major life transition and feeling the pressure (internal or external) to declutter, here’s how to protect yourself from regret whilst still creating the space you need:

1. Implement the Six-Month Rule

Nothing that’s potentially irreplaceable gets discarded for six months after your life-changing event. Full stop. This includes:

• Photographs and family documents
• Handwritten letters and cards
• Items that belonged to someone who’s died
• Objects that marked significant achievements or life milestones
• Anything you’re unsure about

This isn’t procrastination. It’s wisdom. Six months gives your brain time to recover from acute stress and allows you to make decisions from a place of clarity rather than crisis.

2. Create a “Maybe Box” System

For items you’re genuinely uncertain about, create a middle ground:

• Use clearly labelled plastic storage boxes
• Include an inventory list inside each box
• Date them
• Store them somewhere accessible but out of daily sight
• Review them after six months, then again at one year

This method honours your need to create physical space without forcing permanent decisions during temporary chaos.

3. Prioritise Categories, Not Blanket Purges

Instead of “clearing out the house,” focus on specific, low-risk categories:

• Duplicate kitchen items
• Clothing that genuinely no longer fits (but photograph sentimental pieces before donating)
• Expired products
• Broken items beyond repair
• Mass-market books you’ll never reread

Leave the emotionally charged categories, photographs, letters, mementoes, meaningful gifts, until your brain has recovered.

4. Digitise Before Discarding

For paper items taking up space:

• Photograph or scan documents, letters, children’s artwork
• Create organised digital folders
• Back up to cloud storage AND external hard drive
• Only then consider discarding the physical items
• But keep handwritten items; they carry irreplaceable elements

5. Involve a Trusted “Historian”

Ask someone who loves you but isn’t in crisis to serve as a second opinion. This person’s role:

• Reviews your discard pile before it leaves the house
• Asks gentle questions: “Tell me about this?” “Are you sure?”
• Rescues items you might regret later
• Doesn’t judge or interfere, simply witnesses and occasionally intervenes

This person should not be going through the same transition as you. They need clarity you currently lack.

6. Keep a “Decluttering Journal”

Before discarding anything significant, write down:

• What the item is
• Why you’re getting rid of it
• How you feel about it now
• Any reservations you have

If regret emerges later, this journal helps you understand your state of mind during the decision. Often, simply articulating your reasoning prevents hasty choices.

7. Question the “Should” Voices

Every time you think “I should get rid of this,” pause and ask:

• Says who?
• Based on what criteria?
• Am I acting from my own values or someone else’s expectations?
• Is this genuinely about the object or about trying to control my pain?

8. Recognise Grief-Driven Decisions

Learn to identify when you’re decluttering from grief rather than genuine need:

• You’re working frantically, barely stopping to evaluate items
• You’re crying whilst you sort
• You feel compelled to finish quickly
• You’re not sleeping properly
• Friends express concern about your pace

If any of these apply, stop. Make tea. Ring someone who loves you. Come back to the task when you’re calmer.

9. Preserve Identity Anchors

Keep items that remind you who you were before the crisis:

• Professional achievements from the career you lost
• Photos from the marriage that ended (yes, really)
• Objects that reflect hobbies or passions you’ve abandoned
• Evidence of the person you were before illness or loss

These aren’t about living in the past. They’re about maintaining continuity of identity, proving to yourself that this crisis, however devastating, is not the entirety of your story.

10. Build in Reversibility Where Possible

• Offer items to family members before donating (they might return them later)
• Consign rather than donate valuable pieces
• Use charity shops that allow you to buy items back
• Photograph everything before it leaves

This isn’t about hoarding or indecision. It’s about acknowledging that your judgment is temporarily impaired and building in safety nets.

Further Reading: The Kindness of Books

1. “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessel van der Kolk Why: This groundbreaking work explains how trauma affects our brain’s capacity for decision-making and memory, helping you understand why you might be making choices during crisis that you’ll later question. Van der Kolk’s research illuminates why stress makes us particularly vulnerable to regrettable decisions.

2. “Option B: Facing Adversity, Building Resilience, and Finding Joy” by Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant Why: Sandberg’s raw account of navigating widowhood includes honest discussions about which possessions to keep and which to release. She addresses the complexity of physical objects that carry emotional weight and offers nuanced guidance that acknowledges both practical and psychological needs.

3. “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Joan Didion Why: Didion’s unflinching memoir about her husband’s sudden death includes a powerful section about being unable to give away his shoes, because “he would need them when he came back.” This captures the irrational yet entirely human relationship we have with objects during acute grief.

4. “Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes” by William Bridges Why: Bridges distinguishes between change (external circumstance) and transition (internal reorientation). This framework helps you understand why decluttering might feel necessary but also why it can derail the psychological work of transition. His “neutral zone” concept is particularly relevant for understanding the danger period for regrettable decisions.

5. “The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters” by Priya Parker Why: Though ostensibly about hosting events, Parker’s work illuminates how physical spaces and objects hold meaning within our communities. Her insights about “generous authority” apply beautifully to becoming a thoughtful curator of your possessions rather than an indiscriminate purger.

PS: My own book, “Embracing Change – in 10 minutes a day,” offers practical, gentle exercises for navigating major transitions without compounding your losses. It’s designed for busy professionals who need actionable strategies, not lengthy philosophy, for the overwhelming moments when life demands more than you think you can give.

Real Voices: Testimonials from Those Who’ve Been Down This Road

From Sarah M., participant in Dr Montagu’s Camino de Santiago stress management retreat:

“I arrived in France six months after my divorce, having systematically erased every trace of my twenty-year marriage from my home. I thought I was being strong. Dr Montagu, in her gentle but unflinchingly honest way, helped me see I was actually being self-destructive. During our talks in the Gers countryside, she shared her own experiences of loss and the importance of holding onto threads of continuity, even painful ones. By the retreat’s end, I’d started to grieve not just my marriage but also the photograph albums, the love letters, the mementoes I’d thrown away in my purge. Dr Montagu helped me understand that integration, not erasure, was the path forward. I can’t get those objects back, but I’ve learned to forgive myself for discarding them. That forgiveness, more than any fresh start, has allowed me to actually heal.”

From Jennifer T., member of Dr Montagu’s virtual storytelling circle:

“After my mother died, everyone told me to ‘clear out her things’ as part of the grieving process. But in our storytelling circle, when I shared my hesitation, Dr Montagu created space for me to explore why I was resisting. Through telling stories about my mother’s possessions, about the teacup collection she’d maintained for forty years, about her ridiculous salt and pepper shaker collection, I realised these objects weren’t clutter. They were narrative devices, anchors for memory in a brain fog of grief. The circle gave me permission to keep what mattered and release what didn’t, but on my timeline, not society’s. Being part of this community, where others shared their own experiences of loss and transition, helped me understand I wasn’t weak for wanting to hold onto my mother’s things. I was human. Two years later, I’ve carefully curated what I’ve kept, but I’ve avoided the regret I know I’d have felt if I’d purged everything immediately. The storytelling circle gave me the gift of patience with myself.”

FAQs: Your Most Pressing Questions Answered

Q: But doesn’t holding onto things prevent me from moving forward?

A: This common belief conflates physical objects with emotional baggage. They’re not the same. You can keep your father’s watch and still build a new life. You can preserve your wedding album and still embrace being single. Moving forward doesn’t require erasing the past; it requires integrating it. The danger lies in making permanent decisions about physical objects during temporary emotional chaos. Once your brain has recovered from acute crisis, you’ll be far better equipped to decide what genuinely serves your future.

Q: Everyone keeps telling me I need to “let go.” Am I wrong to resist?

A: “Letting go” is one of the most overused, poorly understood concepts in self-help culture. Psychological “letting go” means accepting reality and releasing the need to control what cannot be controlled. It doesn’t mean discarding every physical reminder of what you’ve lost. In fact, research shows that maintaining some connection to your past can actually facilitate healthier adjustment. Trust your instinct to preserve pieces of your history. The people pressuring you to purge likely mean well, but they’re not the ones who’ll live with your regret.

Q: How do I know if I’m keeping too much?

A: During the acute phase of transition (roughly six to twelve months), “too much” isn’t the right question. Later, when your brain has recovered, ask: Does this object connect me to who I was in a way that enriches who I’m becoming? Does it carry irreplaceable memory or meaning? Could someone else in my family or community treasure this? If you’re keeping things out of fear or inability to make any decisions, that’s different from thoughtfully preserving your history. But during crisis, err on the side of keeping. You can always declutter later. You cannot retrieve what’s gone.

Q: What if I’ve already thrown things away and now regret it?

A: First, breathe. Regret is painful but not fatal. You’re grieving a secondary loss, which is legitimate and deserving of compassion. Consider whether any items might be retrievable (from family members, charity shops, digital archives). Acknowledge that you made the best decision you could with the mental resources you had at the time. Forgive yourself. Then use this experience to inform future decisions: you now know that during crisis, your judgment is impaired. This knowledge is valuable for whatever challenges lie ahead. Some losses teach us precisely because we cannot undo them.

Q: My family is pressuring me to clear out my late spouse’s belongings. How do I resist?

A: Grief has no timeline, despite what our death-phobic culture suggests. You get to decide when and whether to part with your spouse’s possessions. Full stop. Practice this response: “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll address this when I’m ready. I’d prefer your support rather than your advice right now.” If the pressure continues, limit your exposure to these well-meaning but unhelpful people. Surround yourself with those who understand that there’s no “right” way to grieve and no “appropriate” timeline for sorting possessions.

Q: Isn’t there a middle ground between keeping everything and discarding everything?

A: Absolutely, and that middle ground is easier to find after the acute phase of crisis has passed. During immediate upheaval, your capacity for nuanced decision-making is compromised. The middle ground requires discernment, perspective, and emotional stability, all of which are in short supply during major transitions. So the practical approach is: keep most things during crisis, then gradually curate later when you’re capable of thoughtful choice. Think of it as triage. In an emergency, you don’t have time for perfect decisions; you focus on preventing additional harm. Decluttering can wait. Healing cannot.

Conclusion: The Courage to Hold On

In a culture obsessed with minimalism, fresh starts, and letting go, choosing to hold onto pieces of your history during crisis is an act of profound self-compassion.

It says: I am more than this moment of pain. My past, however complicated, is part of who I am. I will not erase myself in an attempt to escape discomfort.

Successful, high-achieving professionals like you have spent decades making decisive choices, solving complex problems, and moving forward efficiently. These are your superpowers. But during major life upheavals, divorce, bereavement, unexpected illness, career transitions, these very strengths can become liabilities.

Your ability to make tough calls quickly? During crisis, it can lead to irreversible decisions you’ll regret. Your talent for efficiency? It might drive you to purge before you’re psychologically ready. Your determination to control outcomes? It could manifest as frantic decluttering when what you actually need is patience and grace.

The courage required to navigate major transitions isn’t the courage to throw everything away and start fresh. It’s the courage to acknowledge that you’re temporarily impaired, that your brain is doing its best under extraordinary circumstances, and that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is wait.

Wait to make permanent decisions. Wait until the fog lifts. Wait until you can think clearly about what genuinely serves your future.

Your late mother’s letters, your ex-spouse’s handwritten notes, your old business awards, your grandmother’s jewellery, these objects are not shackles preventing your progress. They’re threads of continuity connecting who you were to who you’re becoming.

Yes, you will change. Yes, you will grow. Yes, you will eventually integrate this loss and build a new life. But you don’t have to destroy the bridge to your past to step into your future.

Keep the mementoes. Preserve the photographs. Hold onto the handwritten cards. Store the meaningful objects somewhere safe. Your future self, with a recovered brain and healed heart, will thank you for your restraint.

And if you must declutter during this difficult time? Focus on the genuinely unnecessary: the duplicate kitchen gadgets, the expired products, the clothing that no longer fits. Leave everything else for later, when you’re capable of wisdom rather than merely surviving.

You are not weak for wanting to hold on. You are human. And humans, beautifully, stubbornly, wisely, need objects to anchor memory, to prove continuity, to remind us that we existed before the crisis and will exist long after.

That’s not clutter. That’s history. That’s identity. That’s you.

An Invitation

If this article has resonated with you, if you’re navigating a major life transition and need support that honours both your need for change and your need for continuity, I invite you to explore two offerings designed specifically for professionals like you.

Camino de Santiago Walking Retreats in South-West France

For fifteen years, I’ve hosted stress management retreats where guests walk sections of the Camino de Santiago through the stunning Gers countryside in south-west France. These aren’t boot camp experiences or forced positivity exercises. They’re gentle, restorative weeks where you walk at your own pace through ancient villages, medieval towns, and rolling landscapes that have witnessed countless pilgrims navigating their own transitions.

During these retreats, we create space for both movement and stillness, for conversation and solitude, for processing loss and imagining possibility. The rhythm of walking, the beauty of the landscape, and the companionship of others facing their own upheavals creates an environment where healing happens naturally, without pressure or prescription.

As a medical doctor with twenty years of stress management experience, an NLP master practitioner, and a Medical Hypnotherapist, I bring both clinical expertise and warmhearted humanity to these weeks. But more importantly, I bring my own experience of divorce, loss, and unexpected life changes. I understand, from the inside, how disorienting major transitions can be.

The Camino de Santiago Crossroads Retreat

Past guests describe these retreats as “life-changing,” “exactly what I needed,” and “the beginning of my recovery.” They appreciate the combination of structured support and freedom to process at their own pace, the opportunity to connect with others whilst also having space for solitude, and the gentle challenge of walking that provides both literal and metaphorical forward movement.

These retreats aren’t about fixing you or pushing you to “move on.” They’re about creating space for whatever needs to emerge, needs to be grieved, needs to be acknowledged. They’re about walking alongside others who understand that major transitions require patience, compassion, and community. Learn more.

“Surviving the Storm” Online Course with One-on-One Support

If you’re in the immediate aftermath of a major life change, still reeling from the initial impact, still trying to understand what’s happened and how to take the next step, my “Surviving the Storm” online course offers practical, compassionate guidance for navigating the acute phase.

This isn’t a generic course about resilience or positive thinking. It’s specifically designed for the early stage of major transitions when everything feels overwhelming, when you can barely think clearly, when even small decisions feel impossible. The course combines brief lessons (because your concentration is limited right now), practical exercises (because action, however small, helps), and one-on-one support from me (because sometimes you need someone who understands to simply witness your struggle).

Drawing from my eight non-fiction books about divorce, loss, unexpected illness, and coping with crises, as well as my twenty years as a doctor specialising in stress management, I’ve distilled the most essential strategies for surviving those first brutal months after life changes. You’ll learn how to manage the stress response that’s hijacking your decision-making, how to preserve your identity when everything feels uncertain, how to make necessary choices without creating additional regret, and how to be patient with yourself when everyone else seems to expect you to be “over it” already.

Whether you choose a walking retreat in France or the online course, or both, you’ll find the same core values that guide all my work: gratitude for the wisdom that comes through difficulty, kindness toward yourself and others in struggle, friendship as a form of healing, and faith that you will survive this, even when survival feels impossible.

With thirty + testimonials on my website from guests and course participants who’ve walked this path before you, you can trust that you’re not embarking on this journey alone. Others have faced similar upheavals, have questioned similar decisions, have feared similar futures, and have found their way through. You will too.

But you don’t have to do it alone. And you don’t have to rush. Healing, like decluttering, is best done thoughtfully, with support, and in your own time.

I’d be honoured to walk alongside you.