I swear I cried. I swear I laughed. I swear I paused to reflect. I swear I remembered. I swear I wished.
I watched I Swear Kirk Jones’s moving film about John Davidson, the man who helped Britain understand Tourette syndrome—on my way back from a work trip. The film is compassionate and cathartic, portraying John’s tics, compulsive behaviours and involuntary outbursts with both honesty and humanity.
I laughed, but it was often uncomfortable laughter—because beneath the humour was such stark vulnerability. It was frustrating to watch him struggle to clear the hurdles society had placed in front of him, only to be criticised for not overcoming them.
I’m not quite sure why I cried. Perhaps it was because, even when the story changed direction and John began moving towards sharing his experience and helping others understand Tourette’s, I could still feel the weight of everything he had endured.
I’ve realised that when I travel, sitting by the window and looking out is the only time I truly pause. Somewhere between departure and arrival, I reflect, ask questions, and sometimes find a way to resolve things that have remained unresolved.
You were on my mind, as you have been on many other occasions. I often go back to those thoughts, only to find myself lost for a while before moving on because in the end, I have to.
Take care, my friend.
