‘Be More Ron’: What My Aunty Taught Me About Kindness
One of the privileges of my profession is getting to talk privately with some of the most respected voices in the creative industry. It gives me a real sense of how people are feeling out there – and the things they might never admit on LinkedIn.
Right now? There’s a shared longing for kindness. People are craving something to counter the fragility and sadness of world events and a sluggish economy. They want to believe there’s still something worth fighting for. Yes, it feels heavy. But there’s a collective yearning for optimism and hope. Just like it ever was.
I’m reminded of my late Aunty Veronica. Yes, she had Down’s syndrome… but that was just a tiny part of who she was. Ron, as we called her, was a whirlwind of kindness—a gentle presence. You’d be sitting on the sofa in a grump, and there she was, trolling you for daring to take life so seriously. And sure enough, she’d have you laughing in no time.
I remember her soft hands. The way she’d stroke my face and tell me I was gorgeous, her eyes twinkling with a love no one has matched my whole life. She was my first words. My everything. My best friend. We played together when I was a kid – “Just one,” she’d say with a heavy sigh as I dragged her to my bedroom to play something else. But then she’d happily play with me for hours, pretending to answer phones and scribble notes as though we were part of a busy office.
On Saturdays, when my dad took my grandad and brother to watch Port Vale, my mum, Veronica, and I would head to Hanley. Veronica was always the life and soul of the party. She’d overtake the changing rooms with drama and comedy. We’d shove her in a cubicle with a few outfits and wait for the parade. When we asked if she was ready, she’d emerge – curtain flying back – posing like a model for all to see. People wouldn’t know where to look, but they’d soon relax when they saw me and my mum in a kink, giggling at her performance. Off she’d strut, up and down the changing room corridor, as though she were on a catwalk in Paris.
Out on the shop floor, Veronica would hear music and start dancing. To combat the confused stares, my mum and I would join in – singing, twirling, laughing with the star of the show. If there were a metal railing nearby, Veronica would see it as a chance to practice her ballet (though she wasn’t exactly trained). She’d begin her pretend barre moves, graceful and focused, until I joined in and she’d burst out laughing, fully aware of the absurdity of it all.
More than once, people would mock her… pull faces, point, or stare with cruelty instead of kindness. Angry and frustrated, I’d move to go after them, to tell them off. But Veronica would always stop me. A gentle hand on my arm. A soft “hey, hey” to calm me down. Then, once I’d softened, she’d shrug and say, “I can’t help it”. She was the most emotionally intelligent person I’ve ever known. And the most compassionate.
She’s long gone now. I think of her every day. She left a huge chasm in my heart the day we said goodbye. I’m genuinely so lucky to have had her as my aunt. She taught me kindness and compassion. She taught me to laugh at myself and not take life so seriously. And more than anything, she showed me that even when people are cruel or unkind, it doesn’t mean we should follow suit. I have so much to be thankful for.
I’m on YouTube now. Showing up more on socials. It’s been a lot of work, but so much fun. And it’s helping Creative Boom grow. But inevitably, I’ve had a few trolls – people who’ve said unkind things. I’m reminded of Veronica and how she’d handle it. She’d shrug, accept that people can be disappointing, and then laugh it off. Life’s too short. And Ron knew that better than anyone.
Did those cruel characters ever stop her from being awesome? Certainly not. Did she let the mocking upset her? Maybe in the moment. Did she know people said things about her behind her back? Most definitely. But she never dwelled on it. Did she know she was different? I think so. She was unique, funny, and full of charm – and she could spot a fake a mile off. More than anything, she’d stop you obsessing over things that didn’t matter. She’d remind you every day to live your best life. And to not let anyone or anything hold you back. It’s why my mantra has always been: Be More Ron.
So the next time I’m doubting myself, hurt by some unnecessary comment from a stranger, or trying to figure out where a part of my life went wrong, I’ll turn to the memory of a formidable woman. And I’ll remember how she saw me, too. It might be a small thing, but it gives me strength every single day. And it keeps my morals exactly where they should be. And that kindness… genuine, honest kindness… will always save the day.