So today we pass another milestone. One that, for weeks, filled me with dread and a little self-denial. Forty.

Shouldn’t I have achieved more by now? Shouldn’t I have ticked off the goals, the big dreams, the things people I look up to already have? Cue: comparison, doom spiral, self-loathing. Lovely birthday vibes.

So, this is my first birthday letter. Forty years old and, for a lot of moments if I’m honest, I almost didn’t bother. I thought: too late, Gemma, there’s no point in starting now. But then it hit me - when I’m sixty, that will be twenty letters. Twenty chances to capture gratitude, chaos, dreams, prosecco, and cake. Twenty opportunities to immortalise me - not for self-worship, but for acknowledgement of who I am today. Owning my journey, being proud of myself, loving myself, and most importantly, letting my children know how much they were (and still are) loved. So they’ll always know how much I adored them, how grateful I was, and how proud I’ll always be to be Mum.

We’ve all been there: you sit down for a “quick scroll” and suddenly it’s 2 hours later, your tea is cold, and your thumb is begging for a union rep. TikTok has taken you from sourdough starters to celebrity divorces to an oddly compelling sheep-shearing account - and you’re wondering how on earth you got here.

We love to talk about sparking innovation. About lighting people up with purpose, fuelling them with perks, or dazzling them with Friday yoga and pizza nights. But here’s the thing: you can’t spark joy if the ground beneath your team is shaky.

Because joy isn’t the starting point. Psychological safety is.

Do you ever find yourself picking up your phone without even realising it? One minute you’re waiting for the kettle to boil, the next you’re knee-deep in someone else’s holiday snaps, wondering why your life suddenly looks a bit . . . beige.