When I look back, I can’t help but wonder: Did I outgrow asthma and ulcerative colitis? Or did I outgrow the need for them?

I was a severe asthmatic from six months old. My parents must have been terrified watching me go blue, struggling to breathe, rushed to hospital, hooked up to nebulisers IV drips and steroids. This happened more than 15 times, maybe more, all the way up to age 16.

Strangely, some of my memories of those times are warm ones. The Birmingham Children’s Hospital in the UK was a haven. Fresh toast. Rice Krispies. Ice cream cups. Smiling nurses. Activities. So many adults paying attention to me, caring for me.

I hated being sick, but I loved being there.

When I left for school and realised I’d forgotten my inhaler, I would instantly feel short of breath. Was it really my lungs? Or was it the fear that no one would be there to look after me if something went wrong? I’d go home, get the inhaler, and only then feel safe enough to start my day even if I was late.

My reliance on my blue inhaler was absolute. It felt like part of who I was.

At 13, I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. Another disease, this one humiliating and relentless. I spent countless hours in toilets probably more than my ulcerative colitis commanded. At school, during every P.E. lesson, at home, in public places — hiding, avoiding, feeling embarrassed and trying to feel safe.

My mum did everything she could. We only ate at restaurants she felt were safe for me. She tried to track every trigger. Meanwhile, I ate junk food in secret, not really understanding why I was sabotaging myself.

I was overweight, often depressed, and bullied. My relationship with my siblings suffered as all of mum’s attention was stolen by me.

I’d heard the word somatisation. It made sense, intuitively. But no adult ever asked if there was something else going on — something emotional. And honestly, if they had, I wouldn’t have known what to say. My walls were too high.

Somatisation is defined as a tendency to experience and communicate psychological distress as bodily and organic symptoms and to seek medical help for them.

Asthma and ulcerative colitis aren’t known to disappear. People can go into remission, sure, but that wasn’t something I thought would happen to me.

Until 2006.

I had another asthma attack. Same chaos. Same treatment. But this time, something different happened: once I was stabilised, I was transferred to Selly Oak Hospital — an adult hospital. No toys. No warm breakfast. No special attention. No activities and games. My mum was only allowed during visiting hours.

And that was it.
That was my last asthma attack.

My ulcerative colitis was at its worst around the same time. The medications had stopped working. The doctors told me the next step was bowel removal. A stoma bag.

My mum, driven by faith I didn’t fully understand, pleaded for another option. The doctors tried a high-dose steroid treatment — ten times the usual asthma dose.

Three months later, my colonoscopy was clear. “It’s like you never had ulcerative colitis,” the doctor said.

Was it medicine? Was it faith? Was it the thought of losing part of my body? Was it simply the end of needing that illness to be seen and cared for? Did the pain of staying the same become greater than the pain of changing? Was it a conscious decision on some level to say no to my disease?

I don’t have a clear answer.

Years later, when I hurt my back, I fell into the same pattern. My pain became my reason not to exercise, not to engage, not to move forward.

Until a physio gave me an honest, no-nonsense reality check — no special treatment, no fuss. (Read about that here.) And once again, when the attention stopped, I found a different way to get up and keep going.

I’m now 34. I still have an inhaler somewhere. I still have ulcerative colitis, though it only flares up when I’m stressed or careless with my diet.

But these days, I don’t feel like I need illness to get attention or care — not because I get it perfectly elsewhere, but because I’ve learned to give more of it to myself.

I look back at these moments and see the same question repeating:

Did I really overcome illness?
Or did I overcome somatisation?

I still don’t know for sure. Maybe both.

What I do know is that paying attention — honest attention to myself has changed everything. And that attention looks different for everyone.

For me, it’s been:
✅ Going for a walk or to the gym when my back and hips start to ache.
✅ Writing when my mind feels tangled.
✅ Working with therapists — sometimes the same one for years, sometimes a new one when I needed a fresh perspective.
✅ Letting myself feel what I’m feeling instead of turning it into symptoms.

How have you done it?
What works for you?

If you’ve ever wondered whether your body was carrying messages your mind didn’t know how to say you’re not alone.

Whatever form of attention and care you choose — therapy, writing, movement, meditation, music — I hope you keep going.

Keep moving. Keep questioning. Keep paying attention.

Because sometimes, the only way out is through — and the only way to heal is to listen.

This post was created by me with support from AI-assisted tools — used like a digital notebook and editor to help organise drafts, clarify ideas, and preserve the messy, human heart of my writing.

Then I slipped a disc in my lower back.

Suddenly, everything was hard. I couldn’t bend over to pick up the delivery from my front door let alone go for a walk or sleep through the night. I went to a GP, got a CT scan, was prescribed codeine, and handed a surgeon referral like it was a coupon. No questions, no conversation. Just another transaction.

But I didn’t feel good about it. So I booked a local physio appointment and that’s when things changed.

We didn’t just talk about my back. We talked about the weather, insurance, landlords, employee retention, dogs, all of it. It felt real. And it felt like she cared — not just about my injury, but about me.

Week after week I came back, and we built rapport. Then one session, Bobbie hit me with a sentence I’ll never forget:

“You need to stop coming to see me and start doing some actual exercise. Lose a bit of weight. Build your core and leg muscles or when you have kids, you won’t be able to lift them out of the cot.”

It stung. But it was exactly what I needed to hear.

She could’ve kept me coming in weekly, milking the system. I was willing to pay. But she didn’t.

She put truth over transaction. People over profit. Candour over convenience.

When the pain of staying the same became greater than the pain of changing — I did it. Eventually.

The Cost of Attention vs the Value of Care

In business, especially service-based business, recurring clients are the holy grail. Attention is monetised. Retention equals revenue. Whether it’s a streaming subscription, a coaching program, or a health service every model revolves around the same idea: keep them coming back.

But what if that’s not always the best path?

Bobbie didn’t optimise for profit. She optimised for outcome. She paid attention not to the business model but to the human in front of her. And in doing so, she earned something far more valuable than another invoice:

She earned trust.

And trust creates something money can’t buy: reputation, referrals, and impact.

Whether you’re in healthcare, SaaS, coaching, or hospitality … in business, people remember the ones who told them the truth.

Candour Is Good Business

We often think that being real, being blunt, being honest might cost us. That if we don’t upsell, hold back, or polish the truth, people will leave.

But the opposite is true.

Candour builds connection.
Connection builds loyalty.
And loyalty? That’s the long game.

Bobbie didn’t “retain” me in the traditional sense. But I’ve recommended her to dozens of people. She’s top of mind whenever someone mentions physio. Why? Because she told me something no one else had the guts to say.

And here’s the kicker: a year on, I’m a different person or at least feel like one. I have a dog now names Penny who doesn’t tolerate laziness. We walk over 20 kilometres a week, rain or shine. I hit the gym at least three times a week. I can’t even finish a can of soft drink anymore without grimacing. I eat cleaner, feel stronger, and carry myself with more confidence. But my body now reminds me quickly when I’ve been inactive for too long and the difference is, I listen. I choose to pay attention…most of the time.

The World Needs More Candour.

We live in a world full of optimised funnels, attention hacks, and monetisation models. But people don’t need more polished pitches. They need more professionals who care enough to tell the truth even when it’s uncomfortable.

What if we stopped optimising for clicks, sessions, and subscriptions and started paying attention to outcomes, relationships, and real needs? What if we believed it was all connected … and joined the dots?

We’d be healthier.
We’d be happier.
And we’d trust a whole lot more.

This post was created by me with support from AI-assisted tools – used like a digital notebook and editor to help organise drafts, clarify ideas, and preserve the messy, human heart of my writing.

And yet, I wasn’t training my dog.
I wasn’t exercising consistently.
I wasn’t applying the productivity tips.
I was just… watching. Consuming.

There’s a seductive illusion of progress that comes from absorbing content.
You feel informed, inspired, even empowered.
But nothing actually changes until you take action.

The Dog Training Example

I’ve watched over 10 hours of content on how to train my dog, Penny.
I follow trainers, read articles, save posts, even joined a few Facebook groups.
But for weeks, I spent more time consuming than doing.
It finally hit me: Five minutes a day of messy, imperfect training is better than five hours of content I don’t act on.

And it’s not just dog training.

Fitness, Productivity, Mindfulness — Same Pattern

• I’ve saved 30 fitness reels. I’ve done 3 workouts.
• I’ve read 12 productivity articles. I’ve implemented 1 tip.
• I’ve subscribed to 3 mindfulness apps. I haven’t meditated in 10 days.

This pattern is common. We gather information in hopes of feeling ready — but readiness rarely comes from preparation alone. It comes from movement.

The “Just” in “Just Do It”

Nike’s slogan is iconic: Just Do It.
The most powerful word isn’t “Do” or “It”.
It’s “Just.”

It cuts through the excuses, analysis, perfectionism.
Just do the thing. Badly, awkwardly, inconsistently — but do it.

If attention is the currency, action is the investment.
The return only comes when you put attention into motion.

A New Rule for Myself

1 minute of action > 10 minutes of passive attention.

Every time I act, I learn something new.
Every time I don’t, I stay exactly where I am.

What’s something you’ve been watching instead of doing?
Drop it in the comments — let’s keep each other accountable.

This post was created by me with support from AI-assisted tools – used like a digital notebook and editor to help organise drafts, clarify ideas, and preserve the messy, human heart of my writing.

Read without subscription.

Every morning, we wake up with a balance of time to spend — not dollars, but attention. For most, that’s about 960 minutes a day (assuming eight hours of sleep). In my case, after five to six hours sleep, it’s often closer to 1,020 minutes. Regardless, those minutes are our daily currency.

We spend them across work, scrolling, podcasts, food, music, pets, exercise, relationships, and an ever-growing list of apps and services. But have you ever asked: What is the real cost of your attention? Not metaphorically, but minute-for-minute.

The Cost per Minute of Attention

Many apps charge us monthly or yearly, but very few of us calculate the actual cost per minute of use. Here are a few examples based on average usage and subscription pricing in AUD:

Netflix — $18.99/month
⏱ Average monthly use: 1800 mins
💸 Cost per minute: $0.0105

Spotify — $12.99/month
⏱ Average monthly use: 900 mins
💸 Cost per minute: $0.0144

Instagram — Free
⏱ Average monthly use: 3000 mins
💸 Cost per minute: $0.0000

Calm — $22.99/month
⏱ Average monthly use: 200 mins
💸 Cost per minute: $0.1150

Value Isn’t Always in the Price

I use apps for almost everything — tracking workouts, journaling, meditating, editing content, and streaming shows. I’ve tested dozens of apps over the years, and I’ve also been stung by one of the most common traps: the free trial that silently turns into a full subscription.

You sign up for a 7-day or 24-hour free trial. You forget. You miss the cancellation window. Suddenly, you’re billed for the year. And worse — you haven’t even used the app.

This happens because current trials are time-bound, not attention-bound. The subscription clock starts whether or not you’ve experienced the core benefit of the app.

A Smarter Subscription Model: Minutes, Not Days

What if instead of 7 days, apps offered 60 minutes of actual use over 90 days?

This attention-bound model means you:

• Actively use the product.
• Experience its true value.
• Make a conscious decision about subscribing.

Even better: companies could offer 15 bonus minutes in exchange for user feedback. This builds trust, encourages feedback loops, and strengthens customer relationships.

In this model, users become intentional. Developers get genuine feedback. Everyone wins.

Your Attention Wallet

If you had to spend minutes like money, would you do it differently?

• 30 minutes of Netflix = $0.31
• 30 minutes using Calm = $3.45
• 30 minutes journaling in Notion = $1.68
• 30 minutes editing your podcast = $3.00

What’s the return on investment? What’s actually changing your life? Are you having fun?

Final Thought

In the economy of attention, you are the spender and the product. Apps compete to earn your time. So, let’s spend it with intention.

And if you’re building a product or service — think about offering time that matters, not just time that counts.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear how you track your app use and make subscription decisions. Leave a comment or reach out!

This post was created by me with support from AI-assisted tools – used like a digital notebook and editor to help organise drafts, clarify ideas, and preserve the messy, human heart of my writing.