Author: jameshempsall

I am a business leader, psychotherapist and equalities and social policy consultant. An enthusiastic advocate of working and living well, I believe in supporting everyone to have positive, safe, and equal chances within a modern environment. I've worked in the field of early years learning, childcare, anti-discrimination and equalities for over 30 years. For 25 of those I have managed my own consultancy and training business www.hempsalls.com working nationally and internationally for a range of government, charitable and private organisations. Throughout that time I have loved shaping and delivering policy, and working to useful, impactful, and outcome focused solutions. And with a nod to my original passion for design, I am also a co-director of www.harrimanandco.com an independent furniture and home-ware design store.

When the Major Oak falls: Reflections on loss, legacy, and the Nottinghamshire spirit.

June 22, 2026 jameshempsall

There are moments in a lifetime when a piece of news lands not simply as information, but as something felt deeply, personally, almost ancestrally. The reported death of the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest is one of those moments.

For many, the Major Oak is a famous tree, ancient, storied, photographed endlessly. But for those of us born and raised in Nottinghamshire, it has always been something more. It is not just part of the landscape; it is part of our identity. For me, a Nottinghamshire lad whose family roots stretch back over 500 years of farm labourers in and around the forest, the Major Oak feels like kin. It has stood longer than any of us, watched over generations of people like my ancestors who worked the land, tended the soil, and built lives beneath its shadow. As a child I stood there in awe of its majesty.

The idea that it may no longer stand is not simply the loss of a tree. It is the quiet closing of a chapter that spans centuries.

The Major Oak has long been intertwined with the legend of Robin Hood, a figure who, whether real or mythic, has come to symbolise fairness, resistance to injustice, and the protection of the vulnerable. As a Nottinghamshire boy, those stories were never distant folklore. They were embedded in the place itself, in the woodland paths and the sense that history lingered just beneath the surface.

Like many, I grew up inspired by the spirit of Robin Hood, not the romantic outlaw alone, but what he represented: fairness, courage, and a challenge to inequality. Those values have shaped my own journey and commitment to social justice. And at the heart of those legends stood the Major Oak, reportedly a gathering place, a shelter, a symbol of resilience.

To lose it feels like losing part of the moral landscape that shaped us.

We are living through a time marked by endings. The passing of Queen Elizabeth II in September 2022 signalled the close of another Elizabethan age, one defined by continuity, duty, and a sense of enduring presence. For many of us, she was the only monarch we had ever known. Her death prompted reflection not just on her life, but on the nature of permanence itself. Now, to hear of the potential loss of the Major Oak, another steadfast presence, another seemingly immovable constant, echoes that same quiet grief. Although I am somewhat in denial, and I am hoping by some miracle leaves will appear next spring.

These are not comparable losses in scale or meaning. But emotionally, there is a shared thread: the realisation that what we once thought would always be there, may not be. That what was once young and vital, is older and in demise.

The Major Oak stood for hundreds of years, through kings and queens, through wars and reformations, through the slow and steady evolution of the countryside and the communities within it. It endured as a witness, a silent custodian of history. And now, like so many things we once assumed timeless, it reminds us that even the strongest roots do not guarantee permanence.

Loss has a way of asking something of us. It asks us to remember, but also to respond. As someone with deep ties to this land, through both heritage and work, I feel a responsibility to carry forward what the Major Oak represented. Not the tree itself, but its meaning. Its symbolism. Its endurance. If the Major Oak is gone, then the question becomes: what do we plant in its place? Not just physically, but culturally and socially. Do we continue to stand for fairness in the way Robin Hood’s legend inspired? Do we preserve and protect our natural heritage for future generations? Do we honour the quiet labour of those who came before us, people like my ancestors, whose lives were intertwined with these woods? The answers to all those questions will define whether this loss becomes an end, or a turning point.

While the Major Oak may no longer stand, its roots, both literal and metaphorical, remain. The land remembers. The forest continues. And so do we. Nottinghamshire has always been shaped by resilience. From its agricultural past to its industrial heritage and into its modern communities, it is a place that adapts, endures, and rebuilds. In many ways, that is the true legacy of the Major Oak. Not simply that it stood for so long, but that it became a symbol around which people could gather, find meaning, and draw inspiration. That legacy does not vanish with the tree.

Perhaps what we feel today is not just grief, but a call to stewardship. A reminder that history is not something we inherit passively, it is something we actively sustain. The Major Oak inspired stories of justice, belonging, and standing up for what is right. Those stories shaped people like me. And now, it is up to us to ensure they continue to shape those who come after. Because while trees may fall, the values they come to represent can endure, if we choose to carry them forward.

In the end, the loss of the Major Oak is deeply personal, profoundly local, and quietly universal. It reminds us that even the oldest and strongest among us are not immune to time. But it also reminds us that legacy is not measured only in years or in size, it is measured in impact. And by that measure, the Major Oak will stand forever.

Photo by Lucas George Wendt on Pexels.com

Can we please stop saying “we work in silos”?

June 3, 2026June 3, 2026 jameshempsall

There’s a moment in almost every meeting about children’s services where someone leans forward and says, with a kind of weary authority, “the problem is, we all work in silos.” Everyone nods. It sounds right. It feels truthful. And then, more often than not, we move on.

I’ve heard it so many times now that I find myself getting impatient with it. Not because it’s completely wrong, but because it’s become a stopping point rather than a starting point. It’s the sort of phrase that sounds like insight but often functions as an excuse. It’s a cop out.

Of course, services can feel fragmented. Of course, people are under pressure, operating in different ecosystems, with different targets, languages, acronyms, and accountabilities. None of that is in dispute. But “silos” has become a convenient shorthand that appears to let all of us off the hook. It wraps up a complicated set of choices and behaviours into something that feels structural, inevitable and therefore nobody’s particular responsibility. We work in silos, it is someone else’s fault, and we can’t do anything about it.

The truth is, silos don’t just exist out there somewhere, imposed on us by fate or organisational charts. They are created, and recreated, in small, everyday ways. They show up when we don’t pick up the phone because things are busy. When we stick closely to our remit because it feels risky not to. When we attend a meeting, agree broadly that things should be more joined up, and then go back to doing things exactly as we did before.

None of that is malicious. Most of the time it’s understandable. People are stretched, and systems are complicated. But it does mean that when we say “we work in silos,” what we’re often describing is something we are also participating in. Something we are reinforcing.

There’s something else that bothers me about the phrase, too. It’s completely detached from how children, young people, and families experience their lives. A child doesn’t wake up in the morning thinking about which part of their life belongs to which service. They don’t separate out their mental health from their education, or their safety from their relationships, or their housing from their wellbeing. It all comes as one whole, complicated, human experience.

Yet we design support in neat compartments and then act surprised when it doesn’t join up properly. Calling that silos almost disguises the deeper issue, which is that we’ve built systems around organisations rather than around people. What’s more frustrating is that the phrase carries a kind of shrug with it. It can sound like we’re saying, “this is just how it is.” And if that’s the case, then it’s hard to see where the energy for change comes from. You can’t shift something that feels inevitable.

I’d rather we were a bit more direct with ourselves. Instead of saying we work in silos, we might admit that we don’t always prioritise working together in the way we should. That we sometimes make information too hard to share. That our processes get in the way. That we haven’t invested enough time in building relationships across teams and organisations.

Those are more uncomfortable things to say, but they have an advantage: they point to things we can actually do something about.

Because for all the talk of structures and systems, collaboration is still, at heart, about people. It’s about whether we know each other, trust each other, and feel able to pick up the phone without worrying about whether this is “our bit” or “their bit.” It’s about whether leaders model that behaviour or simply talk about it. It’s about whether we measure success in terms of shared outcomes, or retreat back into what we can individually control. None of that is fixed. None of it is beyond our influence.

Language matters more than we sometimes think. The words we reach for shape how we understand a problem, and what we believe is possible. Silos has become one of those words that closes things down rather than opens them up. It names the issue in a way that feels tidy, but leaves everything else untouched. So perhaps it’s time we retired it. I really don’t want to think that three years into delivering the Best Start in Life strategy that we will still be trolling out this hackneyed get-out. Do you?

Not because the underlying challenges aren’t real, they are, but because repeating the same phrase over and over again isn’t getting us any further forward. Children, young people, families and I must say our workforce don’t need us to keep describing the fragmentation of the system. They need us to behave differently within it. That might sound simple, but it’s not easy. It requires intention, curiosity and, at times, a willingness to step slightly outside of what feels safe or familiar. It asks more of us than a well-worn phrase ever will.

If we’re serious about improving how services work together, then that’s the work. Not naming the silos. Dismantling them, piece by piece, through what we choose to do next.

What type of year has it been for you? One year of Find Joy in the Middle.

June 1, 2026 jameshempsall

It’s been a year since my first book, Find Joy in the Middle hit the bookshelves. When I look back, I see a year that sat squarely in the middle, not just chronologically, but emotionally, socially, and culturally. It was a year that invited us to pause, to take stock, and to recognise the quiet power of being in‑between. In many ways, it felt like the world was catching up with what I’ve been saying for years: that the middle isn’t a place of stagnation, but a place of movement, momentum, and meaning.

For those of us in middle age, it was a year of reframing. I sensed a shift away from the tired old clichés of crisis and decline. Instead, people were beginning to see midlife as a pivot point, a moment to re-evaluate what matters, to shed what no longer fits, and to step into a more honest version of themselves. The conversations I encountered were full of people renegotiating their work, their relationships, their ambitions, and their wellbeing. It was as if the world had collectively exhaled and said, “right, what now?”

The middle class, too, found itself under the spotlight. Not always comfortably. There was a growing awareness of how squeezed and stretched this group had become, not wealthy enough to feel secure, not struggling enough to be prioritised. Yet this discomfort brought clarity. It forced a reckoning with what fairness means, what opportunity should look like, and how society depends on the very people it so often overlooks. The middle, once again, proved itself essential.

Even middle children, my favourite metaphor for the overlooked middle, found new resonance. Families were talking more openly about identity, birth order, and the subtle dynamics that shape us. I heard from many who felt seen for the first time, who recognised that their adaptability, diplomacy, and resilience weren’t accidents, but strengths forged in the in‑between. The middle child became a symbol of what I’ve always believed: that being neither first nor last can be a superpower.

Workplaces, too, were redefined by their middles. Middle managers, often dismissed or misunderstood, were the glue holding hybrid and flexible work together. They were the translators, the stabilisers, the human connectors in a year when organisations were still figuring out what ‘normal’ meant. I saw so many step into their roles with renewed confidence, realising that leadership from the middle is leadership in its most human form.

And then there was the middle ground, that fragile, precious space between extremes. I sensed a growing fatigue with polarisation. People were tired of shouting matches and binary choices. Others have been grasping onto their pre-extinction burst, fearful of change, angry with it and all perceived injustices, and they took to the streets to protest, or to create harm. Those in the middle ground were craving nuance, balance, and the courage to say, “It’s more complicated than that.” The middle ground, long dismissed as indecisive or dull, began to look like the only place where real progress could happen.

So yes, it has been a middle year. Not in the sense of being average or forgettable, but in the sense of being transitional, reflective, and quietly transformative. It was a year that reminded us that the middle is where life actually happens, where we grow, where we adapt, where we find our footing. And if we’re willing to embrace it, the middle can be the most joyful place of all.

I invite you to wonder how ‘middle’ your next year may be, and to think how you will be the architect of it.

www.findjoyinthemiddle.com

Buy the book

BIS publishers

CEOs should be in the middle not the top.

July 31, 2025 jameshempsall

I’ve noticed something. The more senior someone is in an organisation, the more likely they are to be furthest away from the organisation’s front door. That means they are also distant from its actual activities, the workforce, and their customers (and/or product for that matter). That’s a huge own goal and missed opportunity.

The big issue, and one that forms the premise of my thinking, is your location at work. More specifically the physical location of the CEO, in relation to the workforce, and in proximity to the exchanges with customers.

CEOs seem to occupy the very top floor, in the far corner, locked away in private offices, which happens to be the greatest distance from the front door, and they sit behind a desk that is nearest the largest windows with the finest view available, basking in the best natural light the building has to offer. They are the ‘penthouse primes’.

It seems to me that CEOs are not only needing to pay attention to the glass ceiling, but the glass bubble too. Their bubbles are an encapsulating and almost invisible barrier separating them from the world around them. Close to the view, but behind the glass partition that conjures up the idea of connection, but in reality is a hard and fast glass wall.

All sorts of things cause this detached situation, CEOs may argue they have lots of demands upon their time, that they need privacy or quiet spaces to have confidential discussions, and that there are too many meetings to be had. It could all be the result of delegation going too far, resulting in all such interactions being discharged by other managers or departments altogether.

It could be something that middle management is deliberately manipulating. Perhaps they are wanting the CEO to be disconnected from the realities of what is going on. They could be distancing the CEO’s place or filling the CEO’s time with unnecessary distractions and meetings, so they do not come to appreciate the failings and problems in the business, in the balance sheet, or in the market.

To hide away is one of the reactions and defences to feelings of fear. It could be the CEO is feeling afraid of interactions with staff or customers or feeling uncomfortable about conflict resolution. Some do rise to the top, never had, or have forgotten such skills. Don’t misunderstand me, the role of the CEO can be a tough one. There can be lots of problems in an organisation related to its workforce, economics, or product that are too difficult to address, and hiding away and being invisible seems like the easiest option. Especially considering the enormous risks presented by the outside world, or unexpected attention from attending a Coldplay gig. But being far away is not the best route, nor is it an effective, or fair option.

The ‘midlife crisis’ is dead. The ‘end of midlife crisis’, well that’s another matter.

June 1, 2025June 2, 2025 jameshempsall

I’ve written much about the difficulties we can experience when imagining our upcoming midlife, and the realities of when we are experiencing it. I am not alone, so-called midlife crises are a familiar talking point, and a frequent object of ridicule.

In the book, I have set out how best to navigate its approach and the precious time spent in midlife. I’ve also said I reject the term crisis. The truth is that these days, for most of us, this stage of life is much more vibrant, exciting, and joyful that it was for the generations of parents and grandparents who came before us. It really can be a golden time. A moment to grasp with both hands, and one to relish by making the most of it. Helped, of course, by being ready and prepared for it, and by being equipped to make the most of it. Being unwilling, unprepared and unable to enjoy your middle age is the imperfect recipe for a crisis. Today though, I want to discuss something new I have noticed.

I have seen it happen around me, as friends and family have enjoyed their midlife, then find themselves towards the end of their midlife stage. They have been busy enjoying the afternoon of life, filled with friends and family, travel, career and hobby swerves, and active retirements. Good for them. Then, along comes the gradual or sudden realisation that time is much more finite, and the body much more fragile to accommodate such pursuits. This can be unsettling and upsetting.

I guess one of two things could be happening here. Could it simply be a delay of the traditional midlife crisis? Or is it a new phenomenon: the emergence of the ‘end of midlife crisis’? Whatever it is, the emotional triggers and responses may be the same, or could they be different, I wonder? One difference that occurs to me is that in midlife we are potentially more able to do something about our lives if they need a turnaround, adjustment, or a refresh – especially in modern times. At the end of midlife however, which I have discussed being around 70-75, then the options are arguably fewer in terms of time and health. Old age and the spectre of approaching death are much more real. As US actor, Doris Day said: The really frightening thing about the middle age is the knowledge that you’ll grow out of it. She hit the nail right on the head there, and that is absolutely confronting.