Crying on aeroplanes

I have a new hobby!

Surfing!

No, actually it’s sobbing on flights whilst travelling.

This is not the first time in my life. I think maybe it’s to do with air pressure , transitioning and stillness. It surely can’t be to do with the fact that I am finally allowing myself to feel my emotions now I am coming out of the survival era of navigating a horrendous divorce.

I’m not going to lie, I have written a lot around that lately, so I’m drawing a line right here in the sand. No more divorce blogs!

But let’s talk about crying on planes.

I have always been a master at controlling my emotions to the point of suppression. It was my superpower and much needed as a police officer.

The truth is, that really wasn’t healthy at all. I suppressed so much during my time in the police: my need for sleep, to eat, to be loved and supported. I literally did it all alone and nailed it. I was amazing at having it all together or so I thought. Hello Mrs Hyper-Independent!

I cried a lot though. Sundays were the worst. I used to stare out of my little cottage windows in Hunsdon and actually talk to myself, saying, this can’t be it!!!

God, they were tough years. I’d love to be really positive and say it all works out and we all get a happy ending, but I think we all know life can be really messy. Jeez, mine has been award winningly messy at times.

Somehow it passes and chapters close. Everything evolves.

Anyway, that phase of my life was spent watching really cheesy romantic films, and it was when I first fell in love with the Bridget Jones films more of that in a bit.

My partner in the police at that time was a flamboyantly gay guy behind the scenes, at work he was a mean but very fair street cop. We used to roam the streets of Camden, mainly closing crack dens with big burly riot cops breaking down doors on the Maiden Lane estate the worst crime ridden estate in the borough.

Lee and I relentlessly worked through the addresses, organising raids over a year. We closed them all down and received a commendation from the borough commander a lofty recognition of top-quality policing complete with bread sandwiches that went curly in the open air and an opportunity to invite your family to see the great award bestowed upon us.

I invited my parents. It was a big day out from Felixstowe to London to see this top cop get an award.

Anyway, my mum never really got my choices. She still doesn’t. Recently, on leaving my husband, she asked me if I was a lesbian and said it was okay with her if I was. I’m used to my mum now and accept her as she is; it’s taken much work. They do the best they can with the tools they have.

I assured her I’m not gay, but if that changes she’ll be the first to know.

On the day in question, the borough commander came up to my family and me for a chat. Oh God, I’ve never been good at small talk and it’s definitely genetic. My parents are even worse.

A tall man, dark hair, with a load of spaghetti on his shoulders well, actually the Queen’s crown denoting his rank, but spaghetti was the widely used terminology amongst us ground staff.

He approached my dad directly:

“Mr Muncey, you must be incredibly proud of your daughter. She is well respected in Camden.”

Nice, I thought, smiling through my embarrassment.

My dad, a hardworking carpenter from Caterham, replied:

“Well, every family has their black sheep.”

And then you wonder why you’ve been on a Gen X self-healing journey for most of your life.

I think they were proud… I think.

Those years were fondly remembered as my Bridget Jones years. Sunday afternoons in my little cottage on the really odd weekend off were spent sobbing at really crappy romantic films. I mean, it’s no wonder relationships are a disaster zone when we grew up with perfect love shoved down our necks… that, and an unhealthy obsession with Whitney Houston songs.

I used to watch the same films on repeat. Apparently it’s comforting for the nervous system but mine was shot to bits from handling everyone else’s nervous systems, which were pretty extreme on a daily basis. My life, and what I witnessed during those years, was extreme.

Lee called me Bridge. He still does. In fact, he’s delighted he believes she is rising like a phoenix from the flames post-divorce.

Why the nickname? Well, my dating and love life in the police was a disaster. There was no time for a secure, safe relationship. I did my best to avoid dating cops.

When I joined the police, I had a long-term boyfriend of five whole years a rugby player who played for Saracens. I digress… tall, ginger, fit, hot, my first love. Until he lost his contract and wanted to move home to Devon. I had just started my police career and definitely didn’t have Devon, marriage, or abandoning my new job in my sights. So that was that.

Some random dates ensued, and a huge crush on a cool, seasoned cop called Ian. He smoked I hate smoking, but I didn’t hate Ian smoking. Grey hair, ten years older… I was obsessed.

I completely abandoned myself trying to be everything this man wanted and guess what? It didn’t work.

I used to buy all the ingredients for dinner, go to his house and cook. I mean, what was I thinking? Wife energy is never a good look when you’re dating, is it?

I’d sit on his sofa while he used his dial-up internet (I am old). I was completely in love. Turned out he was still in love with his ex. Heartbroken that ended too. We even went on a mini-break to Barcelona and I was convinced we’d be wed. The mind can really loop, can’t it? Thank goodness for yoga now.

You’ll be delighted to hear I eventually got a grip. Much to Ian’s disgust, I chose to leave the borough and joined the riot squad the best decision of my career. He was fuming, even though he’d dumped me.

I threw myself into my new job and loved it. Five years of physical training: 500m shield runs in full riot gear, daily training, running around a completely made-up estate called Gravesend. We trained regularly with petrol bombs thrown at us, wearing flame-retardant baby grows, as they were fondly called.

Card games in breaks, relentless training and an opportunity to train as a physical training instructor came up. I was so nervous, but I did it. I beasted them. Ten-mile runs carrying telegraph poles and often each other. It was a great laugh.

The work was serious too. I’ll gloss over that bit.

Ian, the grey-haired smoker, came back of course he did. They always do when you genuinely move on. I turned him down and carried on choosing me.

Good choice, Clare.

It’s funny how these episodes shape you. I can honestly say the best times in my life have been when I have wholeheartedly chosen myself.

It’s really hard though.

I didn’t expect to be doing that again at the ripe old age of 48 but here we are. Navigating it all, and the Bridget Jones senior years are fully resurrected.

Anyway back to crying on planes!

Romantic films always make me cry. And kindness like when Nick Knowles does someone’s house up, or Trinny and Susannah make over some tired mum who hasn’t combed her hair in twenty years after pouring everything into her family. That stuff gets me every time.

The first time I cried on a plane uncontrollable sobbing the air hostess asked if I was okay and my friends thought I’d officially lost it. I was watching Journeyman. What a film. A boxer suffers a catastrophic brain injury and it follows his recovery, including the breakdown of his marriage. Not cheery but Paddy Considine is incredible. Highly recommend it if you fancy a good blub.

These days, raw emotion, poetry, kindness, and seeing people genuinely happy crack me wide open. I cry at joy.

In my current choosing me era, I abandoned the traditional family Christmas and jumped on a plane Christmas Eve to Bali. I sobbed my heart out on that flight this time allowing myself to feel the aftermath of the snakey energy of 2025.

Bali was beautiful. New people, new friends through aerial yoga training yep, 48 (almost 49. almost 50 !) dangling from a silk in a jungle yoga shala. Not sure if this is nailing life, but it felt freeing.

I stayed in a swanky hotel, practised yoga at the Yoga Barn, experienced a sound bath at the Pyramids of Chi man-made structures on meridian lines. Incredible.

I whizzed around on scooters, clinging to random Balinese drivers who kept mistaking me for Australian. I smiled a lot.

I can’t stand January in the UK the energy is heavy. The whole new year, new me thing can do one, frankly. What if we just said: this is where I am right now, and I’m okay, I sm doing my best.

I surfed. I retreated. I rested. I read. I thought and overthought a lot. That’s where my practices come in: not to stop thinking, but to remember we are not our thoughts.

Running away isn’t for me though. I missed home. I missed my dogs. I got excited dreaming about 2026 at the mill. Last year was magical, and I know we can build on that by letting things settle and evolve naturally.

On the flight home, my energy had shifted with a little apprehension still for the future understandably . Wow, I did it. Flew to the other side of the world, sat with myself, didn’t numb out. I felt it all we’ll what needs to be felt at this time.

The flight home. Aisle seat. Nine hours to Dubai. Sat next to the biggest bloke, knees under his chin.

Film choice? The latest Bridget, of course. I’d already seen it Selfridges cinema, great spot.

I sobbed. Again. At the realism of it messy life, single widowed mum doing her best. I was off. The man beside me doing his best to ignore the human waterfall.

So what I’m really saying in my rambling way is this:

I am in my choosing me era.

I’m making a vow here and now: I am enough. I will not abandon myself for another relationship ever again. It’s never served me.

I may look into marrying my dog as they have been the most unconditional love of my life.

This is my foundational year. I’m rebuilding from experience and learning to believe my own worth. I can’t teach this if I don’t believe it.

It’s hard. We won’t nail it every day and that’s okay.

Next step: a new home. I might have found somewhere! Come on, universe.

I’m open to the flow. No more forcing love, life, or connections.

If you’re like me and were happy to see the back of 2025, give yourself grace. Transformation doesn’t happen overnight. We’re still in snake energy until February 17th then comes horse energy: year one of rebuilding, choosing yourself, and no more self-abandonment.

There are benefits to a good cry for the nervous system here is the science-y bit.

Crying is one of the body’s most natural tools for regulating the nervous system.

When we cry, the parasympathetic nervous system is activated the part responsible for rest, digestion, and recovery. This helps calm the body after stress, overwhelm, or emotional overload.

Emotional tears also help reduce levels of cortisol, the primary stress hormone, allowing the body to shift out of fight-or-flight mode. Many people notice slower breathing, muscle relaxation, and emotional relief after crying —

all signs of nervous system down-regulation.

Rather than something to suppress, crying is a built-in release mechanism. It’s the nervous system’s way of saying: it’s safe to let go now.

I’ll be back on the mat soon messy, honest, authentic ready for this year.

No more divorce talk. It’s done. Time to start over.

Life isn’t linear. We aren’t perfect. But yoga makes you feel wonderful even if just for an hour. I’m happy with that.

My favourite line from the film Jim Broadbent as Bridget’s dad before he dies he asks her if she can survive. She says she thinks so.

He replies:

“Don’t just survive, Bridget. Live.”

Here’s to living fully and in your truth whatever that looks like.

See you soon for honest teaching and a big shift in energy

With love,

Clare x