Notes from the Hills

I've always thought I was good at dealing with difficult emotions.

I'm beginning to realise I wasn't dealing with them at all.

I was detaching from them.

I could convince myself that I was fine, throw myself into work, keep busy and carry on as though nothing had happened. On the surface, I genuinely believed I'd moved on.

But emotions don't seem to work like that.

They don't disappear simply because we've stopped paying attention to them. Sometimes they wait quietly until the distractions fade, and then they find another way to make themselves heard.

A few days ago I spent an entire day battling cravings for something sweet. The strange thing was that I wasn't actually hungry. I'd eaten well, but I couldn't stop thinking about chocolate, cake or something sugary.

It was frustrating because I couldn't understand where the cravings had come from.

Then, after talking it through, I realised they hadn't really started that day at all.

They had started the day before.

Something had disappointed me, and I'd done what I've always done. I told myself it was fine, carried on with my day and convinced myself I'd moved past it.

Except I hadn't.

The feeling hadn't gone anywhere.

It had simply been waiting.

Years ago, while I was tattooing a client, I walked into the kitchen and saw her fourteen-year-old daughter sitting on the worktop eating a bowl of fruit and nuts.

I commented on how healthy it looked.

She smiled and said, "My boyfriend's just broken up with me. I'm going to love me if nobody else does."

I remember standing there thinking, Who taught you that?

Because that wasn't my instinct.

My instinct would have been to reach for KitKats, ice cream or anything else that promised comfort, even though I now know those things leave me feeling sluggish, tired and wanting even more.

That conversation has stayed with me for years.

Looking back now, I can see that many of my habits have had one thing in common.

They weren't really about the thing itself.

For different periods of my life, the way I escaped changed. Sometimes I buried myself in work. Sometimes it was cannabis. More recently, it's been sugar.

The coping strategy changed, but the reason behind it didn't.

I wasn't trying to solve the emotion.

I was trying not to feel it.

What I'm slowly learning is that emotions aren't something to fear or silence.

They're information.

They're asking us to pause for a moment and pay attention.

Sitting with an uncomfortable feeling isn't easy, but escaping from it often comes at a much greater cost.

The feeling doesn't disappear. It simply waits until we're quiet enough to hear it.

I'm learning to pause before reacting.

To ask myself, "What am I actually feeling right now?"

Maybe that's what authenticity really is.

Not pretending we don't have difficult emotions.

Not judging ourselves for having them.

But having the courage to listen to them instead of immediately trying to escape.

— Jody Valentina

Every year, almost without fail, it happens.

The first slightly cooler morning arrives. The evenings begin to draw in by a few minutes. Someone reaches for a jumper and before long you hear the familiar phrase:

“Well... that's summer over then.”

I've never understood that.

Perhaps it's because, here in Britain, talking about the weather is almost a national pastime. We notice every degree, every cloud and every shower. We long for sunshine in winter, complain when it finally arrives, and then declare the season finished the moment the temperature drops.

But when I walk outside, I don't see the end of summer.

I see hedgerows still full of life. Meadows buzzing with insects. Herbs at their peak, waiting to be gathered. Long evenings where I can still wander through the countryside well after nine o'clock with daylight all around me.

To me, summer isn't measured by the temperature on a weather app.

It's measured by what nature is still offering.

This year my home has slowly become an apothecary. Herbs are drying in every available space, each one reminding me that the season is still generous. There are still plants to gather, recipes to make and quiet evening walks to enjoy.

In many ways, this is my favourite part of summer.

The frantic heat has softened. The air feels fresher. The light becomes warmer, almost golden, hinting at the season that will eventually follow, but never rushing us there.

And when autumn does arrive, I'll welcome it.

I love watching the landscape change. I love the rich colours, the crisp mornings and the slow transformation of the trees. I love how the hedgerows gradually open as the leaves fall, revealing views that have been hidden for months. Every year I'm amazed that a tree can appear so lifeless in winter, only to burst back into leaf a few months later as though nothing ever happened.

That's one of the greatest lessons nature teaches us.

Nothing is permanent.

Every season has its purpose, and every season deserves to be noticed while it's here.

So no, I don't think summer is over.

Not yet.

There are still herbs to harvest.

Still light-filled evenings.

Still warm days waiting to surprise us.

And until nature tells me otherwise, I'll continue to enjoy every last moment of this beautiful season.

— Jody Valentina