Undercurrent: existing in the space between
On class, community, hope, and the making of a life in systems change.
A note to the reader: This piece was written based on my own lived experiences. It touches on themes of grief and poverty. I appreciate these can be deeply personal and challenging, so please prioritise your own mental health and well-being.
PART 1 — FROM WHAT IS TO WHAT IF
For as long as I can remember I’ve always been more interested in what if than what is.
‘What is’ bothers me deeply, everyday, cripplingly so sometimes. I’ve always held so much anguish for greed and corruption. I’ve racked my brain endlessly, meticulously studying both the intricate and complex ways society has managed to build and sustain corruption through extracted systems built on outdated logics. It’s a complex and painful history that finds its origins in capitalism, colonialism and patriarchy. Still, I know that if I stay here, consumed by the anger and frustration of it all, I prime myself for inaction and in turn, submission. The anger ‘what is’ generates is rendered useless on its own. It’s only as good as the passion it ignites and the action it orients.
‘What if” has carried me my whole life. The hope of what else could be beyond that which I inherit or inhabit.. Of course, I didn’t have the terminology to define this when I was young, it simply existed as energy within me. A felt sense of unease and curiosity, equal parts confusing and enticing. I now know this to be clairsentience: a somatic or physical sense where your body registers truth, energy, or gut feelings as a visceral, physical sensation, rather than a thought. Unfortunately, the felt sense has long been academically and socially illegitimised. It poses too much of a threat to have folks tuning into themselves, trusting their intuition and translating this into something meaningful.
People fear what inner knowing and the collective sense-making has the power to do. Accordingly, intuitive practice, dreaming and imagining are branded as reaching; fallacious, uncertain and speculative modes of being that are ‘a waste of precious time’. Inessential and inconsequential to productivity . The truth is these have long been life altering tools for emancipation, ancestrally and historically well documented as such, even with the powers at be pushing for the silencing and erasure of this reality.
It is a ridiculous notion to deem sensing a waste of one’s time.
What if has long been my portal into spaces, conversations and sites of practice that have grounded my longing in reality. It’s offered me the ability to stand alongside others and play in the space between; to make a deliberate choice to lean into possibility, creatively and bravely, even when the odds seem stacked against me, against us. It has carried me through deep transformations beyond what I could imagine for myself as a child. From ego death(s), grief tending, learning and unlearning to leaning intuitively into something greater than the reality I face. What if is my daily reminder that although things happen to me, I hold the power within me to shape what follows. Tending to what if becomes what is.
Hope had become trite for me until I realised I was going about it all wrong.
Hope isn’t something that exists beyond us or outside of us. It is not a future landing place, a mentor, leader or deity greater than us, a haven to yearn for or dreams of a paradise to escape to. This is not to say that hope that exists in these ways isn’t real or relevant, it is. But this hope, hope as longing, as a noun, bears the risk of inviting passivity. Hope as a verb is a call to action inviting movement.
I have come to experience hope as presence. Liveable, breathable, intentional moments of showing up everyday in this everyday worldly existence.
Hope is spiritual, metaphysical and magical consciousness. The energy that exists in our hands, hearts and minds that we carry with us everyday. It is the essence of measurable, traceable moments where we made a conscious choice, took action and directed energy into something more meaningful than that which we received. It is what we choose to do, and who we choose to be from precisely where we are.
If hope is not stewarded it risks becoming dormant. Dormant hope can metabolise as grief with the capacity to perpetuate and re-pattern harm, if we’re not careful.
1‘Belief
Initiates and guides action —
Or it does nothing.’
― Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower
She wears cor Blimey trousers and she lives in a council flat
When I was 7 years old I lived in a council flat above a Londis in a forgotten pocket of South East London. I remember being acutely aware of what it meant to be ‘poor’, it was a feeling that existed in me every day. I knew we didn’t have much, didn’t come from much and was regarded as such. I experienced things as a child that I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate at the time:
- Poverty
- Limited social mobility and capital
- Class inequality
- De-investment in community
- Systemic barriers to work and education.
- Addiction
- Anti-social behaviour
- Shame and grief
This was the age when I realised that people around me were angry, tired and uninspired, but not because they simply chose to be that way, but because they had become accustomed to living that way as a means of survival. Individualised struggle bred from systemic failure.
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I understood that the conditions surrounding me increased the chance of developing unfavourable ways of being. Looking back at my childhood, this realisation was probably my first piece of live action research. I spent years noticing, observing, patterning; always asking why. I refused to accept, contrary to popular belief, that my surroundings, lack of resources and financial position, meant this was ‘just the way things are’. It was designed this way.
I’ve always been an in the middle kind of person
I’m one of three siblings. I have two brothers, one younger, one older. We’re all very different yet the same in many ways. It’s like between us we are the fractures of a whole personality, split out into different humans. I’ve come to realise, as I’ve grown older, that the main difference between us are the coping mechanisms for grief. Tom, my oldest brother, is stubborn and specific. He clings tightly to his home comforts. Change disrupts him. He’s diligent, timely, prepped and organised. If there’s a plan, he won’t diverge from it. He was the first person I ever knew outside my parents and probably understands me better than anyone in the world. Whether I like it or not, when I’m grieving, I long for the comfort and stability Tom brings me. He’s an anchor in my life.
George is the youngest. He’s sociable and easy going. He’s 3 and a half years younger than me and 5 years younger than Tom, a big age gap in childhood. He went to a different school to us and that distance and otherness seemed to instill an independence in him. Place him in any room and he’ll acclimatise. He works at the cinema now and is studying film at university. He doesn’t like to talk about ‘serious’ stuff (politics, genocide, climate collapse), that’s probably where we clash the most. Although we’re slowly finding comfortable ways to bridge these conversations. He likes football, records and films. They’re his escapisms, his safe space. I wish I could escape in the same way George does, with such ease, but I’m not built that way. I feel very protective of George.
Then there’s me. The middle child, the only girl. I’m the one everyone comes to when they need help; a problem to fix, a new job, a break up, a breakdown. I’ve never asked to be that person, I just am. When my nan died I was the one my family asked to read a eulogy, even though I’m one of 10 grandchildren and not the oldest or the closest to her. Then, when my great grandad passed I was asked to write a poem for his funeral, which I did willingly. Although these things took their toll on me emotionally, I liked that I brought steadiness to my family in times of grief.
When I was about 6 I discovered my grandad was a narcissist. A cunning, intelligent, vain and self-absorbed man. I never entertained his superficial charm and would often challenge him when we would go to his house in the countryside to stay with him and my nan. I remember coming back from a weekend there crying my eyes out because I was so emotionally drained from being around him. He liked me the least out of me and my siblings (shock). But that didn’t bother me. Once I saw the intention behind his actions I couldn’t detach myself from it, even though everyone else in the family seemed to do so with ease.
My mum and dad split up when I was 9. When I was 17 my dad got kicked out of his flat that he’d been renting and had nowhere to go. I let him share my room, the box room, the smallest in the house, even though my brother’s rooms were larger and neither of them were studying for exams like I was. They were a stressful few years but I managed.
Is family messy and complex? Yes. Are me and my brothers intrinsically different? Yes. Can we learn from each other, yes. Do we need each other? Absolutely.
The paradox of the weaver
I wouldn’t call myself the outcast of the family. I simply occupy a position others don’t; the role of the empath. The one who tunes into the unspoken, the unnamed, the masked and the hidden, tending to what’s underneath before tensions escalate and submerge everyone into whatever they’re not ready to face yet. We’re all running from something, and I unintentionally made it my role to tend to whatever that something is.
Everyone in my family values my way of being. They’re quick to utilise these talents when they’re needed, yet equally quick to dismiss or blame me when I’m sensing, naming or trying to tend to something that contradicts what they need to believe. I’ve learned, over many years of occupying the space between, personally and professionally, that what people think they need, and how they act in accordance to this, is at most a fraction of what they truly feel, fear or desire. Most of what we put out is just filler to plaster over what sits underneath. We all do it, we’re all human. I’m sure we hope that running and avoiding will eventually mean the problem solves itself or fades away, but it will always find other ways to emerge.
I learned the hard way that being honest and up front about these observations doesn’t bode well for a lot of people. I’ve had to tailor and adapt my approach over time. I’ve done the arguments, shouting, relationship breaking down; being told, in one form or another, you’re the problem, when I paid too much mind to something nobody else was ready to see yet. I’ve spent years honing this craft so I can stay alive to what needs tending, without triggering people’s nervous system survival response, or facing burn out myself in the process. It’s a fine balance that is hard to maintain.
I’ve learned some useful tips and tricks along the way and am particularly thankful for the work Vanessa de Oliveira Andreotti and her teachings made available to me through ‘Facing Human Wrongs’ and for the facilitative tools of Lewis Deep Democracy, offering me ways to connect more deeply with collective intelligence; channelling compassion and enacting self-awareness whilst treading the edge. (Lewis Deep Democracy, n.d).
We need to move away from the harmful notion that tending is a ‘soft skill’
Let me be clear. The work of stewarding, remedying, nurturing , caring and healing is anything but soft. It’s hard, crucial, world-altering, future-proofing, love-and-abundance-enacting craft. For generations it has gone overlooked and undervalued, rarely credited and even then, only when it’s ‘professionalised’ to exist in a paid capacity; often exclusive of the minoritised communities who’ve carried this work for generations.
When things fall apart, when the future is uncertain, when what we came to know is challenged, when safety, comfort and security are no longer a guarantee, when we lose, when we grieve, when we need to pause, reflect and recalibrate in the many ways we are all experiencing right now, these are the roles that keep us moving in the face of pain and doubt. They are the people who hold us steady when we can’t hold ourselves. They are intrinsic to our survival and prosperity in the years to come and need to be regarded and resourced as such.
Deepa Iyer’s Building Movement Project. With gratitude to Deepa for their craft.
The weight of carrying this work is enormous, personally, professionally, mentally and physically. It can be lonely and strenuous. It is, in many cases, sacrificially enacted at great expense to those who occupy this space, that is, those who understand the neccesity of doing this work for all of us. But it shouldn’t and doesn’t have to be this way.
We need a philanthropic sector resilient and adaptive enough to back these roles, boldly, and recognise the value of this work if we want to shift from what is to what if. It starts with paying attention differently and initiating action from where we are.
‘Sometimes we are blessed with being able to choose the time, and the arena, and the manner of our revolution, but more usually we must do battle where we are standing’ – Audre Lorde
Invitations to inquiry:
- How does hope materialise for you? What traceable moments have shifted you into what if? What action has this initiated and how did this show up as a feeling?
- Think about your family, friendship group or workplace. Can you think of someone holding the role of tender, steward, weaver, nurturer or caregiver? Ask yourself, what might be invisible to me? How might this person need tending to? What might I offer in terms of resource or capacity to support this?
- What role might your personal identity be playing in your professional work? How is it showing up for you? Which parts do you choose to dial up or tune down and why? In what ways might your lived realities support you to further your practice?
- If you could exist authentically in a professional space, what affordances or assurances might you need to do so safely? What would need to happen or exist for you to feel comfortable in doing so? For those in positions of power: How might this need to look for those you are making decisions on behalf of? How could you hold this inquiry meaningfully and with care?
- For those recruiting for lived experience ask yourself: Why am I seeking this expertise, for what purpose to what end and at what cost? What may be hidden or unknown due to my position and privilege? How can I be mindful of this? How do I practice care and hold accountability? What resources and support could I put in place to minimise the risk of causing harm? What power am I willing to give up and where am I willing to shoulder risk?
N.B — This is the first of a 3 part series of reflections on my journey through life and my work in philanthropy, what it has taught me about power, change and possibility, and how my lived experiences shape what I do and who I am today. If anything in the piece resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you, or otherwise, have you along for the ride.
- Parable of the Sower, Octavia E Butler, 1993. A book which steered me to bravery and invited me into action from where I am.
- Nigel Cox (2008) Slade Green Forest Road Shops. Available at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Slade_Green,_Forest_Road_shops_-_geograph.org.uk_-_717760.jpg. (Accessed: 6 November 2026).
- Facing Human Wrongs (2022) Home. Available at: https://facinghumanwrongs.net (Accessed: 8 November 2026).
- Lewis Deep Democracy (n.d.) CoResolve Foundation Course. Available at: https://learn.lewisdeepdemocracy.com/courses/LDD-CoResolve-foundation (Accessed: 6 November 2026).
- Deepa Iyer, Building Movement Project. SM, © 2020 Deepa Iyer. All rights reserved. All prior licenses revoked. https://buildingmovement.org/.
- Lorde, A. (1984) ‘Learning from the 60s’, in Sister Outsider: essays and speeches. Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press.
