The Pub in the Garden

In the years before this whole journey began, I thought I loved a good time. Big fanfare. People around me. Laughter, music, drinks flowing. I liked being the centre of attention – or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Looking back, I realise I didn’t actually love the moment. What I loved was the build-up. The control. The planning. Making sure everything was perfect. That was my comfort zone – knowing the lights were on, the drinks were cold, the playlist was exactly right.

I had a pub in my back garden. Not a shed. Not a DIY bar with a fairy light or two. A proper pub. Over 100 types of gin. Fridges stocked with every mixer you could imagine. A full chiller system plumbed into proper keg lines – lager in the summer, Guinness in the winter, cider if the mood was right. It was theatre. It was ceremony. And it was all mine.

I cooked food that would hold its own in any restaurant. I had a gift for it. I loved doing it. But I almost never ate a bite. I was too stressed. Too focused on making it all work, making it all look effortless. And once guests arrived – half of whom I barely knew, just acquaintances to fill the space – I was already burnt out.

I’d start drinking early. Just to take the edge off. To slow the overthinking. Then I’d keep going – pints to spirits, spirits to shots, and on into the early hours. I had an absurd tolerance for alcohol. That was a badge of honour too, of course. Another thing I could be “the best” at.

But underneath it all? I just wanted it to be over. I wanted everyone to leave.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I wasn’t chasing connection. I was chasing validation. Admiration. A kind of performance-based worth. People would compliment the food, the set-up, the effort – and I’d feel seen. For about five minutes.

Then I’d feel nothing again.

When I started to shift – when the Reiki, the stillness, the cracks in the mask started to show – something inside me whispered: close the pub. I didn’t have a plan for the space. I wasn’t even consciously planning to stop drinking at that point. I just knew it wasn’t healthy. It didn’t feel aligned anymore – whatever that meant.

I started to worry about myself. Was the depression coming back? Had it ever really left? Was I just mad?

But looking back now, I see it differently.

I was getting clear.

I’d spent years doing things for other people – or more accurately, for the image I thought I needed other people to see. The provider. The organiser. The one who never needed help, who always had it together.

Truth is, I’d never really learned to lean on anyone. I didn’t trust people to hold me. I was the one to be leaned on. Always. And somewhere deep down, I think I’d decided it was better that way. If you don’t rely on people, they can’t let you down.

Grief, divorce, disappointment – all of it had happened to me. That was my script. That was the story. But this was the first time I ever asked: what if I played a role in any of this?

Not that I was to blame for everything. But maybe – just maybe – I wasn’t a passive character in my own life.

Maybe some of it was mine to own.

And that thought, uncomfortable as it was, felt like the beginning of something far more honest than any gin bar ever could.