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Mettle Monday - Holding the Line
Trevor DeBeaumont • Mar 30, 2020
THIS IS WHO WE ARE
The night was cooler than normal and carried a certain level of obscurity in it's darkness that I couldn’t instinctively define. This in turn, made me sick with a deep feeling of uneasiness. I switched my M-4 over from my right hand to my left and threw my right arm up in an L-shape, hand sticking straight in the air. This was the signal for the rest of 3rd platoon behind me to stop what they were doing and pull security while I figured out what was going on. I took a few steps in my planned direction of travel and dropped my Night Optical Device (NOD) down over my left eye… Something wasn’t right. I did a “ruck flop” onto my back and laid into the terrain of the spur I was leading the platoon down. My right thigh served as a nice resting place for my M4 and I began to scan the valley floor below me. Somewhere in that valley was a 10-digit grid point I had marked on a map 2 days prior and 3rd platoon was supposed to get picked up by helicopters at that point. As I looked at the smaller details of the valley through the green haze of my NOD’s I was suddenly blinded by a bright light from roughly 500 meters away. It was an infrared laser, just like the ones we carried on all our weapon systems. It’s piercing green glow sliced through our formation like a blade, ominously warning us of the coming events. Any laser of that capacity isn’t just used “for fun”, it’s almost always attached to a weapon system, and usually a powerful one... and it was being pointed at me. I gritted my teeth back and forth, palms beginning to sweat. There wasn’t American troops in that area. What the fuck was going on? I keyed the hand mic to my radio.
“3-1 Alpha to 3-1, I need you up here now, something isn’t right”. I droned into the silence of the night. Keeping my vision focused on the laser now scanning my body again.
My squad leader SSG Watson, ran up the line to meet me at the front and get a SITREP (situational report). He “ruck flopped” next to me.
“What’s up Debo?”, Watson groaned.
“Dude look at this shit, put your NOD’s down and check it out”.
Watson instinctively dropped his NOD’s down, and I watched him slowly throw a pinch of Copenhagen Wintergreen in his mouth while he calculated the situation at hand.
“Fuck bro, that’s not fucking good”, Watson coughed as he closed the lid to his can of Copenhagen.
“Yeah, no shit man, we are sitting ducks right here. HQ needs to un-fuck whoever that is, because I’m not tracking any friendlies this side of the Mountains we just came out of.” I said, sounding annoyed.
Moment’s after this, the darkness of the valley was lit up by the glow of bright orange tracer rounds. The first volley flew just a few feet over the heads of Watson and me. It was loud, and I could tell it was a larger caliber weapon than anything we had on us.
“FUCK!” I screamed, rolling to my feet. Watson took off at a dead sprint back up the spur, I had to stay back with my team.
“Alpha team, fall the fuck back, find cover quick!”, I managed to rattle out of my lungs.
The tracers cut above our heads like white-hot embers from a camp fire sparking into the cool night air. I did a haphazard 180 and caught a glimpse of my platoon. Much to my dismay, I saw a scattering of bodies in every direction running up the spur. We were in trouble, and Alpha team (my team) was isolated and alone without cover. I had a plan for this, though. I had made note of a steep drop off to my right side prior to this engagement starting. At night, with NOD’s down- your depth perception isn’t the best. Add a large dose of “I need to get out of here” to the equation and your brain doesn’t even process small details like how far down the drop that lies in front of you is. And drop I did. I tumbled down into this draw on the side of the spur like a sack of rocks. I landed flat on my ass with a thud that sent a warm rush through my legs, similar to hot water being pumped through my veins. I lost my right-knee pad insert for my pants, 2 30-round magazines’, my trauma shears and my pack of peanut M&M’s I had in my back pocket exploded. At the moment, I didn’t realize what the fall had done to me, and I didn’t care, I had to find my guys.
The events that took place during the night described above were just the start to one of the most defining moments of my entire life. A night I’ll never forget and a night where the title to my story originates from. A few moments after I fell down that draw, I did find my team. Little did we know that our “true test” was still yet to come.
It took years and years for me to be prepared for that test. Years of pain, anger, resentment and disappointment. Years of addiction and abandonment from my family and loved ones. Years of being kicked while I was already down. Years of mental conditioning and steadfast thinking all lead up to this night and the test that awaited me. This story will explain how I got there.
THE START: NO MORE LIGHT LEFT TO SEE
This is being written as I sit in an inpatient rehab facility. Day 12 to be more specific. I’m happy to be here, I’m finally finding some inner peace. Two weeks ago, I had dressed myself in my U.S. Army “Class A” uniform. My white button up, long-sleeved shirt no longer fit around my neck. I didn’t care, my coat still fit. Colorful ribbons and awards stacked in neat columns meticulously pinned to the chest. The 3 stripes that signified my crowning achievement as a leader of soldiers on both shoulders of my dark-blue dress coat stood the same as were the day I had them sewn on after I was promoted to Sergeant. The Blue Cord signifying I once stood amongst America’s best. Shoulder to shoulder with the boys America calls on to do the dirty work of battle- Infantrymen. A Combat Infantryman’s Badge showing I did my “Job”- the crowned jewel of a grunt. Not a single stray thread sticking out, not a ribbon off center, not a gold button unpolished. Everything was the exact same as the final time I wore it when I was assigned as the NCO to call the commands for a 21-gun salute during a detail to lay a soldier to rest 3 years prior.
I was on the tail end of a 30-day booze fueled, hate filled, anger driven, self-destructing bender. The love of my life walked out on me abruptly 32 days before. When she walked out, I lost all inner peace. I lost a family I loved. I lost the person I trusted most. It wasn’t just a “break up” to me. And it caused every other demon, traumatic experience, and emotional pain I’ve bottled up inside to spill-over all at once. I stood in “our” empty apartment bathroom. Gazing into the mirror; A 9mm pistol sat on the counter beside the sink. I was looking at an empty shell of a man I once was. Wobbling back and forth from the liquor that burned through my veins, eyes bloodshot and sunken into dark blue circles marring my face. I had convinced myself I was unworthy of living. Not deserving of happiness. I was ready to end my short, 25 years of life with a simple 6-7 pounds of pressure onto a trigger. At that exact moment, I was 100% okay with it. I had thought it through, scribbled a quick “farewell” note, and left my Boston Terrier, Elvis, with a surplus of food and water so he would survive until I was found.
What was going through my mind at the time I cannot tell you. I was sick, dying, lonely and worn out from the damage I had inflicted on myself over the last 3 and a half years of my life and especially the recent 32 days. I was caught in a shit-storm of depression and alcohol dependency that spiraled so out of control I was getting violently ill when I DIDN’T keep a constant flow of alcohol pumping through my body. A couple hours without a drink would throw my body into heart arrythmia and dry-heave’s that were so violent they almost always concluded with me spitting bright-red clouds of bile into the toilet. I had spent the last 10 days not even sleeping in a bed anymore. That bed reminded me of everything I once had, that no longer was. I had shared that bed with someone who gave me clarity and a life I had not ever experienced, and now it was gone. Even worse? It was all my fucking fault. Her perfume stuck to the sheets and comforter, the pillows carried the flowery shampoo smell of her hair through my senses and in turn it would spike an adrenaline rush followed by an overwhelming feeling of sadness so deep and so obliterating I would close my eyes and wish for death. I was so tired of finding myself in this position. Everyone ALWAYS left. My family, my friends, my loved ones. Maybe something was just wrong with me? My heart would seemingly fall through my chest and deep into my guts with every breath I took. Sleep was impossible. Instead, I would sit on the floor in the kitchen of the apartment, drink until I puked, pass out where I sat- usually using a jacket as warmth which would inevitably lead to a very concerned Elvis snuggling up next to me. I would wake up dazed and confused after no more than an hour and begin my hunt for any beers I didn’t finish before surrendering to the darkness of sleep. Like a crack addicted junkie, I would seek out the warm-flat liquid in these cans that covered every surface of my apartment and chug the remains as fast as I could. Desperately trying to catch that comforting buzz which had worn off. I didn’t go straight to the fridge. I had to finish the “wasted” ones first. It was one of my rules that I followed religiously. During the last few weeks of this bender it wasn’t uncommon for me to wake up at 0400 and start my early morning with the cracking of a top on a 5th of Whiskey. My mouth would water in delight as I would gulp down this brown, burning shit followed by placing my head under the kitchen sink and “chasing” the poison with tap water. I was hydrating myself, so it didn’t matter, right? Case and point? I didn’t want to be in this world anymore. I was tired of feeling the way I did. Tired of being sick. Tired of the emotional pain I carried around. Tired of being abandoned. My clock had run out, and it was time to go.
I made a last-ditch effort to call someone before I carried out what I had planned. Call number 1- 3 rings. Ignored. Call number 2- voicemail. Call number 3- voicemail. I repeated this process over and over to no avail. Of all the important people in my life, nobody fucking answered. The crew I had run into burning buildings with... my supposed "brother's" wouldn't even answer. “What the fuck?”, I remember asking myself out loud. This meant nobody cared. I had finally pushed them all out. They were tired of my shit and I didn’t blame them. Again, I convinced myself this was an absolute fact. Fueled by white hot rage that burned just as much as the swigs of whiskey I was taking straight from the bottle. Hyperventilating. Tears flowing down my face. Snot bubbling with every breath I took. I.WAS.READY. It was time to go. I gripped the pistol, squeezing it so hard my knuckles turned white. No longer trembling. No longer scared. I placed the ice-cold barrel against my right temple. “Do it, you fucking pussy! Quit fucking around and end this shit. You’re fucking worthless. Look at you!”
I took one last look at myself. Jesus Fucking Christ… I looked like shit. A weeks’ worth of not showering and not shaving was to blame for my tattered and weary look. Not to mention living off nothing but whiskey and cheap beer for an entire month. At minimum, I at least need to fix my hair before I put a bullet in my skull. Utter silence enveloped that small, lonely bathroom. I could hear my heart beating trying to compensate for my state of complete hysteria… Have some dignity, my man... FUCK!
I gently placed the 9mm back down on the granite speckled bathroom counter. I ran some water from the sink through my greasy, unkempt hair and combed it with my fingers. I splashed cold water on my face. I wasn't all that bad looking I suppose, especially given the circumstances. Maybe this is a mistake? Why give up just yet? What about the people that still do care? These are all questions that whipped around my head all at once.
Fine. I'll settle for one last phone call. One last chance. With my phone pressed hard against my ear, I anxiously awaited the small "click" of this person picking up... It did click. A Staff Sergeant I served with saved my life that night, and surprisingly enough he too was in the same fucked up world of shit that had become my existence.
The following day, with the assistance of a few very special people. I found myself on a plane bound for inpatient rehab and therapy across the country.
I SURVIVED.
I WAS worthy of a happy life, as MOST humans are.
This isn’t a typical autobiography, it’s a mass accumulation... A chain of events that lead to the above situation and how I got back on my feet. It'll explain my irrational fears, my pain, my impulsive behaviors. How I finally found the courage to ask for help. I’ll explain how a few people saw a light shining in me that I could no longer see. How I found my happiness, regained my spirit and held my ground. There is no protagonists or antagonists, just memories and how I processed them. I am at my most vulnerable now, willing to finally share my deepest secrets, my faults, my failures and my achievements.
Even in the darkest of times, I was able to hold the line.
This is my story.
Trevor DeBeaumont is a former NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) in the U.S. Infantry, a leader of men and a current serving fireman. The passage above is from Trevor's memoirs which details his story of perseverance.
Most girls dream of their big day, meeting the love of their life and having the most beautiful wedding. They have a dream dress in mind sometimes well before even knowing the person they might marry. But for me it was different, I never dreamt of that day. In fact I had a perspective that was quite the opposite.
When Brin and I brought our first house, we were beyond excited to finally have our own space. We moved in together in June 2015 and couldn't wait to start our next chapter. A few days before Christmas 2015, we were both going on our annual works night out, I dropped him off at the pub, he told me he loved me and that was to be the last time I saw him.
Written by Wendy Searle When I reached the South Pole in 2020, I was exhausted, elated and not a little relieved. I had just completed a 42-day solo, unsupported expedition; over 700 miles of vast, white nothingness. Those feelings persisted throughout the flight back from Pole (which took only 4 hours, to do what had taken me five weeks), throughout the return to the UK via South America. I had already been delayed at the start, thanks to bad weather, so I returned to work after a long weekend at home. My colleagues seemed genuinely glad to see me back, and were interested in my journey. For the first week or so, I couldn’t sleep, despite being achingly tired. (I also couldn’t stop eating, after losing 10 kilos in just over a month, so much so that I once had to stop for supplies during a 15-minute walk.) I was high as a kite, and still so wired after the continual focus of expedition life. It’s akin to climbing, or skydiving, where your whole focus is in the moment. Was I too cold? That could be fatal. Was I too hot? A surprising risk in polar latitudes, as if you sweat it will freeze. Was my kit OK? How long to the next break? And on and on, for what felt like forever when I was actually out on the ice. It’s that element of total immersion, of being so far removed from the everyday – emails, traffic, work; that is at once so daunting and so addictive. After the initial high dropped to merely walking around being more back there than present here, I started to think about going back to training. For what though? I had nothing to train for, and very little in reserve. I took to tyre hauling, which is what I spent so much of my time doing in the run up to the expedition – the traditional method of building leg strength and endurance for pulling a sled (or pulk) for 11-12 hours a day. As soon as I strapped on my pulk harness, I could transport myself back to Antarctica. And that helped, because I was struggling to readjust to life after expedition. It wasn’t just those weeks alone on skis that I missed. I’d been planning, training and fundraising for what amounted to just over 1,000 hours, for five years. I’d met a team of soldiers who were traversing Antarctica, and I became more and more drawn to this extraordinary continent. I read some polar history, some accounts of the first Polar expeditions, when they were true explorers. Despite not having any kind of adventure experience to speak of, I was hooked. I dedicated my life to making the expedition happen. Everything was in pursuit of the Pole. If I read a book, it was about Antarctica, if I had free time, it was spent attending events where potential sponsors might be found. I spoke to everyone who had ever been to the South Pole that I could. After working out what training and experience would be required, I set about ticking it off; Norway training, a spectacular crossing of the Greenland ice sheet, time alone in Iceland. The training was, if not at the level of an Olympic athlete, was certainly dedicated. Twice a day, for six days a week, I hauled tyres, ran up hills, lay in rivers and ice baths, and put up my tent in my house, over and over so I’d have the muscle memory ingrained when I was tired at the end of a long day skiing. Once I was back, I decided the only cure for the huge gap in my life that all those things had left, was another expedition. I don’t think I’m unique in that regard, but I actually missed the build-up, the nurturing of this idea, which became the expedition, which eventually took on a life of its own. I missed the slightly-sick feeling in my stomach when I thought about actually having to go ahead with what I set out to do, the uncertainty of my ability to complete the journey. When COVID stopped all travel outside the UK, my plans took a hit. The world became smaller overnight – so small it really only included Wiltshire, where I live. I’d gone from an all-or-nothing challenge to, well, nothing. Ideas, plans, even talks with sponsors, were pushed into the long grass. Ironically, after finding the South Pole on my own, I felt a bit lost. But gradually I began to see that the adventure can lie in the everyday. I had to if I wasn’t going to lose my mind. I bought a mountain bike for the first time, and began to explore the local off-road routes and tiny jumps. I wrote a book proposal about my journey. In the end, I think that period of quiet gave me to time to reflect on the enormity of what I’d done – being only the seventh woman in history to complete the journey solo, unsupported, from Hercules Inlet to the geographic South Pole. Instead of jumping into another trip, I allowed that to sink in, for it to become part of who I was. And now I’m ready for the next adventure.
A few hours later, I’d be called back to the hospital under the pretense my consultant had a cancellation. He sat me down and told me that I had a brain tumour. It was an acoustic neuroma (sometimes known as a vestibular schwannoma), a low grade, but in my case, uncharacteristically fast-growing, cystic tumour that was growing on the hearing and balance nerves within the confined space of my skull. This explained many of the symptoms I’d been experiencing recently, but not all.
I lost all of my hair at age 2, due to the autoimmune condition, Alopecia. It was extremely hard to navigate not knowing anyone else with my condition. I felt very alone and isolated. I began to wear a wig since I can remember to fit in with everyone else. I never truly felt like “me” but I didn’t know how to be ok with my Alopecia and the emotional roller coaster that was being bald. Kids were extremely mean to me and bullied me a lot for my wig and lack of eyebrows and eyelashes.
I don’t recall much about the call. It was a dead guy, or girl. I helped the coroner collect the body and went outside. It was night-time and the lights from our overheads were swirling in the darkness. I began speaking with another deputy, and suddenly became aware that I was seeing his face as he would look if he were dead. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened. It wasn’t as shocking as one might think. I blinked and even laughed to myself about it, but I couldn’t shake myself free from what I was seeing. It should have been a sign; I should have questioned what I was seeing, but I didn’t. My mind had begun to operate on its own. I should have questioned what was happening, but I didn’t. I told myself it must be a natural repercussion of seeing so many dead people. But it didn’t stop.
Written by Rachel wild I am a survivor of sexual abuse by my own father. Still feels like a taboo subject even currently. Therefore, it is so important for me to speak out. bravely... loudly... so everyone can hear. It was not my fault, sexual abuse is never the victim’s fault, but they carry it like it is.... they carry the shame and the guilt and the anger. The man who was meant to protect me from all evil in the world was the person who damaged me the most. Both parents were abusive physically and mentally, which I still struggle to understand as to how you can hurt your own child. I have been on an incredible journey and life has been made much harder because of this, however it has made me fight hard to do the right thing, it has made me resilient, it is developed my kindness and compassion. It also affects your ability to trust, I have nightmares, I have hyper independence as I have always had to do everything on my own. I went into care at 15, I got my own flat and three jobs at 16 and took myself to night college and studied to become a beauty therapist and Dental Nurse. I have always had a defiance, a drive, a determination to not let what has happened ruin me or use it as an excuse to behave poorly. I strive to do well in life, I have had so much stolen from me, I have a lot of life to live and make up for. I have slowly over the last two years started to process what has happened, I have felt incredible hot white rage, depression, panic, such sadness I have not wanted to go out, grief and loss of my childhood and all the things they stole from me. But I have grown as a person. I do not carry this secret alone, I feel empowered, calmer, more peaceful. It has given me kindness and compassion for myself. I want to help other survivors of sexual abuse, I want them to know life can be good, you can move forward you can heal. For me what has helped me heal, has been unburdening myself and sharing, reporting to the police, friends, support from counselling and specialist services, running, nature, mindfulness, meditation, and yoga and cheese and chocolate! Walking into the police station to report this was one of the most terrifying things I have ever done. What happens if they do not believe me? what happens if he comes and gets me and attacks me? what happens if other people attack me? I had the most incredible Detective, who listened whilst I told her some of the most intimate details of the abuse, feeling so ashamed. Not once did I feel judged, I felt listened to and cared for... and eventually so empowered. Not straight away, I felt exhausted after reporting, scared... I could see him everywhere. I had panic attacks, nightmares, I could not sleep... this lasted for about 12 months, and then eased slightly. It is normal to feel how you feel, it is important to acknowledge it and access help, the Independent Sexual Violence Advisor at the RASASC (Rape and sexual Assault Unit) probably saved my life, as did the support from my friends. If someone discloses abuse to you, be aware of the strength and vulnerability that it takes, you might be the first person they ever tell. It is so important to listen... just listen... please do not judge, please do not tell them how they should or should not feel. Just listen to them and do not interrupt, depending on the situation later ask them if they have ever spoken to anyone.... and would they like to talk to someone who deals with abuse/rape/assault like the RASASC unit. Just telling one person can start a domino effect on the path of healing. You do not have to report to the police, ringing an anonymous line, telling a friend, a counsellor, journaling can all start the process to you feeling lighter and getting on the road to peace and contentment. I reported sexual abuse by my father in 2018, he was being charged on the 15th of September and did not turn up to court. A warrant was issued for his arrest, he was found dead at home. Ten days earlier my Grandad died, he was my only family member so the past few years have been incredibly difficult. The last few months were so difficult, but also because my father is dead for the first time in my life, I feel safe. This will never go away for me, it will always have happened, so it is a life-long journey, it is part of who I am. Please do not tell survivors to put it behind them, forget about it, or move on, it is not that simple. Trauma is complex, I still have nightmares, I still think I see him, I still feel unsafe if out running and there is a man that looks like him. Even though my brain knows I am safe, my survival brain is trying to keep me safe. I have always been a very private person and kept things to myself. One of the things I have found most beneficial and helpful is talking to other survivors. I have always felt very alone and felt no-one understands (and I do not want anyone to have to experience this), especially with it being my own Father. The feelings I have had, and the experiences resonate with others and it has made me feel more understood, more normal almost. No two experiences are the same even if the circumstances are similar due to a multitude of factors, but there are some common denominators which have brought me comfort. The compassion, awe, and kindness I feel for other survivors, is something I have been able to start to apply to myself, which has been difficult. As a coping mechanism I downplayed, minimized, compared my situation, it is a survival technique that trauma victims use. This meant if I made it small it was not that bad, so therefore I did not have to deal with it. I am thankful for our incredible brains; I think it is fascinating how our brain protects us until we are ready to deal with a situation. Due to the abuse, I am a huge advocate of speaking out about abuse and rape and helping individuals to become empowered and hand the shame back to the abusers. I want to raise awareness so more people can speak out Bravely and be heard and supported and access the right help. I am working with RASASC (rape and sexual abuse Centre) this year to help provide training for the police and other agencies in how to help survivors. I am also going to train as an Independent Sexual Violence advisor, because how you are treated and supported is essential for the healing process. I also want to show people that with the right tools and support they can cope, they can have an amazing life....and that life can be great.
My sense of adventure and my love of sports started from a very early age. I grew up in a military family which meant we travelled the world as my Dad was posted from one country to another. I went to more than 15 different schools and lost count of the number of houses we lived in. For many children this is extremely daunting, but for some reason I loved it, I was always on an adventure.
I wrote this letter to articulate how the experience of post-traumatic growth has affected my life and through my own lived-experience, how my friend Pain was difficult to live with for many years. It also highlights how, pain must be present in our lives to experience the beautiful, the pure and the good. Life is a short and yet bittersweet journey, that to appreciate fully will require finding your strength that is forged from within.
It's something that I thought would never happen within my lifetime, I don’t think anyone would have thought the same. For one moment within that initial chaos, it became real that we were to put our lives on hold. Not just that, the whole of life was put on hold for everyone. So all these months later, what have we learned?......or have we? When it was first said it was only going to be 3 weeks in length but those few weeks turned into many months. For most people, everything within their life had to change. They then had to find a way to get through each day. But something I’ve realised that maybe many haven’t was in fact that, 2020 has been the biggest wake up call for humanity. So why would it be the biggest wake up call at all? What I’ve seen was how people had to adapt to this ‘New Normal’ but not just that, they had to find a way to live. I took every opportunity to build and learn. I wrote a book, started a podcast, built a business and expanded my network. But through this time, once again I often questioned a lot of what was happening. We saw a rise in celebrities carrying out morning workouts, focusing on using physical fitness to help us all put us in a positive mental headspace. For once, it seemed that all the things I had been using to help manage my mental health for years was being used to show people how effective it was. Same as going outdoors, exploring the mountains and hills, just to take time out in nature. So did it take a worldwide pandemic for people to actually get up and become active? It seems not just the power of exercise but also we saw, the canals of Venice crystal clear and the smog lifted from the Himalayas to finally see Everest. For once we could see the destruction we’ve done to this earth. But will it last? Absolutely not, it’s not that I’m pessimistic, definitely not. But I don’t have the greatest of faith in humanity at the best of times. Even though, I’ve consistently used my social media to promote positive mental health and for people to think for themselves so they can better themselves. A large majority of people will continue to carry on their usual routines ignorant of the destruction that we’re doing to this planet. Just think of that one piece of rubbish that was lingering in your hand, how powerful that is. Why you may ask, think of that one piece of rubbish, we’ve now got a choice. We can put it in our pocket and put it in a bin and let it be collected to be put in a landfill site to be covered with other millions of pieces of rubbish, slowly decomposing but working its way down to the water table. Or we can drop it with all the rest of the rubbish that another person has dropped, for it to collect and suffocate the seas, pollute the earth, choke innocent animals in their natural surroundings. The choice is yours, but one thing we need to do as a society is have a global rethink on how we protect this planet. Years ago, I came up with a recycling project that was cost effective and which would put an end to landfill sites. I was rejected by Councils and local authorities. It was simple in its approach, filling sealed Olympic sized swimming pool vats with rubbish using chemicals to break down the everyday household rubbish but leaving the materials that could be recycled. But not just that, at every level of the operation, there would be a filtration unit that would clear the rubbish in the chemicals, scrubbed and reused. The factory could be powered by green energy, reducing the carbon footprint. We are slowly choking and suffocating the earth and oceans with all the rubbish from products we consume. It’s a simple choice really, we concentrate on developing ourselves in subjects that are either intrinsically or extrinsically motivating depending on your needs Vs wants but we don’t spend enough time concentrating on how we can all improve the world around us. So whilst we’ve seen that level of self development rise and a large number of people have been intrinsically motivated to create and build a positive lifestyle, there are many that have jumped on the bandwagon and to join in this movement to escape the lockdown blues. So whilst we saw a large number of people out running, cycling, walking in the hills, using this excuse of “Because Boris said we can” what happened when the lockdown was lifted? Did they do it because it was a way to show some kind of compliance or rebellion? How many people actually changed their lifestyles or carried on post lockdown. Did they look at what they needed to become better instead of carrying on being full time members of the Netflix and Dominos club? So if Sir David Attenborough joining Instagram wasn’t enough to show the world that it needs change, that we as a population needs to open our eyes and see the destruction that we’re doing to our planet. Then I don’t know what will make people change. We as a population need to take our level of self accountability to a whole new level. 2020 has been an interesting year, one I hope we all learn from because if we don’t, then it’s only going to get more difficult. Now if I can create a business, write another book, start a podcast to get people talking more, having those important conversations and network on a higher level, then I can’t see why others can’t too. Globally, we’ve got the power to interact and connect to anyone at anytime. So let’s make a positive change, together we can make a change but let’s not carry on being politicians pawns on their global chessboard. If one person can create one positive action, just think of the possibilities of what millions can do?