We have been told a story about forgiveness that harms the very people it claims to help.

There is a kind of power that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a fist or a prohibition. It arrives with a question that is also a declaration: How are you feeling today? I care about you.

There’s something we don’t talk about enough when discussing loneliness. We often describe it as the absence of people, yet you can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly alone - and this experience can elicit much shame.

What loneliness is really about, I think, is the absence of witnesses. Someone who sees you. Not the version of you that’s easier to be around. Not the you who’s holding it together. You.

When someone we love dies, we lose their presence, the physical, everyday world of companionship. Their voice, expressions, the way they moved through a room, the warmth of shared glances, and the familiarity of conversations that needed no preamble all disappear. This is the most immediate and recognisable face of grief: the aching absence where a living presence once existed…

The word confession carries considerable weight. For many, it evokes images of dark booths, whispered sins, and the heavy burden of judgment. It has long been associated with guilt, penance, and the hope of absolution, something endured rather than embraced.

Yet confession can be something entirely different. It need not be a ritual of humiliation or an expression of shame. At its best, confession is an act of bravery, more about honesty than guilt. And as the Buddha reminded us, “Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”