A forever a young idiot

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A forever a young idiot

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26. An insignificant-sounding age, the one right before you hit your late twenties, and just after 25, which somehow feels like a milestone in itself: a quarter of a century. A strange in-between. I am over a month late writing this birthday Tale, I usually always feel the need to sit and look back at what I have achieved or what I am late on, the moment my birthday hits. This year, however, all I am doing is looking forward. I, for once do not feel any particular attachment to the past, I have come to a point where it feels boring and I have learned, slows down many things. I have had the tendency to romanticise everything and have the talent of delicately storing memories wether it is through little objects, writing or just simply remembering. But, that attachment no longer feels the same. Because romanticising also makes you forget the bad that came with the good; the bad that held you back and scarred you deeply— the kind that can lead you towards the same vicious cycles that everyone knows, are difficult to break.

I have been in the mood to break shit anyway. 

But for the sake of tradition, I will look back just a little. 

Maybe the whole “fully developed frontal lobe” thing is a real thing. I am genuinely floored by many of the perspectives I have had in the past, how wrong I was on many things and how sure I was on being right about them. I have always been, annoyingly so, a bit of a know-it-all. Maybe it comes from hearing that I was “mature for my age” or an “old soul” ever since I was 12. Over time, those labels gave me an inflated sense of wisdom, making me believe I was the kind of person who simply “knew life.”

I have also always been told that I looked older or at the very least carried myself like I was older but recently it seems like the whole world does not believe that I am past the age of 21. A woman asked my mum which of her children was the eldest, as I stood next to my 16 year old, braces-wearing brother. Maybe the realisation that I actually know very little and have been questioning about what I thought I knew has reversed aged me. I have been Benjamin Buttoned. I have been deeply humbled about the realisation that I actually know shit all, and I have been trying to take it on the chin. I have never felt so young in my life and I have finally truly understood the infamous saying “progress isn’t linear”. You’d think I’d be disheartened by all this but I feel weirdly at peace being at square one. The fear and the anxiety of the unknown has turned to the type of anxiety you feel before graduation or a party you’ve been looking forward to all week. I am open to new surprises. 

Speaking of surprises, I’ve had many recently, and they just keep coming. Not the kind that catch you off guard and suddenly appear out of nowhere. I don’t know how else to explain it, but they feel more like planting seeds without knowing what kind of plants they’ll become—tending to them every day, watching them slowly grow, until one day they bloom and you discover all these different flowers, ones you never could have imagined.

Those ones.

I feel like I’ve been operating my life and business somewhat blindly for a while now. I’ve come to understand that if I spend too much time planning, trying to predict every possible outcome, I end up paralysing myself and ultimately, I don’t do anything at all.

I figured putting energy into something will never lead to nothing. Since I didn’t know what I wanted, I was ready to get anything, anything at all. And so I just put energy out there, trying to stay consistent with certain things and experimenting with others, using only intuition as guidance. And boom, things bloomed. They bloomed in clumsy and awkward ways, yet there is nothing more beautiful than seeing your work come to life, to think that they were once only in your head and here there are now, tangible and real. How letting go of expectations and allowing things to unfold organically will, I find, most of the time be better than expected. I feel like I sound cliché, but you know what? If sayings are so commonly said, than there must be truth to them. And if we stopped rejecting the basic mantras, out of the necessity to be “cool”, maybe we’d realise that it is actually just a shortcut to happier days. So “Live, Laugh, Love” may actually be the secret to it all. 

Anyways, all of this to say that I feel dumber that I did yesterday but I am happy to be. I think it’s just an indicator that I am entering a new mind space or chapter in my life, one that I will have to learn. Someone once said that if you are the smartest in the room, than it is time to change rooms—I wholeheartedly agree with that and happy to be the idiot. Learning to embrace my lack of knowledge on many things has been one of the best gifts I have given myself, a type of grace that truly has lifted a lot of weight off of my shoulders. I used to say that I wish I could just get paid to learn and I guess it’s sort of what is going on here, my dream is coming true. 

Many people around my age feel old, because you’re getting closer to your thirties which is basically when adulthood really starts and the trial has expired, but I don’t know—I feel like I have trouble feeling old. I don’t think I ever will feel old. What old people are to me are wise people who know a whole lot about life. And once they feel like they know it all, I think that’s when they really start to age: when they feel like there’s nothing left to discover.

So I think the secret to longevity isn’t the Mediterranean diet or red light therapy, but simply curiosity. That strong desire to learn, to see, to understand something new, the kind of curiosity that comes so naturally to a child, is what I think can keep you young forever.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

August 2026

Something to read during a heat wave.

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Something to read during a heat wave.

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My body feels like it is shutting down, yet unable to rest as it feels like letting go will be too big of a crash. My ambition is over consuming and working against my slow and lazy nature. 

I sit and I stare at the curtains my mother carefully hung up. The uncommonly cold winds blow through the sliding doors of the home. The smell of my skin food, fresh and herby lingers as its pleasant balmy sensation soothes me. My belly full from a meal I consumed hours ago, big and greasy, nutritionally questionable but one that feeds the soul and pleasures the palette. I feel so fulfilled by all that I have achieved these past few weeks, quiet wins. Physically not so good, consistently tired with eyes consistently parched, a sore back and random stomach pains. Although I now live in perpetual summer, my body has still been rewired by the many years spent in Europe—as always when June arrives I am overcome with the feeling of summer nostalgia with a sprinkle of excitement. It is an odd concoction of sensations, one that resembles the Madeleine de Proust where just being in this time of year takes me back to all the wonderful memories and heartbreaks of the past summers and the titillations of whats to come, a time of the year where there are the least repetitions and the most surprises. Despite the weather on the island being the most pleasant, in my opinion, this time of the year, I would have also loved being there. I love Paris in August and how calm she is, she feels like a mother who’s finally got her house to herself. The mediterranean cities coming alive. The stone fruits and the late night sweaty dancing. The sleeping naked in the sweltering heat with the window open and the grimy feeling of wearing flip-flops in the metro. I love it all. 

I sit here and daydream of how tender it must feel to be invigorated with lust there now. I am exhausted but slightly revived by how nice it must feel to share that with someone you are simply attracted to and growing to love. Something that may be intense but isn’t complicated yet. When not all the questions have been posed, answers gotten over an ice cold beer on a warm night or under thin sheets. The gradual familiarity of the other’s hand as you guide each other through a sea of dancing bodies at some festival. I fantasise of the moments of mise en beauté before a spontaneous date to a restaurant we’ve been dying to try or one where I know the menu by heart and feels like home. Walking home tipsy in the quiet and warmly lit streets, as I laugh in their chest over an incident that happened earlier. A night cap shared on the balcony, my freshly painted toes rested on their lap. A kiss is shared in the middle of the kitchen, feeling the cold tiles beneath me. Mornings where the sheets smell like us, the scent of our flesh seeped into the cotton. 

Then there are the early mornings walk home after a night that had been stretched out for far too long, where time flew faster than ever. The mornings where I drag my feet on the sidewalks of a deserted street that will soon be flooded by humans in just the matter of hours, the sky an incredible concoction of purple, orange and blues as the sun slowly makes it’s way up. We hope to make it home soon, because the nausea hits when the rays do. Side by side with the friends I have grown to love like family and maybe a few other people we have just met and picked up and adopted along the way. We discuss all the different episodes that happened, peculiar interactions with people we’d only come across late at night, one of us running into a bad date or a really funny incident that caused us to having to run away from something or someone. The bond that is tightened by shared and special stories that we will never forget, turning us into broken records on different drunken nights, still laughing with the same force each and every time. 

Or the first dip after a very early train at Gare de Lyon, all the sweat of picking up and dragging suitcases all morning finally washed away in the beautiful blue fresh waters of the Mediterranean. As the salt slowly dries and sticks to the skin and the seagulls scream above our heads, the first bite a sandwich with robust tomatoes and good butter takes away all sorts of discomfort like strongest medicine to ever exist. Hours and hours of switching from sand to water, with a book in the midst of it all, so captivating and beautiful written that you don’t hear your name being called by your friends when they suggest to pack and up and get ice cream before heading back to someone’s family holiday home where you’d nap next to somebody you sleep better with. 

And when the night falls, and our faces, tight and sensitive after neglecting sun protection, emit a glow one that cannot be recreated and gives a type of confidence that cannot be overshadowed. Tiny dresses and flip flops, walking out the door knowing that the bathrooms we got ready in resemble the aftermath of a pillage. Tummies hungry and ready to down some seafood half eaten with our fingers washed down with some local wine. Background music accompanying our heartfelt conversations as we lay back on the plastic chairs, glass in hand and the back our thighs leaving sweat marks on the seats. 

I dream of the sun and the heat, so intense and overstimulating, and of all the ways to escape them. There is something beautiful about a problem whose solutions are so lovely: plunging into cool water, eating fresh fruit, sipping cold drinks, resting beneath the shade of a tree. Sometimes I think heat may be the easiest hardship to forgive, because overcoming it leads you straight into pleasure. I only wish all difficulties could be met with such gentle remedies.

I am a touch sad to not be able to make it out there this time around but am looking forward to going back to my long and boring summers as a teen. The days may be shorter and we may not have peaches and plums, but it is kite season as we call it here. The wind is cooler, the sun feels a little more gentle and the beach days are most of the time guaranteed.

I have also fallen in love again—this time at home. It feels especially precious, a tale I may choose to keep as my own forever.

He is still fairly new to the island, yet he is the first person to be curious enough to learn about the place that shaped me. I never expected that simple curiosity would move me so deeply. In return, it has given me a fresh pair of eyes, like those of a child newly awakened to the world. Through him, I have been gifted the chance to see my home from a new perspective—to rediscover the island, its beauty, and all the quiet subtleties I had long taken for granted.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

June 2026

BPD: The Beauty and Violence of Feeling Everything

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BPD: The Beauty and Violence of Feeling Everything

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Wikipedia uses “The Brooch” by Edvard Munch as an illustration for Borderline Personality Disorder. A soft and uneasy face surrounded by an imposing amount of dark mass and uncontainable wavering lines, her gaze feels distant like the one of someone who’s finally unwillingly surrendered after fighting for too long. Her brooch at the bottom centre of the painting, a fixed point in the midst of it all, a weak attempt to hold it all together. 

When I was diagnosed with BPD 3 years ago, I felt my heart sink to my guts, I was hit with the realisation that this was my forever. I sat in my psychiatrist’s office as he handed me a prescription  of pills, my vision blurred by all the tears. I asked myself in that moment if it was worth being alive if it meant that I had to be medicated to feel normal. It was a tough and lonely battle for months, trying to keep it together and to appear as stable as possible. It was coincidentally during the first relationship that felt real to me, the first time I think I really fell in love. I was terrified to lose that because of my state, to be seen differently, to be misunderstood.

But when the pills didn’t work and I dragged myself back to that stale office, I was told that it was maybe time to take “a breather”, that I was to expect a call for them to pick me up, so that I can be amongst big trees and by the river, where I’d make friends with people that’ll understand and I would be fed a cocktail of more pills that will allow me to “relax”. Funnily enough, because of the medication I was on, I had really deep sleeps that made me miss the phone call. I never called them back because I didn’t want it to win. It was the first and best step I have taken to growing out of it and although the path has been rocky ever since, I have never hit a low that bad in a very long time. All it took was showing up for myself whenever I could. 

I didn’t tell anyone apart for Ruby, because I have never hid anything from her. I carried that shame for a very long time. 

I have the type that is incredibly concealed and controlled, some call it “quiet BPD”. Externally I am high functioning, I have strong friendships and maintain them well. I hold commitments and am able to keep jobs. I have been told many times that I am a calming presence and complimented me on my emotional intelligence. It takes a lot for me to lose it during arguments, I’d have to be very comfortable or pushed to the limit. Many actually come to me for advice for the matters of the heart or to find guidance in complex relationship dynamics. I listen intently and am careful with my words adjusting them to the person in front of me. From the outside I look like the opposite of it all. 

BPD is constantly portrayed by chaos and volatility, I am none of that. All that external madness that is expected of me is turned inwards, despite the occasional moodiness in front of those I feel most comfortable with, everything happens inside. This happens because I understood from very early on that showing these big emotions and having these big reactions can lead to abandonment and rejection, BPD’s biggest triggers. 

Once triggered, this distress is silently brutal, lonely and dark. Chronic shame and intense self-criticism that if heard out loud would make many fall to their knees and breakdown. Days on end ruminating and over-analysing relationships dynamics, day dreaming about scenarios and coming up with solutions to get ahead if they ever were to come true. Working over time to stop myself from doing insane impulsive decisions to not let the mask fall that leads to such emotional exhaustion that I end up feeling so numb and dissociate for days. Many may not know this but one of the main symptoms of BPD is severe body dysmorphia. I have no idea what I truly look like as a whole. Every mirror feels like a fun house mirror, constantly shape shifting. This is equally true when it comes to my self-worth one instance can take me from one extreme to the other, one moment I am god and the other I do not deserve anything good to happen to me ever. Those who truly know me and have had a glimpse of this often sit there perplexed by this all, asking how is that I cannot see what it is they see in me, why it is so hard for me to be kind to myself. I just tell them that my own brain and the way that I am wired makes it very hard to do so. I wish I was as brave as the people with regular BPD, the way they allow themselves to reveal their true selves despite sometimes being perceived as crazy and unruly. How free they are in their madness, how freeing it must feel to play out impulsions letting it all go and have nothing pent up anymore. But I find peace in knowing that at least I am not hurting others and that I love myself enough to not let this condition rob me from the connections I cherish most and to let make me make irreversible decisions that will harm me later. 

I pride myself on working very hard to finding ways to soothe myself and to heal the effects of the things that happened to me that led me to be the way that I am. I try to give myself grace and reassure myself that it what happened is not my fault. I try my best to not be angry and instead keep it pushing because what happened happened and I can’t reverse it. Those who have harmed me will not be the ones that will fix it, so all I can do is take matters into my own hands. 

And of course, to see beauty in it. There are such beautiful traits in Borderline Personality Disorder. And if you, reading this, have BPD let me remind you of the wonderful things of this condition of ours. 

Never loving halfway.  

I recall having a group conversation with a few people somewhere in Manhattan about girls with BPD. Two young men had opposing views on their experiences dating them. One had a difficult time dealing with the mood swings and outbursts and the other well saw it differently. He said that he had never been loved by someone like this particular girl, sure she may have reacted oddly to certain things and needed more reassurance than most but, there was something pure about the love he experienced with her. She never loved half way.

They conversed about this not knowing about my condition yet it was interesting to see an outside perspective on the matter. I have always wondered if people felt the intensity that we as BPD people, feel. When we love, admire, or trust someone, it can feel consuming, immersive, and emotionally total. I sometimes even have strong physical reactions to feelings for others. It feels like I am about to burst open. It resembles child like adoration, curiosity arises and I find the need to understand the ins and outs of the person. Everything about them matters. Deep questions about them may feel like probing but it is just just genuine interest, I feel the need to know it all. And after observing them so much, I find myself loving things that they have not even noticed about themselves. I may have just met you but if I like you already I will have no trouble giving you anything, people close to me tell me all the time that some moments are not appropriate and some are not deserving however it feels like second nature. And when well received, I know that I can make anyone’s life better and it will never feel like work, my heart is big enough. And I personally think that’s an awesome skill. 

This is something that I show even more in my friendships, there is nothing more important to me than making those around me feel special, heard and seen. I have been blessed with friends that understand me and have big enough hearts to receive all this love I have for them. 

Now that I know I am capable of loving this deeply, I’ve had to learn not to cross my own boundaries in the process. Just because I can give the world to someone does not mean I should. That kind of care should be earned too; just because devotion comes easily to me does not mean everyone deserves access to it. I had to fight the quiet panic that told me I had to give everything of myself in order to be worthy of staying for, as if abandonment could only be avoided through self-sacrifice. But I am learning that people leaving will never kill me, because I will always have my own back. I am beginning to understand that love was never meant to feel like the slow exhaustion of oneself. It is also meant to feel peaceful. Gentle. Easy.

You are not too much, you may have just been giving your love and care to someone that is not able to receive it. It may feel tiring that it seems to always feel one sided, but you probably have just been pouring it all  in the wrong places. When done right, I promise it will be cherished and reciprocated. 

Deep Empathy and Emotional Insight.  

Because relationships to others can feel emotionally high stakes, we become extremely skilled at catching things that other’s don’t—micro expressions, minor shifts in demeanour and tone, body language etc. And because we have feel everything so intensely this has led us to feel deeper empathy for others. This means if anyone is going to clock you are feeling unwell or uneasy it is a person diagnosed with BPD and on top of that we are going to work overtime to fix it. I have found myself unable to enjoy a social gathering because I can feel that someone feels left out of uncomfortable and try my best to fix that. Someone with BPD may feel like home in a new space and will know how to make sure you are okay and feel seen.

Everything and more. 

I always say that having Borderline Personality Disorder is, in some ways, the most intense form of experiencing life to its fullest. Every emotion feels amplified, every feeling on steroids, and it’s difficult to fully put into words. There have been times when I’ve dreaded being this way, times when I’ve grown exhausted by the intensity of it all, but with a shift in perspective, I often find myself feeling grateful for it too. When even the smallest things go right, it can feel like heaven exists on Earth. A day spent rotting in bed with my friends or sharing a good meal with my mum can suddenly become something overwhelmingly beautiful, almost painfully wonderful in its intensity. And the bad feelings can feel just as consuming, like they might physically destroy me, sharp pains in the chest, a heaviness that makes everything seem dark even on the most beautiful day. It becomes difficult not to spiral into oblivion, difficult to believe there is any way out of something that, objectively, was never that deep to begin with. Yet despite it all, those moments also remind me how profoundly alive I am. They are proof that I am capable of feeling everything in its fullest form, even when it hurts. But maybe the best part is that when everything feels like it has burned down and the dust has finally settled, I somehow bloom back to life through the ashes. Each time, I return a little stronger, carrying a kind of peace that I imagine some people only ever experience in death.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

May 2026

On the Run

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On the Run

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Sometimes it gets to me, the sheer loneliness of always being away. It is an odd concoction of feelings, this feeling of deep gratitude for the opportunities I have been given and the deep guilt of feeling unsettled and bad. My eyes have been fed with unbelievable beauty that the world has to offer, I have tasted such a colourful array of flavours, learned the subtleties of many cultures. I have gotten to know certain places intimately and have been lucky enough to visit some cities over and over again to the point that I feel the same familiarity and ease as I do at home. Homesickness is a rare occurrence, however when it hits, it absolutely destroys. I am inconsolable for a few hours, as the tears run down my face and I silently sob. I do not care to hide my face because I am in a city that is not mine and the faces I am met with, I will never see again. 

I have trouble declining opportunities, no matter how tired or afraid I am, I never say no. Because, there is no worse feeling to me than never knowing what could be. So I’ll hop on those planes, my knees may ache on the crammed economy seat and I maybe have landed from somewhere else just a few days ago before taking off again but I know that now I will know what could be. 

As I wait in an airport, dragging my feet and luggage across these sanitised super buildings from gate to gate, I watch friends, and couples and families traveling together, sharing the journey, something so dull and boring, becoming a part of their memories. I can’t help but feel like the day I moved schools at age 6 and saw all the girls grouping up with their friends they have made the years before, I sat alone and wondered when I was going to have friends too. I have the gift to remember the slightest details of very normal occurrences but all the trips to these massive airports have slowly meshed into one. So many hours feeling so insignificant. 

I run to places when things don’t work out the way they should, when things get hard, I fantasise about how this feeling of not doing enough or not being enough will change when I am far away. That the distance I create will, in time, make them miss me, need me. 

I run and hope that I’ll miraculously land in a place new where things will slowly unfold and without even realising everything would have had fallen into place. But, as the excitement of the new dies off slowly and the reality and that feeling of dread finally settles back, the urge to run again takes over. And before I know it, I am yet again planning my great escape. 

There is also this sense of constant feeling unfamiliarity that follows. I am so blessed to have people I am close to all over the planet, people that feel like home and take me into their homes and make me feel like I have always lived there too. But, once I step out of that intimacy and they bring me into their outside worlds is where I feel yet again like an outsider. Introduced to new people again and again, some faces I recognise from my last visits with whom I can somewhat have better conversations with apart from the small talk. I sit in silence with a slight smile as they recall funny anecdotes that include people I have never heard of. Some amazing connections have been made in the past and I have made plenty of friends but I never stay long enough to nurture any relationship for them to evolve into anything more than watching each other lives unfold through our social medias. 

This is also the same when I come home to the island after long stretches of time abroad, where I have to be introduced to newcomers by my life long friends. I am so unsettled by the closeness they have a created, maybe sometimes out of jealousy, riddled with the feeling of having had missed out on quality time with those I love most. Nothing sucks more than being the new girl in my own home. 

The rapid gentrification of the island can also be destabilising,  places that once brought me comfort are suddenly ripped away or built on without what it feels like no warning. My childhood neighbourhood once quiet, peaceful yet a little eerie is now just janky bars where frat boys black out. The charming beach shacks that sold the best lassis are now crushed by ginormous beach clubs. I have ran away from home and can’t seem to recognise anything anymore. Had I known things would change this way, I may have appreciated the life I once had. 

I wonder if all of the relationships I had left for months would’ve grown stronger or those who could’ve been would have become something real. If love would for once been real and safe without the knowledge that I would once again leave. If that one person I had met the day before my flight could’ve been the one. If I am ever capable to have a real relationship knowing that all I do is run. 

I have lived through so many serendipities and have lived most of my life aimlessly, a life filled with beauty. The unknown is exciting and scary, it’s filled with adrenaline and leaves a lot of space for wonder. 

Yet, a life where roots are planted a little bit everywhere or sometimes yanked out to be planted into new soils over and over again can be hard to care for, if abandoned will slowly die and if lackadaisically nurtured will never achieve its full potential and growth. I have planted pieces of myself everywhere, only to realise that without stillness, nothing truly takes root—not even me.

There are times where it is important to sit still and sometimes watch the paint dry. To sit in the discomfort and really sit on it. 

Because, no matter how often or how far I run, I can never outrun myself.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

April 2026

Big Bite Of The Apple

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Big Bite Of The Apple

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I travelled to New York to obtain my social security number, hoping it might eventually allow me to earn money with the O-1 visa I received for what seems like my waning modelling career. Visiting New York often serves as a stark reminder of the challenges of entering a new market, yet it’s always enjoyable, thanks to a remarkable group of girls in Manhattan.

They’re like the real-life, twenty-something cast of Sex and the City mixed with the quirkiness of Girls—each with her own defining quirks and unforgettable personality. They have it all: college degrees, thriving careers, supermodel looks, razor-sharp wit and a charming touch of awkwardness. Four single girls just trying to figure it out in the Big City: Alison, Jasmine, Sav, and Lily. But of course, you can’t have everything. The universe might’ve blessed them with brains, beauty, and ambition, but it definitely held back on one thing: a decent dating scene.

Jasmine is DJing at one of those Fashion Week events I love, mostly because you get free stuff. This time, they’re serving bites and free-flowing martinis, an important detail, as you’ll soon see. As always, before even stepping out in New York, I spiral over what to wear. There’s this weird pressure I put on myself in this city, I never quite feel like I’m enough. Not rich-looking enough, not cool enough, not like I belong.The girls’ social circle is filled with successful young people, many from powerful families or with careers most dream of at twice their age. And naturally, I’m afraid to stand out, in the wrong way.

After eventually giving up and settling on an outfit, I head out, walking north on Elizabeth Street toward Prince. The evening is buzzing. Sidewalks are full, restaurants overflowing with energy. My favourite thing to do in New York is walk around with my headphones in, pretending my eyes are a camera filming filler scenes for a movie. I walk faster than usual, I’m running late. I text Alisson to see where she is: eight minutes away. I wait across the street from the restaurant, nervous to walk in alone. I spot a few social media personalities I’ve seen on my For You Page more times than I can count. It’s such a strange feeling seeing them in the wild. Even stranger is watching them perform for the camera in real life. Their presence feels so much smaller, almost underwhelming. Jasmine sends me a photo of myself from inside and urges me to come in, so I do, awkwardly telling the door girl that I’m with the DJ.

I make my way to the booth where I join Jasmine, Alisson, and Lily, turns out, I’m the tardiest one. I’m immediately handed a dry martini and a baby slider. As we wait for Jasmine to wrap up her set, the rest of us sit outside, downing a few more drinks as we talk about their recent double-date trip to Turks and Caicos, funded by a finance bro who didn’t even make it on the trip due to last-minute work stuff. Alisson is realising that the boy who invited her there in the first place might not be the kind she should be seeing, he’s not ambitious enough and a little too vain for her liking while Lily thinks she might have fallen in love with her guy, ignoring the fact that he might have a major substance problem. A true hopeless romantic. 

I’ve grown to love martinis ever since my first sip in Dime Square just a year ago, it’s been the only cocktail I can truly enjoy since. Sav has a date later tonight but offers to grab a drink beforehand at Lucien. Jamie wraps up her set, and we all spill out into the night. Lily can’t join us for the rest of the evening, she has an early trip to Philly for work, so we kiss her goodbye before hopping into a car bound for the East Village.

As expected, the place was jam-packed. Speaking of the devil, the Turks and Caicos boys were stood outside, smoking cigarettes with a group of friends. Despite what Alisson said about him earlier, she seems completely smitten and greets him with a tight hug. 

Luck strikes when the cute hostess tells us there’s a free table in the back. We squeeze through the narrow path, the noise levels almost unbearable, though I’ve noticed that’s just the American way. Their voices carry, and it’s always easy to spot them in Europe. I slide into the booth. Next to us sit two older men and two young women, a sight far too common in this city. The men take the booth while the women sit on the chairs, which I find incredibly unchic. Jasmine orders a single tentacle of octopus, and the rest of us stick to martinis.

Sav arrives with a friend I’ve heard about through the girls, an incredibly talented photographer who captures beautiful images that resemble movie scenes. That’s the thing about New York, you’re constantly crossing paths with these brilliant creatives, and I can’t help but wonder which of them will become the icons of our generation, the ones whose work people will look back on forever.

Sav still hasn’t heard from her date, apparently, he had a show at the gallery he works at. Now he’s stuck at a gallery dinner, and it would be distasteful for him to leave. “Then why say 8:30? If he knows he can’t make it in time. Ugh, they all suck.” They all suck, but like everyone screaming this, we still put up with it. We’ve all ordered the Uber to his house at 1 a.m. at least once, even though the date was supposed to be much earlier. We finish our drinks. I’m feeling a little tipsy now, everyone is, and no one’s ready to go home.

We run out in our little heels. The weather is pleasant, it’s September but it feels like a summer night. Someone hails a cab, and we stuff all five of us inside. Like all roads, ours leads to Bar Oliver.

Here we order some more, there are no hard liquor allowed as they are situated right in front of a church, which I did not know was a rule. Bummer. Because as much as I probably do not need it, I’d love another martini. The younger server that Jasmine has been crushing on lately is not working today so we may not be lucky enough to have a free drink this time around. They have a lovely beer I enjoy, so I’ll just get that, to my drunk brain logic because it is less strong somehow it’ll sober me up. We stand because there are no seats available, so we put our drinks on this yellow box that looks like a mailbox but isn’t. It’s been our “table” a lot of the time as Bar Oliver has been really busy. Our little comfort spot before we get moved to a table. We mingle with the people who are already here, some faces I have started to recognise over time and can now comfortably have conversation with. This night, I feel like I belong a little more, it’s starting to feel like Martin Boire et Manger for me, my favourite bar and my second home in Paris. But as always, us girls gravitate towards each other. 

Once seated, Lily’s boy is sat across from us, as we are swiping through Jasmine’s hinge, swiping “no” to most of them. He tries to give his input, however Jasmine is just rolling her eyes at him, we don’t care for male opinion, especially not from him and not for this. We find out that although Lily has a work trip early tomorrow, she had been texting with him and he is going to head to her place after drinks at the bar. 

She waits in her apartment and grows more and more frustrated before ultimately telling him that if he didn’t leave now, he was no longer invited. We see him get in a car as he says his quick goodbyes to everyone at around 1 am. When he arrives at her place, they have the polite 20 minute hang out before ultimately getting down to it. It was sloppy and lazy before he collapsed next to her and fell asleep too fast. 

Alison is across from us, intertwined with her pretty boy. They look in love, “it’s too bad he is the way he is,” Jasmine whispers, “they look quite cute together”. The funny thing is that Jasmine had made out with the pretty boy before, a couple of times but that’s New York for you, a really big incest pool. Sav is going back and forth with us about if she should text her date, or if she should leave it. But if she were to text, what would she say? We settle on something “passive aggressive but chill”, because we want him to get the impression that “he low key fucked up but we don’t really care”. 

As the night unfolds, we lose a few soldiers along the way, but the core troops still refuse to go home. The war against the alcohol running through our veins isn’t over yet. Why waste a perfectly good drunk on a night that ends too early? What’s the point of a hangover so brutal, so unforgettable, if not to stretch out the thrill of balancing on that fine line between drunk and blacked out?

Jasmine calls a car and punches in the address for the Nines—a bold move, though Sav knows the owner; they were neighbours or something like that. Her upbeat energy and that slightly intimidating insistence of hers can get you far in the city that never sleeps, so I’m not worried, if someone’s going to make something happen, it’s her. The car arrives, but we suddenly realise one of our troopers is missing. She’s locked in a bathroom stall. Sav rushes in to check and comes back out, breathless: “She’s screaming at him in there.” Pretty boy’s been taken hostage, facing the lethal cocktail of Lexapro and alcohol. The clock’s ticking, our buzz is fading, and I’m sent into the battlefield to rescue the hostage and retrieve our trooper, so we can make it to the next bar before the night slips away. “Alison, c’mon the car is here.” I knock gently, “Coming!”. I run out again, but the car is here and the meter is running, by the time Alison is out, we all know that we have lost a soldier, we must continue on without her. “I’ll meet you guys there, I promise.” All we can do is hope that she’ll be back on the journey with us, but we know that this usually means it is over. 

We are so little compared to these buildings, sometimes when I think about it too much I get frightened at the realisation of how massive everything is, how insignificant we all are. So small, I almost don’t matter, the world feels too big. But I have to stop spiralling on my own in the back of this cab or I am going to be sick. I should listen to the French song Sav is playing out of her iPhone as her silhouette dances in the dark car, her face gently lit at a red light. We collectively wonder where Alison could’ve gone or why the hell she was screaming at the boy, before we arrive to the Nines. I am nervous, I fear the I am going to hold my friends back when the bouncer takes a good look at me and tells me that well they all can get in apart for me, why is it that my brain always imagines the worst scenarios possible. I need to compose myself. The people before us are dressed to the nines (pun intended) yet they are turned away by the bald door man. Jasmine and I push Sav to the front because she knows how to do the talking and we cannot let our awkwardness ruin it all for us. As expected, Sav works her charm and her amazing people’s skills, casually pulls out a first name and the doorman is charmed, his tone went from professional to casual quite fast and in the moment, I knew that I could be wearing a singlet, board shorts and flipflops I would’ve still gotten in. 

“Mid White Boy is coming here,” Sav announces, “it’s like midnight,” I say “I know but he’s coming straight from the dinner.” Knowing Sav I’m surprised she even let him come. 

We are sat in the booth and surprise surprise, order another martini. Jasmine has been texting with a new friend of hers, that happens to be a breakout artist, recently finding superstardom. Her and a group of friends finally join us, and at this point, I do not remember much. Just snippets of the conversation I had with this girl asking her how it feels like to experience fame suddenly the way she has, how it feels to be recognised a lot.  We were pleasantly surprised and overcome with joy to see that Alisson honoured her promise and ended up joining us after all. 

So did Sav’s Mid White Boy. Sav seats at the bar to have some one on one time with the boy. She couldn’t really capture his aura, on one hand he’s sexy talking about alligators in the south and driving his truck, yet on the other he’s in the Nines with a backpack. The conversation got a little dull so she suggested that they join our group outside for a cigarette. She gave me “the look” before asking me in French to talk to him a little and ask him questions please, just to break the ice”, so that he wouldn’t understand. I did, and as expected from a mid white boy, he gave me very mid white boy responses. 

Next thing I know, I am sat in a very crammed car heading to a club that according to Jasmine is a no-go for many New Yorkers. But we were a bunch of people that do not know how to call it a night. We stand outside and stared at the building, still contemplating if we truly have it in us to go. At this point, it was Jasmine and I and the superstar and her friends. 

Meanwhile, Alisson and pretty boy made it home. It came to a point where her body couldn’t handle it anymore and decided it was time for it to cleanse itself from all the poison she had consumed that night. As she was kneeling over the toilet, she drunkely asked the pretty boy to hand her her phone. When she handed it back, he took advantage of the moment to keep the device unlocked. When he finally put her to bed and she was sound asleep, he proceeded to go through her phone and type in his name in her messages. There he found an array of messages she had sent to her friends, belittling him and calling him all sorts of things. He sat there for hours scrolling and reading through all of the realisations she has had about him and feeling more and more emasculated after each message. He cried himself to sleep that night next to the very person that caused it. 

As we finally gathered the courage to go into the building, the superstar expressed that she needed to go pee before entering. She insisted to do so outside because she really had to go and refused to wait in line for the loo. We agreed and told her we’d wait for her. After a good 20 minutes, she still hasn’t returned that’s when we started to worry. We circled the block and no sign of life whatsoever. We imagined the worse, what if she was kidnapped? I envision what the headlines would say. 

Her friends called the hotel multiple times to see if she’d been seen entering, no confirmation. I smoked a cigarette as we all try to figure out what to do. I regretted it instantly. I was hit with the nausea you get when you’ve had one too many cigarettes and too much alcohol sloshing in your belly. I crush the rest with the sole of my shoes in hopes it’ll go away, yet it persists. I couldn’t stand still as I was gradually getting sicker and sicker. The superstar’s friends decide to go directly to the hotel to see if she’s back, I try to keep my calm as I hug all of them goodbye. 

Jasmine and I start walking back towards Soho, when I finally admit to her that I don’t feel well and I really need to throw up. I tell her how scared I am to vomit. She looks at me deeply in the eyes and says “I am here for you.” In that moment, I have never felt more connected to someone, feeling safe and embraced by those 5 words. I nod, before spreading my legs wide as I yack in the middle of third avenue. 

I lift my head up and am hit with a feeling of pure clarity and lightness. How beautiful the city is at night, the gentle summer breeze as we walk our arms interlocking looking up at the twinkling lights of the massive buildings that now don’t seem to scare me as much anymore. Nothing compares to the company of a sister you have chosen, heels clicking on the sidewalk and your laughs echoing through the quiet streets. 

When we finally reach the cobblestones of Soho, we both agree that the night is not over. To the Submercer we go. We do not know how we made it into that elevator and how security did not stop us, but as we arrive on the right floor, all lights were on. The kind of light that paints you ugly the moment you step beneath it, your pores look like they’re breathing, your eyes sunken, as if you’ve been sleep-deprived for days. Never having gone there before, I think that maybe there is a reception area before the club but turns out we are standing in the middle of the dance floor. One of the staff members politely tell us that the party is over and for some reason I feel like I was caught naked. Mortified, we both ran out of there. We decide that our journey has finally come to an end but you’d be crazy to think that it would end without a stop at the bodega. 

We order our usuals, a chopped cheese for me and a BLT for Jasmine to go. We hang around the place to flirt with the cute bodega guy before stumbling back to the apartment. We seat on the dining table half dressed, makeup running down our faces, barefoot as we hover above our meals and chow it down like we haven’t eaten in years. 

The next morning, Sav steps out of the her Mid White Boy’s building and ran into his slightly hotter older brother. She could’ve sworn that he did a double-take and checked her out. She thought that maybe being siblings gives you the same taste in women and maybe she slept with the wrong one. 

Lily made it to the train on time and was on time for the job barely awake, sat in the makeup chair wondering if coke dick is ever worth feeling like this. 

Pretty Boy left while Alison was still sleeping. When she finally wakes up, she checks her phone to see a missed call from him. She calls him back and could hear in this voice that something was up. He asks her if she remembered anything, she said no, he asks if she remembered the fight at all, still no. 

She offers to come see him at his studio.

They seat across from each other. He asks her if she thinks that he is a bum and all these other things, and she denies them all. He tells her everything that happened, about the bathroom hostage situation and all the things she said to him. She is greatly confused by it all. He takes a deep breath before finally admitting that he went through her phone and read her messages. She sits there in disbelief as she slowly realises that this is, in fact, really bad. She doesn’t even have the time to be angry at him for not respecting her privacy before the feeling of guilt washes over her. She apologises for being mean, and I guess he liked her enough to stay around for a couple more weeks before she ultimately ends things with him. I guess she couldn’t ignore his flaws anymore. 

The discussion ends with him showing her the video of Charlie Kirk getting shot in the neck, making her hangover worse and her stomach churn. 

Jasmine and I wake up in her bed, grateful that we do. We have very little time of peace before I spiral over texts I send to my almost boyfriend at the time. Updates are pouring in in the group chat from all parties. We laugh in disbelief. 

I have lived life with complete freedom, a coincidence of being born into a family, beneath the right flag, and into a time that allowed me to be. I have been gifted with pure luck, that is all. As I grow and realise that unlike myself many of the sisters have never known such weightlessness and have not been given the same chances to simply be. While I laugh, dance, love and dress as I please, I can’t help but feel how fragile this all truly is, for it is not promised that tomorrow will be a breeze. Freedom is fragile and not a choice one can simply make, it can be easily taken away for the benefit of some ideology or by small men on very high pedestals. As thoughts of an unpromised tomorrow, and of the world I have always known slowly disappearing, consume me, all I can do is assert my inner sovereignty and aggressively exercise my freedom while a happy tomorrow still feels at reach.  

Vahine Blaise, New York, United States,

March 2026

Lucky Girl and a Clay Pot

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Lucky Girl and a Clay Pot

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My mother took the umbilical cord that once linked us and carefully washed it with her bare hands to ensure I would forever be tied to her. She then wrapped it in a pristine white cloth before placing it gently in a clay pot. She added scissors to ensure my mind remained sharp, a pen and paper so that my thoughts would benefit the world we lived in, and many other items that represented virtues she wanted for her first-born, her daughter. She sealed the clay pot tightly. Unlike the usual Javanese tradition, she did not bury the pot near our home to ensure that I stayed close. Instead, she paddled out to the ocean, the very same waters my father’s ashes were thrown in, and dropped the clay pot in the water. She waited, and every time it would come back, she’d paddle back out and place it even further. She did this multiple times before it eventually disappeared.

When asked why she didn’t do it the usual way, she said, “because I wanted you to see the world, I wanted you to do the things I dreamed of.”

Western folks would probably scoff at the idea that this would work, that this animistic nonsense has no logic or scientific proof that it could ever work. But all I have to do is see the glimmer in her eyes when I tell her my travel stories, the subtle excitement in her voice when I tell her the opportunities I have been blessed with abroad—see the deep sadness gently expressed by her furrowed eyebrows when I cry to her and question myself and believe that I have accomplished nothing, to know that it worked. That her deep belief in her dreams and the things she hoped for me caused miracles.

Mama leads her life with blind trust; this is all I’ve known. She never feared to voice her desires out loud, and I have never heard her say that anything was too big or too ludicrous. There is almost something childish about it. The crazy thing is that all of them became a reality, like magic. I grew up believing in magic because I witnessed it; she is magic. She made sure to pass down the spells to me too, and later on, I understood that she was “manifesting” before it was a term overly used by the spiritual gurus of Instagram.

It’s simple: picture what it is that I want clearly for a moment before letting go of it, never obsess, loosen the grip but keep it close, trust in it, and put in the work. One day, before you even know it, things will align, and it’ll all be yours.

The formula works without fail. She has always gotten what she wanted, and if anything, she’s the only person I know who has received everything she’s ever truly desired. But my mother is a simple woman. Never dazzled by things that shine too brightly. I’m certain she could have manifested extreme wealth, and I have no doubt it would somehow have landed right in her lap. Yet her manifestations are guided by clear intention, always centred on peace and abundance. For her, abundance includes the safety of her children in every sense of the word. The flashy things society tells us we should all want simply don’t align with the core of her desires. When I left the nest at 18 years old, leaving her for the first time, I deeply believe that this was the start of the manifestations of the clay pot coming true. I immediately saw the world and found myself being in the right place and at the right time a lot of the time, doors opening left and right offering me opportunities far beyond my initial wishes and dreams. The world handed me things constantly; I had been spoilt. Just like intended, we forever remained close, yet I was rarely home; something always came up and required me to be in another city. Even through hardships, I was shielded and protected, only finding myself in difficult positions to learn a lesson clearly presented as such. At least nothing felt like it happened just out of cruelty. As soon as I felt lost or alone, angels without wings were always present to help me up and to guide me, angels with whom I get to experience life with to this day.

I find that I move through the world with ease and quickly understand those who cross my path; the objects she had placed in the clay pot seem to have done what she intended them to do. I am only human, and I have made mistakes, but my intuition has always served me well; only moments where I have decided to ignore it have things gone wrong. Yet another gift that keeps on giving she has given me.

I’m unsure what I did in a previous life to be blessed with a wonderful mother, and I realise many aren’t as fortunate—it is not too late for you. The way mine showed up for me, I believe we can always do for ourselves. I will forever be her baby, but I owe it to her to stand on my own as much as I can. So, what she passed on to me, I intend to apply it to my life and hopefully to my own children one day. So much can happen simply by believing and leading life with intention. I’ll let the magic speak for itself and for you to experience it.

I didn’t know she had done the ritual before a few weeks ago; she had never mentioned it. As soon as I heard the story, everything made so much sense. I couldn’t understand how I was able to be this lucky, never lacking anything I needed for the most part. Like many, I didn’t always realise that I had been so lucky, clouded by other desires, always wanting more. Yet, she’d tell me time and time again: always practice gratitude. “You must always look down nduk and never look up, to realise how far we’ve come and not to be reminded of what we don’t have or don’t have yet.”

And this is me doing just that. 

Vahine Blaise, Los Angeles, United States, February 2026

Sleeping with the enemy

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Sleeping with the enemy

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Both of us were propped up on our elbows, facing each other, nestled between white sheets and fluffy pillows, like two angels frolicking in the clouds. The light emitting from his bedside table made everything feel warm despite the AC blasting cold air. Self-conscious I made sure to be under the covers, we just started seeing each other after all. 

“How’s dating been for you?”, I asked him out of pure curiosity. I watched him as he laid back on his back, staring at the ceiling. I remember thinking he had the charm of a young soldier—the kind you see in movies, clean-cut and chiseled. 

He paused for a second, maybe thinking it was a trick question before replying,  “it’s been hard to be honest”, “how so?”, “the girls are just so angry”. 

My initial reaction was well, angry, I could feel it creeping up on me. I was so close to word vomit all over him. Because how the hell is it difficult for you? However, I refused to prove him right in the moment even though I know for a fact we girls are in fact, very angry. 

I don’t know why, but I was quite taken aback that he noticed. And yet, on further thought, how could they not feel it, when this sentiment has been brewing for ages? I’m not sure why I believed it was some sort of secret we kept from them—as if only we knew how deeply we hated them.

I instead took a breath and asked him to please elaborate. He had told me that it felt like many were on edge and that he felt like he had to walk on eggshells making it a bit tricky to court women. 

Did I feel sympathy for him in the moment? Not really. Because there is good reason why it is we are on edge and why it is we do not tolerate much anymore. Women are not angry for no reason. We watched it happen to our mothers, heard it in our grandmothers’ stories, and lived it ourselves. What men experience as hostility is often just women finally refusing to tolerate what they were once expected to endure quietly. We are only trying to protect ourselves. “From what?”, you’d have to live under a rock to ask such question. I could pull out the figures and the testimonies but that would take ages to write down and I truly believe that those that deny that being with a man is easy, choose to close their eyes. 

As a straight woman it almost feels impossible to be one these days. It feels like we’d get humiliated at any moment and seen as idiots for falling for a man. It is so humiliating to love loudly, to speak highly of someone just for them to pull some bullshit on a random Tuesday. It’s living in a state of anxiety just waiting for the day when you notice the shift in their demeanour because they have gotten bored of you and don’t have the guts to end things correctly. The idea of remaining single for the rest of my life or settling for some dickhead feels more plausible than a future where I’m married and happy.

And when I think back on all the hardships I went through, most of them had a man at the heart of it, from father figures and lovers to random men in the wild who believed it was okay to molest me from as young as eleven. This sudden realisation almost radicalised me, I have started to carry this disdain towards them and trusted none.

Yet, here I am sleeping with the enemy. Here I am still going out on dates and allowing myself to give it a chance over and over again. if I did not believe good men were out there, I would’ve stopped trying. I would’ve started only see them as solely sexual partners and use their bodies to satisfy my sexual needs. 

For some miraculous reason there is something in me that somehow is brave enough to go for it, that despite being disappointed time and time again, I still want to love and be loved, peacefully and genuinely. 

I’ve come to realise, however, that my hate for men is only pushing me further away from the reality that I desire and believe I deserve. That I have let it turn me into a bitter and negative person and that is just not who I want to be. Hating them is giving them too much power, enough power to turn me into something that I am not. 

Refusing to be angry sometimes makes me feel like I am letting the girls down, that I’m letting my empathy and “softness” be used against me yet again. However, I’ve quickly understood that they can only be weaponised when I let them. Keeping my guard up at all times is unnecessary and possibly robbing me from something that could be beautiful, it takes a lot of energy to be paranoid and I am tired of being tired. I can feel safe when I trust myself to choose to involve myself only with those that reflect my standards, when I trust myself to know when it is time to walk away, trust myself not to let my self-worth be diminished by someone else’s actions. Pain is inevitable but I believe should never be the reason to isolate and be afraid. 

I am angry because I have allowed myself become a victim of what others have done to me, taking it deeply personally, when I could have seen it simply as pain I experienced—not proof that I am powerless or less than. Not saying that being a victim is always a choice but I do believe that sometimes it can be. If only I understood that earlier, I would have saved a lot of time. 

Something is in the air lately and even though men and women have always functioned differently, I believe that the divide between the two genders nowadays is particularly impressive.

It is hard for me to not point fingers and blame men for this to happen, however, I’m sure we as women play a role in this too. It saddens me that is has come to this, it saddens me that is has come to a point where just because you are a man, my first sentiment towards you is negative when I have barely even given you a chance. I am aware that this behaviour does not help the issues we face as women and only widens the divide. As hard as it is for me, I refuse to play a part in it. I refuse to be radical because of the actions of awful men.

Who knows if I’ll ever make it to the point where I am able to no longer put them all in the same boxes and see them as individuals. 

Maybe I will no longer only sleep with the enemy but maybe one day I’ll even befriend them.  

Vahine Blaise, Bedfordshire, United Kingdom, December 2025

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