Twelve Months

In My Own Words | October 2026

A little note before we begin...

This is my first attempt at putting some of my thoughts and experiences into words, and I've somehow managed to squeeze twelve months of my life into one rather lengthy blog post.

I promise they won't all be this long! But I suppose you've got to start somewhere, and there was quite a bit of catching up to do.

So, grab yourself a cuppa, get comfortable and stick with me. Hopefully, it'll be worth the read...

It's funny how much can change in twelve months.

If you'd told me in September 2025 that, a year later, I'd be spending much of my time in a pottery painting studio, organising hen parties, making TikTok videos, learning the art of making a decent coffee and working alongside my wife, I'd probably have laughed at you.

But here we are. And strangely enough, I don't think I've ever been happier.

To understand how I got here, though, I need to go back to September 2025.

I was in Scotland, working as a Business Development Manager for one of the UK's largest ground screw suppliers. On paper, it was a fantastic opportunity. I was travelling around the country, meeting people, developing business, earning good money and working within an industry that I'd spent years wanting to become involved in.

And I have to say, the people I worked with were genuinely lovely. From the moment I joined, I was made to feel incredibly welcome. There was a real family atmosphere and they went out of their way to make me feel part of it. I met some fantastic people, built relationships that I still value today, and have nothing but appreciation for the warmth and support they showed me.

I want to make that clear because, looking back, my unhappiness had very little to do with the people around me or the opportunities I'd been given. I was fortunate to have both, and I knew it.

But despite all of that, something wasn't right.

And for quite some time, I couldn't put my finger on what it was.

The photograph

I've got three daughters: Lily, Elsa and Cleo.

In September 2025, Cleo was about to turn five and was taking her first steps into preschool. For most parents, those first days are quite a big deal. There's the excitement, the photographs, the slightly oversized uniform and the feeling that your little one is growing up far too quickly.

But for me, there was a little more to it.

I'd spent a significant part of my adult life fighting to remain actively involved in my older daughters' lives following a previous relationship breakdown. That involved going through the courts, including an appeal process, to secure shared living arrangements.

It's something I might write about properly another day, because I think there are lessons in that experience, particularly for fathers who find themselves in similar circumstances.

One thing I learned is that being a father doesn't automatically make you the less suitable parent. If you can provide a stable, loving home for your children, you shouldn't assume that your role will be viewed as any less important.

I was fortunate that the eventual outcome allowed me to maintain that involvement. And I'm incredibly proud that, from around the age of eleven, both Lily and Elsa independently chose to live with Laura and me.

But those earlier years weren't always straightforward. Although I hadn't missed their first days at school, shared living arrangements inevitably meant there were parts of their childhood that I couldn't experience in quite the same way.

So when it came to Cleo, being there mattered enormously.

Except I wasn't there.

I was in Scotland.

Instead, I received a photograph of Cleo standing with her two big sisters, all three smiling, ready for her first day. And I remember feeling genuinely emotional.

Not because anything was wrong with the photograph. Quite the opposite. It was lovely.

But I wasn't in it.

I wasn't there to give her a hug, wish her luck or watch her walk through the door. I was hundreds of miles away, doing my job.

And that really bothered me.

Four walls and a Premier Inn

One thing about travelling around the country for work is that you become very familiar with Premier Inns.

And I can tell you something about Premier Inns.

It doesn't matter which one you're staying in. They're all pretty much the same. You walk into the room, and the only real mystery is whether the bathroom is going to be on your left or your right.

Otherwise, you've got the same four walls, the same furniture and, more often than not, a window overlooking another car park.

You finish your working day, perhaps go somewhere for dinner, and by eight o'clock you're back in your room. On your own. Looking out of a window at a car park that could be almost anywhere in the country.

I'm not suggesting that work travel is some great hardship. Plenty of people do it, and some thoroughly enjoy it.

I knew when I accepted the job that travelling would be part of it. I was expected to be in Scotland at the beginning of every month, usually for at least three nights, and I understood that.

But what I hadn't fully appreciated was how much it would affect me.

I'd spent years making sure I could be present for my children. I'd fought for that right, structured my life around it and made it one of my biggest priorities. Yet here I was, voluntarily working in a role that increasingly took me away from them.

And the uncomfortable truth was that, financially, I was probably doing better than I'd ever done.

I was earning more money than I had previously, without many of the stresses that come with running your own business, paying staff and worrying about where the next invoice is coming from.

From the outside, it probably looked brilliant. A good job, a good salary, travel and plenty of opportunities. People were pleased for me, and understandably so.

But internally, I was becoming increasingly unhappy, and I couldn't quite work out why.

Even when I was home, I wasn't really there

It wasn't just the travelling.

Every morning, I had an eight o'clock call. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, I needed to be on that call.

If I was at home, that often meant shutting the office door while the family were getting ready for their day. There were mornings when I couldn't even say goodbye properly as Cleo headed off to school because I was sitting behind a closed door on a work call.

And then there were the evenings.

Work might officially finish at five, but if I hadn't achieved everything I wanted to achieve, I'd keep going. I'd put pressure on myself to do more. Another email, another call, another task.

Nobody needed to tell me to do it. I was quite capable of putting that pressure on myself.

Gradually, I realised I was burning myself out.

The strange thing was that it wasn't necessarily showing in my work. I was still getting things done, developing relationships and securing business.

But mentally, I wasn't where I wanted to be. I wasn't happy, and I wasn't properly switched on to what was happening around me.

I know people use the phrase being present quite a lot these days, and it can sound a bit clichéd, but that's exactly what was missing.

I could be sitting at home with my family and still not really be there.

After everything I'd been through to make sure I was part of my children's lives, that was a difficult thing to accept.

I think I'm going to resign

Towards the end of September, I walked into Laura's pottery painting studio and told her I was going to hand in my notice.

Just like that.

No lengthy build-up or carefully prepared conversation. I simply told her.

And I think it's fair to say she was rather shocked.

She genuinely had no idea how unhappy I'd become. I'd done a pretty good job of convincing everyone around me, including those closest to me, that everything was fine.

Her first question was fairly obvious. What was I going to do?

And my answer probably wasn't particularly reassuring.

I wanted to take three months off. Three months to get my head straight, spend some time with the family and work out what I actually wanted to do.

Understandably, Laura wasn't immediately jumping for joy at the idea. We had a household to run, children to look after and bills that weren't suddenly going to disappear because I'd decided I needed a break.

She suggested I take some time to think about it, but the truth was I'd already made my decision.

I'm quite strong-willed when I make my mind up about something, and I don't particularly like keeping people hanging on when I know what I'm going to do.

So I handed in my notice.

And I'll admit something.

It scared the life out of me.

Making a decision because you know something isn't right doesn't mean you're suddenly immune to the consequences.

I was frightened about the money, frightened about what came next and, if I'm being completely open, I didn't really know what came next.

At around the same time, a previous business I'd established, which had been operated by other family members, was also coming to an end.

There is a separate story behind that, and perhaps one day I'll tell it.

The timing of those two situations was particularly difficult, especially because both were connected to the ground screw industry. It wasn't an easy period professionally, and my decision to leave wasn't universally welcomed.

But by then, my mind was made up.

I completed my notice, and on 17 October 2025, my employment came to an end.

I also had a six-month non-compete restriction, so I knew I wasn't simply going to walk straight back into the same industry the following Monday.

My thinking was fairly straightforward. Take three months, get myself sorted, then see what opportunities were available when the six months had passed.

That was the plan.

Or at least, as much of a plan as I had.

From earning good money to having no direction

The next few months were strange.

For the first time in my adult life, I didn't really have a defined purpose.

I'd always worked. I'd always been involved in something, building something, managing something or trying to move something forward.

Suddenly, there was nowhere I needed to be. No particular reason to get dressed for work, no diary full of appointments and no clear direction.

I spent quite a lot of time in jogging bottoms and T-shirts, going for walks, spending time at home and making the occasional ridiculous TikTok video.

Not because I was trying to become some sort of influencer. Far from it. I was simply finding things to fill the day.

My CV was on job boards. I was speaking to people in industries I'd never worked in before, wondering whether my experience and skills might transfer into something completely different.

Should I go back into employment? Should I change industries? Should I start something myself?

I really didn't know.

And financially, things had changed dramatically.

I'd gone from earning more than I'd ever earned to having very little income at all.

I'm not too proud to say that I applied for Universal Credit and relied heavily on that and other support to keep the bills paid.

Laura suddenly found herself carrying most of the financial responsibility for our household. That wasn't something she'd signed up for, and I think it's important to acknowledge it.

My decision affected her just as much as it affected me. We've spoken about that period since, and I know it wasn't always easy.

But something interesting happened.

When you go from having a comfortable monthly income to watching every pound, you discover just how quickly you can adapt.

You start questioning what you actually need. You realise how many things you used to spend money on without really thinking about them. And you discover that, while money is obviously important, you can often live on considerably less than you imagined.

I'm not suggesting it was comfortable or that financial difficulties are somehow enjoyable. They're not.

But it taught me something about what I valued.

Christmas came and went. I spent time with the family, continued walking, thinking, looking at opportunities and trying to work out where I was going.

And somewhere amongst all of that, I started drawing again.

A few sketches and an old passion

I'd remained in contact with people I'd worked with over the years, particularly within the modular construction and ground screw industries. We'd talk about projects, opportunities and where the industry was heading.

And I began thinking about an idea I'd had for some time.

A modular floor system.

Something that could work alongside ground screw foundations, providing a practical alternative to more conventional construction methods.

I started looking at GRP — glass-reinforced plastic — and some of the structural profiles available. I'd sketch different arrangements, look at how sections could connect, consider installation methods and think about how a complete system might come together.

There wasn't a great master plan behind it. I wasn't sitting there with investors, a business strategy and a launch date circled on the calendar.

I was just exploring an idea.

And, probably for the first time in several months, I was beginning to enjoy thinking about construction again.

That idea would eventually become ModuFloor.

But something else was about to happen that I hadn't anticipated at all.

A freezing cold day in January

January arrived, the children went back to school, and I was particularly pleased to have been able to spend some extra time with Cleo, including taking her in myself.

It was freezing cold. There was snow coming down, and Laura needed some pottery stock collecting and taking into the studio.

So I went to help.

Nothing particularly exciting about that.

I collected the stock, delivered it, and then started looking around at a few jobs that needed doing.

We had a room outside the main pottery studio that had been half-finished for ages. The intention had always been to turn it into a party room, so I thought I'd make a start.

One job became another.

Before long, I was decorating, sorting out the electrics and lighting, fitting units, arranging tables and generally trying to get the room ready to use.

Then I started helping with the website. Then a few other things. And before I knew it, I was spending quite a lot of time at the pottery painting studio.

Now, I need to explain something.

This was absolutely not the direction I had expected my working life to take.

I'd spent years involved in construction, business development, technical products and building projects.

Suddenly, I was helping people create memories and put handprints and footprints on plates.

And I absolutely loved it.

The unexpected world of pottery painting

There's something rather lovely about a pottery painting studio.

People generally come in because they want to enjoy themselves. They want to spend time with their children, catch up with friends, celebrate a birthday, enjoy a hen party or simply switch off from everything going on outside.

They're not usually there because they've got some enormous problem that needs solving.

They're there to have a nice time, and I found that incredibly refreshing.

I enjoyed talking to people, getting to know the customers and becoming involved in something completely different.

A pottery painting studio is perhaps not the environment people immediately expect to find a bloke who has spent years in the construction industry.

But that became part of the fun.

I started helping with the social media, making videos, promoting events and getting involved in the day-to-day running of things. The following began to grow, and we were trying different ideas, having a laugh and, importantly, enjoying what we were doing.

And I realised I wasn't spending my days wishing I was somewhere else.

I was happy to be there.

What had started as helping Laura for a few days had gradually turned into weeks, then months. And all the while, I was getting to spend time with my wife.

We were working together, supporting each other and building something around our family life.

It hadn't been planned. It had just happened.

And what about construction?

Of course, I hadn't forgotten about construction.

Throughout this period, I was still talking to former contacts about the possibility of providing consultancy support.

Over the years, I'd built up a lot of knowledge around modular construction, ground screws, compliance, documentation and navigating the various processes involved in getting projects through to completion.

And I began to wonder whether I could use that experience without returning to the same kind of full-time employment.

When my six-month restriction came to an end in April, I picked up a few jobs. Nothing enormous. Two or three projects where I could provide support, help resolve issues and guide things through the necessary processes.

And I enjoyed it.

It fitted around the pottery studio, allowed me to continue supporting Laura and gave me an opportunity to work within an industry I knew well, without immediately returning to the pressures I'd experienced before.

More importantly, it showed me that there was a genuine demand for the service.

I could take what I knew and use it to help other businesses get things done.

That gradually became ModuSense.

Meanwhile, the sketches I'd been working on were becoming something much more tangible.

I'd developed the ModuFloor concept to a point where I was ready to take the design to my structural engineer. He worked through the calculations, reviewed the arrangements and helped establish the engineering behind the system.

I was then fortunate enough to secure several projects that provided an opportunity to take the design through the Building Control process and gain practical experience of how the system would perform.

I wanted to make sure the technical side was right, that the necessary calculations and documentation were in place, and that I was confident in what I was putting my name to.

I've spent enough years in the industry to know that having a good idea and having a product that's ready for the market are two very different things.

So I took my time.

I worked on the website, the brochures, the technical information and the business itself.

And for once, I didn't feel the need to rush.

Mañana

There's a word I've become rather fond of over the last twelve months.

Mañana.

Tomorrow.

Not because I've become lazy or because I've stopped caring about getting things done. Quite the opposite.

I still have plenty of ambition. I've got businesses I want to develop, products I want to bring to market and people I want to work with.

But I've stopped treating absolutely everything as though it needs to happen immediately.

If something can wait until tomorrow, sometimes it can wait until tomorrow.

And that's quite a change for me.

I've always been somebody who wants to get things done. If there's a problem, I want to solve it. If there's a task, I want to finish it.

I'm still like that, but I've become much better at recognising what actually matters.

These days, I can collect Cleo from school, spend time with Lily while she's learning to drive, support Elsa with her football and continue being involved in coaching. I can enjoy my own hobbies, and I get to work alongside Laura most days.

I still help organise the private hires, birthday parties, hen parties and evening events at the pottery studio.

And strangely enough, some of the things I never imagined myself doing have become the things I most enjoy.

Our relationship has benefited enormously from the last twelve months. We've become closer, not just as husband and wife, but as a family unit.

And Laura, who understandably wasn't particularly enthusiastic when I first announced I was giving up my job, now tells people that it was the best decision I've ever made.

Which is rather nice to hear.

Especially considering the look on her face when I first told her.

Twelve months later

As I write this, we're approaching 17 October 2026.

Almost exactly twelve months since I walked away from my previous employment.

And the funny thing is, I never intended to spend twelve months away from the industry.

I originally wanted three months. Three months to clear my head, spend time with my family and work out what I wanted to do next.

Then I thought I'd be back after six.

But life had other ideas.

Now, twelve months later, I've developed my consultancy, progressed an engineered floor system, built a website, worked on technical and commercial brochures and started reconnecting with people across the construction industry.

There is still plenty to do, and there are still uncertainties. I certainly wouldn't suggest that I've suddenly worked out the answer to everything.

But I'm comfortable with where I am.

I don't feel the need to pretend I'm further ahead than I actually am, and I don't feel that everything has to be completed yesterday.

I no longer judge how well life is going simply by looking at how much money is coming into the bank.

That's not to say money doesn't matter. Of course it does. I've experienced both ends of that particular spectrum in the space of twelve months.

But what I've come to appreciate is that the life surrounding the work is just as important as the work itself.

Looking back, I don't think I've returned to the person I was before.

I think I've evolved.

I'm still ambitious, still determined and still capable of putting far too much thought into something that probably doesn't need it.

But I'm happier.

I don't sweat the small stuff nearly as much, and I try not to spend too much time worrying about things that haven't happened.

Perhaps that's simply part of getting older. Perhaps it's what happens when you spend a few months not knowing where you're going. Or perhaps I just needed to remind myself what I was working for in the first place.

I don't know.

What I do know is that tomorrow is never promised.

And every morning I wake up is another opportunity to spend time with the people I love, do something I enjoy and, hopefully, have a smile on my face.

I'm still finding my way. I'm still building things. I'm still making plans.

But this time, I'm doing it around my life rather than trying to fit my life around my work.

And if something doesn't quite get finished today?

Well.

Mañana.