Naucrates Ductor (a).
Pilot Fish, Lighthouses, and the Quiet Work of Swimming Through
I went to the Feral Art School Exhibition ‘Unfolded’ with more in my system than I could really name: the noise of a busy mind, the rawness of recent self-discovery, and the complexity of walking into a space filled with familiar faces and histories. Some known, some unknown. Some soft, some sharp. These days, I find the social landscape more precarious than ever not because I’m unsure of who I am, but because I’m only just beginning to fully understand how I’ve had to be, just to survive.
Recently, I received a trauma-informed ADHD diagnosis, and it’s been like rewinding my entire life and watching it back in a new language. I’m currently titrating medication - a careful recalibration of my internal weather system - and while this offers clarity, it also unearths a lot. The grief of what was never named. The injustice of support that never came. The pressure of having to appear 'fine' in a world that has never made space for what I actually need. I’m not just learning about my brain; I’m confronting the systems that shaped its defences. I’m unpacking shame, survival patterns, emotional flashbacks all of which were misread for years as overreaction, sensitivity, or failure to self-manage.
And so, being in a room with people I’ve known across many iterations of my life through art, through community, through precarity was quietly overwhelming. But then I saw ‘J’ and ‘T’.
I didn’t speak to them at first. I just noticed them. And in that noticing, something settled in me. I felt my shoulders drop. A kind of inner exhale. Because some people don’t need to say anything to make you feel safe, their presence alone creates a shift. They are my pilot fish.
The pilot fish, Naucrates ductor, is a small striped creature known for swimming alongside larger sea animals: sharks, turtles, rays. It survives not by dominance, but by proximity. By intuition. By knowing how to stay close to something bigger without being swallowed by it. Sailors used to believe the pilot fish was a sign of calm seas. A guide. A navigator. If they swam with your ship, all was well. If they disappeared, a storm was coming.
This symbolism struck something in me. The idea of survival through relationships. The idea that protection isn’t always about being strong or loud or visible - sometimes it’s about recognising where the safe currents are and aligning yourself accordingly. It made me think of ‘J’ and ‘T’, who have known me across so many of my forms, who hold a kind of gentle continuity that feels rare. Who don’t ask for performance or polish. Who don’t need me to be "better" or "further along" to be worthy of their company. They’ve witnessed me as I am. That’s enough.
In a world where I’m often misunderstood, sometimes even within the ADHD community itself, that kind of witnessing is profound. I often feel out of step, not just with neurotypical norms, but with those who have had earlier diagnoses, better foundations, more scaffolding. For many of us with trauma-informed neurodivergence, the path is different. Slower. More painful. More layered. There’s pressure to "manage well" when the baseline is survival. There’s a kind of grief in constantly needing to explain your needs especially when those needs are invisible, fluctuating, and still being discovered.
And yet in that gallery, among work made in the spirit of rewilding and unlearning I found a moment of clarity. A lighthouse moment. A pause. Because that’s what ‘J’ and ‘T’ are to me: beacons in choppy water. Their humour, their heart, their steady presence - these things orient me. Not by giving me direction, but by reminding me I’m not lost. That I’ve never been lost. I’ve just been swimming hard, in uncharted waters, with no map and no name for the current.
There’s a line from Moominpappa at Sea that I return to again and again:
“The world is full of great and wonderful things for those who are ready for them.”
But readiness doesn’t always look like confidence. Sometimes it looks like exhaustion. Or caution. Or showing up to an exhibition with your nervous system on edge and choosing to stay anyway. Sometimes readiness is about noticing who helps you feel ready even when you’re not.
Tove Jansson’s work often returns to the sea as metaphor, a vast, unknowable force that mirrors our emotional lives. It can nurture or terrify. It holds memory, longing, change. The lighthouse in Moominpappa at Sea becomes a symbol of failed certainty, flickering guidance, and inner searching. The same can be said of pilot fish - tiny, intuitive guides that move beside danger without fear. Both speak to me right now.
Because I’m not building just one house in this chapter of life. I’m building two:
an external one in the world of art, learning and expression and an internal one made of calm, indifference and care.
And I can’t build them alone.
So here’s to the pilot fish. To ‘J’ and ‘T’. To quiet companions in turbulent times. To the people who don’t need to steer your ship but remind you that it’s safe to sail. Who reflect back your growth, even when you can't quite see it yourself.
At this moment, I know who I’m swimming beside. And I’m grateful.
Artist: William Vinegrad
Fish Profile
Pilot Fish – Naucrates Ductor
Conservation status
Pilot Fish have been listed as Least Concern by the IUCN and are not considered in danger. They are eaten by humans but are difficult to catch on lines due to their erratic behaviour. However they are sometimes caught and then sold as by-catch.
They can be found in tropical and subtropical marine waters as well as around the British Isles and into the Mediterranean.
There have been a number of myths around Pilot Fish suggesting they acted as pilots for ships and other fishes. This isn’t the reality though they can follow fishing boats for long periods of time and they are often found close to large fish such as sharks and rays swimming together.