To Thine own self be true. Lessons in life from one still learning
As a child, I was a dreamer, my heart alight with stories that danced like fireflies in the dusk. In the quiet corners of my 1970s bedroom, my toy dinosaurs weren’t mere plastic—they were warriors, wanderers, each with a name, a wound, a destiny. My Star Wars figures, too, lived beyond the screen, but it wasn’t Han Solo or Princess Leia who stole my heart. It was the forgotten ones—Hammerhead, Snaggletooth—misfit heroes whose peculiar action figures sparked epic sagas in my mind. I’d clutch them tightly, their worn edges pressed into my palms, and lose myself in worlds where their adventures unfurled like endless chapters, each play session a new verse in their unwritten lore. I was never lonely, never lost—just a boy on a bike, pedalling through the Welsh hills, my imagination a boundless sky where stories were my only stars.
In the tiny village of Pontrhydyfen, I’d sit in the schoolyard, the wind carrying whispers of the valley where Richard Burton once roamed (I met him once—a tale I’ll save for another night). My gaze would settle on the crooked graveyard atop the hill, its weathered stones leaning like secrets. In my mind’s eye, ghosts slipped from those graves at twilight, their spectral footsteps echoing through the village, weaving chaos and wonder. Even then, my soul knew its calling: to be a storyteller, to breathe life into the unseen, though the path would twist through shadows I couldn’t yet fathom.
As adolescence dawned, I found *Fighting Fantasy* gamebooks, portals to worlds where I could choose my fate. I’d trace their pages with trembling fingers, smudging pencil marks as I battled through *Deathtrap Dungeon* or braved the *Forest of Doom*, my heart pounding as I faced the warlord of Firetop Mountain. Those books were my first taste of crafting destiny. They led me to “Dungeons & Dragons” and “Warhammer”, where I became the Dungeon Master, my voice trembling with awe as I wove quests for friends around a cluttered table. In those moments, I wasn’t just Owen—I was a weaver of worlds, my stories a fragile thread holding back the darkness of ordinary days. I didn’t know it then, but I was already a storyteller, my heart tethered to the tales I spun.
The world of adulthood beckoned, and I flirted with rugby, with jobs, with the weight of growing up. Yet my soul always drifted back to stories. I stepped into acting, my heart racing as I took on roles, eventually donning a Roman soldier’s armour at Swansea Museum. One day, tasked with a 30-minute talk on Roman life for a gaggle of schoolchildren, I froze when their teacher beamed, “You’ve got them for an hour!” My script was thin, my energy thinner, but something primal stirred. I launched into the tale of Theseus and the Minotaur, my voice rising and falling like a bard’s, drawing on my “Dungeons & Dragons” days to paint a labyrinth alive with danger and hope. The children sat spellbound, their wide eyes mirroring my own wonder. For that hour, I was no longer a man in a costume—I was a storyteller, my heart ablaze with a joy so pure it felt like coming home.
Acting became a lifeline. I landed roles in “Doctor Who”, “Being Human”, and the Welsh soap “Pobol y Cwm”, each moment on set a fleeting taste of my truest self. But the work was unsteady, a flickering candle against the winds of responsibility. After marrying and welcoming children—my greatest stories yet—I left the crumbling Welsh steel industry for the stability of a police officer’s badge. In mid-Wales, where the hills sang with ancient beauty and crime was a rare shadow, I found purpose. I chased adventures, my heart swelling with pride as I served. But in 2004, a single incident shattered me. The details are a wound I won’t reopen here, but it left my body broken and my mind a storm of jagged edges. In those desolate months, I was a ghost of myself, haunting my own life, my laughter silenced, my stories buried beneath despair.
In that darkness, storytelling became my salvation. A friend’s call pierced the fog—an offer to join a play bound for the Edinburgh Fringe. He knew nothing of my pain, yet his voice was a lifeline. My shattered spirit screamed “no,” but a spark of the old Owen, the boy with the dinosaurs, whispered “yes.” I drove to Scotland, my heart a fragile thing, and stepped into the world’s greatest arts festival. On that stage, surrounded by the hum of creativity, I felt my soul stir. For the first time in months, I wasn’t a broken man—I was alive, my stories a bridge back to myself. I wept in the quiet moments, not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming relief of feeling whole.
My police career trudged on, but I guarded space for storytelling like a sacred flame. I wrote feverishly, performed whenever I could, and returned to Edinburgh twice more with productions born from my own pen. One scathing review from a Welsh paper stung—a story for another day—but it couldn’t dim my fire. Slowly, I clawed my way out of the abyss, realising that my job wasn’t my worth. What mattered was my family’s laughter, my children’s dreams, and the stories that made my heart sing. This was when I became Owen Staton—not the officer, not the actor, but the storyteller I wanted to be.
My career shifted to the police training school, where developing training packages allowed my creativity to breathe. I guided new officers, my voice steady as I helped them navigate the chaotic world of policing. Yet storytelling remained my true north. I began sharing forgotten tales from the Swansea Valley, my heart swelling as I released a CD of lost stories and carved a niche in the UK storytelling scene. I was never part of the mainstream, but that was my strength—my tales were raw, real, mine.
The pandemic laid bare the toxic undercurrents of my job, and my soul ached for more. I left the force for a local job, my heart pounding with the thrill of change. I launched the Time Between Times YouTube channel, a bold vow to tell a new story each week from my back-room chair. Each tale was a prayer, a plea for connection, and to my wonder, a small but fiercely loyal audience answered. In 2021, I started the *Time Between Times* podcast, sharing mindful stories from a forest firepit, the crackle of flames mingling with my voice. That audience grew, stretching across oceans, their messages a chorus of shared wonder. I’m proud of this—not with arrogance, but with the quiet joy of a man who’s found his place.
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Today, I chase light. I surround myself with kindness, with souls who lift rather than weigh. I’ve learned to let go of darkness, to distance myself from toxic clouds, and to pour my heart into projects that spark joy. My philosophy is simple yet hard-won: do what sets your soul ablaze, and do it with every fibre of your being. Care not for others’ judgments; embrace the strange, beautiful quirks that make you “you” Be the hero you dreamed up for your Star Wars figures, the champion you crafted in *Dungeons & Dragons*. Whether you’re a storyteller, a gardener, or a dreamer of impossible things, find your joy and cradle it fiercely. Let go of those who dim your light, brave the storms, and trust that the sun will rise.
William Shakespeare, the greatest weaver of tales, gave Polonius the immortal words in “Hamlet”: “This above all: to thine own self be true.” Though born of fiction, they are a beacon. We are the authors of our own stories, each chapter a chance to choose courage, to choose joy. My journey—from a boy lost in imagination to a man forged by shadows and stories—isn’t over. But I’ve learned this: to live is to tell your tale, boldly, truly, with a heart wide open. So turn the page, dear reader, and write the story only you can tell.
Owen x
