My neighbour starved herself to death on Easter Saturday, 2026. There were times, if I’m being completely honest with you, when I could have thrown her off the mountain. She was rude, difficult, and refused to help herself in ways that made me want to shake her.
What astounded me was that despite that rudeness, I kept going back, and she wasn’t even family. And honestly, I know I am kind and compassionate, but there were times when I wished I weren’t.
It seems important to tell at least some of the story; there’s been a few weeks’ distance. I feel sad, of course I do, and when I walk past her now empty house, I still ask her why, and I guess I will never know.
For background, she moved into my village because her house fell into a state of disrepair, and she had nowhere to go, and this house was available. She had little money but did her best to cook nice meals, though these were always accompanied by wine. She’d once been a smoker, and that ended when she got a nasty cough and cold. A real bonus in terms of health and her pocket.
Because she was isolated here – we are in rural Spain, I would take her shopping when I went. Another honesty moment – she drove me insane – but I took her, anyway. In return, she would make me soup. I got to taste some yummy combinations, so there was a bonus.
Back in December, she told me she was poorly and didn’t want to go shopping, and could I get her a few bits. Others were doing the same. It all changed with a knock on the door, and the lovely person who did much of her shopping and took her to the doctor said, ‘I think she is losing her marbles.’
Lots of things started to make sense: the pain she said she had, plus the constipation that I had given her chia seeds for. What didn’t make sense was the state of her and her house when I went in. It was filthy. Picture a scene from one of the TV shows where they go to clean up, now add the smell of dog poo and pee, because yes, her dog had been in there the whole time.
Another friend and I cleaned up, and I collected almost four big bin bags of stuff from a tiny space. She then complained because I washed everything with bleach, and it didn’t smell nice… I do remember saying, ‘tough tits, baby’
From this position, I could see she hadn’t eaten, and we called an ambulance, which refused to come. She had to go to the doctor. Another friend took her and ended up in the hospital until 7pm, when they refused to keep this thin, wasting away woman for further treatment.
Back at home, I started bringing her build you up shakes, a daily sandwich, encouraging her to look after herself, feeding and walking her dog Kleo, although I have three of my own – that’s five walks a day. I’d been coughing since December with a series of colds that wouldn’t shift and an exhaustion that was settling into the marrow of my bones. I was not well, but there wasn’t anyone else who was prepared to help. Foolish maybe.
Carers were arranged – wonderful women who stretched their limited hours further than they were paid to, coming for thirty minutes more often rather than an hour four times a week, because they could see what was needed. I kept walking, Kleo alongside my own three. I kept showing up, and she kept being difficult.
Now imagine another scene. She was existing on the sofa, wearing nappies that were often discarded next to her body. Gas fire on full in a small room, a commode nearby, a walker; she was encased in this fortress. Her poor dog couldn’t wait to escape for her two walks.
There were days I walked back to my house furious. Days I stood in the street for a moment before going in, taking a breath, not knowing if I could take the smell and rudeness and having to remind myself that pain makes people behave in ways that have nothing to do with you. I told her, more than once, to mind her attitude. I wasn’t her punchbag, and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. But, as I said, I always went back.
I’ve been thinking about why. Not the kindness – I understand the kindness. But the going back when I didn’t want to. When there was no reward, no gratitude, no sense that it was making any difference at all.
And what I keep coming back to is this: I wasn’t reacting to her. I was responding from my values. There’s a world of difference between those two things. She couldn’t touch what was driving me, because it had nothing to do with her.
Does kindness have a place in leadership? I’ve asked myself that more than once this past month. And the answer I keep arriving at is yes – always. What changes with context is not the kindness itself but the tools around it. In an office, I would have named the behaviour, had the conversation, set a clear expectation and held her to it within a structure. I did that here too – I told her to mind her attitude and meant it. The difference is I couldn’t put her on a performance plan (this does make me smile). The kindness was the same. The container was different.
Leadership – in life, in work, in any context – will put you in spaces with people who are not grateful, not easy, and will not meet you halfway. The question is never whether they deserve your best. The question is who you want to be.
As she deteriorated, I had to accept that my role had changed.
I stepped back from feeding her and handed that fully to the carers. Two weeks before she died, I took Kleo, who was a long-term foster dog, to her previous foster; she had a new home waiting in Germany. A strange grief descended; it was an ending that wasn’t a death but felt like one. Kleo was delighted. She loves her previous foster with her whole dog self, and watching that reunion was one of those moments where you feel glad and bereft in equal measure. Kleo remembered the house and the three other furry occupants and visibly relaxed into that love and companionship.
When I was a marketing manager, leading a team and sitting at the senior leadership table, the hardest thing I ever had to learn was when to step back. As you can see, I am a bit of a motherer, and I wanted the best for my team, but you have to give people the tools and confidence and let them fly. Knowing when your role in something has ended – and releasing it cleanly is one of the most difficult and necessary skills there is.
Over many years and inside just as many organisations, I’ve watched leaders cling to strategies that had run their course, to team members who needed to move on, and to versions of their organisations that no longer existed. The clinging doesn’t help anyone; it just delays the inevitable and exhausts everyone in the process.
My neighbour didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to leave. And I had to accept that I couldn’t want it for her.
On the morning of Easter Saturday, the carer told me it wouldn’t be long. We discussed whether she had a funeral plan or a will. I knew she didn’t. Unlike me, who has everything sorted, she just believed that someone would sort it out.
At five o’clock she came to my door to tell me she had gone. I did cry because I was sad. I went and sat with my neighbour for a while, chatting with her departed soul and the carer. It was peaceful. Then I walked my dogs, because the dogs don’t pause for grief, and walking helps to clear the brain – and then I went back and stayed until her body was taken.
However, before her body was taken while I was alone in the street, I asked her what she would like. From somewhere, I received a clear message. Red nail polish. My neighbour, from wherever she’d gone, wanted her nails painted.
I told the carer. The polish was right there on the table. She went as she’d lived – difficult, particular, and with pretty nails. That made me smile.
I’m still sad. And I’m accepting that it was her choice. Both of those things are true at once, which is something I’m still getting used to. And I still want to shake her – but it’s too late.
This is what acceptance actually looks like in a life. Not a clean philosophical position, a framework, or a concept you arrive at once and then have forever. It’s a practice you return to, imperfectly, in the middle of everything else you’re carrying. Honestly, I am still questioning it.
We’re in April now, today is a new moon in Aries, and the theme is initiation, fresh starts, and courage. I’m looking at what needs to end, and what I’m holding past its time. The wheel of the year and of life turns whether we’re ready or not. The question is what we’re willing to put down so we can turn with it.
Write From The Wild – this week’s reflective practice
Before you write, take three real breaths, not yoga or special breaths. Three rather marvellous breaths where you let go of stuff.
Feel your feet on the floor, imagine roots going into Mother Earth, breathe in her beautiful grounding energy and feel your jaw unclench – it’s probably clenched, it usually is. And if it’s helpful, open your mouth wide, and you may, if you are anything like me, hear a crack.
Now ask yourself, honestly: where are you pushing against something that isn’t going to move?
Think about your work, relationships, body, life, and that story about who you’re supposed to be by now.
You don’t have to fix, resolve, forgive, or create a five-step framework; you don’t need to do anything yet. Except be.
Just write these five words and see what follows:
This is where I am.
I’ll meet you here next week.
With love, Dale – The Word Alchemist
