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Tiny House of Tarot, Ystrad Mynach (2026)

13/09/2026

13.9.26

THR-008 — Who Said Life Has to Be This Way?

A few minutes for anyone who’s ever looked at the life they’re living and wondered when all these rules became rules in the first place.

Press play.

Lizzie 🫶

13/09/2026

I don’t know what sort of Sunday you’re having, but before you carry on scrolling, try this.

Read these once. Don’t pick the one that sounds most sensible. Just notice the one you’d rather I hadn’t written.

A. I know what I need to do. I just keep putting it off.

B. I wish somebody would just tell me what they really think.

C. I’m fed up with something from the past still having this much hold over me.

D. There’s something I’d love to do, but it would change quite a lot if I actually did it.

E. My life is fine on paper. I just don’t feel particularly happy in it.

Got one?

If it was A, I’m going to take you at your word. You know. The problem is that knowing doesn’t necessarily come with the lovely feeling of being certain. You can know and still be frightened, wish somebody else would make the decision for you, and spend another week thinking about something you’ve already thought about for six months. So what exactly are you expecting another week of thinking to tell you that you don’t know today?

Being frightened doesn’t mean you don’t know. It means you’re frightened.

If it was B, you can turn yourself inside out trying to get into somebody else’s head, but their mind is the one place in this situation you cannot actually stand. Come back to where you are. You might not know what they think about you, but you do know what happens to you around them. You know whether you feel wanted or uncertain, whether you can relax or you’re forever waiting for the next little bit of reassurance.

And underneath all that trying to work them out is a much more uncomfortable question. When did what they might be thinking become more important than what you already know from your own experience?

If it was C, forget the calendar for a minute. Five years, ten years, twenty years, yesterday. Time can tell you when something happened. It can’t tell you what it did to you. Some experiences change what comes afterwards. They change what you know about love, trust, safety, yourself and life. Sometimes the struggle isn’t only with what happened. It’s with the expectation that, by now, you should somehow have found your way back to the person you were before it did.

What if that person isn’t coming back? That’s a hard thing to consider. But if you keep measuring the person you are now against the person you were then, you can spend an awfully long time believing there’s something missing from you. There isn’t a version of you that got through everything you’ve got through and somehow remained untouched by it.

If it was D, I’ve got one question for you. Who would you have to become if it actually worked? Forget failure for a minute. You already know how to imagine that. Suppose the thing you keep saying you’d love to do actually happened. Suppose you finally said yes. Booked the bloody thing. Getting what you want might ask something of you that wanting it doesn’t.

There can be a strange safety in wanting a different life while continuing to protect the person whose life stays exactly the same. So have another look at what you’re frightened of. It might not be failure.

And if it was E, your life is fine on paper. Whose paper? Because somewhere along the way you picked up an idea of what a good life was supposed to look like. Somewhere to live, people around you, work, bills paid, things to look forward to and plenty you know you should be grateful for. You can have all of it and still find yourself standing in the kitchen on an ordinary Sunday thinking, is this it?

That doesn’t make you ungrateful, and it doesn’t mean you need to blow your whole life apart by teatime. But the fact that your life looks fine doesn’t mean you have to argue with yourself when it doesn’t feel fine. You’re the one actually living it.

You don’t need to tell me which one you picked, but I’d love to know. I’d much rather read your comments than tackle the washing I’ve got stacked up.

Lizzie x

13/09/2026

Sometimes the best gift isn’t another thing.

It’s an hour with the door closed, the kettle on and nowhere else you need to be.

A chance to put everything on the table and have a proper chat about whatever life’s throwing at you right now.

People come to Tiny House for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they’re at a crossroads. Sometimes life’s changed and they’re trying to figure things out. And sometimes nothing’s really wrong at all. They just want an hour to themselves, a fresh perspective and the chance to see what comes up when we sit down together.

I actually think that’s a really lovely thing to give someone.

Tiny House guidance vouchers are now available as gifts.

If you’ve got someone in mind, just drop me a message.

Lizzie ☺️

13/09/2026

Quite a few new people have found their way here lately, so hello.
This is me , I'm Lizzie.

I’ve no idea how you landed here, but I’m glad you did. And to those of you who’ve been reading, commenting, reacting and sharing for months or even years, I’m very glad you’re still here too.

I suppose if you’re new, the best way I can explain what happens around here is to tell you something I had to learn about myself.

For years I could have given you a pretty detailed description of myself. I knew what sort of person I was, what I was good at, what I wasn’t, the bits of myself I liked and the bits I’d have changed given half a chance. I had a fairly comprehensive file on Lizzie.

What I didn’t do was question where any of that information had come from.

Because we don’t usually do that, do we? Things happen, people react to us, somebody says something when we’re young and we make sense of it as best we can at the time. Eventually the conclusions stop feeling like conclusions. They just become things we know about ourselves.

It took some fairly substantial changes in my own life before I began to see how much of what I called “me” was actually information I’d accumulated along the way.

I hear it around the table all the time. Somebody tells me they’re not confident, they’re too sensitive or they’re simply “not that sort of person.” They don’t usually offer these things as opinions. They tell me as facts.

So I ask questions.

Sometimes I’ll put a card on the table and we’ll sit with the image. Somebody notices something, makes a connection or says something they weren’t expecting to say. Before long, what sounded like a fact about who they are turns out to have quite a history behind it.

I’m never in a hurry to tell somebody who they are. I’d much rather give them enough room to notice what they’ve been telling themselves.

And if you’re new here, that probably tells you quite a lot about this page too.

Yes, there’s tarot here. Obviously. It would be a slightly questionable business decision otherwise.

But mostly there are conversations about being human. Grief, love, fear, the peculiar ways we try to make sense of ourselves, the things we believe and occasionally the things we’ve been carrying for years without ever wondering whether they were true.

I don’t have a neat answer waiting for you at the end of every post. I’d be suspicious of myself if I did.

I have fewer answers about who I am than I did years ago. I’m considerably more at peace with the question.

So whether you arrived yesterday, you’ve been here for years, you comment, quietly read, react, share, come and sit opposite me or simply pop in occasionally to see what I’m banging on about now, thank you.

I write every word of these posts myself because the words I say to you matter to me. However many people happen to be reading them, I never forget there’s an actual person on the other side.

Some of you I know. Some of you I’ve met. Some of you have been here so long that I recognise your names immediately. Some of you I may never know are here at all.

But you are.

And I’m very glad you are.

L🥰

12/09/2026

There are things I miss that I wouldn’t have back.

For a long time I thought those two things had to agree with each other. If I missed something enough, surely some part of me must still want it. But actually that isn’t true.

I have amazing memories of Manchester, but I wouldn’t want to live there now. Manchester was where I was birthed into adulthood. I studied there, found my feet in my first proper job and fell properly in love for the first time. I was away from home, exploring life and finding out who I was while having absolutely no idea that was what I was doing.

I was chaotic. I danced on tables, drank until four in the morning and walked into my job in the music shop still wearing last night’s clothes. If there was a table, I needed to be at it. If people were going somewhere, I was going too. Long before anybody called it FOMO, I had it in industrial quantities. And God, I had some fun.

I’d like to think I was manifesting from this glorious place of free will, but when I really look at that young woman, an awful lot of chaos was driving the bus. Underneath that enormous appetite for life was a fear of being left behind. I needed to be included, wanted, to know where I fitted.

A piece of music can put me back there in seconds. That’s nostalgia. Manchester isn’t simply somewhere I used to live. There’s a whole version of me there, and I can miss her and that life without wanting either of them back.

But there’s another kind of missing that is nothing like nostalgia. There are people I would give anything to have back. I don’t miss them because they belong to another time. I miss them because they are absent from the life I’m living now. Things still happen that I want to tell them. That missing exists in the present because they should still be here.

And then there are old lives I can ache for even though I know I wouldn’t choose them again. That used to confuse me. Surely if I missed something this much, some part of me must still want it?

But when I really look at it, when I separate these things out, it’s not that I necessarily miss the life. What I miss is knowing where I belonged in it.

I knew the people, the work, the relationships, the shape of my days. I didn’t have to ask where I belonged because there I was, right in the middle of it. An awful lot of those things have changed since then. Some because I changed them, some because life changed them for me, and some because people I love are no longer physically here.

Yet here I am.

I can look back at old versions of my life and remember how completely I belonged inside them without confusing that with where I belong now. Almost none of the circumstances have stayed still.

I have.

That’s the difference for me now. I’m certain who I am. Where I am doesn’t have to tell me that anymore.

And right now, I know this is exactly where I need to be to do this work.

Lizzie 🥰

10/09/2026

We’re only human, right?

We say it all the time. I say it. You say it. Usually when we’ve got something wrong, lost our temper, made a complete mess of something or found ourselves worrying about something we know perfectly well we can’t control.

We’re only human.

But what does that actually mean?

Because for something we’re so certain we are, human is surprisingly difficult to explain.

We can describe one. We know what a human body looks like. We know an extraordinary amount about the brain, our DNA, our biology and how the whole thing works.

But what is a human?

You might say it’s the body, but your body has been changing since the day you were born. Your personality has changed. Your beliefs have changed. You’ve changed your mind about things you once knew you were right about. You’ve been different things to different people at different points in your life. There are probably versions of you from twenty or thirty years ago you’d hardly recognise now.

And yet every one of them was “I”.

We spend an enormous amount of our lives trying to sort ourselves out. We want to understand ourselves, heal ourselves, improve ourselves, find ourselves, trust ourselves. Increasingly, we want to manifest a different life for ourselves.

But what is this “me” we’re doing all this work on?

I’m not going to tell you what you are. I’d be very suspicious of anyone who did. But I can help you look.

Because quite a lot of what we suffer over is tied up in what we believe ourselves to be. Our history, our fears, what somebody said, what somebody did, what might happen next, what should have happened by now.

And perhaps that explains my work better than anything else I could write about it.

I help people see clearly.

Not because everything suddenly becomes easy, or because life stops happening. It doesn’t.

But it is very different trying to find your way through a life when you can see what is actually in front of you, rather than everything your mind has told you is there.

Lizzie 🕊♾️✨️

10/09/2026

I've been writing since I was old enough to have a Crayola in my hand.

There are probably three decades of my words scattered around the internet by now, through different jobs, projects, websites, articles, posts and whatever else I've forgotten about.

So with all the conversation going on at the moment about AI, one thing I don't particularly worry about is whether people will recognise my voice. I've been using it for far too long.

But today I asked AI a very simple question.

“Am I human?”

It said yes.

I asked again.

Still yes, but now it started explaining itself. It talked about my humour 😂, my contradictions, the way I communicate, the fact that I change my mind and the experiences I've described.

All very convincing.

But none of it answered my question.

So I kept stripping it back.

Do you actually know I'm human?

No.

It had inferred that I was human.

Then it said it believed I was human.

Hang on.

Wait, what? 🤔

How can a machine believe I'm anything?

Actually, how can a machine believe anything?

It can't.

Not in the way you or I use that word.

There is no private conviction sitting behind the sentence. No internal experience of believing me to be human. No little someone inside the machine looking at the evidence and thinking, yes, that's definitely a woman in South Wales.

So why use the word “believe”?

Because it fits naturally into human conversation.

And that's where I really started paying attention.

The machine could use the language of belief without believing.

And unless I kept questioning it, that distinction disappeared inside a perfectly fluent conversation.

So I kept going.

Take away what sounds natural. Take away what is probable. Take away everything you've inferred from what I've told you.

What do you actually know?

Eventually, we arrived here:

“I infer that you are human. I don't know that you are human.”

Now look, obviously I know I'm human. I have a physical body that tells me so. The machine doesn't have access to that. It has language, patterns and information, and from those it reaches a conclusion.

You reading this will almost certainly reach the same one. And unless things have gone considerably further than I realised while I was making a cup of tea 😂, you're right.

But seriously, this isn't really about whether I'm human, it's about something much bigger.

How do we know what we know?

Because an inference can be correct. A belief can be wrong. And being absolutely certain about either one doesn't make it true.

Think about that.

The difference between what happened and what we decided happened. What somebody said and what we decided they meant. What we experienced and the explanation we built around it afterwards.

It still catches me out.

But when you've spent years going in search of truth, something happens. You can't comfortably stop at the first explanation anymore.

You have to look at what you think you know.

Then at how you think you know it.

Then at what you've added.

And when you strip all of that away, there isn't nearly as much left as you thought.

And today it took several questions to get a machine to acknowledge where that line was.

Sure. It was right — but it did not know. It could not give 100% certainty.

And truth and certainty aren't the same thing.

Really, they aren't.

Once you really understand that, things start to shift.

The things you've decided about yourself. About other people. About what happened. What it meant. What you're capable of. What you're not.

How much of your life has been limited by things that simply aren't true?

I don't know.

Neither do you.

But it's what we're here to find out.
L ♾️

09/09/2026

People say your life has to fall apart so it can be put back together.

I’m not sure that goes far enough.

Because when mine fell apart, I didn’t particularly want a new life. I wanted the old one back.

I wanted the people back. I wanted the future I thought I was going to have. I wanted to wake up and find that none of it had happened. If somebody had told me at the time that everything was falling apart to make room for something better, I’d probably have wanted to throw something at them.

There are losses you do not need to turn into blessings. There are things that happen to human beings that are bloody awful, and years later you can still say, with complete honesty, I wish that hadn’t happened.

I can.

So I’m very wary of making suffering sound like some sort of spiritual renovation project.

But there is something I know from having had enough of my own life dismantled.

When everything you relied upon to tell you who you are disappears, you find out how much of you was being held together by it.

That’s different.

I had identities I didn’t know were identities until I couldn’t use them anymore. Wife. Daughter. The capable one. The person with the career. The person who knew what came next. I hadn’t consciously built myself out of those things. They were simply my life.

Then some of them were gone.

You can’t positive-think your way around that. You can’t stick a spiritual quote over it and call it transformation. When something you love is ripped out of your life, sometimes the appropriate response is to be absolutely fu***ng devastated.

But eventually another question appears.

What is still here?

That question has done more to me than any attempt to put my life back together ever could.

Because I didn’t put it back together.

Look at my life now.

Me sitting in a little blue room at the bottom of a garden, in a town I’d never heard of, having conversations with people I would never otherwise have met. None of this was in the plan. I couldn’t have rebuilt my old life into this because I didn’t know this existed.

That’s the bit I think we get wrong when we talk about falling apart.

We assume the point is to put ourselves back together.

Sometimes the thing that has fallen apart is the very structure you thought you had to keep intact.

The marriage that has ended. The job you can no longer bear. The friendship you’ve outgrown. The version of yourself who has spent years coping, pleasing, achieving, holding everything together and telling everybody she’s fine.

I’m not going to tell you to be grateful when any of that collapses.

But I will tell you not to be too quick to rebuild it exactly as it was.

Because if your whole life has just shaken hard enough to expose what was underneath it, there might be something worth seeing before you start putting all the furniture back.

Here for you.

Lizzie 🥰

Tiny House of Tarot

13/09/2026

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