The birds started showing up before my journey had even begun to unravel. First, it was a little bird, tapping at the yoga room window. I was in Arran, having walked with my first herb, Dandelion, at the end of my herbal apprenticeship immersion.
Mid-conversation—reviewing how things had gone and discussing my intentions for the next few months—I was mid-realisation, and there it was: tiny, relentless, insistent. It didn’t stop. Not when I looked. Not when I ignored it. Just this repetitive knock, knock, knock, a tiny little bird saying:
Pay attention.
At the time, my tutor and I brushed it off. One of those odd little moments you log under “curious but annoying.” But later, when everything else started to shift, I saw it differently. That bird wasn’t lost. It was on time.
The next day, we said our goodbyes, and I returned home to my family with a clear intention: I was committed to the direction of my studies and needed to rebalance my life accordingly.
I already knew my job was a source of deep frustration. I felt unheard, unappreciated, undermined. But I came back from Arran with a renewed sense of direction. Hopeful, even.
That feeling didn’t last.
Within a fortnight of returning, a colleague took his own life.
I was devastated. We all were. Heartbroken for the young family he left behind, for the tangle of emotions they would live with. But also—for myself. As a suicide survivor, I know how that kind of emptiness consumes all the light.
What haunted me most was this: I’d sensed something. In the short time we worked together, I could tell he wasn’t fully there. He was sunny, warm, positive—but underneath, something felt off. I knew it. And I didn’t press.
I was furious. At myself. At the business.
I spiralled. The whole thing rang like a warning bell: Get busy living. That could have been you.
It was time to take a step back. And again—the bird. Not a metaphor. A literal bird, back at my window. Same kind. Same insistent tapping. It visited often that year. I even put seeds out for the annoying little bugger. But its message was loud and clear:
Pay attention. This is big.
Time out bought me just that—precious and infuriating time. Time to figure out how to use the opportunity to move toward something that made sense. Time to spend hours jumping hoops for the DSS while feeling guilty and useless on a weekly basis for not having another job already.
Applying for jobs that align with a new, emerging path—when you’ve got no “official” experience—is like having your fingers broken by the lid of a piano you’re playing for someone else.
So I said sod it. I’d get some experience volunteering. And the job? I decided to set up my own company. If I was going to fall flat on my face, I wanted it to be under my own weight—not someone else’s.
Summer sprawled on. I spent my time getting to know Ginger as a log flume, Sage as a hospital cleaner, and choosing a herb school with herb-world credentials to start once my apprenticeship had finished—this time, I was headed to Somerset. When I saw the school’s website, I knew this was the route for me. It reminded me of the small junior school I’d attended as a child.
My family slowly came round to the idea of me being away one weekend a month and me earning much less than I used to. It wasn’t ideal. But it was real. My priorities and values were shifting.
I also started tuning back into my intuition—mostly thanks to my son, who dragged me into a Glastonbury crystal shop. We both walked out with two stones that had caught our eye. For me: Dioptase and Quantum Quattro. Later that night, I looked them up. Emotional healing. Psychic protection. Regeneration. Communication. Not exactly subtle.
The timing wasn’t lost on me. I found myself drawn back to the tarot. I’ve always dabbled—one oracle deck or another—but I hadn’t felt the same pull since the rune stones incident. Let’s just say bringing occult objects into a Catholic school at fourteen is… ill-advised. I got suspended. A series of unfortunate events followed. Put me off a bit.
I was excited to start my new school. But since I’d missed the first weekend (I was still on Arran getting to know yarrow), policy meant I wasn’t allowed to take two of my modules.
Unfortunately, that stretched my six-year diploma into seven and meant I’d miss out on the two main herb modules of the year. Not exactly the ideal start, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me saying goodbye to the friends I’d made.
My new cohort was a full spectrum of ages and personalities—despite there only being seven of us.
I’d reached out to the school with some questions, some concerns. What came back wasn’t support. It was deflection. Dismissiveness. It didn’t sit right.
And I started to wonder: Is this really what I want the next seven years of my life to look like?
By the time we returned after the Christmas break, my body had already begun telling me a story.
The year started with a cough that clung to me for over a month. My stomach began acting up. Old patterns resurfacing. And then… the birds started showing up again.
This time, they were birds of prey. First it was a marsh harrier being attacked by seagulls. Then, a peregrine sitting tall on the motorway gantry. Then the buzzards started to appear. Week after week, month after month, they became a regular sight.
By Easter, I’d started scoping out other options and had an interview lined up with a new school. There were too many little signs that this place wasn’t what I’d originally thought.
Then came the bombshell.
After a week of lessons, guest speakers, and a graduation ceremony, the school casually announced it had lost its professional accreditation—and had decided to go independent.
I was shocked. And yet… not surprised.
As the school explained its reasons for going solo, there were whoops of support from some of the students. But not from me.
I felt like I’d slipped into a parallel universe. Their excitement felt surreal, misaligned. And I—quietly, disoriented—slipped away.
I felt like I was watching a cult clap its own cage shut.
I met my family at the end of the street for our onward journey to Cornwall.
The week should have been relaxing. But I could barely get warm. I dragged myself around each day, ears weeping and sore. Each evening, I’d tear at my skin. I felt unwell. Drained.
That was it. I had to leave.
The next month saw me battling multiple ear infections. Even the herbs recoiled—Go see a GP, they said.
My guts were giving me the finger.
My class WhatsApp group was on fire. Half of us catatonic. The other half raging—feeling cheated, short-changed.
I made it clear I was exploring my options. And by now, I had my interview lined up for the day before my next weekend of classes.
“Hey,” I said to my buzzard friend as I drove down to school for the last time. In the past few weeks, I’d seen this bird get attacked by crows, train its young, and sky-dance—(Yeah, that’s actually a thing.)
Now, it was flying alongside me, seeing me off on the last leg.
I swung by my new school. And I knew: this next chapter was looking me in the eye. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was further away. More demanding.
But if this was the alternative?
Then yeah. I was ready to do the work.
That night, I dreamt of Yarrow.
I’d decided not to finish the school year or sit my exams. I couldn’t do anything with my study credit because I didn’t even have a full set of modules. And by now, I’d finally been accepted to train with a suicide prevention helpline, which was going to demand ten weeks of my time in training. The school experience had left a negative residue that I knew needed some time to heal from. So I was looking forward to a summer of making, volunteering, and preparing to start again.
That final weekend gave me sweet relief. I said goodbye to my classmates. Left the group chat. I thanked my tutors.
And on the drive home?
The peregrine showed up again. Perched on the gantry, same as the first time.
My journey had come full circle.
But the buzzard didn’t stop there.
Weeks later, outside my home, looking up, I could see it—riding the thermals, almost a speck in the sky.
Then in Crete, months later, poolside, eyes on the clouds: “There’s my buzzard,” I said to my partner.
It was a regular visitor to me now.
That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t just any bird. It was my bird.
Sure, I’d have loved something a bit sexier than a bone picker for a guide. I’d say spirit guide but that’s a touch too woo in polite company.
But it made sense now.
The buzzard is nourished by what’s considered toxic to others.
I’ve always been able to take something useful from the ashes of life—
to feed on what’s broken, and fly despite scorched feathers and fractured wings.
Whenever I’ve been floored, I’ve rebuilt stronger.
In this life, I haven’t just lived chapters.
I’ve lived whole selves.
So yeah—maybe the buzzard and I aren’t so different.
No wonder it keeps showing up.
I think we recognise each other.
