Children aren’t born good or bad.
They become what they see rewarded.

AI is learning from us the same way.

So if it’s watching how we behave this year…
what is it learning?

This short Christmas audio reflection asks an uncomfortable question about parenting, kindness and the future watching how we behave.

Suicidal Empathy is what happens when compassion stops protecting the vulnerable…
and starts protecting the violent.

A jarring look at how offenders are shielded by bureaucratic softness while ordinary citizens are punished for feeling outrage in a world that desperately needs it.

It exposes the quiet moral collapse that happens when harm is excused, victims are ignored and anyone who defends what’s right is shamed for it.

This is not an attack on empathy —
it’s a defence of real empathy:

The kind with a backbone.
The kind that doesn’t abandon victims for the sake of appearances.
The kind that says: I can understand your pain without excusing your cruelty.

Short, sharp, and uncomfortably true —
this piece asks whether a society with endless compassion but no boundaries is heading toward its own collapse.

If you feel the world is losing its moral spine,
this will wake something in you.

Heartbroken at 100 is a reflection on duty, sacrifice and the quiet grief of watching a nation shift beneath your feet. Inspired by the words of a 100-year-old British veteran who fought through the darkest years of the Second World War, only to look at his country today and feel a deep, personal heartbreak, this piece explores what happens when legacy collides with modern life.

It asks a question too many avoid:
What becomes of a nation when the people who bled for it no longer recognise it?

This is not a political rant. It is not nostalgia for a world that can’t return. It is a meditation on responsibility, identity and the moral foundations that once held Britain together – foundations built by ordinary men and women who worked, cared, protected, served and believed in something larger than themselves.

The story sits at the intersection of empathy and strength.
It challenges the modern assumption that empathy is softness, something fragile or passive. In truth, empathy is not the avoidance of difficulty – it is the courage to step into difficult truths without hate. And strength is not dominance – it is the steadiness to act with purpose and integrity, even when nobody applauds.

The veteran at the heart of this reflection is not simply mourning the past. He is mourning the loss of responsibility – the sense of duty that shaped his generation and gave meaning to their sacrifice. He is mourning the disappearance of shared moral ground. The erosion of neighbourliness. The fading memory of what it means to build, to contribute, to belong.

This piece looks at the quiet heroes who still hold that line today:

The single mother working two jobs who still finds time for her children.

The craftsman who takes pride in every wall he builds.
The neighbour who checks on the man down the street because no one else will.

The everyday people who still carry a sense of duty in a world that has replaced effort with noise, signalling with substance, and comfort with complacency.

It also explores the brittleness of modern Britain – the tension between wanting to be endlessly inoffensive and forgetting that a society with no shared values will eventually stand for nothing at all. A nation cannot survive on neutrality. Peace is not something we inherit; it is something we uphold. Empathy and strength must walk together, or both collapse.

Heartbroken at 100 offers neither despair nor blind optimism.
Instead, it offers a steady hand: a reminder that the legacy left to us was not one of perfection, but one of courage, sacrifice and belief. A reminder that we honour the past not by freezing it in time, but by carrying forward the best of it – the dignity, the responsibility, the willingness to stand for something even when it’s unpopular.

The question at the end is simple, and difficult:

Is there still time to turn things around, even in the brittle state of modern Britain?

This piece does not give the answer – it asks us to become part of it.
Because remembering what was fought for is not sentimentality.
It is identity.

And identity, if we let it, is the light that can still guide us home.