This Gentle Rebellion

a slow movement in a fast world

Author: thisgentlerebellion

  • Day 12 – A New Kind of Father

    Day 12 – A New Kind of Father

    As I approach two weeks of fatherhood, I wanted to process some thoughts. Some emotions.

    This really is a rollercoaster. I’m someone who is generally seen — I think fairly — as calm and measured by friends and acquaintances. I don’t tend to feel extreme emotions, though I often experience frustration and a vague longing for purpose. Those close to me will sense when my mood drops. Still, I’d agree: I’m relatively stable in my character.

    Fatherhood has made me more acutely aware of the ups and downs each day brings. Perhaps for good reason, given the stresses of a newborn. And yet I feel those fluctuations were always there — they’re just magnified now. Not wholly new. As to why that is, I can only theorise based on 12 days of experience. Maybe it’s the stress. The lack of sleep. The intensity of caring so deeply for my partner and baby. The sheer act of giving birth is powerful. Simply being there and supporting my partner, without doing anything else, could have been enough to change my life.

    I love the little guy. His wellbeing is everything to me. He makes me smile and laugh with funny expressions, noises, and tiny glimpses of the character he’ll become. He’s adorable when he sleeps. When he feeds. When he grunts like a little pig rooting for milk on my neck while I prepare his bottle. I love the way he smells — always — but especially now that his stinky umbilical stump has finally fallen off! When he’s calm and happy, I feel the same.

    He has his ups and downs too, and I go through them with him. He struggles with reflux, and I feel a deep frustration. I also feel shame and guilt — maybe it’s my fault he’s in pain. But on top of that, I sometimes feel resentment. Why won’t he stop crying? Why is he rooting for more milk when he really needs burping? I question whether I’m happy. Whether it’s worth it.

    Am I feeling those first emotions — shame, guilt, sympathy — because I’m a compassionate father? Or am I just a man selfishly wanting to relax with his son, only to feel robbed of that chance when he needs me entirely? Or am I more the second set — the anger, the impatience, the selfish, egotistical man I fear I am?

    Honestly, I don’t know. I can be selfish — I see that in myself — but I also genuinely want to do better. I guess I’m both, and I have to accept that. It’s possible to be the compassionate father and the immature man. And I don’t think I’m alone in that. Maybe I lean more toward one side than some men, and less than others. Who knows. We’re not always honest about these things — even with ourselves.

    It’s hard to accept the more difficult emotions, but I want to understand my reactions to the stress. And, hopefully, improve.

    Caspar just had his first bath. Total disaster for him — adorable chaos for us. And so the rollercoaster continues. I think that’s the point: I can love him completely, even as I wrestle with frustration. I can be both the man I want to be and the one I fear I am. Somewhere in between, life is happening. It’s beautiful. And hard. And mine.

  • Late to Arrive, Slow to Pee. My First Parenting Reflections

    Late to Arrive, Slow to Pee. My First Parenting Reflections

    72 hours ago, my first child — a son — was born. His name is Caspar. He weighed 3.5kg, arrived a little late, and needed a helping hand in the form of an induction.

    Nothing can prepare you for your first experience of childbirth. Nothing. And yet, like a dream, the memory softens and fades — leaving behind only awe and gratitude. Caspar is healthy, even if I can’t quite get over how much he sleeps! Mum is doing great, and both are asleep right now. As I write this first paragraph, we’re about to leave the hospital and head home… a home that was still a building site just weeks ago. Remarkable times.

    Fast forward 30 hours.

    We’ve been home, back to the hospital, and now (hopefully) settled in again. Caspar decided to hold his bladder for an impressive 30 hours. After 24 hours, we were sent to A&E for an urgent referral to the children’s unit. Understandably stressful — especially for my partner, who should’ve been resting at home just a day after giving birth. Instead, we found ourselves navigating the nighttime A&E (anyone from a decent-sized town or city knows that’s not always a peaceful experience).

    Naturally we felt anxious, particularly my partner who had given birth so recently. But it was fine. We were in the right place. Staff moved us through quickly, given the circumstances. Then, we waited. For a wee. Caspar was monitored closely and in perfect health the whole time. Totally unbothered. He arrived late. He urinated late. I’m starting to think punctuality might not be his strong suit.

    Reflecting on my last post, I realise it was heavy on frustration — fairly, I’d argue — about the UK’s broken systems. That’s fine. This blog is my space to reflect in real time. But today, I want to offer a more hopeful story. Because our experience with the NHS, particularly during childbirth, left me genuinely moved. Yes, the system is flawed — but when it works, it really works. The staff at Ipswich Hospital were brilliant: calm, kind, skilled. They knew when to speak and when to give us space. They made us feel safe. And they gave me a new thread of hope for the healthcare system.

    So: thank you. Thank you, the system I am gently rebelling against.

    That leads me to something I want to make clear. This rebellion isn’t about negativity. It’s not blind, angry, or ideological. It’s about honesty. Sometimes that means pointing out what’s broken. But it also means recognising what works — and saying thank you when it’s due. If we want the right to criticise, we have to give others the same right — even when it’s aimed at us. I want this space — and especially this post — to reflect that spirit: to hold space for complexity, gratitude, and a more honest kind of hope.

  • Embracing Slow Living: Lessons from Portugal

    Embracing Slow Living: Lessons from Portugal

    Life moves fast. We’re told our worth depends on how much we get done, how busy we are, how hard we work. Slowing down almost feels like breaking the rules. But in my experience that constant rush doesn’t leave much space for rest, real connection, or thinking straight. When I spent some time in Portugal, around the time I turned 30, everything slowed right down — and in that quiet, something clicked. This piece is about what I learned there, and why choosing a slower pace might be exactly what so many of us need.

    Perfect Days: Expectation vs. Reality

    If you described a perfect day to me, what would it look like? How would it start? Where would you go, what would you see/experience?

    My reflex answer would be something along the lines of a typical, occasional pub-visiting, British person. Something like: “I wake up after a lie-in, on holiday in a beautiful paradise, drink coffee and read in the sun. After a while, eat something delicious and go for a walk along the beach, do some stretching, meditation, or yoga. And at some point in the afternoon, I’m going for some beers with my best friends and partner.”

    Perhaps your answer would be more profound, more boozy, or just something of a stark contrast to my day. The point is not to compare them, but to recognise that we all have our ideas and expectations of what a perfect day might look like, might entail, if even vaguely and changeably.

    In some ways, I think I have had my perfect day, and it would have been easy to miss, and perhaps you will find it difficult to understand why it could be called thus. Allow me to try to explain.

    A Day in Portugal

    Important pre-consideration: I was somewhere picturesque, quiet, surrounded by nature and good people.

    As a volunteer in Portugal — the somewhat less noble Workaway volunteer — I was at one gorgeous home in the Algarve.

    Here I woke up in the static campervan, put on some comfortable joggers and a t-shirt and jumper, and brushed my teeth at an outdoor sink while taking in the view. I went about my morning routine of wandering down the hill to a platform where I did 15-20 minutes of stretching followed by 5-10 minutes of breathing meditation. A slow, calm start to the day, with a commitment not to check my phone.

    Afterwards I walked down to my host’s house where we had breakfast, perhaps discussed the day ahead, gently chatted about whatever came naturally, and of course, coffee. Then the “volunteering” started.

    I would change into a pair of shorts as the day warmed up, collect my buckets which had ropes attached as slings, and wander into the trees to collect Medronho berries. These berries don’t ripen all at once, so only a select few on each tree would be ripe each day. They are delicious and edible raw, but the purpose was to collect as many as possible for storage. They would eventually be collected by a Portuguese man who would use them to make the Algarve liquor, also called Medronho.

    The morning session would involve 2.5 hours or so of berry picking, perhaps with a podcast, some music, or just the quiet of nature accompanying me. Sometimes the host’s two dogs would join me for some moments. The task is repetitive, but enjoyable, particularly when a good tree is spotted and the berries are plentiful.

    We had lunch (after weighing our berries and being gently competitive about it!) and a bit of time to do our own thing, before heading back out for the afternoon session and picking more. Afterwards, we had more time to rest, which could be relaxing with the other volunteers, reading, or having a call with family or friends in England.

    We would then take turns to make dinner, and all sit together and enjoy it, with those who did not cook doing the cleaning up. Some more time to unwind, and on this specific day which happened to be my birthday, we had some cake, I got the thoughtful gift of a much-needed belt from my hosts, and we watched a movie. That was it.

    I went to bed early, and remember writing in my journal that I looked forward to waking up and just doing the same thing again the next day. I even shed a tear, gently and happily, because this was perhaps the first time I’d had that thought.

    The Beauty of Boring

    Sounds boring, right? It rather is. But nonetheless I was happy, and I was able to do this for weeks before I packed up my motorbike and went on to the next part of my volunteering adventure.

    Perhaps this isn’t a perfect day, but a series of perfect days. Even as I reflect on it now, it’s a little baffling that this could be described as “perfect” — but what is perfect? For me, the feeling of pure contentment and acceptance will never be forgotten. I felt complete, and at peace.

    In a world where burnout is the baseline and rest feels indulgent, perhaps the more radical act isn’t to escape, but to slow down right where we are. Portugal just happened to be where I first listened to that instinct — but it could’ve been anywhere.

    I often wonder what it was that made me feel so calm. It certainly doesn’t sound like a stressful day, but nor does it seem like a day anybody would describe when asked, “What would a perfect day look like?”.

    My experience suggests that by engaging in a simple, consistent routine, and spending time in a peaceful environment, can be a powerful source of well-being.

    I’d be happy to help you craft a final section for your piece that addresses how to bring slow living principles into everyday life, especially when you can’t recreate the idyllic Portuguese setting. This is an important addition that will make your reflection more relatable and actionable for readers.

    Here’s a draft of a final section that acknowledges the privilege of your experience while offering practical insights for implementing slow living principles in ordinary working life:

    Bringing Slowness Home: Four Years Later

    It’s easy to romanticise those perfect days in Portugal. Four years on, I’d be dishonest if I didn’t acknowledge the immense privilege that made that experience possible — the time, the resources, the freedom to step away from regular life. Most of us can’t simply uproot ourselves and pick Medronho berries in the Algarve when the pace of life becomes overwhelming.

    I now find myself back in the rhythms of working life, with deadlines, responsibilities, and the constant pull of technology. The quiet contentment I found in Portugal can seem impossibly distant on a rainy Tuesday morning sat in an office. So what then? Was it all just a lovely holiday memory with no lasting impact?

    As difficult as it is, I’ve come to realise that slow living isn’t about location — it’s a mindset that can be cultivated anywhere, even in small pockets. It may not last for weeks at a time. It may not be as pure and vivid. And I may not have Portuguese hillsides, but I can still create moments of intentional slowness. My morning stretching routine now happens in my living room rather than on a platform overlooking nature, but the effect of centering myself before checking my phone remains powerful.

    The lessons of those “boring” perfect days weren’t about escaping real life, but about understanding what genuinely nourishes us. For me, it’s simplicity, physical work balanced with rest, meaningful conversation without distraction, and permission to find joy in repetition rather than constant novelty.

    I’ve learned to protect small rituals — a proper lunch break away from my desk, evening walks regardless of weather, cooking from scratch when possible rather than rushing through meals. None of these replicate Portugal exactly, but they carry the same intention: to resist the cult of busyness and create space for presence.

    Perhaps the most valuable insight is learning to recognise when I’m slipping back into unhealthy patterns. That tearful journal entry from Portugal serves as a compass — when was the last time I looked forward to tomorrow being just like today?

    The truth is, bringing slowness home isn’t about recreating perfect circumstances, but about carrying forward the wisdom gained during those rare moments when we step outside our normal lives. It’s an ongoing practice rather than a destination. Some days I fail spectacularly. Other days, even amid the rush of ordinary life, I catch glimpses of that same contentment I found among the Medronho trees.

    And perhaps that’s enough — not a perfect recreation, but a deliberate remembering of what matters, and small daily choices that honour what we know to be true about living well.

  • The Loss of the Sacred

    The Loss of the Sacred

    “Three or four thousand years ago the gods began a migration from the lakes, forests, rivers, and mountains into the sky, becoming the imperial overlords of nature rather than its essence.”

    — Charles Eisenstein, Sacred Economics

    Something about this paragraph really appeals to me. It feels like a beautiful, melancholic representation of a shift in human thinking — from earth-based, animistic belief systems (paganism comes to mind, at least in the European context) to distant, hierarchical, monotheistic religions. A loss of the sacred.

    There’s a tragic quality to this shift: a sense of something sacred leaving. It stirs a kind of longing — to return to a time when we recognised and celebrated the abundance of the natural world. But what softens the sadness is the word migration. Migration is cyclical. It carries the suggestion that the gods — or what they represent — might return. Perhaps this is all part of a necessary process. A detour that helps us deepen our understanding of ourselves and the sacred.

    It also speaks to what feels like a “wrong turn” in our thinking. I don’t mean that simplistically — clearly, this turn brought with it science, structure, systems, and the engines of development. But development for what purpose? More people have smartphones. We have beautifully designed cars. But are we happier?

    We’ve separated ourselves from nature — dislocated the divine from the Earth. Compare the berry pickers of 3000 BCE, waiting patiently for the right conditions to yield ripe, nourishing fruit. Imagine how good that first berry would taste — sweet, juicy, quietly sacred. Now compare that to the modern man, absentmindedly picking artificially flavoured sweets from a brightly coloured plastic bag, not even tasting them, eyes locked on a glowing screen.

    It’s a crude comparison, yes — but maybe that’s the point. One version of life honours the slowness of seasons. The other scrolls past it.

    We chose mastery instead of harmony. And it’s come at a cost: disconnection, environmental damage, and a kind of egotistical greed. The new religion is economic growth. And even though most of us know — deep down — that a finite world can’t support infinite consumption, questioning that truth feels radical, even laughable.

    But maybe this migration can be reversed. Maybe, if we learn to see the sacred here on Earth again — if we step out of our automated, dependent attitudes towards life — we can start building an alternative. A gentle rebellion against the systems we live under. A reconnection with the things we’ve lost.

    Whether you consider yourself spiritual or not, religious or not — it doesn’t matter. We all have the capacity to see and feel the the sacred around us. The gifts. The abundance. The things we forgot to notice.

    I’ve felt this disconnection my entire life. But now, as I begin a new chapter — with a partner, a home, and a child on the way — I feel the pull to remember. To rebel, gently.