The Chapters of Life

Welcome to The Brighter Side of Everything.

This newsletter serves a simple purpose → To help you build optimism, resilience and a solution-focused perspective.

Each week, I’ll share actionable insights that not only brighten your day but position you to be a leader within your own life and seize life’s opportunities.

Read time: 20-30 minutes.

Hello, Brighter Side readers! ☀️

Thank you once again for reading along with me.

Whether this is your first edition or your fiftieth, I’m thrilled you’re here.

This week we’re sitting with endings and beginnings.

How goodbyes shape us, how gratitude can soften what’s over and how belief colours the chapters that are yet to arrive.

We also explore Chris Lemons incredible story at the bottom of the North Sea and listen to Gorillaz wrestle with loss on their latest album, The Mountain.

We finish with an old story about six blind men and an elephant, one that nails how limited our perspective can actually be.

So grab a cuppa and settle in ☕

See you on the Brighter Side,

Chris

P.S. Please feel free to send me feedback on how I can improve. I respond to every email.

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Life has a rhythm all its own.

When you really look at it, it’s a story made up of beginnings and endings.

We shift endlessly between the two.

Each transition arrives wrapped in surprise.

Sometimes soft as a whisper, other times loud enough to shake the ground beneath us.

One moment, you’re holding on to everything familiar.

The next, you’re standing somewhere new, surrounded by change you didn’t necessarily plan but somehow needed.

Change breathes life into growth, yet it’s the thing most of us fight the hardest.

There was a time when I saw endings as proof of failure, a sign I hadn’t held on tightly enough.

But over time, I discovered something that changed everything: every exit is an entrance to somewhere new.

The moment something closes, even when it’s painful, the seed of something new has already begun to form.

Every person we meet teaches us something.

It might be about love, personal growth, letting go or even lessons on what not to do.

People drift through our stories on their own timelines.

Some enter at the exact moment we need them.

Offering laughter, truth, or that extra piece of courage we’re missing.

Others stay longer.

Helping us walk through the chapters that stretch and define us.

And then, there are the constants.

The few who remain through it all, shaping our narrative from beginning to end.

Think about your life as a bookshelf of moments.

Some people belong as short stories.

Brief but unforgettable.

Others fill entire novels, leaving behind memories and lessons that echo through every future word you’ll write.

One thing that has really helped my outlook is understanding that life will be a series of goodbyes.

Some people will be part of your life for a page.

Some for a chapter.

And some for the whole book.

Be prepared for it and you’ll appreciate the moments you have so much more.

When you recognise that not everyone is meant to stay forever, something shifts.

You stop gripping what’s trying to move on.

You begin to see the beauty in temporary things, the way they carved shape into who you became.

You replace resistance with reverence.

Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t saying goodbye.

It’s trusting what comes next.

Sometimes, the hardest goodbyes aren’t with people.

But with parts of ourselves.

Letting go rarely feels graceful at first.

It feels like loss.

Some researchers even describe these seasons as “lifequakes”.

Big disruptions that shake the ground under your feet, but often become the entry point to a new phase of growth.

It feels like standing in the middle of what was and not knowing what comes next.

But grace grows in the release itself.

Holding on to a past version of yourself or a life chapter that’s completed is like trying to live in a home that’s already been sold.

You can keep revisiting it in your mind, but the keys no longer fit.

Your past doesn’t need you anymore.

Your future does.

Life has a way of closing chapters for us.

You can’t start reading the next page if you keep re-reading the last one.

At some point, you have to turn the page and trust that the next chapter will bring something you haven’t even imagined yet.

You can apply that same mindset everywhere.

In your work, your relationships, your identity.

When you release what no longer aligns?

You free the energy that was meant to carry you forward.

Putting it simply, the art of letting go lies in trusting what’s next.

Gratitude can help transform pain into grace.

It softens the sharp edges of goodbye.

Where pain once sat, gratitude helps builds a bridge.

When you look back and say, thank you for the lessons or thank you for the love, you transform memory into wisdom.

Gratitude changes endings into continuations.

You carry the essence of what once was, without the weight.

You hold on to the beauty, but release the burden.

And gratitude is so much more than a feel-good idea.

Studies clearly show that simple gratitude practices are linked to higher life satisfaction, better mental health and fewer symptoms of anxiety and depression.

One of the hardest truths about love, friendship, or purpose is that they often change form.

Gratitude allows you to acknowledge the gifts they brought you, instead of their absence.

Don’t be sad it’s over, be glad it happened.

It’s a powerful mindset shift.

Openness allows life to keep surprising you.

When we protect ourselves from pain, we often unknowingly block joy too.

You can close the door so tightly that nothing (good or bad) gets in.

But when you stay open, even during heartbreak or uncertainty, life has some room to surprise you.

It’s like holding a fistful of sand.

The tighter you grip, the faster it slips through.

To keep any of it, you have to loosen your grip.

The universe responds to openness.

The moment you release what’s finished, space appears for something meaningful to enter.

Sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

A stranger’s kindness, an opportunity you almost ignored, or an inner realisation that redefines what fulfillment means for you.

The key is simple: stay facing forward.

Belief is the voice guiding your steps toward possibility.

The way you think about your future becomes the shape of your life.

If you hold a consistent belief that your best days are still ahead of you?

Your decisions, the actions you take, and your energy all begin to align with that truth.

Again, research backs this up.

People with a more optimistic outlook tend to have better overall health and even longer lifespans compared with those who expect the worst.

Life meets you where your belief lives.

But when you convince yourself that your happiest chapter has already passed?

Everything you notice reinforces that story.

You see evidence that supports your doubt, and that becomes your reality.

Belief is choosing to hold on to a bit of light when things feel heavy.

It’s trusting that you can find your way back to joy.

Even after life has knocked you down a peg or two.

Every time you choose to see life through a lens of possibility and the hope of what can be?

You take one step closer to the brighter side.

Acknowledge the Transition: Notice when you’re standing at the edge of an ending. Say it out loud: “I can feel a new chapter starting to open.” Awareness marks the beginning of acceptance.

Release Before You Replace: Avoid rushing into what’s next just to escape the discomfort of change. Give endings the respect they deserve. Closure comes when you make peace, not when you distract yourself or ignore reality.

Anchor in Gratitude: Each night for one week, write down one thing you’re grateful for that has ended. It could be a past job, a friendship, or an old version of yourself. Watch how gratitude helps lighten what once felt heavy.

Rewrite the Narrative: Instead of saying “I lost that job,” try “That chapter has closed so I can step into something that fits me better.” The words you choose shape the beliefs you build.

Stay Curious About What’s Next: Ask yourself, “What could this be preparing me for?” Curiosity keeps you open. It shifts fear into wonder.

Every ending across a lifetime introduces you to the next version of yourself.

Endings are life’s way of inviting you into your own evolution.

It helps to not view them as proof of loss but as proof of growth.

Goodbyes remind us that every story, even the most beautiful one, leads to another one waiting to be written.

So, as you step into new beginnings, whisper thanks and acknowledge what’s come before.

Keep your hands open, your heart ready, and your belief steady.

And remember this:

If life closes a door in your face?

Open it and walk through.

Every exit is an entry to someplace new.

Because life keeps moving.

And with it comes endless opportunities to begin again.

One step brighter each time.

In this 13 minute talk, Maya Shankar explores why change feels so unsettling and shares simple, science-backed ways to turn life’s unexpected shifts into opportunities for growth and possibility:

A few months back, I was catching up with a friend over a drink when he casually mentioned a movie called Last Breath.

The story features a diver who “survived 30 minutes without air” at the bottom of the North Sea.

I realised at the time I’d either never heard the story, or filed it away as something too extreme to be real.

Then, I met Chris Lemons’s story properly.

Wowsers.

It’s one of the most incredible examples I’ve seen of calm under impossible pressure, teamwork you can’t see, and the courage it takes to keep on living after surviving a miracle.

Picture a black, restless North Sea at night.

On the seabed, around 100 metres down, Chris is working as a saturation diver.

He’s tethered to a diving bell (basically an underwater elevator room for divers) and ship by his umbilical line, which feeds him breathing gas, heat, power and communication.

Then it happens.

The ship’s dynamic positioning fails.

The vessel drifts.

The umbilical snags, strains, then snaps.

Lights go out.

Suddenly he’s alone on the bottom, in the dark, with only a tiny backup supply of gas on his back.

A “normal day at the office”

Chris is part of a highly trained group of saturation divers who live in pressurised chambers for days or weeks so they can work at extreme depths.

Rather than carrying big tanks, they rely on that single umbilical for their life support and move to and from the seabed in a sealed bell.

On this particular night in 2012, he and two colleagues were working on subsea infrastructure beneath the vessel Bibby Topaz.

Just another shift at a job that sits mighty close to the edge.

When the positioning system failed and the ship began to drift?

Their lifelines were dragged with it until Chris’s finally tore free.

In one brutal moment he lost warm water, light, comms and his main gas supply.

He was left on the seabed, in pitch blackness.

With a bailout tank designed to last only a few minutes at that depth.

Meanwhile, the team in the bell couldn’t see anything on their monitors and were battling to stabilise the ship and work out where he’d gone.

At first, Chris did what years of training had wired into him.

He tried to trace his way back along where he believed the umbilical had been, feeling around the structure, searching for the bell in the dark.

Very quickly, it became clear he was lost.

He had no visual reference, no clear line back.

Just cold metal and black water, while his small bailout drained and his body slid into deep stress.

At some point, the gas ran out.

He remembers a shift from effort to a strange calm.

Then nothing.

Up above and in the bell, the rest of the team refused to treat him as already gone.

They managed to regain control of the drifting vessel, reposition it over the work site and get the bell back to where he MIGHT be.

Another diver, Dave Yuasa, made repeated attempts to find him.

Moving through near‑zero visibility.

Guided by limited camera feeds and sheer determination.

Eventually, they found him.

He was clipped up on a structure, motionless.

They brought him back into the bell, where he appeared beyond help.

No signs of life.

Limp and unresponsive.

And yet they began CPR anyway.

In a cramped metal sphere 100 metres down, under pressure, they kept working on him because stopping wasn’t an option they were willing to entertain.

Then, against everything they expected.

He started to breathe again.

Later estimates suggested Chris had been without an effective oxygen supply for between 25–30 minutes.

On paper, that should mean brain damage, at best.

Death at worst.

Several theories have been presented: the cold water, the pressure at depth, his fitness and metabolism possibly slowing his body’s demands in ways that bought him time.

None of it fully explains why he woke up able to talk, joke and return to work in a matter of weeks.

What feels most striking to me is this: everyone involved calls that night extraordinary, yet their behaviour came from something very ordinary for them.

Training, discipline and a refusal to quit on someone they cared about.

They acted as if life was still possible.

Long after logic said otherwise.

You can imagine an experience like that would end a diving career.

In Chris’s case?

It did not.

Within weeks he was back in the water.

For roughly a decade he continued saturation diving, eventually moving into a supervisor role that now keeps him “dry” and overseeing others.

He speaks openly about deep gratitude.

A sense of living on borrowed time and a renewed respect for the risks of his work.

What I find powerful is that his story didn’t freeze in that dramatic moment.

He still had to pay bills, return to some version of normal, carry that night with him and choose how to live with it.

He chose to keep working with his team.

And to share his story through speaking engagements, the film Last Breath and interviews.

So others could learn from it.

Calm grows before the crisis: Chris did feel fear, but he fell back on what he had practised for years. In our own lives, we often expect calm to appear on command. In reality, it grows slowly through habits, reflection and plenty of practice.

You rarely survive alone: His chances relied on a chain of people above and below working relentlessly on his behalf. When you feel “on the seabed” in your own life, remembering that there are people who can help (if you let them) can be a lifesaver.

Training is a form of hope: The crew’s actions came from drills and a strong culture. When something goes wrong, you keep going until you have done everything you can.
Every time you practise a skill, a hard conversation or a coping strategy, you’re casting a small vote for your future self. Who might one day need that muscle.

Act without perfect control: They had no guarantee he was savable, but chose to act anyway. We often wait for certainty, even though change often starts with uncertain steps taken toward what matters. Not toward guarantees.

What lingers about Chris for me, is the contrast between where he found himself and where most of us are.

He was in the black cold of the North Sea.

But the feelings (fear, isolation, the sense that “I’m out of options”) are things we recognise on dry land.

It pulls my attention back to the choices that exist when everything feels lost.

The breath we can steady.

The call we can make.

The one small action that says, “I’m still here,” even when we can’t see what comes next.

And then there’s the team above him.

Working like mad while he knew none of it was happening.

That part stays with me just as much as his survival.

The idea that, even when we feel completely alone, there may be people moving on our behalf in ways we’ll only understand later.

Next time you feel like you are out of air?

What if you treated that moment as the cue to phone a friend.

Or to take one stubborn step forward and decide:

“This is not where my story ends”

If you’d like to hear Chris tell the story himself, this short interview gives a powerful glimpse into what happened and how he lives with it now:

This week, we’re returning to a band that’s been in my ears for 25 years.

Gorillaz and their new album, The Mountain.

Gorillaz are the legendary virtual band created by Damon Albarn that features countless guest artists.

Over the years they’ve built a wild, cartoon‑meets‑real‑life world backed by some seriously good tunes.

I’ve loved plenty of their music along the way, but I haven’t enjoyed an album from start to finish like this since Plastic Beach.

Music has a way of sticking to our memories.

For me, Gorillaz is driving through the New Zealand countryside with a friend, windows down, screaming along to “DARE” and “Feel Good Inc.”

It’s bouncing with the crowd at Coachella in 2010 when I camped solo for the weekend, carried by thumping basslines and strangers’ smiles.

The Mountain brings back that same spark.

It feels like a genuine return to what Gorillaz used to deliver so well, in both sound and emotion.

The Mountain feels like it was created to be heard as a whole, not just picked apart.

There are standout songs for sure, but this album really works when you hit play and let it run.

Perfect for a drive, a long walk, or an evening at home with your thoughts.

“Orange County” is the song that keeps stopping me in my tracks.

It’s Damon Albarn processing the loss of his mother, and you can feel that mix of love and grief running through the song (and the album).

It hits you right in the heart because it amplifies how music lets us keep our people close.

Even when they’re gone.

Here are a few simple ways to get the most out of The Mountain:

Listen like it’s a story: Give it one full run, no skipping. Let the order of the songs and the mood shifts do their thing.

Pair it with motion: Take it with you on a drive or a walk. This album fits that feeling of watching the world roll by while your mind wanders.

Notice what it brings up: When a song like “Orange County” comes on, pay attention to who or what it makes you think of. Sometimes the real “lesson” is the memory it wakes up.

Use it as a soft check‑in: If you’re carrying some level of unspoken grief, let a couple of tracks be a quiet check‑in with yourself. No pressure to fix anything, just a chance to feel it.

The Mountain plays like a mood you sit with for a while, a record that invites you to actually listen.

For me, that mood is a mix of movement, peace and memories of those I’ve lost.

Every now and then, a song drops me straight back into a moment with them and for a few minutes, it feels like I’m there again.

Music is a wonderful launchpad for memories and when a new song can transport you back to a specific moment in time, it creates a new link that you can hold onto.

Tracks like “Orange County” carry that kind of emotional weight.

It’s beautiful and carries both grief and gratitude in the same breath.

You feel the ache, and you feel the love that sits underneath it.

The Mountain asks for your attention and then rewards you in a big way when you choose to give it.

If you haven’t listened to a full album in a while, this is a great way back in.

Throw on your headphones and press play.

Let it run from start to finish and notice how the music takes you on a journey.

Pay attention to the transitions between songs, the ebb and flow of the melodies, and the emotions each track evokes.

Allow yourself to be immersed in world they’ve created and notice which songs reach back and grab an old memory for you.

And which ones start writing a new one.

As with every great Gorillaz album, there so much more to it than just the music, check out this stunning short film:

Please share; I'm always keen for great suggestions.

This weeks bright idea comes from a simple old story you will likely recognise.

The Blind Men and the Elephant.

I love how clearly it reminds us that we rarely see the whole picture from our perspective.

By John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan,
    To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the elephant,
    (Though all of them were blind,)
That each by observation
    Might satisfy his mind.

The first approached the elephant,
    And, happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
    At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the elephant
    Is very like a wall!"

The second, feeling of the tusk,
    Cried: "Ha! what have we here,
So very round, and smooth, and sharp?
    To me 't is very clear,
This wonder of an elephant
    Is very like a spear!"

The third approached the animal,
    And, happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
    Thus boldly up he spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
    Is very like a snake!"

The fourth reached out his eager hand,
    And fell about the knee:
"What most this wondrous beast is like,
    Is very plain," quoth he;
"'T is clear enough the elephant
    Is very like a tree!"

The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
    Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most:
    Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an elephant
    Is very like a fan!"

The sixth no sooner had begun
    About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
    That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
    Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan
    Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
    Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
    And all were in the wrong!

This poem is a reminder that we only ever see part of the picture.

Each man is touching the same elephant.

But each is convinced his version is the whole story.

Seem familiar?

It shows how quickly we treat our angle as the truth instead of just our truth.

When we remember that?

It becomes easier to loosen our grip.

To listen, and stay curious about what else might be true.

We each move through our days holding our own “piece of the elephant.”

Our nervous system, our stories and our reactions.

All shaped by the piece we can feel.

Not the whole animal.

When I notice myself becoming too certain or defensive?

It helps to pause and ask, “What might I be missing here?”

Because it’s not often not possible to see the whole picture from your own perspective.

Next time something feels obvious, check in with yourself.

Is this the whole elephant - or just the part in front of me right now?

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