Functional Nutrition & Health Coaching Be your best
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My name is Philippa—though most people call me Pea—and for as long as I can remember, I’ve lived in the world at full tilt. I’m what you’d call a classic Type A: competitive, relentless, endlessly curious, and almost pathologically determined. From childhood, that drive was my engine. Sports were my first language, competition my compass. While other children went home after school, I slipped off to county meets, chasing faster times, higher scores, bigger challenges. And when the teachers handed me detention for missing classes, I treated it as bonus revision time—only to be given extra detention for not copying out the school rules like everyone else.
Academically, I wasn’t supposed to succeed. Dyslexia meant I never learned the “right” way, and the system rarely knew what to do with that. Teachers suggested I drop subjects; I refused—every time. I learned to navigate my own routes to the answers, and by the time I stepped out of university with a BA (Hons), I had proved them all wrong. The pattern was set: whatever the obstacle, I would find my way through it, around it, or past it.
After university, London became home. I cycled five miles to work each morning, trained in the evenings, went out with friends, and lived at a pace most people would call unsustainable. I ignored the whispers from my body—face pain, stomach knots, menstrual pain so severe I was convinced hospital was looming. But Type As don’t stop; we accelerate.
By my mid-twenties I was a Commercial Director in the construction industry, hitting impossible targets, collecting promotions, and racing 10k obstacle courses at weekends. On paper, everything was thriving. Inside, something else entirely was unfolding. My neck and shoulder pain grew sharper by the year. Once, I woke to both shoulders frozen. I took painkillers, went to work, and pretended it was fine.
Around this time, food quietly became my lifeline. I noticed that when I ate differently, I performed differently—at work, at the gym, in life. Colourful vegetables, green powders, odd combinations that just felt right. Lunchtimes became mini-consultations with curious colleagues: “What’s in that?” “Why do you eat like that?” I didn’t have scientific language yet—I only knew my body was speaking, and I had begun to listen.
But pain? Chronic, grinding, insistent pain? That I still ignored.
Eventually, the whisper turned to a roar.
I left the corporate world in a dramatic—and to many, baffling—pivot: I became a chef. Not just a chef, of course, but the kind of chef who wanted to understand food from the ground up, to master it, to reclaim health one ingredient at a time. I joined a catering company in London, training under fifteen seasoned chefs. We started at 6am, cooked through the day, then scattered across the city to set up pop-up kitchens for glamorous events. I asked questions constantly. Curiosity became oxygen. And still, my body tightened in protest—my neck barely turning, shoulders burning, heart racing for no reason at all.
Two years in, I decided to raise the stakes again. I trained, tested myself, and entered the world of superyacht cheffing, competing alongside Michelin-starred professionals. But I cooked differently. I cooked health. I built menus without butter, cream or heavy carbs. I created dishes that were decadent yet restorative. I cooked for UHNW families, for their crew, for wellness retreats across Europe. Everywhere I went, people reported more energy, less brain fog, fewer slumps. Their results felt more rewarding than any commercial deal I had ever closed.
Yet behind the scenes, I was falling apart.
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Seventeen-hour days. Constant travel. Living out of a suitcase with my sourdough starter—and yes, sometimes a Magimix—stuffed inside. My neck pain was constant. My heart rhythm unpredictable. My skin reactive. Food allergies appeared out of nowhere. I began my nutrition studies amidst the chaos, discovering the chemical brilliance of the human body and the foods that support it.
Then one morning, lifting trays of breakfast omelettes from the oven, my body staged its rebellion.
Something snapped. My back gave way. I collapsed onto the galley floor.
Pain swallowed everything.
I radioed the engineer—because on superyachts, everyone carries a radio—and he carried me to safety. For two weeks, I could barely walk. Yet, somehow, I finished the contract, gripping countertops to stay upright, cooking one-handed, falling to the floor when my back spasmed.
When I finally returned home, I stopped working for an entire year.
And for the first time in my life, I stopped pushing and started listening.
I dove into the science of pain—research papers, clinical trials, case studies. I explored nutritional therapy, functional health, integrative practices. I applied everything to myself with forensic determination. Slowly, piece by piece, I rebuilt. I healed. The chronic pain dissolved. My heart steadied. My allergies resolved. My energy returned in full force. Eventually, I learned the name for the constellation of symptoms I’d carried for years: fibromyalgia.
And I walked out the other side pain-free.
The revelation was stark: if I had responded to the early cues—if I had embraced preventative health long before crisis—I could have spared myself years of suffering.
That realisation is why I do this work.
Today, I help people—especially high-performing, driven, Type A personalities—recognise the signals their body is sending before they hit breaking point. Pain is information. Fatigue is feedback. Inflammation is a request. When we learn to decode those messages, we don’t have to abandon success, ambition, career or challenge. We simply learn how to pursue them without sacrificing our health in the process.
This is the work that changes lives. It certainly changed mine. And I’m here to help it change yours.
