Tag Archive for: Friendships

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

Home » Friendships

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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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.”

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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.

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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

Come Home

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Come Home

Home » Friendships

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

Growing Pains

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Growing Pains

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It only feels like yesterday when I walked into my room in the 11th arrondissement. 

Freshly eighteen, perky with eyes that still twinkled with ambition and hope. 

I don’t remember when I fell in love with the idea of living in Paris but somewhere in this heart of mine, I knew that I would feel at home. An island girl who didn’t care about the beaches and the sun anymore, a girl far too curious about the unknown and hungry to explore parts of the world so foreign to her. All I wanted to do was move as fast as I could. The “calling” was so powerful that I asked my mother to emancipate me so that I could finish high school in the city. One thing I admire the most and wish I held on to a little more from my teenage self is that I was never afraid. I embraced the unknown at all times and never said no to new things. I lived to grow my identity capital and romanticised everything because I have always believed that if life didn’t resemble a movie, what was the point? 

Obviously, my mother was reluctant but not necessarily opposed. It may sound crazy to some that she’d ever consider it but our relationship had always been built on trust and she trusted my decisions. Ever since I was a little girl, if she saw that I was determined or 100% positive about something she’d give it a shot, like she trusted my intuition as much as my crazy self did. I was tutoring the French consul’s daughter at the time so I inquired about emancipation and told her that I wanted to go to finish high school in France. She said that it was a stupid idea and told me to just wait a couple years more. I did and I’m glad I did because those were the times I made memories that I will never forget. 

The pre-move organisation was far harder than I expected. I had so much trouble finding accommodation being so far and, having never lived outside of the island. I didn’t understand the complexities of having your “dossier” in order, or needing a “garant”. I spent hours on websites trying to find a home and imagining a life for myself in the different spaces. I googled all the neighbourhoods and virtually explored the streets. 

It came to a point when my moving date came closer and I still didn’t find a place. So my mum inquired with her friends and someone told her about a woman that was renting her room out. I hated the idea. This ruined my French fantasy of living in my own space and creating my own little world. But I didn’t really have a choice, it was that or being stuck on the island. Fast forward to now, the lady in question became my second mother. A woman I almost love as much as my own. A woman that has given me the sisters I would pray and wish for as a little girl before going to bed. She raised me at my rebirth as my freshly adult self, taught me to be more assertive, to stand up for myself, enforcing my French side. She also taught me emotional control and taught me that it is never the end of the world. She held my hand through major cultural shifts I never imagined I’d have to face. In hindsight, never finding my “dream” apartment saved me from a lot of panic attacks after confronting unnecessarily rude bank tellers, government officials and passive aggressive waiters.

I didn’t create the life I thought I did alone and fulfilled the Parisian fantasy I made up in my head, but I got something better— a special spot in a Parisian family, giving me the most authentic experience any girl could ask for. 

I didn’t need to look too hard to find the other members of my chosen family. The higher power placed them on my lap— they were my classmates. I don’t even recall when it was we became friends. They somehow just became a big part of me and every single day felt like an episode of Girls. Ruby, Lucinda, Abigail and Grace Kelly and I. Too many crazy, hilarious, heartbreaking anecdotes— serious movie scenes. Stories I ought to share with you sooner or later.

We called ourselves “The Bleeding Tits” in attempt to be some type of girlband with none of us having any musical skills whatsoever. A few lousy attempts at songwriting but, obviously, it never amounted to anything. Like many iconic girl groups, the big fall out happened and it felt like a show finale. However, I am lucky enough to still be in contact and good terms with every Bleeding Tit, all having their very own spin off show. We may all no longer get along anymore, but, I think I can speak for all of us that we have gifted each other the most amazing experiences, the ideal experiences I will even say for a group of early twenty something girls who all moved far from their respective hometowns. Nothing more magical then having the pleasure to share new and fresh experiences for the first time with people who are going through the same thing.

To anyone moving far from home for school to a place that feels unfamiliar, I hope you find your people — those who become like family and share this new chapter of your life with you.

Life in Paris over the past six years was everything I could’ve hoped for, maybe even more. I was surrounded by good people and given opportunities I never imagined would come my way. There were so many laughs, so many tears, and countless moments when I felt truly alive. Not once did I feel like I didn’t belong. This city was mine—it is mine. It feels like home.

I love that I know so many streets by heart, that I’m on a first-name basis with the staff at my favorite bar. I had my routines, and the ones I shared with my friends. My French got so much better, and I’m no longer afraid to talk on the phone. There were sun-filled terrace lunches and late-night, tipsy dancing in the streets. Makeout sessions on the bridge. Long walks, hand in hand, through the Bourse de Commerce.

Yaya’s homemade Japanese meals in her cozy 7th arrondissement apartment. Sleepovers at Ella’s place in the Marais. Lazy Sundays at Ruby’s in the 11th, and wild after-parties at Lucinda’s. Smoking weed with Grace Kelly because she’s the only one I don’t totally freak out with. Sit-and-bitch sessions with Alex at Le Progrès. And all the fleeting, beautiful moments I fell in love with strangers at Martin.

As much as I had the most beautiful and unreal times in Paris, this city also screwed with me a lot. I don’t think I realised how difficult it truly was going to be to move to a whole different continent at such a young age. And I am one of the lucky ones, I spoke the language fluently prior moving, I had financial support from my mother and found my people relatively fast. I can’t imagine how it is for those who don’t have any of those things. Even with my privilege, there were serious moments where I wanted to give up. I struggled finding a way to balance my work, school and life balance, more and more bills kept adding up as I got older, the fucking cold. The intense hits of depression. Then I’d feel guilty for feeling this way, guilty that I’d feel unhappy because my mother worked so hard to get me here, guilty because I am the first person in my family to go to school abroad and I chose fashion marketing and had very average grades. When I have cousins who do much better than me in school and who I believed probably deserved the position I was in more than I ever did. Moments when I was so homesick and missed the food, the sun and how easy life was on the island. So many tears of pain shed yet the thought of actually giving up was impossible, no pain was enough to make me part ways from my beloved Paris. 

My biggest take away from all those moments of pain was that it always works out anyway. Yeah, I still have problems but none are the same problems I had in the past. There is something comforting in knowing that even though obstacles will always be thrown at me, no matter what I will get out of it, if I want it bad enough. 

My mother is a very generous woman, but she always believed in me having good work ethic so she told me that she no longer would support me post grad, that I either had to figure it out or I could fly home. As much as I low key hate saying this because of a handful of reasons, but modelling really came in at the right time. I was able to have a seamless transition after school and worked as a model during the peak of the body positivity movement, I was able to get opportunities that girls that looked like me could only dream about only a few years back. I was able to travel the world for work and met the most interesting characters, some of became good friends of mine. The most amazing and kind hearted creatives in an industries filled with snakes and mean girls. However, I started to get too comfortable and was slowly losing my initial ambition of wanting to build something on my own. Modelling made me lazy, I could work only a couple of times a month and sit my ass for the rest of the time and bills would still get paid. I no longer had any drive or inspiration, I lost a part of my identity. I changed from a girl that once was always so sure of what she wanted out of life to one that had no idea what it was she liked to do. I started to write copy for fashion brands and put my diploma to use. As much as I am so proud of the work I was able to do, it still wasn’t “mine”. The curve model market started to plunge as people were reverting back to glamorising extremely skinny bodies, so I didn’t work as much. And since, I didn’t do much on the side and waited around  and being depressed, I was not prepared for the skinny apocalypse. So money started being an issue, I was late on rent and was not making enough with copywriting. So I felt stuck, I didn’t make enough and I didn’t know where to go to fix it. I tried to apply to 9-5 jobs in fashion but the job market is so bad and there is a lot of competition. I recognise that out of all of the people who apply, I am probably at the bottom of the list due to my lack of experience with only a few internships and odd jobs. I could’ve have applied for like a waitress job or a barista but I knew that that wouldn’t make me happy. So when I cried to my mum one day, telling her that I didn’t know what to do anymore, she told me that I was going to figure it out like I always do. But, this time she did for me. She called me back a couple of days after whilst I was on trip to Marseille with my friends ( a pre-planned trip before I knew I was going to go broke) and offered me to take over the little boutique on Gili Air island. I said yes. Who was I to turn down an opportunity to own a business when I had nothing going for me?

On the other hand, I was ashamed and scared. All this trouble to move to a different country and here I am quitting after 6 years because things got tough? Am I taking the easy way out? 

I quickly realised that it was wrong to see things that way. I am simply given a opportunity to grow and do bigger and better things. I had to look at where I was at and face the truth— I was stuck and I was so focused on surviving, I forgot what it felt like to live. I was turning 25 in the next few months and I still didn’t build anything for myself and if I continued going down that same route, I would lose any hope or ambition I once had and would’ve settled for something easy and depressing. I know so many people, people I have grown up with, some who are older than me lose any belief in themselves after a certain age and end up doing things they hate. People who once had big dreams and great ideas. I didn’t want to be that, I didn’t want to lose my sparkle forever, because it seemed like once you lose it, it’s hard to find it again. 

I knew I had to sacrifice the vision of the life I wanted to have in Paris. I was extremely sad that this probably meant I was going to leave for a while but I was excited for this new chapter. A door opening, freeing me from the purgatory I was experiencing. Life is too short to wait around and see how things will turn out without taking any action, passively waiting on good things to come around. I strongly believe that when you’re not on the path meant for you, life will present hardships as signs to guide you toward where you’re truly meant to be. It’s important to listen to your intuition—to know when it’s time to stop and try something new. But don’t confuse that with giving up too easily; they are not the same. And I can confidently say that I gave it my all.

Just like I knew in my heart that Paris was the city I was meant to live in, I knew that it was time for me to leave for a while. And even though I didn’t know where it was I was going to end up after starting my business, I knew I’d be back but I wanted to come back afresh. 

I left to Indonesia for seven months and was extremely committed to make it work, I really had the “now or never” mentality. If I was going to leave Paris behind, it had to be worth it. 

I understood that in order for me to stay on this path of change and growth, I had to really let go of the things that linked me to the past. I had to make big steps and understood that slowly transitioning into this new chapter was not going to work because I was far to attached to my old life. It was descent and comfortable, it was also beautiful but I wasn’t fully happy nor fulfilled and I had the right to not want to settle. 

Now here we are. 

It all feels unreal as I am standing in my room with all my things packed up ready to be stored in some cold storage room. I am unable to discuss about anything “moving” related with my roommates, tears always pour out of my eyes uncontrollably and I simply cannot look at the them. 

I look at every inch of the apartment and neighbourhood, trying to remember all the special things that took place and hoping I’ll never forget them. 

The bed I said “I love you” to my first boyfriend, who probably didn’t deserve it but needed to hear it. The gate where I told my second boyfriend that the truth was that, I would be fine and that he would become a distant memory and eventually I’d forget him. The couch I cried on too many times to count where my chosen family spent hours to comfort me. Indonesian meals my mother prepared in the kitchen when she visited for my friends as her way of saying thank you for taking care of me while she was so far away. The same kitchen where I’ve experimented with cooking and failed most of the time but had a few memorable successes. The counter Zoe and I drunkly leaned on when we happened to come home at the same time from different parties, where we’d grab a bite and debrief whispering to not wake the others. The teeny bathroom she would do my hair that never failed to wow my dates. The doorframe of my room where Shana would shyly stand in with the most comforting meal she cooked in her hands that brought me so much comfort especially in the times I was extremely depressed. Our forever-quiet street, the one I loved to walk along after the bar in the middle of the night, I still wish I had documented every single thought I had on those walks before laying my head to rest.

I fear I will never find that same feeling of “Home” elsewhere, that I will spend a lifetime comparing it to what I once had. I’m not excited about the idea of having to get familiar with a place all over again. But that’s a problem for another time. To be completely honest, I do not have a plan, the only one I have at the moment is that I will be in Naples for 3 weeks. 

And will do my best to surrender to whatever path I am supposed to be on. 

V.B, Paris, May 2025

Big Girl

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Big Girl

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This was my 24th year alive, marking the end of my early twenties. I’ve always been radical about marking transitions in life. For example, when I was in my last year of primary school, I organised a massive game of Tag for my grade, telling everyone that since we were moving on to middle school, it would be our final chance to play together. We played that last game, and indeed, we never did again.  

Now, as I approach 25, I find myself drawing similar lines—reflecting on the things I need to realign as I step into my mid-twenties. This realisation has been pivotal, sparking significant changes within me and making this year one of the most transformative of my life as I prepare for the next chapter.

1.The Iron Will. 

    Until recently, I’ve always struggled to finish anything—whether it was a creative project, a business idea, or even a workout plan. A part of me is a perfectionist, but not in the productive sense; I was the kind that got so anxious about things not being perfect that I often didn’t even start. And if things didn’t go my way the first time, I’d just give up.  

    This has been a part of me since I was a little girl. I rarely participated in sports or competitions because the idea of failing or losing scared me more than anything. While I’m not saying I’ve never accomplished anything, I’ve never truly stuck with something for the long haul—and it was a trait I despised in myself. 

    On top of that, I was bored. Not challenging myself or building something out of fear of failure left me feeling dull. I had nothing to get excited about or look forward to, apart from grabbing drinks with my friends at the bar. I poured too much energy into casual relationships with men just to fill the void.  

    But deep down, I knew I had an immense amount of creativity—I just lacked an outlet. I reached a point where I made the conscious decision to do something with my life before falling into another spiral of depression. That’s how Girl On Girl was born. Getting the idea was the easy part—I have ideas all the time. But this one felt different. It felt special, like something I needed to bring to life. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let my future self down again. I couldn’t leave her with the regret of yet another unfulfilled ambition.

    To make it happen, I had to rewire my thinking. I told myself that if I could just stick with this for a few months, something was bound to change. This time, I had to see it through.

    No matter what it was I was feeling in the moment, I was just going to do what had to be done. Any doubts or intrusive thoughts, I would put aside. If I had written it down on the to-do list, it had to be done, no matter how long it would take me. I had to make myself believe that I truly had no choice but to do these things. If there were days where I couldn’t find the strength or had any type of mental blocks, I tried to be gentle with myself and tried to be patient. I took that time to envision how I would feel once I had achieved my goals and that would instantly motivate me. I guess it worked because here we are. I wish I built this Iron Will earlier but I guess I needed time to mature and let myself down enough times to really want a change. I’ve quickly realised that there is truly no better feeling than feeling accomplished.

    2. Let’s get physical 

    I didn’t just apply the Iron Will rules to my professional life—I brought them to the gym as well. I’ve always struggled with consistency in my workouts. Motivation came easily, but sticking with it was the hard part. I realised this was because my primary reason for exercising had always been weight loss, which, while still a goal, wasn’t enough to keep me committed.  

    So, I shifted my mindset. After some reflection, I noticed how much better my mental health was when I exercised consistently. It not only improved my mood but also made my days more productive. I began to see the gym as more than just a place to strengthen my body—it was a tool to callous my mind. Doing something challenging every day gave me the confidence and momentum I needed to tackle whatever came my way. The gym became the perfect push.  

    While I enjoyed weight training, I needed something simpler to stay consistent—something I could do almost every day. That’s when I committed to the stair master. As long as I had 30 minutes to spare, I’d climb those steps. No questions asked. I made it a habit: get dressed, drive to the gym, and just do it.  

    I also set a personal rule: if I made a mental note the night before about certain exercises, I wasn’t allowed to leave the gym until I had completed them. This approach eliminated excuses and helped me build discipline, one workout at a time.

    3. Girls, Girls, Girls 

    I entered 2024 still recovering from a painful breakup—though you’ve probably noticed by now, given how much I can’t shut up about it. The last few days of 2023, including New Year’s, were spent with my closest friends, some of whom were also going through tough breakups around the same time. On the final day of the year, we ran through the streets of Paris with a bottle of champagne, dancing, hugging, and kissing each other—feeling a sense of relief and freedom from the weight of a turbulent year, celebrating the end of what felt like hell. It was a symbolically beautiful moment, reminding me that, no matter what, we always have each other. That memory stayed with me all year long, and I made it a point to prioritise and nurture my friendships, especially with other women. I even made lifelong friends along the way.

    Doing this has led me to create the most amazing memories with these girls—from my birthday celebration in Ibiza to endless beach days in Marseille, Bali, and Barcelona. There were indecent nights at dive bars in Paris and wholesome, heartwarming dinners in New York City. I recognise how blessed I am to have a circle of real friends—not an overwhelming number, but a handful of truly exceptional people I can trust blindly. These are incredibly special women, each with ambition and strong personalities that constantly inspire me to be the best version of myself.

    From a very young age, I’ve been blessed with an understanding of the importance of friendships. I grew up with best friends, and many of my childhood besties are still a significant part of my life today. For the longest time, I thought this was the norm for everyone, but over the years, I’ve realised that’s not the case. Many girls don’t have close female friendships, for various reasons, and it’s hard for me to imagine a life without them.  

    I’ve also noticed that some girls tend to prioritise romantic relationships above all else, often neglecting their friendships when they fall in love—treating their friends like placeholders until they find a partner. I’ve lost a few friends this way, and it pains me every time. What they fail to understand is that healthy friendships not only help you grow into a better version of yourself but are also one of the few types of relationships that rarely induce stress.  

    When done right, girlhood is the definition of peace. Being surrounded by genuine friends transforms even the most mundane moments into magical ones—whether it’s laughing during funny debrief sessions, lounging and rotting in your best friend’s couch, or cute girl dinners. While some may argue that these moments can also happen with a partner, I believe the connection you share with your girlfriends is truly unique.  

    With your girls, you’re understood and seen in a way that’s almost impossible to replicate with the opposite sex. You can unapologetically be yourself—no filters, no expectations. Girl time gives you space to breathe, relax, and take a break from the pressures of life, offering a type of warmth and connection that’s entirely different from what you might share with a partner or family.  

    So, I urge you: recognize the beauty and importance of your girlfriends. Don’t take them for granted. Because when your heart gets broken or someone betrays you, who will be there to pick up the pieces and help you rebuild? 

    4. Sex is over. Celibacy is in. 

    While my relationships with my girls have been nothing but fun, I can’t say the same about my experiences with the opposite sex. After my last relationship, I decided to experiment with casual relationships. I had some lovely moments, but they were usually short-lived and, more often than not, disappointing. I even found myself in a situationship that dragged on far too long and ended up breaking my heart more than any actual breakup. Let’s just say my feelings took a beating this year.  

    I tried to play the “chill girl”—a Samantha, if you will—but at heart, I’m a lover girl. I have a tendency to either get attached way too quickly if I really like someone or not care at all if I don’t. I’m just not built for hookup culture. And while I’m sure plenty of girls genuinely enjoy “situationships” or “casual relationships” (or whatever you want to fucking call them), I’ve realised they’re unsustainable and unrealistic for me. These dynamics fall apart the moment one person catches feelings.  

    When that happens, it creates a dangerous power imbalance: the person who isn’t ready to settle down holds all the cards, leaving the other vulnerable. This imbalance can push people to do or accept things that ultimately make them feel terrible. I’ve been on both sides of this, and when I notice someone getting too attached, I make it a point to walk away because I refuse to give anyone false hope—something I find many men struggle to do.  

    These relationships consumed so much of my energy and caused constant anxiety, thanks to their endless uncertainties and blurry boundaries. So, I decided to take a real break. No kissing, no flirting, not even texting for fun. I stopped posting stories for anyone to see and had no one to update about my day. The anxiety of waiting for a text was gone. Suddenly, I could hear the birds chirping, the skies cleared, and the sun shone brighter—it felt like heaven.  

    Of course, I had my moments. Occasionally, I’d get a “horny attack” and miss the feeling of touch and kisses, but those urges would pass. I had nothing to look forward to romantically, but in a way, that was freeing. I stayed strong for a few good months, with only one minor hiccup—which, in hindsight, was a needed reminder of why I started this journey in the first place.  

    Through this break, I’ve figured out what I want and don’t want in a relationship. I’ve realised that I crave real, deep connection and that anything casual doesn’t serve me. That might change with time, and maybe I’ll want something lighthearted in the future. But for now, I know what I need, and I’m committed to being more intentional about who I choose to share my time and intimacy with.

    So I have committed to a year of celibacy and hopefully I stick to it! 

    5. Brokey!! 

    I’ve never been financially responsible, which led me to live a very full and indulgent life. I drained my bank accounts on spontaneous trips, vintage clothing, and very good food. I prioritised instant pleasures and focused solely on the present moment. That mindset might work if you have a trust fund or wealthy parents backing you up—but I had neither.  

    Modelling, my first real job, gave me a skewed perspective on money. Big pay checks would roll in unpredictably, making me think that making money was easy and that it would always come when I needed it. So, I spent recklessly—sometimes working just a few times a month and never saving. When bookings slowed down, I’d find myself in tight spots, but somehow, luck always bailed me out. A random client would book me just in time to pay my rent. You’d think that would’ve been a wake-up call, but I kept repeating the cycle. I had what people call “lucky girl syndrome,” and for a while, it worked.  

    But relying on luck like that made long-term planning impossible. I couldn’t save for my future, invest in a business to create another income stream, or even build a basic safety net. I was reckless. It was all fun and games—until I discovered I’d been doing my taxes wrong for years. Suddenly, I was staring down serious financial trouble, and fixing it meant hiring accountants, which only added to my financial strain. Ever since then, I’ve been struggling to recover.  

    No one talks enough about the stress that comes with financial problems—it’s truly soul-crushing. For a long time, I felt deeply ashamed, but I eventually realised I wasn’t alone. Many people face the same struggles. And while I do sometimes regret my impulsive financial choices, I can say the memories were worth it. Those carefree moments were charming in my early twenties, but they’re not so cute as you get older.  

    Now, even though I’m still facing financial challenges, I’m actively working to fix them. I’ve made the decision to grow up and be smarter about money. I’m ready to make sacrifices now to prepare for a better, stress-free future. I’ve had enough spontaneous trips and indulgent splurges. It’s time to plan, save, and ensure that I’ll never have to worry about money like this again. Getting my girl boss boots on in 2025. 

    That sums it up, I guess. Basically, I plan on being a big girl. I’m turning the page and genuinely excited for what lies ahead. See you next year. 

    Bali, December 2024