The navel is perhaps the most overlooked part of the body. It is our very first scar — the physical reminder of the cord that once tethered us to life — and yet we rarely give it a second thought. I certainly hadn’t thought much about it before.

Like all scar tissue, the navel can benefit from gentle movement and circulation. I’ve started massaging mine with oil after a shower. I noticed on Instagram that many people are now doing “navel pulling” using adhesive patches designed to gently lift and work the tissue. Before trying anything like that, I’ve simply been exploring the area manually, massaging the scar and the surrounding skin.

The phrase "navel-gazing" often carries negative connotations of self-centredness, but I find focussing on this area to be a wonderful reminder that every one of us started life connected to another.

Since the end of last year, my perspective on health and exercise has shifted sharply after witnessing something devastating happen to someone who was, by all outward measures, extremely fit and healthy. It has made me acutely aware of how accustomed we are to pushing our bodies to their limits, often forgetting just how fragile our frontiers of safety really are, and how quickly and easily they can be crossed.

In that sense, I’ve come to feel unexpectedly grateful for my experience with Long Covid, as it has taught me to listen more carefully to what my body is communicating. Over the past few weeks, my focus has narrowed to small but essential aspects of wellbeing: paying attention to my breath, taking time to prepare for and unwind after movement, noticing what helps counteract fatigue or dizziness, and being more intentional about how I begin the day — with light, water, and warmth.

I’m learning that resilience is not built through extremes, but through small structural supports and an honest sensitivity to what the body can realistically hold. 

This coming year, I’m practising 30% off. My instinct is always to race, to sprint, to go the extra mile, but I no longer believe that intensity leads to optimal health. Balance does. Listening does. Leaving space for calm does. Taking 30% off — a phrase I've borrowed from a close and wise friend — is now a practice I intend to keep.

Cold around the head can be surprisingly regulating. When you place an ice cap over your forehead, it activates the body’s natural calming mechanisms. Cooling this area helps quiet inflamed blood vessels, slow nerve signalling and dampen the over-firing pathways that often underlie headaches, migraines and sensory overwhelm.

Cold also stimulates the vagus nerve, which can shift you out of a dysregulated, high-alert state into a calmer physiological baseline. I find that during overwhelm or extreme tiredness, when I feel wiped out by exhaustion or suffering a terrible migraine, an ice cap for 5-10 minutes is a very soothing reset. They're about £15 on Amazon and one of the most useful things I've bought for instant relief.

My acupuncturist suggested I start holding a kettlebell as I move through the day — just switching it between my hands while I do ordinary things, to keep my muscles engaged. It’s a simple shift, but it’s changing how I move; I feel more awake in my body, more connected to its weight and rhythm. Combined with cross-training, it’s helping me build strength that feels steady and necessary, now that I'm about to turn 40. 

During the first stages of my Long Covid journey, back in 2021, my acupuncturist integrated moxibustion into my acupuncture sessions — and the results were astonishing.

The gentle heat of burning mugwort seeps deeply into the body; it is commonly used to melt tension and soften pain, but in my case, it literally extracted (the feeling was of something sharp and knife-like being pulled out) an acute pain I had had in my shoulder blade for weeks post virus. I have never had it since. 

Now that my mind is floating among incense-filled rituals (and my body is aching from the kids' school slog) I shall book in for a series of treatments next week to hopefully rebalance my body and coax my energy back into flow.

Recently, I bought myself the CurrentBody red light eye mask — mostly because I’ve become such a convert to their red light helmet for hair, which has worked wonders for me. There’s something about red light therapy that my skin (and my mood) seems to love; it’s gentle, consistent and feels like it supports the skin rather than shocking it into submission.

An influencer once sat down with me for breakfast, after I'd spent the night nursing my son who was unwell, and the first thing she said to me was, “You should get fillers under your eyes.” Needless to say, sometimes it's okay (and kinder) not to “tell me everything”! The very notion of injecting under my eyes makes me wince, so, in true holistic spirit, I’m opting for patience and light to try to soothe the marks of three children. I’ve only just started using the mask, but it already feels restorative — a few quiet minutes in the morning to let everything soften before I begin my day.

I'm a rather impatient person and I constantly feel like I'm drowning in an hourglass, never enough time in the day for what I need to do, so meditation has always been a really tough one for me. Each time I’ve tried, I’ve loved the initial calm, but sooner or later the press of time pulls me away, long before I’ve found anything close to routine, let alone inner peace. Recently, though, I discovered the Insight Timer app and I’m completely sold. It’s designed for people exactly like me — too time-pressed to sit for hours, but deeply in need of the benefits. With thousands of guided meditations, talks, music and even simple breathing timers, you can choose practices that last anywhere from two minutes to an hour, fitting mindfulness into the smallest spaces of your day. I do a ten minute session every evening before bed and I really notice the difference. I also love that, if you install it on the homepage of your phone, it will pop up with a daily grounding quote each morning to help carry you through the day.

When I was struggling with Long Covid, I relied on a strict regimen of supplements, as if they could replete everything the virus had taken from me. Over time, I’ve learned to listen more instinctively, tuning in to what my body really needs at any given time.

When I feel on the edge of being run down, I’ll reach for a multivitamin (and on a hangover, nothing beats old-school Berocca). For energy dips, I take Koji Iron (27 mg); when PMS symptoms flare, I turn to ashwagandha and magnesium; and I try to consistently take Viridian Hair, Skin and Nails, because I genuinely notice the difference.

I think the most important part is not becoming a slave to what the labels promise — instead, it’s about listening a little closer to your body and giving it only what it truly asks for.

The body has its own eclipses — times when, without much warning, energy dips or symptoms flare. In those moments it’s so easy to panic, to feel betrayed by our own body, to demand answers and fixes. But often what’s really happening is something much more subtle: the body, under invisible strain, is asking us to pause.

Managing not to fear a flare-up has been hugely healing for me. I've learned to soften my grip on control, simply rest when my body asks and to let things pass in their own time. 

One of the most powerful mantras I learned from a brain-training programme I did still comes back to me in these moments:

“I am here in this now.”

It’s a reminder that I don’t need to be anywhere else — just here, in the present, letting the cycle unfold. Tomorrow is a new day.

Sustaining ourselves over the long haul isn’t just about sheer endurance. It’s about finding something that gives us joy and returning to it, again and again. Doing something you're truly passionate about, and love, can heal us, even if only for a moment.

Actor James Van Der Beek, who is currently navigating cancer treatment, spoke recently about his childhood dream of singing on Broadway and how he sidelined it to strive, instead, for a "Matt Damon" career. Last week, he finally came full circle on that dream and said that while he was singing in the rehearsal room in New York, in the flow of creativity, his pain momentarily disappeared. 

He asked: how many of us are still chasing goals set by our less wise selves? And how much lighter, happier, freer would we be if we let them go — if instead, we gave our time and energy to what has always lit us up, from before?

In a way, these passions are our personal rejectamenta: the scraps and fragments of dreams we thought were lost or discarded, but which, when picked up again, feel life-giving. So, I think the long haul isn’t about clinging to rigid goals. It’s about sifting through what remains, salvaging what still sparks joy, and letting that creativity sustain us.

The path to long-term health is rarely all one thing. The daily habits that support a long life — rest, movement, sunlight, nourishment — are built over years, sometimes decades. We take joy in each act of care, but the sting is knowing that these acts are never done; they are a lifelong tending. Like the maerl reef, longevity grows in millimetres, not metres, and can be undone quickly if neglected. This is a particularly painful pattern for those struggling with chronic illnesses and recovery, where the line between improvement and overdoing-it is very fine. This week, as I struggle with jet lag and the onset of some of my chronic pain, I will deliberately take my foot off the pedal and, as far as I am able to, will make small, protective choices (earlier bedtime—whoops, not tonight— long walks, morning sunlight…) to get myself back to pre-flying fitness.