Take A Seat didn’t begin as a project. It began as a feeling. A quiet realisation that people move through their days carrying things they rarely speak about. Thoughts that sit heavy, worries that follow them around and memories that don’t fade as quickly as they hoped. I knew that feeling well because I’d lived with it for years.
For a long time, I battled my demons on my own. I didn’t reach out, even though help was available. I didn’t talk about what I was going through, and I didn’t let anyone in. Part of that was fear. Part of it was pride. But a big part of it was being a man and not feeling like my feelings were valid. I told myself to get on with it. I told myself other people had it worse. I told myself I didn’t want to be a burden. Those thoughts kept me silent for years, even when silence was the thing hurting me most.
Eventually, I reached a point where carrying everything alone wasn’t helping anymore. I started opening up slowly. I shared part of my mental health story on a podcast, and that moment changed something in me. Speaking openly about what I’d been through felt strange at first, but it also felt honest. Afterwards, people reached out to say they understood or had been through something similar. Some told me they’d never heard a man speak openly like that before. Those messages stayed with me. They reminded me that people want connection, even when they don’t know how to ask for it. They showed me that honesty can help someone else feel less alone, and that small moments can matter more than we realise.
My poetry played a part in that change too. Writing gave me a way to express things I couldn’t always say out loud. It helped me understand myself, slow down and turn difficult feelings into something gentler. Some of my poems reached people who needed them, and that showed me how powerful a simple moment of connection can be. Poetry taught me that words can sit beside someone quietly and still make a difference. Without me even realising it at first, that idea became part of Take A Seat.
The idea grew slowly. I started noticing people more. I saw how often someone seemed to need a pause, how many people walked with their heads down, lost in thoughts they weren’t sharing. I noticed how rare it could feel for strangers to share a moment that wasn’t rushed or guarded. I wanted to create an opportunity for those moments to happen naturally again. A space that didn’t demand anything from anyone. A space that felt gentle, welcoming and human.
So I started sitting with the sign. No plan, no structure, just presence. I didn’t know if anyone would sit down. I didn’t know if people would understand the idea or whether it would make a difference. But people did stop. Some stayed for a minute, others for longer. Some talked, some sat quietly, and some shared things they’d never said out loud before. Others simply needed a moment to breathe. Every interaction taught me something and reminded me why I wanted to keep showing up.
Take A Seat became a way of offering something I once needed myself. A calm moment. A chance to be heard without judgement. An opportunity to sit with another person without feeling the need to explain everything. A reminder that connection doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes, it can be as simple as two people sharing a bench in Wakefield and allowing the world to slow down for a while.
I move around Wakefield because everyday life happens in different places, and so does connection. Sometimes I visit Thornes Park or the museum gardens. Other times, I choose somewhere quieter or a place people might usually walk past without noticing. I choose locations that feel right on the day and let each visit unfold naturally. There’s no fixed schedule or guarantee of where I’ll be. Every day is different, and so is every opportunity to connect.
Take A Seat isn’t a formal group or something people have to commit to. It’s me, one person with a sign, offering a moment of connection to whoever might need it. There’s no pressure to talk, no expectation to share anything personal and no right or wrong way to take part.
It’s small on purpose. It’s quiet on purpose. It’s human on purpose.
And sometimes, something as simple as being there is enough.
If you want to know more about how it works, you can read How It Works.
If you want to know where I might be, you can visit Where to Find Me.
If you want to reach out, you can visit Get in Touch.
If you want to understand the mission behind it, you can read My Mission.
This is my story. This is why I sit. This is why the sign matters. And if you ever see me out in Wakefield, you’re welcome to join me.