Figs

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Figs

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I spent many history lessons looking out the window, it was on the second floor of the my school’s building. I watched the lush banana leaves dance in the wind, I loved the way the yellow tones of their colour came through when the sun hit them. Even though the classroom was air-conditioned and we all sat comfortably in 20 degrees celsius, you could feel how hot it was outside just by looking at it when the skies are cloudless and the sun’s beaming. There was something quite comforting about that contrast of temperatures and made me feel sleepy as if my body remembered that this exact condition was when I used to have my afternoon naps as a child growing up in the tropics. It was beautiful and all I wanted was to get the fuck out of there. 

I finally saw a way out when my best friend’s family told me about a scholarship program at a posh boarding school on Vancouver island, British Columbia Canada. A 5-figure tuition. A lake in the middle of it, cardigans and pleaded skirt, rugby teams and field hockey. Children of celebrities and Mexican millionaires. An opportunity I could have never even of dreamed of. I may have been very young but I knew I had to take this seriously, this was it—my way out. I studied like I was trying to get into one of the Ivy’s, I wrote countless emails to the board pleading my case. 1000 word e-mails each time, recommended letters, philanthropic initiatives. I had straight A’s and would crash out when I didn’t get a desired grade. I even had the possibility of visiting the campus and flew to Canada and met the other students out there and felt a sense of freedom even with the constraints and rules of living in a boarding school. I loved the spirit of sorority and knew this was where I was meant to be. 

I also understood what this meant for my general future, this type of education gave me better chances of making it into the big schools, I dreamed of Yale and Harvard. I could do big things and make a change in this world. I wasn’t picked for 3 years in a row but I kept at it. Then there it was on the 4th year, as my best friend (who was already attending the school) walked into the office and took a picture of my name on the board of selected students for a scholarship. I waited for the acceptance e-mail, I asked my mum over and over again if she’s heard anything. We were visiting my family in Java when I asked her in the car once again, and she finally turned around and looked at me like she couldn’t keep the secret any longer and told me that it wasn’t going to happen. 

A feeling of numbness took over, I don’t remember the moment very well, almost like I blocked it out. And I remember in that instance that I didn’t give a fuck anymore. I was initially told that the scholarship program was canceled because they wanted to build a Hockey rink. But, then was told the truth years later and found out that my step father at the time had written a threatening email to the school, saying that if they enrolled me, they would suffer consequences. 

I do not know why he did this, why any parent would deny their kid an opportunity of this caliber but I am convinced that he feared that he would no longer have control over me. I understood after years of therapy that I lived in an incredibly emotionally incestuous environment and when a parent views you as a second partner they’ll do the same things to you as they would to their actual partner. He didn’t see me as his kid but his second girlfriend that he had to control.

For the rest of my schooling, I kept my grades to a bare minimum—just enough to pass. I focused on being bad and partying and going out, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Because I understood that doing your best and trying really hard doesn’t always mean you’ll get what you want. So why even bother to try at all. 

I graduated high school with decent grades, and despite everything, I still dared to dream again. With my mum’s help, I managed to achieve many of those dreams. I got into fashion school and lived the life I had always imagined for myself in Paris, honestly, even better. The rest is history, but there are so many moments where I sit and wonder where I’d be today if I had gone to that school. If I’d become a lawyer graduating from some fancy university, or worked in finance in Switzerland, or landed some fancy job in a glass building in Manhattan. If I wouldn’t be constantly struggling financially the way I am now, maybe even buying an apartment in Paris in my twenties. If my personality would be different—less spontaneous, more serious and square.

I guess we’ll never know, but at the end of the day, I can look back now and genuinely say I’m more than happy with how everything turned out.

The end of my teen years and my early twenties were colourful, full of stories, surprises, and all the experiences Paris fed me so well. But eventually I got too comfortable, and everything began to feel stagnant. I felt this urge to move, because if I didn’t, I knew I’d get stuck and that terrified me. So I packed my things and went home.

It’s humbling to run back to your mum, especially when it wasn’t part of the plan, but it was the only way I knew to start fresh. Girl on Girl was born, my shop and brand took shape, yet somehow I’m still unsure of my direction and my purpose. I’m 25 now, standing at a crossroads, and there are so many directions my life could take. I think about the different scenarios all the time.

For instance, I could take the family route and spend my twenties looking for a husband, the man I’d probably end up divorcing anyway, statistically speaking. He’d be a normie with a normal job and a normal income. He’d make me laugh, we’d go on cute dates, and everything would feel special in that very ordinary way. But he’d love me for me, and we’d enjoy doing the boring things together. Maybe we’d get married after a year or two, and I’d get pregnant a couple of times. I’d decide to raise the kids myself to make sure they don’t turn into dickheads, and I’d find motherhood fulfilling enough. I’d take them to school, to their extracurriculars, help with homework. I’d create little games to spark their imagination, feed them mostly whole foods but allow fast food on road trips. I’d let them skip school when I sensed they needed a break, and anytime one of them got sick they’d receive the “mommy special”, curled up in bed with ginger tea, chicken soup, and any dessert they wanted. It would become their Madeleine de Proust.

We’d have a multilingual household: their dad speaking only his native tongue, and me speaking all three of mine. My schedule would orbit around theirs until they eventually left the nest, and I’d be forced to find new interests—or new parts of the house to renovate—to fill the void. But I’d be proud of the sacrifice, finding joy in watching them become their own people. I’d base my happiness on theirs and tell everyone I was put on Earth to be their mother, all while quietly ignoring the gruelling “what ifs” whispering at the back of my mind.

Or I could choose marriage, not for love, not for children, but for security. I’d realise I’m tired, that working is hard, and that the economy doesn’t care how creative or ambitious I am. To have the nicer things in life, I’d have to work like a dog… so why not let someone else do that part for me? I’ve always said that if I didn’t have to worry about money, I’d spend my time learning everything I could. And when I got bored of one subject, I’d simply move to the next. I always imagined myself as an encyclopaedia with a pretty cover. So in this version of my life, I’d target wealthy men. I’d know they like thin women, so I’d eat just enough and work out religiously. My looks would become an investment, my full-time job. I’d study their etiquette, learn their circles, and mould myself into exactly what they want, just long enough to be chosen.

I’d also know youth and beauty don’t last, so I’d plan ahead. I’d make sure the prenup is airtight. I’d ask for gifts that are really assets and make sure everything is in my name. I’d let myself find comfort in the things he bought me. I’d give him a baby so the child could carry his last name. I’d keep quiet, look pretty at dinners with his old friends, and tell him how wonderful he is. I’d feel relieved when he travelled for business, and I wouldn’t care about his affairs, as long as he never knew I knew, because that would ruin the fun for him. I’d listen carefully whenever he talked on the phone about business and financial strategy, quietly collecting information I could use for myself one day.

I may end up feeling a little empty at times but I’d spend my life chasing the sun, each year feeling like one long vacation. I’d travel the world learning everything I ever wanted: oil painting, fabric weaving, art history, finance. I’d use all his resources to become the smartest version of myself. And when my beauty faded and my youth finally slipped away, I’d have enough knowledge, skill, and security to do whatever the fuck I wanted, without caring what society thought because no one ever pays attention to what the old woman is doing.

Or I could do the complete opposite and go full-blown business woman, barely sleep in my twenties and make as much money as humanly possible. I’d neglect my love life, prioritise my friends, and become so focused on securing the bag that I’d grow a little sterner than I used to be. I’d be stressed, sure, but I’d also have the resources for every sauna, massage and retreat I needed, so it would balance out. I’d be super healthy, still smoking the occasional cigarette on business calls. My mother would worry that I’d die alone, but that wouldn’t scare me. As we say in French, “vaut mieux être seule que mal accompagnée.” I’d have understood, fully, that no man could make my life better than it already is, making most of them feel like a waste of space. Burned out emotionally, I’d find peace in functioning almost like a robot, living by stoic principles because they were the only thing that kept me grounded. I’d laugh at the memory of my younger self spilling her feelings on a blog, caring so much about relationships that now seem so small.

I’d have built a fortress of security around myself and the people I love, and I’d feel untouchable. My only form of intimacy would be younger men I’d invite over for a night or two, men who’d compliment me, stand at my feet, and know perfectly well that if I liked them enough, I could change their lives with a single phone call or a small investment.

Or I could go back to school and leave all this creative stuff behind. I’d study psychology and finally do what I always wanted as a kid: become a therapist. I’d give it everything, build a career that offers some stability, and earn a “real” diploma my mum could proudly show off. I’d be starting later than most, but that wouldn’t matter, I’ve realised how hard it is to “make it” as a creative and how long it takes to reach the stability I’ve decided I really need.

Maybe I just don’t have the dog in me to push through the uncertainty, or maybe I’ve accepted that turning a passion into a job can drain the beauty out of it. So I’d keep those things sacred and choose work that gives me enough security to enjoy them freely. It would mean committing another six or seven years to this new direction, adjusting my lifestyle, and returning to student life in my mid-twenties, which I imagine would be awkward but worth it.And who knows? Maybe my writing would become sharper, more grounded in psychological insight, and maybe it could help people. Maybe I’d even write a book.

Maybe I’ll end up being bits of all of these women.

But something tells me that no matter which reality I end up in, I’ll find happiness along the way, I have a tendency to do that. Sure, I am afraid a lot of the time and freak out over what could be and always so nervous about making the wrong decisions. However, what a privilege it is to not know! What a privilege it is to have so many choices! What a privilege it is to have the possibility to be surprised by life! 

How lucky am I? 

Vahine Blaise, Bali, December 2025

Fish Tale

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Fish Tale

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Because of a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia, I avoid drugs. Instead, I snorkel. 

Many may ask how I could ever compare tripping off acid or doing shrooms to snorkelling, but I believe you get the answer as soon as you finish asking the question. Think about it—you’re floating in water looking down at a whole different world. It feels like you’re flying over intricate cities, watching its inhabitants going on with their lives, very rarely paying attention to what you’re doing. They’ve all got their purpose and their routines, symbiotically co-existing in this beautifully designed chaos, where everyone contributes to the shared ecosystem. I get the same feeling walking through a busy street in a city during peak hour, everybody has a place to go and a place to be and no one is paying attention to me. It feels like I’ve died and no one can see me, and I’m watching over them like some sort of spectre. Witnessing these sea creatures exist makes me realise that I do not matter, life goes on without me and that to me is a form of soft ego death.

I am also reminded of how vast the ocean is and every snorkelling moment is a reminder that I am so small. Just like when on drugs, I start wigging out about how small I truly am and how vulnerable I am in this big blue sea and have to comfort myself by imagining that I am swimming in a fish tank in a Chinese restaurant somewhere and that there are no threats around but people eating sweet and sour chicken.

You cannot convince me that the visuals of hallucinations are better than those you see in the water. I have tried my best to explain a few of the things I have seen, both odd and beautiful, but I can’t seem to get it right, they are too unique, too peculiar to even find the words. I do not have enough skill or vocabulary to do these phenomenal beings justice. But all I can say is how I find it so fascinating how everything in the water is organised. For instance, the shades co-existing, creating such an immaculate symphony of colours, where the fauna matches the flora perfectly. Or the schools of smaller fish of the same breed coming in multiple colours in the perfectly balanced colour palette as they move in such synchronicity. How their stars live among them, coming in different shades of blue, crimson, bright orange and more than anyone can count. Why wait to meet aliens when nudibranchs are a thing, these extraterrestrial-like miniature creatures that come in the craziest forms, or even just cuttlefish that can shape-shift and change colours? Let’s not forget the flora: like these gorgeous lilac seaweed I saw on my last snorkelling trip that resembled feathers of a big bird growing out of vibrant corals, calmly swerving side to side as the current passes.

Many people dismiss fish as dumb creatures made to be eaten, but if you think that, you’ve probably never watched tropical fish in their habitat. Their faces hold so much character — almost human, in a way. The triggerfish, for example, has a stern expression, big lips, and unkind eyes that perfectly match its nasty personality.

My personal favourite is the pufferfish, with its googly eyes and chubby, nervous little body. I once stalked one for a good ten minutes before it couldn’t handle the attention anymore and hid under a rock until I left.

Did you know there’s even a fish with a nose that resembles Pinocchio? I don’t know much about them, but I imagine them as snobby French timekeepers — that’s how vividly expressive these fish faces are; you can almost picture what they’d be like as humans.

Divers know this best: fish have personalities. Some are curious and friendly, and some will come straight for you if you’re in their territory, no matter how much bigger you are. It’s disappointing that we don’t appreciate them as much as we should.

Nothing compares to witnessing a Manta Ray in the wild. These majestic creatures will instantly put you in a trance just by being in their presence. Watching them dance in the blue abyss, some are larger than me but they appear so light, like a light veil dropped from a building gracefully floating in the wind. They are calming and regal and hold this tangible energy that I once again find hard to explain. I will never get over witnessing a sea turtle and find it so endearing that they move through life in solitary and admire how comfortable they are being alone. They remind me of puppies as they play in the reef. But my favourite part is seeing them sleep with their eyes closed surrounded by fluffy seaweed and squishy corals, I had once seen one resting its head on a white shell like it was a pillow.

The ocean equally calms me and makes me think more than any other place. I often think about how fish have no idea what they look like and it made me wonder how life would be if I, like a fish, didn’t know what I looked like. How would that be? Like, does a frog fish know how unpleasant it looks? If it had the possibility to see itself and realise that what it’s looking at is actually itself, would it affect them? These are the kinds of questions that arise as I float about.

But mainly, I think about how I envy their freedom in being born with a set purpose and task, that they were put on earth to do a few things and few things only, resulting in them being freed from any questions on their purpose in this world. They do not have to think about what it is that they are, they just do what was programmed. A fish is free.
I may never be as free as a fish but I have felt freer and freer every single time I am in their presence, learning from them just existing. How sometimes maybe I shouldn’t be so preoccupied about what it is I should be or do and just do what feels natural to me and follow my heart like they do with the current. I have also learned that no matter how small or how insignificant I feel, I belong in this world and have something to contribute, just like how the small fishes are detrimental to the well-being of the ocean life, they matter way more than they seem to. This last statement may contradict what I had mentioned in the beginning but both are true and it may be confusing for some but to me it makes perfect sense.
Where the strongest currents are, where the movements are most intense, is where wildlife thrives, bringing in the richest biodiversity because currents carry the most nutrients. The same goes for life, where the most beautiful things grow from rough patches, and every hardship becomes a chance to grow your internal garden bit by bit. Last but not least snorkelling reminds me to stay curious and look closely at things, to take my time observing and being patient, because in those moments is when I discover the most beautiful gems the ocean can offer.

I can assure you that no drug could ever bless me with lessons so impactful.

Vahine Blaise, Komodo Islands, November 2025

Yung Lean

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Yung Lean

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I just watched a clip from a Yung Lean interview with the New York Times where he talks about realising that all of “this” isn’t that deep after going sober. In his case, “this” referred to the noise surrounding fame and the music industry but for me, it resonated in a different way.

My mum had asked me to come to the “old house” to see what things I wanted to keep. This was the house we moved into when she finally left an emotionally abusive relationship that she’d been in for over a decade. She has worked very hard to build another home for us now, which we moved into just six months ago. As much as the old house was in an unfavourable area and riddled with rats, it symbolised our freedom. So as much as I hated that house and begged my mum over and over for us to move, or at least fix the collapsing roof, it gave us the shelter and the mental peace we had been deprived of for many, many years. Freedom from living with that man felt so good that I never mourned the more luxurious lifestyle I’d had living with him.

All I cared about salvaging were my diaries. Most of them were half-empty because I loved buying new ones but never managed to stay consistent with journaling. I even found old audio notes buried in my phone, my sleepy voice whispering various “deep thoughts” that honestly made me cringe a little. Some of the writing, though, was surprisingly good. I was impressed by how clearly I could articulate my feelings back then, how well I understood what I was going through as a tween.
I sat there for hours, reading, listening, and reliving every emotion, instantly transported back to the person I was in those moments.

Then came a wave of sadness when I realised that so many of the things I’d been worried about or struggled with hadn’t really changed. It hit me that I’ve spent years feeling upset and confused about the same things, again and again. It felt maddening, like Groundhog Day repeating the same thoughts as if trapped in some loop of obsession. I pictured myself as that person at the metro station, rocking back and forth, mumbling the same sentence endlessly.

Nothing in life should be deep enough for me to struggle with for over a decade. Or at least, I no longer want to accept that for myself.
I’ve tried to give myself grace and I still believe in being patient with myself but I think I may have gone too far. I’ve spent years viewing myself as this chubby, pouty little crybaby who constantly needs care and attention, pointing fingers at all the people who have hurt her. I’ve tried to heal, and to some extent, I have. But I see now that I could never fully do it, because I’ve given too much power to the things that happened to me. As much as being shaped by the trauma you’ve endured is something we cannot change, being defined by it is a choice. It also means giving too much credit to those who have disrespected me, allowing them enough power to live within me for so long. Why would I want them to be a part of me forever? Who are they to have such an impact on the way I move through the world? Why would I allow their actions to rob me of experiencing the beautiful things in this life?

None of us are special. This may sound harsh at first, but if anything, it’s comforting. No one is special enough to have a completely unique thing solely happen to them. Even when something feels like an isolated struggle, we are never truly alone. The beauty of the human experience is that, no matter the distance between us, someone, somewhere, will walk a path that mirrors our own. So to excuse bad behaviour or have a perpetual case of the sulks because that one thing happened to you is too easy. Because there is someone out there who went through the same thing, yet was able to be decent and happy because, well, they simply made the effort to do and be better. It may feel like there is no light at the end of that tunnel sometimes, but there is always a light, always. I don’t know anything about anything, but this is something I could swear down on.

There is real power in letting go. It no longer matters whether they feel regret or share your pain. I’ve learned that it doesn’t make things any easier. Maybe a touch of empathy is better than none, but the pain remains all the same. Now that they’ve done the damage, now what? Are we just going to sit there and scream at the void with no one listening? Maybe it’s time to turn around, walk the other way, and continue on the path.

Now, if you’re reading this and feel some type of way about what was said, I understand and I’m sorry. Who am I to dismiss how you feel?
But all I hope is that you’ll look back one day and realise that Yung Lean was right — it wasn’t that deep.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025

The Elephant

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The Elephant

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I have been blessed with a perfect memory. Not the kind that recalls math formulas or reminds me to return the sweater you left at mine but the kind that remembers how it felt when your fingers accidentally grazed my forearm. I remember the way you looked at me that one time, the crack in your voice when you told me what happened. I remember the moment exactly, how it felt, entirely, perfectly.

I have memories from as early as three years old. Some people tell me that’s impossible, that I must have invented them. But how could that be, when I’ve had them for as long as I’ve been conscious? There’s never been a version of my life without them. And if they’re made up, then how is it that my mother remembers them too?

I can still remember the sounds of the waves crashing as my mum put me in bed in our wooden beach house, how it lulled me yet also terrified me. The head of the snake my father beheaded on the step of my childhood bedroom, the way the ants crawled out of its mouth and the its dead eyes staring back at me. I will remember my mother’s screech before he did it, begging him to not kill it because it is forbidden in our culture. The feeling of deep joy to see my father come home from work, I still feel his strong hands holding me tight. I also remember those same hands yanking me off the floor after I had ripped his cigarettes open thinking they were little gifts. How my little fingers burned when I decided that the chilli needed a bath in the bathroom sink. The feeling of sneezing while eating my mother’s mushroom omelette in the morning and spitting it all over the place every time I sat on the sunny side of the table, because even then, sun rays made me sneeze. The deep frustration I felt when I’d see my own shadow because I hated how my curly hair looked as I tried to rip the strands off my head. I remember the way he enjoyed the very mediocre cookies my mother and I baked, how hard and sweet they were, how he told me I did a good job. How proud I felt in that moment. I remember the love I had for them both and the love they had for each other.

I remember the day he left us, the day she ran to the beach to find him. The fear and confusion of having to sleep at the neighbours for a few days. The smell of their room when it was only her, how unpleasant it was, like as if her tears had a scent. Oh god the pain, in her voice as she held my tiny head in her hands and how irritated I felt for some reason. I will forever recall the moment I understood that he wasn’t coming back. The moment she couldn’t accept it and ran towards to waves to try and join him. And it was like in that moment, my very little self decided that all I could do was remember as it was the only way to keep him alive somehow. 

I can only speculate that keeping his memory so vividly alive has, in turn, trained my brain to remember everything. It’s a habit I’ve practiced for so long that forgetting now feels almost impossible. In many ways, it’s a gift. I’ve become the keeper of happy times, the key to memories others struggle to recall. When we finally sit down for coffee after months apart, I bring up that one story, and I love watching their faces light up as the sweetness of the moment returns to them. It warms my whole being to see them so touched by the fact that I would remember such detail because it lets them know that I care and I care to remember. 

Being in love with a memory like mine can be magical, it’s a strength that makes me a better partner. The small things you say, even when you’re just muttering to yourself about picking something up from the store, stay with me; I’ll remember and bring it home to you. The way your face lit up that one time I made you tea is enough for me to keep doing it, just to see that flicker of joy again. And the harder things too — I’ll never mention that family member again, because I could tell, from the way your body tightened without a word, how deeply it hurt. My memory allows me to love completely, and to love right. And when I miss you, I’ll remember how your sleepy hand felt resting on my tummy this morning and the way your lashes looked up close when I woke before you, and I’ll close my eyes and remember the smell of your sheets and it’ll be like I was still right there with you. 

Like most beautiful things, this kind of memory carries weight, it haunts, it hurts. Sometimes it feels like a curse, because memory does not choose sides. It lets me recall the warmth of your kiss, but also the ache of the last one. I lie there after it’s all over, trapped in the loop of what was, feeling the ghost of your hands that are no longer there. Your voice, still soft and gentle, repeats itself in perfect rhythm, like a record that won’t stop skipping. My heart keeps falling to my gut, again and again, just as it did the first time you told me. 

I bite my tongue when I meet someone new and feel myself starting to fall, holding back from asking them to please be careful, please be gentle — it’s hard for me to forget. But, I do not say anything at all.

Sometimes it feels like no one understands how isolating it is to be the only one who remembers. As if I were the sole witness to something that never really happened. The pain they caused isn’t real to anyone but me because no one else remembers it. Their words and actions still echo, cutting into me over and over again. And when I try to mention it, even lightly, and they respond with “I said that?”, I realise that I was the only one who suffered. That moment wasn’t shared, it was mine alone. 

I have no choice but to remember. I carry everything with me as life goes on, the good and the painful alike. Sometimes it feels heavy, like being followed by ghosts of my own making, a chronic nostalgia that demands effort just to stay present. But it’s worth it, because I get to keep the sweetest memories too the ones that still glow inside me, shaping the young woman I’ve become. I gather them the way I once gathered seashells and small dead crabs on the beach, my father nearby, watching me with that quiet, knowing smile.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025

Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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I am met every morning with a living painting nestled in my door frame right in front of my bed. It’s hues, textures and minimal movements vary depending on the time and the tides but it is always the same. There sits the little sailboat, peacefully floating on the LaHave River, while the towering trees across the way make me feel like a tiny ant among the moss. My days, like the view I wake to, repeat themselves with indifferent precision. Sometimes, there are brief ruptures, a visit to the market, breakfast at the Rosebay. I had just spent three months in Europe, packing and unpacking my suitcases, crawling from house to house. I felt a sense of relief when I finally put my clothes in the closet knowing that the next time I will pack again will be in at least a few weeks. You’d think I was running away from something, maybe I am.  

It had been colder than usual for the month of August in East LaHave, which I didn’t particularly mind after the many heatwaves experienced in Paris, where my shirts clung to me, sweat dribbling down my back as I biked down Boulevard République to meet my friends at Martin Boire et Manger. 

The sounds here were what Earth was meant to sound like, a beautiful symphony between the blowing wind, the dancing leaves, the sloshing waves and the buzzing bees. I have seen no planes flying above us, only seagulls and flying among us are the most little hummingbirds feeding off the flowers. 

I spend certain mornings soaking myself in the cold water, it feels like a shock at first but slowly a sense of warm calm takes over and there my mind goes numb. Once I get out, I sit still on the sand as the sun slowly loosens up my cold tight skin. I take a moment to myself and think about my eventful summer and how many relationships sprouted and bloomed under the sun. Or the ones that feel like they’d never change that require little to no watering to forever feel like home. Then there were the ones that grew stronger and the ones that slowly wilted away. Of course, there were also the relationships, once a canopy of closeness, stretched gently toward the light. a quiet reaching that, over time, created a little more space than there was before.

I found these different shifts and movements interesting and how intense it had all been, how I was so immersed in it unaware of it all, until I unrooted myself and what felt like a blink of an eye was met with pure isolation. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Germination

I looked at the back of the Uber driver’s head as I climbed in the car, “he looks hot”, I said to R who surprised me at the airport after I had been away for months. I greeted him, but he didn’t answer, I figured that maybe the sound of my voice was drowned by the French rap music that was blasting. I was delirious from my seventeen hour flight and couldn’t believe I was back in the city I loved most. I was overwhelmed by how happy I was to be back with my best friend. The driver announced that he had to stop and get gas, as he stepped out, I was eager to see how he looked like, I couldn’t see him in the rear view mirror earlier, his cap covered his face. When I finally turned around to see who had been driving us, my heart stopped. 

Around 16, I discovered his music on SoundCloud after hours spent scouring the internet for new sounds—a teenager dreaming of life beyond the little island I called home. Listening felt like a form of escape, a way to imagine what kids my age might be hearing all over the world, as if it brought me a little closer to them. I dreamed of Paris and imagined that every teenager lived like the characters in LOL by Lisa Azuelos (the original French version, of course—not the one with Miley Cyrus). I pictured them walking around late at night, smoking cigarettes by historical sights, wearing skinny jeans, and holding hands in the pockets of their winter coats. They’d make out everywhere—girls’ hair plastered to their partners’ faces as the winter wind whipped through some park, or maybe it was a quick boob grab-kiss combo in someone’s kitchen during a house party in the 7th arrondissement, thrown while their wealthy parents were off hiding in the countryside for the weekend.

I just found the idea of teenage years in the city, magical. I also only kissed one boy by then, who also made me give him a handjob in some dodgy abandoned house, I got so icked out, I didn’t speak to him ever again. 

I dreamed of teenage romance. 

Going to a French school in Bali, some of my classmates were from Paris. They’d talk about their friends back home and show me their social media profiles. It made me fantasise about Parisian boys—they seemed effortlessly cool, handsome, always well-dressed. There was this casual, detached charm about them that I found magnetic—like so many teenage girls probably did.

I only listened to only two of his songs, they were on repeat for a little while. It felt special to me. It felt like I had discovered a little gem—my secret.

A few years later, I cannot recall which year it was but I had already moved to Paris—I found myself at some random house party that spontaneously happened after a rowdy afternoon at  Jeannette. I walked to the kitchen to serve myself a drink, and there I recognised him, I didn’t really keep up with his music after high school. “Are you that guy who makes music?” “Yeah, that’s me”, “Sick, I used to listen to you in high school”. It didn’t take long to see he was a character—quick, witty, and effortlessly funny. 

I didn’t think of him much at all, I only would run into him occasionally at different bars or parties, with a swift hello and nothing more.

Everything changed when he invited me to the screening of his latest project at the Silencio des Prés cinema last year — a visual accompaniment to his new album. I got the time wrong and showed up too late, completely missing the show. I was bummed as I was very excited to see his evolution as an artist. We passed each other on the staircase, exchanging awkward banter—the foundation of all our past interactions. I told him I missed it all, he told me that there would be no second chances, I asked if he’d play it for me again and he told me that maybe he would. We smiled. I thought he looked handsomely ridiculous—in the best way—with his baseball cap tossed on top of a sharp business suit. 

The cinema transformed into a club, with guests dancing between the rows of red chairs. Drinks were flowing, music was blasting, lights dimmed. I had gotten to know one of his close friends over the years as well, who also made music and had asked me to be apart of his music video, which never happened. I never usually like to indulge in lust with men I have not gotten to know privately first, but something took over me that night. His friend and I danced in each other’s arms and sang the lyrics to “Prototype” to each other. When the cinema party ended, we were not ready to call it a night, someone suggested the Pamela, an underground night club. 

We made our way to the club, when his friend stopped me from walking letting the group pass us. He asked if he could kiss me, I nodded yes. There he kissed me under the Parisian yellow lights of the quiet streets of Saint Germain Des Près. All I could think about was that I wish it was him instead. 

A few months later, I ran into him at a bar and had given him Brookies (a mix of a brownie and a cookie) I carried with me in a ziplock bag. He really liked them and that is how we started having quick conversations through instagram afterwards. I had seen that he was going to DJ at fête de la Musique and announced that he would play Black Eyes Peas, which is arguably one of my most favourite music groups of all time. I responded to the story post and told him that it would be my dream, he told me to come and said that he’d play 7 black eyed peas songs if I wanted to. 

The night came, R and I went to his DJ set at 11 PM and as promised he played all the songs I could ever dream of. The rain started pouring—a refreshing relief after hours of dancing in the thick, humid heat. In moments like that, I felt grateful to be young, full of energy, able to feel everything so deeply and let it all out through wild, aimless movement.

Once that was over, still filled with energy he offered to take us to his music studio to keep the party going, R had to work the next day, so we walked her home. 

Then he told me to sit on his lime bike, which I firmly declined out of fear we’d crash but he told me to trust him. I guess I was drunk enough to finally agree. I screamed and laughed all the way, as he huffed and puffed behind me trying his best to get us there safely, which he managed. His friends joined us, and there we stayed dancing sloppily to music with me laughing at him most of the time. 

Some of his musician friends jumped into impromptu jam sessions, playing whatever instruments were around, while he grabbed the mic and started freestyling—rapping random words, some dedicated to me. 

In a blink of an eye it was 7 am and the sun was up. We found out we lived 5 minutes away from each other this whole time. So we decided to walk home. The city stirred awake, last night’s celebration still lingering in the scattered party cups and crumpled trash glinting in the early light. We slipped out before the street cleaners arrived. Paris felt hungover. In true French fashion, he asked me if I wanted a croissant from the bakery, instead I asked for a pain au chocolat please. We walked side by side, and had a banter-less conversation for the first time. I honestly don’t really remember what we talked about and it all felt like haze. When we finally arrived in front his place, he looked at me and asked if I’d like to come in. I told him, I couldn’t because well, a friend of mine had already expressed that she had a crush on him—which was true. And I couldn’t possibly break the bro code. I also felt uneasy about the fact that I went home his friend earlier that year and something about it made me feel weird. I had already categorised him as a no-go for those two reasons despite the undeniable attraction I had for him deep down. 

Our friendship bloomed over the months, I would come over sometimes in my pyjamas to play video games and eat snacks and go home. Sometimes we’d meet up at the park and just talk about all sorts of things, from music to our ambitions as future parents. Our butts itching on the grass as we took in the sun rays on a wonderful warm fall day. 

He always had a pleasant face—soft eyes framed by thick, baby-cow lashes, and a smile that bordered on movie-star charming. I’m not usually into blond men, but his dirty-blond hair suited him, highlighting the subtle flush of red in his complexion. His voice was comforting, and his laugh had a way of making everything seem funnier. He expressed how it was lovely to be able to have this relationship with me, how we could just talk and do nothing else, I agreed. I think we settled on being friends and were happy with that. 

I had made the decision to move back to Bali that fall to start my business and blog and left abruptly, he found this out on social media and asked me if when I’d be back, I told him I didn’t know. 

And so I spent the next few months back home, focused on building my new career. We still talked now and then—little story replies, bits of banter. He’d ask if I knew when I’d be back, slipping in jokes that hinted he loved me and missed me, and I’d play along.

He kept asking me when I’d come home and I’d still tell him that I didn’t know. Until one day, I did. He kept asking me about details of my flight which I found odd because it wasn’t like we were close to the point where he’d be interested in that type of information. 

It all made sense, when I realised he was the “Uber Driver” filling up the gas tank. I hopped out of the car and gave him a big hug. I was so touched from this kind gesture, especially when I found out that it was initially his idea. I didn’t realise how much he cared for me and this made me question how much I cared for him. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

He took me to the cinema to watch Lilo & Stitch, and somewhere in the dark, I don’t know what came over me—but I reached for his hand. When we stepped outside, the sun was setting and everything was glowing and orange, like the last good day before the end of the world in a dystopian film. We walked past a salsa dance group by the canal. He extended his hand, inviting me to dance. So there we were—dancing clumsily to Latin music in the middle of seasoned pros, as I belly laughed through it all. We shared a beer at a local bar and spoke more about our upbringing and how much it had affected us. I was impressed by his growth and the way he had handled his traumas and how in tune he was with his feelings. Nothing about it was performative, and I know performative when I see it. He was raw and real. We walked home—our favourite activity to do together at this point, sharing earbuds, listening to our favourite songs, dragging our feet in a sleepy Paris. When we finally made it home, I told him yet again that I wouldn’t come up. I saw a little disappointment in his eyes, but as always he remained graceful as I kissed him on the cheek goodbye. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I had to leave again this time to Italy for a few weeks and barely got to see him before leaving. But when I came back, I had the pleasure to house sit take care of his cat while he left on vacation. I grew to his cat love very much. It was funny to be in his home again without him present. I wondered what he’d be doing in here alone, where he’d write his lyrics. I wondered if he danced alone his boxers like I do. I wondered if he cried a lot listening to his vinyls. He was so tidy as a boy, which I liked. 

When he finally came home, we spent more time together and I believe this was all thanks to his fat cat, the reason I’d come visit more often. 

He invited me to hang out in this huge apartment he was staying in for a little while. There we laid on the same bed 2 feet apart watching my favourite movie the world “Super Bad”, where he discovered the magical McLovin. Then we ran out to eat chocolate crepes and as usual, he walked me home. The most mundane thing felt like a movie scene when around him because I have come to understand that just like me, he romanticised everything.

I was starting to have these unwanted feelings creep up on me and have found myself almost being a bitch to him at times to counter them. But that never phased him, it almost amused him. He had no ego. Which made me fancy him even more. 

A few days before having to leave to North America, I had invited him to dinner at a rooftop restaurant that my old roomy worked at (I can never pass a good discount). I stopped by the studio where he was recording his new project and sat on the couch, listening to the voice I’d known before I ever saw his face—still just as soothing. He kindly listened to my input and asking for my opinion even though I had no knowledge in music whatsoever. Then we rode the metro together, knees innocently touching, in comfortable silence. 

We were the goofiest pair in that rooftop restaurant—wide-eyed and excited to try every fancy dish, surrounded by iconic landmarks and a view that felt almost unreal. We didn’t want it to end there, so we walked up the hill searching for ice cream and the first apartment we met. We stood in front of the building recalling that very night, exchanging points of views. We kept climbing until we reached Montmartre, grabbing beers from the iconic épicerie featured in Amélie, before settling onto one of the classic Montmartrois steps, gazing out at the summer funfair lighting up the Tuileries below. There we sat for hours talking. Talking from the children in our families to the deaths of our fathers. 

A couple sat on the steps below us, kissing like they’d been holding back all night—eager, almost ravenous. We watched them, amused, laughing at how intense it was but also thinking it was kind of sweet. I turned to him and said, “Our first kiss is going to be so awkward—just like us.”  “Like this,” I added, before leaning in and mock-kissing him, playfully pressing my tongue against his lips in the most ridiculous way, then throwing my head back in laughter. He just looked at me for a second, a little caught off guard—then burst out laughing with me.

When our butts eventually couldn’t stand sitting on the cold hard stone, we decided to go home. Mid-way before reaching the bottom. He grabbed me by the arm, then cupped my face before landing a soft kiss on my lips. He drove us home on a little moped, Childish Gambino playing through his iPhone speaker. I pressed my chest against his back, our heads separated only by the helmets. It was cold, but I felt warm. 

This time, I went up with him.

Just a couple of days later, I had to say goodbye again—without knowing when I’d be back. “I’m sad,” I said, our fingers laced together in front of my door.
“Why?”
“Because I have to leave again… so soon.”
He smiled gently. “I waited a whole year for you. I’m sure a few months won’t hurt.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Anthesis

Jade R and I didn’t get very close until a year and few months ago, but sparks were felt from the moment we sat in some girl’s house talking about astronomy books as the other girls were snorting crushed up pills in the back. 

Despite not knowing each other that long, our bond feels like it was written in the stars and it was meant to be. I wonder if I’d ever feel so connected and close to my future partner like I do with her. I wonder if it could ever truly be healthy to become so close so quickly with someone of the opposite gender. Jade R owns a heart of gold and incredibly, traits that are rare, especially in the glamorous world she is apart of. 

She is, all at once, the luckiest and unluckiest person I’ve ever met—a living collection of life stories, some gut-wrenching, others almost surreally beautiful. She is a beautiful, walking paradox— warm yet sometimes bitter, soft yet harsh. 

She took me into her home, without hesitation, holding my hand through a transition in my life I am internally struggling with, leaving the life I am far too attached to behind. I think about the warmth I feel when she brings me a cold Hojicha in the morning, that she prepared with care, before she lights up a cigarette and serenades me with whatever notes her heart feels like playing on the piano. 

The love we had kept growing and growing so seamlessly, it feels like those friendships you make at the hotel pool when you’re seven years old on vacation. Our laughs echoed through the apartment that felt like home to me and tears were shed in her queen sized bed as her husky quietly slept nearby. Her reassurance made me feel strong and uplifted me, making me braver then I had ever been before. I will always remember seeing her small body quietly sleeping beneath the large duvets, like she had been gently washed ashore, as I tiptoed to the kitchen for some water, careful not to wake her. Or I’d come home from running errands and find her in her home studio, creating the most beautiful music—sitting in the centre of towering speakers, like Godzilla among skyscrapers. Her intimate setup makes her music feel deeply personal—like a silent cry, curled up in the corner of a bed. And I wait impatiently for her music to be shared with all the girls in the world, who will soon feel the comfort I have felt through her voice. 

I cherish our late night dog walks where we shamelessly spoke about everyone because we believe that gossiping is healthy, as we walked past the home of the former French president. How we treat her gentle giant like our own son, as I wonder what it would be like to be mothers together, if we ever decide to be. We constantly complained about how broke we were but didn’t hesitate to treat ourselves to the strip club because we both have a deep understanding of how fragile life truly is.

Jade is a breath of fresh air, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel alive and unburdened.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Phototropism 

His brother was standing by the DJ booth—right in the same spot we’d seen him the year before, same day, one year later. When he noticed us, he greeted me with the big smile they both shared. “He’s around here,” he said. I made a face, jokingly. He shrugged and giggled in response.

When he finally appeared and realised I was standing there, he looked surprised—then suddenly lit up with joy. He pulled me into his arms and told me how glad he was to see me after all this time.

Something about it all felt strangely familiar, like no time had passed. It warmed my heart to see him again.

This was the third year in a row we’d been at this same event, always held on the same day. The first year, we came as a brand-new couple—everything felt fresh and full of promise. The second year, it was post-breakup, with tension still in the air and a flicker of jealousy from him when another man tried to hold my hand.

And now, here we were again.

We stood still in a sea of dancing bodies, yet it felt like we were alone. We reminisced about the days we were in love and all the things we used to do. He took my hand, gently tracing the spade tattoo on my ring finger with his thumb.

“It’s still there,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” I replied. “It’s pretty permanent.” Unlike us. 

There was a time I naively thought he’d be the one to put a ring there someday—maybe even laugh about the slightly botched tattoo as he did. In hindsight, it was silly of me to think so, we had only been together for such a short amount of time, but it felt real and I had never felt so strongly about a boy before. I’ve learned since then that love isn’t enough. 

We caught each other up on our love lives. He told me he’d gotten into a relationship after me. I told him I’d stayed single.

“You made it hard for me,” I admitted. “You really raised my standards.”

And it was true. He had treated me like a princess, with all these small, thoughtful gestures. I almost felt fully seen—he understood my taste, my humour and appreciated my quirks and for a young girl who’ve never felt that before, it meant the world. Until he betrayed me out of nowhere on a trip abroad. That didn’t exactly help in the trust department.

“You did too.” He calmly responded. 

There were plenty of quiet moments between us, where we simply stood and watched the joyful chaos unfolding in front of us. The flickering lights danced across our skin, staining and unstaining it in turns. We were both deep in thought, unaware of what was passing through the other’s mind.

It’s strange—almost surreal—to be acquaintances with someone who once felt like an extension of myself.  At times, it felt like we moved through the world as one, symbiotic, in step with each other. 

I’ve spent so much time replaying it all, especially the part where I didn’t realise the last day would be the last. It is truly life-changing to experience that kind of weight when pain and anger come from someone you once felt nothing but love and safety with. So many unanswered questions and even when answered, more eventually keep pouring in until you understand that answers, do not necessarily heal. 

How incredible it is to wake up one day and realise—you survived it. Even when it felt impossible, when you were sure you’d never recover, you made it through. Yes, there may still be a pinch in my heart, one that might always linger… but I think I stand taller now.

I’ve come to understand the quiet power of forgiveness and how, in the end, it freed me more than anything. I thanked him for the pain and the betrayal, “it made me grow”, I smiled.

There were moments where I wondered if we could one day be intertwined again and if there could be life growing after Slash-and-Burn. But, like to seedlings once planted side by side, we were now drawn by separate suns, bending and stretching in different directions, silently and peacefully growing. Knowing we couldn’t be growing towards the same sky. 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia/New York City, September 2025

Surrender

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Surrender

Home » Archives for 2025

God only ever seems close when I’m in pain or afraid and for that I feel guilty. The moment something goes wrong, I come crawling back. It’s almost ritualistic now, the way I mentally escape, fleeing as far as my mind can stretch. The furthest place it can imagine, that’s where I believe God is. Usually somewhere in the depths of the universe, past burning planets, past light itself. And there, in that vast silence, I kneel. I beg. I promise.“I’ll let go. I’ll stop trying to control everything. Just guide me. Give me peace, relief, anything—I’ll follow. I’ll listen. I’ll trust the path.” I don’t know why I do this. But there’s something undeniably calming about surrendering. And yet, I’m not even sure who or what I’m surrendering to. All I know is that I’ve clearly been fighting it and I’ve been punished for it. “I’m just one stupid human girl, naive enough to believe I ever had control. But I get it now. I’m powerless. I have no say. It’s all in your hands. I’m sorry for resisting.” In my mind, I offer up my beating heart still warm, still heavy. It’s theirs now. I’m too tired to carry it anymore. And even as I struggle to lift it, to hand it over, the relief washes over me instantly. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

My family is mostly Muslims, with a few Catholics scattered in—thanks to my grandfather, who married a few times or at least had kids with a few women. Some of his wives kept their own religions, which now seems surprisingly progressive for the time. There has been a history of religion-related conflict in the country but nothing I had seen or experienced directly. I find that most of us Indonesians are very respectful of each other’s beliefs and have deep respect for one another. My mother never imposed anything on me, she’d say that God will find me when he does and whatever I end up believing in, she trusted that I would know best for myself. She told me all she could do is give me the things she knew and have learned herself through her own spiritual journey, but the Truth will come to me. 

This was different compared to the rest of my family who have always been told from an early age what it was they needed to believe in. However, this “freedom” she had given me in a way made me feel isolated, even though no one ever judged me or her for it. During the holy month of Ramadan, when all of my other cousins went to pray, a piece of me envied them. I envied them for  connecting with other kids in the village through their beliefs. I envied them for knowing how to read and speak Arabic and how beautiful it sounded when they would pray quietly. I admired the beautiful robes they would wear and imagined how nice it must be to be able to pick out the prayer mat. I thought about how nice it was that they shared the struggle of fasting together and how breaking it was something truly special and not just another meal like it had been for me. 

When I briefly expressed that I too wanted to pray and learn more about the holy book, I was met with delighted faces like they had been waiting for me all along. They sat with me and taught me how to say certain prayers, letting me sit behind my aunties so I could follow their movements during worship. “But I don’t know what to say,” I’d whisper.

“Just talk to Him,” they’d reply. “He’ll still listen. You can learn the proper way later.” And so I sat there struggling to find anything to say but express gratitude for my life and my family and asked Him if he’d make sure I get a Blackberry phone. 

I even considered covering my hair, in hopes it would make me feel more connected to Him. As I tried the headscarf in the store, I was complimented by the vendors and how beautiful I looked with a hijab. In some ways, I finally felt like I was fully apart of the family. However, my heart was never really in it. It didn’t last very long though as soon as I left Java and went back to the secular French international school I was attending, all of that was out of the window. 

I tend to picture God as a father figure, a calm, steady male presence who will guide me through the chaos. And yet, the idea of God as a woman resonates more deeply with me. It makes more sense, somehow. Still, like most of the world, I’ve been shaped by the notion of a male God—indoctrinated, really. Maybe that association goes back to when my father died. For a while, my deceased father was my God. 

I was just a little girl when my mother told me he was everywhere.

“Everywhere?” I asked.
“Everywhere,” she said, as we sat on the steps of the house we moved into after she met her second partner. I imagined thousands of tiny versions of him—perched in trees, swinging off stars, crawling through grass, hiding behind cabinets. “He’s always keeping an eye on you,” she told me. I didn’t find that comforting. I found it deeply unsettling. How was I supposed to get away with anything now? Does he watch me pee? 

With time, I understood what my mother was trying to say: that my father would always be with me, watching over me, protecting me in ways I may never fully understand. 

So when I grew up and started to learn more about Islam, I found it hard for me to connect with Him. God to me was a comforting figure, one that didn’t judge me or instilled fear. As much as all of my family members kept on telling me how much God loved me or how he would protect me, this feeling of fear kind of lingered, the feeling that everything I did was wrong. It confused me a lot as a child, I could see how the religion was meant to inspire goodness but I was constantly reminded that I would never be good enough. I struggled to fully immerse myself in it because there were too many things that didn’t sit right with me, especially the lack of tolerance for certain people and perspectives. 

As much as I was told that God forgives and that he loved me no matter what, his followers on Earth never failed to make me believe that this wasn’t the case. For instance, my grandmother’s sister constantly telling me how I shouldn’t be showing so much leg and shoulder every time we’d visit her. Or the men during Ramadan telling me I shouldn’t be surprised if I ever got raped. I was twelve wearing overalls. Although very open-minded and accepting of everyone, my family still fears that one of us would turn out gay. 

I was told many times that it was important to distinguish what was really written and interpretation. That the people who weaponised it or used to it to justify certain acts were not “true muslims” but without the weapon itself, would there be any pain? 

I recall that one time my two classmates in 7th grade having a debate about God, the atheist asked the muslim girl, if God were real why would he let such atrocities happen to innocent people all time? She responded by saying that our experience here on Earth was a test to prove that we are worthy of Jannah—paradise—where pain and suffering ceases for those who deserve it. From that moment on I knew I couldn’t stand behind it. 

I still carry certain shame and guilt for not fully devoting myself to the religion I was born into. And beneath that, there’s a lingering fear, fear of what it might mean if it turns out to be true, fear of facing the consequences of not believing, and the terrifying thought of eternal punishment. If that’s the case, then all I can do is hope that living with kindness and striving to be moral will count for something. That, when the time comes, it might be enough to earn forgiveness.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

In parallel, I was immersed in the mystical world of Balinese Hinduism. It surrounded me, and its presence could be felt as soon as you set foot on Balinese ground, the smell of incense immediately taking over. It could be seen in the beautiful, bright Canang Sari offerings placed on sidewalks, shrines, shop counters, or even vehicles—a daily expression of gratitude toward the Gods. It could be heard in the late-night ceremonies, accompanied by Gamelan, a powerful ensemble of traditional percussive instruments, and the chants of priests reciting in Sanskrit. 

Although, I was not apart of a Balinese family, I have attended many ceremonies growing up. One ceremony in particular, I will always remember. I was maybe about 5 or 6, I was invited by my neighbour who was my age to come to her house for a ceremony. I put on my traditional balinese outfit and my little flip-flops and walked on over. We sat criss-cross apple sauce right in front of the priest, an older gentleman with long, fine white hair tied neatly in a bun, a matching white beard, and dressed entirely in white garments. He was surrounded by a burst of colours: vibrant offerings, an array of foods, ceramic pots—and on either side of him, small cages filled with baby chicks.

I remember thinking how cute they were, secretly hoping he’d let us play with them once the ceremony was over. But then he began to chant, words I couldn’t understand. And without pause, he reached into one of the cages, gently holding a chick in both hands:  one on its tiny head, the other on its fragile body and snap.

I froze in horror.

The chick’s headless body flailed in frantic circles before finally collapsing in the dust. I sat there, stunned and sick, unable to process what I had just witnessed. The rest of the day passed in a haze of sadness and confusion. I couldn’t stop wondering, how was that fair? Why did that sweet, innocent little chick have to die… for us?

I went home upset and did not understand why the chick had to be sacrificed, it didn’t even have the time to grow fat enough to eat. It died for nothing, I thought. 

I have always had such admiration for the Balinese religion, I had thought many times about learning more about it and loved the whole philosophy behind it all. The importance of balance and the respect for the land and everything that grows and lives on it. But deep down, I knew I could never truly belong to it. Balinese Hinduism isn’t just a religion, it’s a way of life, woven into the island’s culture, ancestry, and community. It lives through daily rituals, caste traditions, and temple ceremonies, often passed down through generations or embraced through family ties. 

On top of it all, Balinese women are some of the strongest I’ve ever known, bearing responsibilities I could hardly imagine, often with very little recognition. They live within a strict patriarchal system, where they’re expected to uphold religious duties at home—crafting offerings, tending to household shrines all while managing domestic responsibilities. Despite their vital role in temple life and daily rituals, women are often excluded from leading ceremonies and are barred from entering temples during menstruation, as they are considered ritually impure.

Beyond the home, many are also expected to contribute a second income, balancing spiritual, domestic, and economic duties. There is immense pressure to have children, as procreation is seen not only as a social expectation but also a spiritual obligationcrucial for maintaining lineage and enabling reincarnation. Women who are unable to conceive may be viewed as less than, their worth tied to their ability to continue the ancestral line.

Leaving a marriage is rarely a real option. Upon marriage, a woman leaves her family and community to join her husband’s. If she divorces, she risks losing her place in both worlds no longer accepted by her husband’s family, and not always welcomed back by her own. She’s left in a liminal social space, disconnected from the structures that once gave her belonging. To make matters worse, children typically remain with the father, as they are considered part of his lineage. A mother may only see her children if the father’s family permits it.

This is something I could never handle. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I have grown up in a country that is very spiritually charged. Despite being the largest Muslim country in the world, Indonesia is deeply animistic and rooted in indigenous beliefs. This is especially true in Balinese Hinduism, where the line between the spiritual and physical worlds is almost imperceptible. I can confirm that spirits are real—and if you said you’d believe it when you see it, then I would say that I saw it, and so I believe. There are things I’ve experienced that defy logic, events that would be difficult for many in the West to accept. The energy is palpable and heavy; they are constantly around us, roaming freely among the living. I’ll save the scary ghost stories for another day.

But everything changed when I moved to Europe. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was as if the spiritual presence vanished entirely. I began to feel that absence deeply, and I think part of it was cultural: once people die here, they aren’t remembered in quite the same way. Over time, especially living in Paris, I lost touch with the spiritual world I had grown up with. The daily reminders were gone. Instead, I found myself drawn to a different worldview. It was in Paris that I discovered Camus and his philosophy of Absurdism: the idea that life is inherently without meaning, and that our human drive to find purpose stands in direct contradiction to the universe’s indifference and randomness. God may not be real, but the dancing trees are. The sun on your skin is. The salty Mediterranean air is. We spend our lives chasing meaning, often missing the beauty of the world and the simplicity of the present moment. I found Camus’ view strangely comforting, maybe even necessary, at a time when I was trying to find my place and purpose in the world, like many do in their early twenties. It stuck for a little while, but every time I went back to the Motherland I was reminded that there was more than the eyes can see and I just couldn’t ignore it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

My friends can tell you all about the strange curiosity I developed toward Christianity. It was odd. It all came when I was going through some heartbreak and it felt like death. I sat in my room facing the wall trying to get some relief somewhere and out of pure desperation, I tried to connect with that father figure that always brought me comfort as a kid. This time he came in the form of Jesus and in the moment it felt like the Truth. I felt warm, understood and comforted. I started going into churches I walked past to sit with my thoughts and processing whatever it was I was going through. I wept silently and surrendered to the huge statues that sat front and centre. For a moment, I thought that this was the Holy Spirit reaching out to me, the Truth my mother had mentioned. I expressed my new found faith to my close ones and was met with perplexed faces and questions, rightfully so and I’d respond, “I don’t know. It just feels right”. I attended a few Sunday services in Bali held by an American pastor in a nightclub they converted into a place of worship every Sunday afternoon. We were greeted by young and attractive members with bright smiles. It was surreal to see verses projected on the big screens near the booth where world renowned DJs would play. How unsettling it was to hear the scriptures read out loud in a space that usually was riddled with sin the night before. Church-goers wearing island dresses and linen sets, something you’d never see in other churches. It all felt like a cult but I felt seen by the lessons we were taught by the Pastor. And for a little while, I thought about baptism and reading the bible. 

But just like with Islam or Hinduism, I couldn’t fully surrender to the bible because that meant betraying the people that I loved, the people who wouldn’t be welcomed into the kingdom of God because of their own beliefs, sexuality or choices. It would be betraying the women who are getting screamed by pro-lifers making their way to the abortion clinics and the gay people forced out of their homes by their families or forced to go to conversion therapy. I may have found love for God but I love people more and for the many times God didn’t listen to my prayers, I found solace in the arms of the ones that have loved me.  How could I ever be a Christian if I didn’t believe that everything said in the Bible was right. 

The last time I was in a church was in Naples. I had been taking an afternoon stroll, trying to clear my head after a series of strange events in the apartment I was staying in. I had passed the cathedral many times before but never stepped inside.

That day, something pulled me in.

As with every time I enter a church, I was immediately met with a deep calm, a feeling not unlike my mother’s embrace, yet watched over with the quiet intensity of a teacher pacing the classroom during a test. I walked slowly, making myself as small as possible.

Light streamed through the yellow stained glass in the apse, sharp and golden, like it came from somewhere beyond the clouds. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the deep voice filling the space, measured and slow, it sounded like the voice of God itself.

I stood, almost without thinking, and followed the sound. Before I realised it, I had made my way to the very front bench, the only empty seat. 

To my right, an older Italian woman sat with her palms open to the ceiling, eyes closed. At certain words the priest spoke, her face would twitch gently, as if she felt them in her bones.

Strangely enough, after three weeks in Naples, I could understand most of what was being said. The priest’s slow cadence helped too. 

“True faith, is not something we wear on the outside. It is not a performance, nor is it a display meant to impress others. True faith is something deeply personal — it lives quietly within the heart. It is the intimate bond between you and God. Faith does not seek applause or recognition; it seeks only to respond to the love of our Creator. It is not proven through noise, but through quiet trust, humility, and devotion. Remember this: faith is within you.” 

There I wept and wept. I have searched everywhere. But, it had been with me all along. 

And it’ll always only be between Us. 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, August 2025

A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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It was just him and I, out on the front porch, having a night cap. 

He is my mother’s living proof of “third time’s the charm”, first came the husband who died, second came the abusive narcissist and last came this one. To put it simply a lovely British man who says yes to everything she says, one that can handle her fits of rage and who may swear a little too much but has never raised his voice at her. One that I like to believe would give her the world. He always says that he manifested her—an independent woman with her own children and a joie de vivre. They are like a teenage couple without the excessive PDA, silly and playful. Yet, they also look like they’ve been married for decades, so comfortable together in silence. He adores her so much, he fears he’ll fuck it up.

He always says that when I first met him, I was a “cunt”  but rightfully so. And I know I was, and I didn’t care because I didn’t trust any man around my mother, not after what we went through. But he proved himself over the years and eventually I warmed up to him. To the point that he may be one of the men I trust the most in my life. 

However, he hasn’t always been this tame. He’s had a colourful past, let’s put it that way. A past filled with parties, substances and women. Stories I have promised to not share. They were dark times but I always sense a hint of nostalgia as he recalls them, he knows it was bad but maybe he knows he’ll never feel those types of highs ever again. Many of his past behaviours remind me so much of those of the young men today. Similar stories to the ones my girlfriends and I share with each other with great rage and passion, ones I have analysed and replayed in my head over and over again, asking myself “why the fuck did he do that?”. True head scratchers that have left me confused, baffled by their logic and their sheer audacity. Ones that make you wonder who raised them? Or how could such a lovely mother create such creature? 

So many years between us, yet so many things haven’t changed. No true evolution when it comes to the way many men treat women, making me wonder if true change can happen. Many think that this fear of commitment is an issue that only our generation struggles with but the more I speak to the older generations the more I realise, it was just much easier to cheat back then. 

I sat for a moment, perplexed, before quickly realising the opportunity that I had in front of me—I could gather information to help the girls straight from the source. “Don’t move,” he said as he stood up, “I’ll give you the answers.” He went to the kitchen and poured himself another drink.

Here are 7 things you should know about dating as a girl in your 20 somethings according to a retired fuckboy: 

1. You will get played. Point Blank Period.

As a twenty something woman you will get played no matter how cautious you are. They will flatter, make you laugh, buy you things to get what they want. Even when it may seem genuine sometimes, never be surprised if they 180’d and gave you the same boring excuse. Because many simply do not know what they want, they might mean everything they said in the moment but this could change tomorrow. So the best advice would be to enjoy it whilst it lasts and do not blame yourself too much if they just up and left out of nowhere. 

2. Men only chase women who act like men. 

Women fall for security and men, for challenge. To put it simply, the more detached you are the more they’ll desire you. The more it seems like you hate them and would never give them a chance, the more they’ll pursue. Being thoughtful and cute only works when you’re already locked in, doing too much when you aren’t in a relationship with the man will freak them out. If you do not care to act like a man and don’t care to play games, focus on yourself and maybe a good boy will come along. Patience and kindness will get you nowhere because many young men aren’t ready to receive such things. 

3. Two different worlds. 

Remind yourself that their human experience on Earth is in some ways so different from ours, leading them to react to things differently. They truly sometimes do not view the world or human connections the way we do. What seems moral and right to you may not apply to them. So stop beating yourself up trying to understand why they would do certain things and try to analyse them, because you’ll just end up losing your mind. Let them be and find your peace. They’ll learn in their own time. 

4. If they stop “shagging” you, beware. 

They’re probably not cheating on you, but they probably are. You can have steak and caviar every night but sometimes you just want a burger. Wether he is or not, just know that you can be the most beautiful, intelligent girl and still get fucked over. 

Shag his friend. 

5. Shoot the shot. 

Your rejection rate as a girl in your 20’s are low, because men like their ego stroked. They will most probably go for you just because you were ballsy and made them feel special enough that as a young woman you made the first move. 

Talk to him. 

6. If he over compliments you, tell him to fuck off. 

Exactly that. (I guess love-bombing wasn’t a term at the time yet but it’s been around forever. So STOP FALLING FOR IT). 

7. Substances and Performative Sex. 

This is for both boys and girls. Doing drugs and expecting to only have wild crazy sex all the time can rob you from the beauty of the mundane. Meaning, living in such high highs all the time will take away the beauty in the small things, having you constantly chase a feeling you can only feel high. Soon enough, you’ll no longer feel gratitude for the warmth of the sun, the lingering smell of lavender or a slow morning with a loved one. Eventually, you will not be able to feel anything anymore, the calmness and the normal will feel unbearable. 

We finished the conversation with, “however you shouldn’t be afraid, never stop yourself because of fear. Yeah, we’re assholes for the most part but don’t let all of us rob you from an experience with an actual decent guy. I know it may be hard to believe sometimes but they’re there, somewhere.” He’s not the most expressive man out there and gave me a very simple conclusion which was “just do you”. 

Everything said here is obviously to be taken with a grain of salt and it was truly a very unserious conversation but in a way it was comforting to know that sometimes, it’s not my fault. As women we are born with built-in guilt in our bones and constantly blaming ourselves for things we seriously have no reason to feel guilty about. If he didn’t like you that much in the end, well he just didn’t like you that much, it wasn’t because you said something weird or because of your lip combo. We can’t be everyone’s cup of tea and that’s okay. There’s nothing to fix or to better, sometimes, it is truly just that. I think the main takeaway I had here is that the more you decentralise your life from men and male attention, the more peace you’ll find in dating. When your entire sense of value isn’t placed in their hands, their leaving or disrespect won’t shake your self-worth. You hold the power. This is something I’ve struggled with ever since I started dating chasing people I probably didn’t even like or who didn’t deserve my attention because I believed I was worth nothing without them. (As someone who tends to resent men, admitting this was really difficult. I hope you can appreciate the honesty.) 

But ironically, the more you do that, the more they come to you. 

Anyways, having had this conversation with a father figure I wish I’d had earlier really helped my case. And for my fatherless or shit father-having ladies out there, I hope it helps you too.  

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, August 2025

Virgin Slut

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Virgin Slut

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“Virgin Slut” was a term I came up with whilst trying to describe what type of dress I wanted to buy in Napoli for the day I was going to spend on the Amalfi coast. I wanted to feel like a nun with big breasts under her habit as her cross bounces off her chest every step she took through the halls of the coven. I wanted it to evoke the same feeling as a woman’s dress clinging to her as she steps out of the pool, still in shock, after being pushed in at a party. Undeniably alluring with no intent to be. Of course, it had to be white. I didn’t find the ideal dress but did find one good enough, on the side of the street for 5 euros. But it wasn’t until I found myself scrambling to articulate the essence of the concept over dinner with the heir of one of the oldest Italian families on the coast, in the very hotel his familyowned, that I realised it carried a deeper meaning, one that came to define how I lived every summer. 

Lust and loneliness has taken me to places I’ve come to regret, nights spent in beds I wished I hadn’t stayed in, lying awake beside someone I no longer wanted to be with once the adrenaline faded and the thrill of the chase was over, the realisation that the void of feeling alone was not filled. I’d turn to look at the man next to me, let out a sigh of quiet disappointment, and feel a lingering ickiness for days, wondering why I did it in the first place. Or when it made me too eager, too hungry, so I dove in completely with a guy I actually ended up liking. But he got the cake right away and got too full too fast. 

I have tried to combat lust with celibacy, however as we know restriction makes everything more sexy. Ask a bulimic. I am also far too young to restrain myself from the pleasures of flirting, affection and sex. I always wanted to avoid the negatives of lust but still experience the beauty of romance.

But when the Summer Solstice hits and I’m spinning through the block parties at Fête de la Musique, the moment the clock strikes midnight, I transform. In comes: The Virgin Slut. 

She embraces her sexuality without surrendering to it. She walks freely among desire, inviting it, resisting it, never owned by it. In her, contradiction is not a flaw but a form of freedom.

Like every summer since I turned seventeen, I meet a few gentlemen I spend time with, when I’m not wrapped up in my friends or content in my own company. Some might call it “summer love,” but some of these connections don’t run deep enough to earn the title. I’ve had momentary lovers in different cities, men who showed me around, fed me, courted me. And when it felt right, made love to me. There’s always just enough tenderness a soft kiss on the forehead, an affectionate smile, to make it feel real, even though we both know it’s only play-pretend. I do grow attached, and I miss them for a little while, before they fade, leaving only flickers of memory I sometimes revisit in moments of boredom or daydreaming. In busy cities, I find my most tender encounters. I do adore romance by the ocean but summer in the city is far more romantic to me. Because love by the seaside is a given, of course you’d fall in love with anyone when they look like they’re dripped in gold as the sun sets. Of course your heart grows fonder when the kiss tasted like berries and wine, and how intense your love making can feel when your skin is touched by the salty breeze accompanied by a chorus of crickets. But city romance is in the subtleties. It’s the quiet intimacy of sitting together in a grimy metro station, discovering beauty in each other’s faces despite the harsh, flickering lights. It’s still being drawn to one another in the midst of huge, humid crowds. It’s rediscovering a city you thought you knew like the back of your hand, feeling excitement roaming the streets you’ve passed through everyday. 

Summer romance feels sweet and light. Unlike other times, I never feel pressured or obligated to do anything. I’m not worried about when to call back out of politeness, or why sometimes there’s no call at all. I follow my own rhythm — if my heart wants to see someone again, I don’t hesitate. I don’t stress over timing, whether it’s the right moment to have sex or if it’s okay not to kiss someone even after they’ve treated me to a meal. Everything happens on my terms, and usually, my confidence in those choices leaves no room for challenge.

I have come to realise that the Virgin Slut is what true sexual freedom is. For a long time, I misunderstood sexual freedom to mean shameless sex—anytime, with anyone. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that true freedom lies in mindfulness, not mindlessness. It doesn’t mean abstaining from pleasure, but rather being intentional about it. Also discerning that sex is for pleasure and not a way to combat some kind of malaise is key to true sexual freedom. The sexy aspect of dating isn’t always what happens in the sheets, but lies in the tension, the ambiguity, and the unspoken words. Sometimes leaving it all at the dinner table and going home alone is far more fulfilling than ending up in some man’s bed. There’s also beauty in waiting, in letting desire build slowly until it feels right. Maybe that old-school rule about not giving yourself away too quickly wasn’t prudish after all, maybe it was wisdom in disguise. Not a warning against society’s judgment, but a protection from the inner emptiness that can follow rushed intimacy.

True sexual freedom, I’m learning, isn’t about doing everything, it’s about knowing why you’re doing it, and honoring your own pace.

I’ve come to wonder why is it that I do not apply this same philosophy throughout the year and still couldn’t find the answer. It may be how free I feel when in the sun. I may feel more beautiful when my skin is golden brown, no longer relying on anyone else for validation. Maybe it is simply the joy I feel seeing other people so much more relaxed when simply no longer fighting the cold. Having never had a corporate job, maybe I still feel associate summer holidays to the times I was still in school where those were the moments I felt complete freedom and independence. Having had this realisation, things will hopefully change from now on. 

Wishing you all a wonderful Virgin Slut summer! 

Yours,

V.B 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, July 2025

Love Me, Love Me Not.

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Love Me, Love Me Not.

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I’m smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table ashing into a used glass of wine with dried up residue.  In front of me, beautiful Naples. My brother’s apartment is on the top floor, overlooking old uneven buildings in different shades of yellow. Occasional flocks of birds fly past yet the chirping sounds are constant. The bright blue sky with big cloud chunks, that I once thought was the kingdom of God as a little girl. It’s relatively quiet with the subtle brouhaha of the chaos below. Sometimes, the aggravating sound of airplanes takes over. I hate it. 

I can’t see her, but constantly feel her— Vesuvius is on my right. If I just popped my head out the window, there she would sit quietly. Her presence felt no matter where I am in the city. I wish the weather was always this pleasant everywhere I went, at any time. But upon further thought, I know I’d miss the rain. The morning breeze caresses my skin, bringing my attention back to my body. Its soft touch reminds me how dry my skin is in Europe. As much as I try to moisturise, it is always parched. 

I haven’t felt in tune with my body in a long time. Dare I say, I’ve actually been repulsed by it — also repulsed by the idea that I could be so vain and shallow as to worry about such a thing when I’ve come all this way, gifted myself a trip I’ve dreamed about ever since I was just a small girl. I am 24, turning 25 in a month and a bit, yet I still feel the same awkwardness I’ve always felt since I was an adolescent. I’ve found it hard to accept that I’ve got no control over it, and yet am deeply convinced that I do at the same time. It drives me silently insane that no matter what I do, and how many products I lather onto my face and body, I still bloat and am met with pimples, hyperpigmentation, hair, scars that heal weirdly, dried lips, and cuticles. I view my body like a field covered in invasive species that I am constantly needing to tame. I feel less than when I am not perfectly “groomed”. I almost feel dirty. I do not feel like I can move freely in the world without my nails done and my legs and armpits shaved. Sometimes, the feminist in me finds the courage to just “not give a fuck” and raise my arms despite having a little stubble under there. However, the other patriarchal voice quickly reminds me how disgusting I am, leading me to keep my arms down, my hands hidden unless needed, and to wear only closed shoes until my next pedicure appointment. He always wins.

My first memory of feeling uneasy in my body was just after I turned 13, while on vacation with my family in a small beach town near Biarritz in the South West of France. I was sitting under an umbrella in a lavender lace dress I’d picked out for my birthday trip to Disneyland a few weeks earlier. The sun was relentless, and I was sweating, restless, watching other kids splash and play freely in the sea.

My mum kept asking why I wouldn’t change and go swim. I finally told her, flatly: “I’m too fat.” I saw the shock in her eyes before she quickly masked it with frustration. “You’re wasting your time worrying about such dumb things,” she said. Then, trying to make her point, she discreetly nodded toward a very heavyset woman nearby. “Do you think she cares how you look?” she asked. Then she pointed to a group of teenagers. “Do you think they care? No one cares. Go change and go swimming—you look ridiculous wearing that to the beach.” So I did. I got changed and spent the rest of the day in the water. I only wish I could hear her say those words every time I have to undress to swim.

I wish I could say that day was a turning point—that after that moment, I stopped thinking negatively about my body. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Things only got worse from there, especially as I got older and boys started entering the picture. Suddenly, it felt like they had the right to judge how we looked, as if their opinions were the ultimate authority on our worth. As I grew older, I am starting to not care about their opinions on me but I will not lie and say that I fully couldn’t care at all. As a young woman, I too want to be desired. I’m somewhat relieved that I’m far from being in a relationship, because it eases the shame I feel when I don’t look my “cleanest.” I know it’s a sick and twisted thought—to believe I’m unworthy of love just because I don’t always look “up to par.” But I was taught this ever since I was a little girl by my stepfather, who simply reminded me that if I was not perfect, I would never be loved. This idea was also confirmed by my past partners, who would subtly remind me to keep up with my looks — tiptoeing around comments like “I love when you wear that to bed” or “I just thought you’d get your nails done before our vacation.” It almost felt like a threat, as if, if I decided not to upkeep as much as I usually do, they might stop desiring me. So, sex isn’t enjoyed as much if I haven’t spent 45 minutes on my back trying to not to scream out of pain as a lady I do not know yanks strips of hot wax off my pussy. Because if not, all I’d think about how disgusting they might think I am and there is nothing arousing about that. 

The constant internal tug-of-war between self-love and metamophosis is always playing out in my mind. Let me explain: I’ve always bounced between two beliefs—either I’ll find peace by learning to love myself as I am, or by changing everything about myself.

So, I start with acceptance. I tell myself this is how I look, and it has to be enough. I try not to say anything negative about my appearance. I force kind words out loud in front of the mirror. I avoid body checking. I even try “mirror rehab”(not looking in mirrors for stretches of time). I focus on external things that make me feel “fulfilled and happy”, hoping they’ll anchor me.

But when the self-loathing creeps back in—and it always does—I shift into makeover mode. I start making mental plans: lose the weight, get the injections, change the makeup, change the hair. In those moments, I’m convinced that once I hit a certain size, perfect a certain style, or achieve a specific look, I’ll finally be able to enjoy life. That my appearance will stop being the barrier between me and everything else.

It is a never ending cycle.

Before arriving in Naples, I had spent seven months in Bali with daily trips to the gym and religiously going to the sauna before freezing my clit off in the ice bath. I tried the Keto diet before having to stop because of severe constipation, then tried to heal my relationship with food through intuitive eating but was also intermittent fasting—which literally goes against the whole concept of intuitive eating. I was convinced that I would be able to metamorphose into this svelte woman and would finally be able to wear a bikini top and shorts during Fête de la Musique. My newly revealed abs would glisten with sweat as I danced in the midst of other bodies; the definition of my back and legs would show how physically strong I am. My thin arms wouldn’t be in the way of my double-D breasts from the side profile, making my surgery scars charming now. I fantasised and tried my best. I imagined what it would be like to be so in tune with this new body of mine that I could finally be solely in the moment and feel the music, unbothered by whether my top was covering all the right places and not distracted by my thick thighs rubbing up against each other. Unfortunately, my fitness goals were not met due to the fact that, as hard as I tried, my consistency was not enough and my diet was not monitored correctly.

I will not say it was a fully bad experience—I quite enjoyed it. I learned many things about nutrition and the positive effects of exercising. I also tried to focus on how I felt instead of only focusing on how I looked, but this is something extremely challenging for someone who has had a hyper-fixation on their looks and has also made a living from it. I could say that, generally, I felt good and had a clear mind; it helped my mental health a lot. But it made me look inward too much, and in some sense, it made me egotistical. Because whether you want it or not, a fitness journey requires you to deeply focus on yourself: keeping yourself in check to follow the routine, holding yourself accountable, taking progress photos of your body all the time, really making sure that your muscles work correctly when lifting, paying attention to what comes in and out of your body, tracking your weight and muscle mass—you watch your every move and your body so closely. It almost made me feel a little claustrophobic. I was too aware.

Once I stepped foot on the land of dolce far niente, all routines were left behind. I wanted to indulge in the culture and the food. I have three weeks to discover Italy and meet the people I have always been so curious about. How could I possibly worry about my looks when admiring what’s around me, dodging motorbikes flying past on the hot and narrow stone roads, and trying to find the right words to speak to the grandpa who sells wine down the street?

I shouldn’t be worried about how my body looks as I float in the cold water, volcanic sand between my toes, after lunch at Da Adolfo on the Amalfi Coast — embracing the belly I’ve gained from the six courses at Lulu’s. I am far too focused on not moaning too loudly at the table from the ricottini served with tomato and peach jam, sprinkled with peanut crumbs; the Roman tripe served in a fresh tomato ragù; and of course, my childhood favourite: spaghetti vongole, finally tasted in its homeland — every bite a perfect mix of ocean flavours, tanginess from the wine, and a splash of freshness from the parsley.

I was taken aback by Peppe Guida’s Villa Rosa, nestled in the heart of Montechiaro in Vico Equense — a place where the sea and Vesuvius stretch out on one side, the mountains rise on the other, and a typical Italian family meal is prepared with ingredients straight from their own garden.

How could I be worried about the way my skin looks when I’m sitting in front of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa — an orgasming nun, touched by God, carved out of marble, seated in a tiny church in the middle of Rome, glistening under ethereal yellow light piercing through stained glass? How could I possibly be worried about how my hair looks in the humid weather when I’m lulled every night by the summer breeze drifting in and out of my room?

I still worry, despite it all. When I’m alone in the bathroom, faced with my own reflection, the kind words I try to say to myself do not come, and I am overwhelmed by the need to fix it all — pondering how I could make it happen. How will I ever be freed from this body, this prison that causes me so much shame and pain? I almost cry at how cruel I am to myself, how I want to beat myself up for being so mean to the very vessel that has allowed me to experience the world. How can I be so ungrateful for the health I was blessed with? When did I become so vain?
Will I ever find peace of mind and finally let go of all of this pressure?

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy self-care and pampering myself — honouring the body I was given by adorning it and tending to it. I think it’s a beautiful process and a powerful way to ground myself.
However, when it stems from fear or disgust, what was meant to be a sacred ritual becomes a soulless routine — done only because it simply doesn’t feel right when it’s not.
Something that was meant to connect you with your body and help you cherish it turns into the very reason you see it as a burden.

I fear that I am wasting precious time worrying about these silly, small things, causing me to ruin beautiful memories. I fear that I will never find the balance I crave so badly, and that I’ll never let go of these old and tired expectations that have been instilled in me from a very young age. I know I am more than my looks — I have so much to offer the world — but why is it that I fear I won’t be seen or loved if I’m not pleasing to the eye?

My only solace, for now, is watching Vesuvius lie silent beneath the kingdom of God, a still giant wrapped in light, reminding me of how small I am, and how weightless my troubles truly are.

V.B, Napoli, July 2025

Come Home

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Come Home

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We don’t see you around much anymore.
I still remember when you first told us about him. You came running to us, eyes wide, barely able to contain your excitement—“I think I like him.”

That moment always makes me nervous.
It never ends well for you. And honestly? It never ends well for us either.

I can already picture what comes next: you showing up with tears streaming down your cheeks, skin now sticky and shining from the layers of serums and creams. We hate seeing you like that. But a small, selfish part of us feels relieved. It gives us hope—maybe this time it’s finally over, maybe this time you’ll leave him.

But you rarely do.

You come to us for comfort, to be seen, to feel what he can’t give you. And once you’ve steadied yourself, the amnesia kicks in. You return to him like nothing ever happened, like he never made you cry in the first place.

It scares us how easily you bend around him, how your every thought, every choice, now seems dictated by his moods.

I started reading about cults the other day.
Did you know a cult can be just one leader and one follower?

It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes—between what you’re in and what the textbooks describe:

“A leader who inspires both love and fear.
A transcendent belief system—not always religious—offering purpose and commitment.
A system of control.
An engine of guilt.
A framework of influence.”

You think you’re in love. But from where we’re standing, it looks a lot like worship.

It always starts smooth, the 3 month honeymoon phase. It’s so wonderful to see you so happy and appreciated. You are glowing. 

We enjoy sitting in your room as we watch you get ready for yet another big date. And yes, we will give our opinions about what top is better and what makes your ass look nice. We will be there to let you know that you have nothing to worry about, that he is a man and will not notice the very little pimple next to your left eyebrow. 

We know it probably would not last and that we will most probably be in the same position again but for another man. But, it doesn’t matter. 

He is so lucky. If only he knew about the every single “everything showers” and the contorted positions you put yourself in to shave every single crevice. The tweezers to remove any hair that is not wanted on the face. The face masks and the expensive moisturisers. 

How meticulously you put that eyeliner on and the many minutes you stand in your underwear to find an outfit that will take his breath away but “effortlessly”. Panties also strategically thought about in case things get heated. 

We kiss you goodbye and wish you a wonderful evening, to be safe and let us know if you ever need anything. Your perfume lingers as you run off to make it on time. 

Then there comes the moment you bring him around and you are proud to introduce him to your friends. As we all smile politely and silently observe him. We read his every move, his choice of words, and how he positions himself in the environment. All silently sitting there, watching him like hawks. 

You seat next to him, your eyes peeled on his face, in awe. You look at us sometimes, like you’re trying to say “Isn’t he great?” with no words. Well, my darling, we’re trying to figure that out. 

Any red flags arise, we do not want to upset or alarm you. So, we discuss amongst ourselves to see if this is something worth bringing up to you and will protect you or was it something we were overthinking. Even if we did, will the way you see him change truly? 

You seem so happy, who are we to yuck your yum? 

Slowly but surely, you come to drinks every other time, now. Then it’s a couple of times a month. We check in to see if everything’s alright, “I am just super busy at the moment”. When we do convince you to come out, it’s hard to talk to you. 

You’re somewhere else. You glance at your phone every few minutes, debating when is an acceptable time to ditch your friends. You’re anxiously awaiting to be back with him. I sit a few chairs away from you and can predict when —

Alright, guys well I’m going to go. Yeah, sorry, he’s waiting at home. It was so lovely to see you all, missed you guys! 

And poof you disappear, Lord knows when we’ll see you again. 

The big fight. 

Eyes bloodshot and snotty. A full nervous breakdown, a whole lot of confusion and deep pain. Where is this coming from? You wonder. How could he say such things? 

Many questions are thrown our way, as we rub your back and tell you that it’s going to be okay. Yet, we let you know firmly, that what he did or said is not okay, that no one who loves and respect you would say such things even out of anger. 

You’re better off ending it now, we all say. 

That very sentence makes you perk up, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. 

But I guess it’s my fault as well, I shouldn’t have, you know? 

And many excuses and self-blame regurgitated out of your mouth because this was now something you’ve got to protect. But, it is too late, we have made up our minds about him. 

Everything has settled, you’re all happy again. We still don’t see you as much but at least, you seem okay. The hangouts are still cut short and getting you to do anything is close to impossible. 

He can come, we sigh and say. And he does. 

We all can’t stand him, we notice more and more behaviours that we can not believe you are unable to notice or able to just ignore. 

He comes to everything now, and it genuinely changes the dynamic. But it’s the only way we get to see you. 

The only times we have you to ourselves is when you are crying. You are hurting because of something else he’s said. We’re getting worried, it’s getting worse. 

Now the pain is showing on your face and body, you look ill and tired. 

Now you seriously contemplate on leaving and we’re ready when you are to comfort you when the time comes, to be there no matter what. 

We can put aside the fact that you didn’t give us any of your time these past few months and only came for help. But we love you and it’s unconditional. You know this and eventually you’ll use it against us. 

Your life is crumbling apart, your relationships deteriorating , you have lost all control to save the very thing causing it all. 

But guys, we talked it out, it’s going to be okay. He said he was sorry and it will never happen again. Trust me, I have it all under control. 

You don’t. Look around you, everything is burning. 

It does happen again and it comes tenfold, we are seriously worried, we fear for your life. We fear he may hurt you beyond words or push it so far you wind up hurting yourself. 

You come and run back. Come and run back. Come and run back. 

The same words are repeated by us, in hopes to wake you up. You listen so intently to the advice and even agree. But you run right back. 

We try to remind you of who you are before all of this before him, to pick the pieces up of all the self-esteem he has shattered, struggling to hold it up in front of you. Reminding you of how wonderful you are. How talented, beautiful. Your achievements and what you can achieve. The future ahead of you. Try our best to help you picture what life can be like, if you just left. 

For a tiny moment, you too have hope. And you will motivated and empowered. 

But something always happens where you let yourself back in. 

I think you fail to understand that we are now all involved. We may not feel the pain you are enduring but we feel some of it too. Because we love you. We now live in fear for you. Anxious that the next phone call won’t come from you but someone announcing that things took a dark turn. 

That he has successfully won. 

It comes to a point where it has become too much to handle. We are put in a position where we do not want to know but we fear that leaving you alone might isolate you and tighten his grip on you. 

We feel guilt for putting boundaries, you make us feel like bad friends. But we have done what we could. 

The boundaries bring out a side of you we have never seen before, something we know is his doing. The aspects of him, you always said you hated, you start showing signs of those too. 

You start lying in order to clumsily try to keep your friends and him around. You manipulate when the lies don’t work anymore, gaslighting us into thinking we are cunts for not letting you be. 

Who are we to judge your personal life? You ask over and over again. 

You put us here. You put us here. You put us here. 

There comes to a point, where you are no longer a victim. If your life isn’t threatened if you leave, you have the choice to walk.

I empathise with you and understand the strong emotional pull the relationship can have. But, you must see things for how they are. Accept that your life will remain the way it is if you stay. No matter how many new friends you get or how many jobs you apply for. 

It may be too late when you do decide to wake up and do the right thing.

When we’ve all moved on and think we were just a source of comfort for you. That we’ve come to a point that we think we were never truly your friends and that we are filler people for whatever relationship comes your way. 

That’s the reason why we are holding on, to avoid it to be that way. 

If only you could see the way we see you. How exceptional you once were and still are, and how you made all of our lives better.

You are so loved. You are so loved. You are so loved. 

Come home when you feel ready, there’s a space on the couch for you. 

V.B, Napoli, June 2025