Hi, I’m Sammi-Joe — an imperfect Christian, recovering overthinker, on-her-way-to-becoming-obsessed business creative, and Collie-Mum to Zeb (short for Zebedee) — a perfect name for a dog who’s a good boy for five seconds at a time. He also hasn’t quite grasped that gravity means your feet should stay on the ground.
I’ve lived a life… let’s frame it that way.
Stress, trauma, past self-harm from a girl who didn’t know her worth. Years of coping through alcohol and cigarettes. — quite a package. All the things I used to manage what I didn’t yet understand about my own brain.
But Jesus met me in the middle of the mess, turned it into a message, steadied me, and taught me who I am in Him.
These days I split my time between my regular job, building a side-hustle, and learning how the brain actually works — not in an “I wear a lab coat” way but more in a “ahhh… this finally explains my life” way.
I use those normal-person neuroscience bits (nothing scientist-y) to help people find a better way forward with peace, stability, and momentum… even when life feels like steering a shopping trolley with one dodgy wheel.
I also write songs — mostly by ear because my brain refuses to read music properly. I’ve got one on Spotify and a handful of faith-based songs waiting for the right moment.
Music has carried me through some key chapters of my life.
I’m married to Blod (his pseudonym) — God’s blessing wrapped in Welsh sarcasm — who supports me endlessly and somehow gets mysteriously inspired to start dog playtime five minutes before bed. He secretly loves how Zeb quietly breaks the “no upstairs” rule… tiptoeing up the stairs and poking his nose round the bedroom door just far enough to pretend he’s invisible — until he gets caught.
He’s also the man who discovered on our honeymoon that I have a full inner Frank Spencer.
When I’m nervous, the female version comes out: flustered, chaotic, accidental slapstick — the kind of woman who walks through airport security with her husband’s passport, gets told off, and then turns around saying “sorry sir” to the female security guard.
That level of Frank Spencer.
I spent years trying to hide her… but she’s part of the story, so now she gets her moment.
And then there’s Zeb — gorgeous, loyal, and living proof that working dogs don’t believe in days off.
He genuinely thinks he has a full-time job and behaves accordingly. If only he brought home a paycheque instead of muddy pawprints and a nose covered in plant-pot soil.
He reminds me that none of us are perfect — we’re just forgiven.
(A line stolen from my husband’s t-shirt.)
Around here, we believe progress doesn’t have to be polished… just honest, helpful, and taken one wonky, faith-filled step at a time.
Perfectly Unfinished Me 