Today, through the post, I received my NHS Long Service Award for 25 years of work. It’s just a small certificate and a Love2shop voucher, but it marks something significant. I began my journey at 18 as a part-time Occupational Therapy Assistant, working weekends in an old mental health hospital. I still remember my first day: I was shown into the pottery room and told, “This work is from Bristol.” I thought, Bristol? But we’re in Middlesbrough, do people really travel that far just for pottery? Of course, Bristol was the name of the ward. That moment has stayed with me. It reminded me then, and reminds me still, how easy it is to assume people know what we mean. Ever since, I’ve made it a point to explain, not exclude.
I was fortunate to be sponsored by my employer to train as an occupational therapist. It opened a door that may not have been accessible to me otherwise. The NHS I joined all those years ago looks very different to the one I work in now. I’ve moved through many teams, services, systems, models, restructures, and more change initiatives than I could begin to count. But one thing has remained constant: the purpose. That every person deserves care which recognises them as whole, complex individuals with rights, needs, and stories.
Over these 25 years, I’ve had the privilege of working with people navigating trauma, distress, recovery, and hope. I’ve also carried my own lived experience alongside my professional role. It has shaped me deeply, and it has made me even more committed to creating spaces where people feel seen, heard, and supported.
Alongside my employed work, I also take great pride in the roles I’ve taken on in a voluntary capacity, helping shape and strengthen the profession. From being part of the OTalk team, running weekly Twitter chats on occupational therapy topics, to chairing regional committees with RCOT and the Mental Health Specialist Section, these opportunities have allowed me to contribute in meaningful ways. I was also proud to co-found AbleOTUK, a community that champions disabled occupational therapists and those with long-term health conditions. This work has really helped me develop skills that I’ve been able to transfer into my paid roles, and it’s also helped me build confidence in my abilities, particularly in leadership, communication, and influencing change.
One thing I’ve become well known for over the years is challenging the use of acronyms. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve asked people to just say what they mean. Acronyms might save a few seconds in writing, but they often cost much more in clarity. In meetings, documents, and even clinical notes, they can quickly become a barrier, especially when different teams use the same letters to mean entirely different things. The irony isn’t lost on me that even the National Health Service goes by an acronym – but at least that one’s well understood. Communication should include people, not confuse them. It’s something I’ll keep championing, however many eye-rolls it gets me.
One of the most striking differences between now and 25 years ago is how much more involved the voice of lived experience is in what we do. There is still a lot of work to do; representation is not yet where it needs to be, but it’s encouraging to see this shift taking place. Our profession is beginning to recognise that expertise comes in many forms.
Change has been on my mind a lot recently. Just last month, I spoke at a Schwartz Round titled Not Another Change. It was a fitting theme. If the NHS promises anything, it’s that change will come. At times, it’s welcome. Other times, it doesn’t feel right. But what matters most is how we respond to it. Change in health and social care can be disorientating, especially in systems as large as ours. But staying open, reflective, and values-driven helps us move forward without losing sight of who we are.
Now, at 43, I find myself somewhere in the middle. With the retirement age for women set to rise to 68, my dad summed it up in the family WhatsApp group when I shared my certificate: “Well, if all goes to plan, you’re only halfway through!” It made me laugh, but it also made me think. Another 25 years! What will the NHS look like then? I don’t know. But I hope its heart stays the same: care, compassion, and a commitment to the people it serves. Free at the point of need.
I try hard to hold on to why we are here. It’s easy to lose sight of that as your role changes. These days, I spend more time supporting staff than working directly with patients. The internal demands of governance, dashboards, spreadsheets, policies, and inspections can begin to take up more space. Sometimes I worry we’ve shifted too far towards valuing quantity over quality – counting tasks, ticking boxes, measuring output without always asking whether what we’re doing is making a meaningful difference. I don’t have all the answers, and I know I need to improve my understanding around workforce reform, but I try to stay grounded in the values that brought me into this work: compassion, connection, and the belief that people matter.
So what does this certificate really mean to me? It marks 25 years of showing up. Through good times and hard ones. Through systems that worked and systems that didn’t. It represents connection, care, challenge, growth, and hope. I’m proud of the work I’ve done and of the people I’ve worked alongside.
If I’ve learned anything over these years, it’s that small things matter. A kind word. A clear explanation. A challenge made with care. A refusal to give up. These are the things that make a difference. And they’re the things I intend to keep doing.