There’s a kind of grief that comes not from loss, but from being right too early.
From seeing what’s broken while everyone else is still admiring the scaffolding.
That’s where I’ve been lately. Frustrated. Distracted. Sharpening my lino tools and muttering about login friction, metadata, and broken information architecture like some kind of prophet in exile. Which, let’s be honest, is exactly what I am.
We’ve been studying Jeremiah in my Torah study group. The weeping prophet. The one who was told, from the beginning, you’re going to speak the truth, and they’re not going to listen. But he still spoke. He still showed up. Even when they threw him in a pit.
And I’ve realised—I’m Jeremiah.
I’ve been Jeremiah for a while now.
Not because I’m dramatic (well… not just because), but because I’ve been naming the rot in the walls while the decorators argue about paint. I used to find Jeremiah exhausting. I had sympathy for the jailer. For the poor king, ripping off section after section of Jeremiah’s relentless screed to burn after reading. For Baruch, the scribe, who had to copy it all out again.
But also… I understand him.
He wasn’t trying to be difficult. He was trying to get people to live. To survive and have the chance to thrive in difficult circumstances. Yes, to follow God—but also to listen, to notice, to stop pretending things were fine when the cracks were widening beneath their feet. Yes, of course, he was damaging morale, but the Babylonians were at the gate.
He was annoying, yes. But he was right.
I’ve always been an online community builder—long before it was a job title. I think in networks and pathways, always asking: What do people need? Where will they get lost? What will delight them just when they’re about to give up?
Content strategy, for me, is like cooking or carving. I shape it the way I shape food: with thought, with care, with a little experimentation. Something bright. Something rooted. Something that makes people feel nourished. It doesn’t always work. But more often than not, it does.
So when I see a broken login journey, a pile-up of untagged briefings, or a content archive with no expiry date—I don’t see a technical problem. I see people being left hungry. I see wasted potential. I see a table being set with the wrong cutlery and no chairs.
This week, I made my famous beetroot salad for our chavurah potluck. It’s a regular at our communal table: sweet, earthy, zingy, full of colour and contrast. It changes with the seasons. It always has a bit of theatre. And people love it.
I also made a Finnish blueberry tart—imperfect crust, borrowed dough, sweet-cheese improvisation—and it still got compliments. Even when it’s not quite right, something in it lands. That’s what I hope for in my work, too.
Grief doesn’t cancel joy.
And joy doesn’t erase frustration.
They sit together at the table like long-married guests who’ve been arguing for years but still reach for each other’s hands in grace.
I’m not done. I’m not gone. I’m still carving lino blocks with the word CHICKEN and seasoning my salad with vinegar and flair. I’m serving up complexity and care, earthiness and earnestness and zest – always zest.
I want things to be better—for users, for councils, for people trying to make sense of their world. That’s why I speak up. That’s why I draw maps, even when I’m not invited to the strategy meeting. That’s why I flag potholes—because someone needs to drive through that street tomorrow.
Joy to the world.
All the boys and girls.
Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea.
Joy to you and me.
