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A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. You will get played. Point Blank Period.

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

2. Men only chase women who act like men. 

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

3. Two different worlds. 

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

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

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

Shag his friend. 

5. Shoot the shot. 

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

Talk to him. 

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

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

7. Substances and Performative Sex. 

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

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

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

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

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

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, August 2025

Virgin Slut

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Virgin Slut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishing you all a wonderful Virgin Slut summer! 

Yours,

V.B 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, July 2025

Love Me, Love Me Not.

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Love Me, Love Me Not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is a never ending cycle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V.B, Napoli, July 2025

Come Home

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Come Home

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

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

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

But you rarely do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The big fight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something always happens where you let yourself back in. 

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

That he has successfully won. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V.B, Napoli, June 2025

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

Crazy, forever.

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Crazy, forever.

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“I think we’re done here. I don’t think we need to schedule another appointment for the moment. It really feels like you’ve got it under control. I’m truly impressed by your progress. Call me if you need me, but I feel like you’re doing just fine.”

When these words came out of my therapist’s mouth, I was elated. I had been seeing this man for years, ever since I started university. He knows my life story better than anyone else. I’ve cried and cried on his couch so many times while recalling painful events from my life—him listening quietly, nodding, and then offering clarity on my actions and feelings. Hearing him say that to me almost felt better than finding out I’d graduated university after failing a few classes.

The usual post-session snack run and walk home felt like a breath of the freshest air. This is it, I’m turning the page.

Obviously, it’s not that easy. It never is.

I’ve had a few more sessions with him ever since then but much less frequently. To be honest I should go way more but I am clinging onto the fact that I already figured it out, he told me. Clinging on to the crazy-free future I imagined for myself where I’d be at peace for eternity, freed from my own brain. Going back to him now, is a reminder that it’s not going to happen and life will continue to raw dog me and that the way my brain is wired makes it more difficult to process. 

Like what the f*ck do you mean? I did the work, I deserve to waltz through life as a proud alumna with acquired skills and no longer be a sleep-deprived miserable student struggling to make it out. 

Unfortunately, it’s easier to remember that omnichannels are essential to a marketing strategy than to remember that the reason I keep running back to the something-something-aholics is because I’m apparently hellbent on proving I’m special enough to be someone’s reason to change because some fuck shit happened to me as a child. It’s fucking boring and repetitive. Yet, here I am needing to sit my ass down on that velvet couch on the verge of tears as he explains to me that I must use my mental tools to overcome whatever it is I am going through.

 “Remember the tools.” 

As a borderline personality disorder girly, I rely on these tools. All I ever wish for is going through life without having to meticulously analyse why is it I feel things intensely and then having to take a moment to deescalate if it’s not too late— and if it is, having to fix it and apologise for my impulsivity. Or having to consciously remember that people don’t just become evil because they didn’t react the way I wanted them to. That no I am not actually in love with that man I saw twice. 

It’s like watching everyone ride through life in a smooth automatic vehicle as I am having to figure out how to change the gears of a beat up 1995 Toyota Camry, hoping to God that it doesn’t stall. 

I am so tired, I could cry. 

Struggling with mental health isn’t something to be ashamed of but it can lead you to say or do things that are. My reality gets so warped sometimes that whatever I feel like saying in the moment seems valid, even insightful, until I come to and realise it wasn’t. By then, the tools and coping strategies show up too late, and I’m left looking at something I said that now feels wildly off. It’s terrifying, this moment when I realise I wasn’t thinking straight, that I’d convinced myself of things that aren’t even close to true. And I wonder: how did I get there? How was I able to take it that far? It makes me feel unhinged, like someone who should be locked away. Honestly, if anyone even remotely interested in being with me saw the inside of my mind, they’d probably run for the hills. And I wouldn’t blame them. There are days I want to run from myself too.

Still, I can acknowledge that my immediate impulses aren’t inherently dangerous—if I’m able to stop myself from acting on them. Like I often have the impulse to stalk people who’ve rejected me however I’ve very rarely acted on it and if I did it was always a healthy amount, stalking in a charming way, if you will.  But reining my impulses in when my emotions are dialled up to a hundred takes an exhausting amount of energy. It often feels like I’m one body housing two people: one, a stubborn, impulsive child; the other, a calm, patient caretaker. They’re in constant, maddening dialogue. Honestly, sometimes I just want them both to shut the fuck up or, at the very least, have Scarlett Johansson’s voice from Her narrate whatever the hell I’m doing instead.

But Scarlett’s voice will never be my reality. That’s a fat fucking pill to swallow, and I’m choking on it.

I may have been embarrassed many times from the ways I have acted however I do take great pride for trying to strengthen my coping skills without any crutches. I love being independent and always strive to be that way in every aspect. So I did stop taking my pills and believed that I could better myself. BPD has no cure so I’m better off figuring it out. And I must say I am seeing results and I do feel stronger. 

However, sometimes I do think about that one time my psychiatrist offered me to go to this “retreat” a couple of years back. I mean I know it was probably a psych ward but I won’t pretend I haven’t fantasised about it, even though the thought also terrifies me.

It actually sounded kind of nice. He described it as “rest time,” somewhere on the outskirts of Paris, with lots of trees and a big garden. A place where someone would tell me when to take my pills, when to eat, when to sleep. When I could go outside and feel the sun, and when I had to go back in. I wouldn’t have to think for myself anymore, and I’d be pleasantly numbed by medication. Maybe I’d even make a friend, someone I could sit and read with during outside time.

Maybe what I really needed then was rest. Maybe it was time to surrender a little, to let myself be tucked into bed by someone else, to give up—just a bit.

When I had meningitis and was hospitalised for ten days, I didn’t feel like I had to suck it up or push through. I was overworked, I was tired, I knew I needed rest. And weirdly, I had a great time. I wore sunglasses in my hospital bed because I was sensitive to light, and hot medical students would pop in to ask how I was doing. My biggest concerns were which YouTube video to watch next, and whether the food tray would come with yogurt. Not once did I feel like I had to be strong. 

I wish I could give myself some grace sometimes when it comes to my mental health. To trust myself enough that I will be back on my feet faster than I used to, and that I won’t be rotting in bed for 3 weeks at a time anymore. Trust in the work I’ve put in, the tools I’ve come up with to guide me through everything. That it is okay to not always be the most emotionally intelligent, to not be the bigger person, to say the right things. If sane people make mistakes and get depressed sometimes, I’m sure it’s okay for me to go through similar things too. It’s okay to feel tired and weak and sure as hell is okay to go back to therapy when needed. I am learning to accept that not everything is a straight line. 

Anyway, yeah I’ll probably be crazy forever and everyday will continue to be a fight to be more stable and there will be days I’ll be tired and will have to go back to my therapist. And then he’ll tell me again that I am doing well and I probably will be—before, of course, I come back to him again. I’m doing my best to surrender. 

Sizy always says my “condition” makes me special, that it’s not a flaw, but a gift. It means I ache for depth, crave connection, and feel everything in vivid, unrelenting colour.

There is a wild, aching beauty in this way of being. I can never quite capture it with words—how gratitude swells in me until it spills over, how joy with my friends burns so brightly it feels like the sun itself lives in me. Heartbreak doesn’t just sting; it devastates. But even in its ruin, there’s a strange sort of grace. It reminds me I’m alive, that I’m still capable of love, of longing.

And when I fall for someone, it’s not subtle. The butterflies eating me inside out. My breath catches. A velvet warmth floods through me, soft and all-consuming. 

Maybe she is right and that it just means that I am a constantly living life at its fullest, that I feel very much alive every single second. Not a single moment wasted. 

V.B, Bali, April 2025

Her Garden

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Her Garden

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Death has been a constant in my life. Unlike many my age, I have grieved many, many times—so many times, it is now a very familiar feeling. A constant reminder of how fragile life is, and, well, also an awful reminder that I have no idea what’s on the other side. Will a bearded man greet me with a warm smile, or perhaps will I land in hell where I’ll be forced to participate in orgies every single day as lava is poured all over my body, over and over again? Will I actually reincarnate as my granddaughter, or is it simply just a big ol’ void?

There’s nothing quite like grief—and it never really leaves you. When I hear that someone has died, it hits in the strangest way. At first, it’s like a tsunami—my emotions retreat quietly, draining from my body, leaving behind a heavy stillness. Then, all at once, they come crashing in: tears I can’t control, limbs that go numb. And just as suddenly, a strange calm settles in, like the eye of a storm. I stop feeling altogether. The cycle repeats until I’m wrung dry, exhausted, and hollow.

Once you’ve known grief, it never truly leaves. It lingers, settles in your bones, wraps itself around your heart, and stays. I sometimes imagine my skeleton draped in it, carrying the weight wherever I go. No matter how much time has passed since a loved one left this Earth, when they cross my mind, I feel that familiar wave: a deep sadness, a nostalgia I can’t shake. The realisation hits no matter how fiercely I miss them, I’ll never see them again. It’s like a slap to the face, softer with time, but still a slap all the same.

Death usually announces its presence in the form of a very distinctive, gut-wrenching scream—the one I heard my mum let out when my father drowned, the one she let out from the kitchen one morning before school when she was told over the phone that her brother didn’t beat cancer, or the one my uncle woke my cousins and me with in the middle of the night, when he noticed that my grandmother was no longer breathing. Every time I hear that specific scream, I know it’s here.

But sometimes, it comes very gently—a slight pinch in the heart when I say goodbye, not exactly knowing it’s the last time, but somehow I know it is and won’t accept or believe it’s going to happen. Like it was for my auntie Sasi.

I finally found the courage to fly to the U.S. after acquiring my work visa last April. My mother’s sister, whom I called Bude Sasi, had moved to the United States with her American husband and children many years ago. Not having seen her in years because she lived so far, this was the perfect occasion to see each other.

My auntie was like a walking sun—so warm. Her smile was bright, and her distinctive laugh filled any room. A laugh so powerful, so contagious—you couldn’t help but laugh with her. She had the type of timeless beauty, one that was regal almost, one you’d want to paint a portrait of. She felt so safe to me. Her voice soothed me every time she spoke. I like to think this is because she was actually the first person to ever hold me when I was born—the first to say my name to me.

My Bude Sasi had a pure heart—yes, it’s cliché, but she truly did, and you could ask anyone; no one would dare say anything negative about her. She was Good.

She was a crafty lady and loved to make things with her hands. One of my assignments as a child in school was to do a presentation on the process of paper, and part of it was recycled paper, so she showed me how to make paper maché, and I wound up with a perfect grade. She also was a wonderful and dedicated mother to two boys. Her first son was diagnosed with autism. As a child, he was a wonderful and extremely bright boy with too much love his little body could handle. He didn’t know what to do with all of it but express it with extremely tight hugs and thousands of kisses at once. Also hyperactive, he was all over the place. There were times I could see how exhausted she was, but never did she ever raise her hand on him or say things she would later regret.

She beat breast cancer once, and when I had my own scare and had to go get a biopsy, she made sure to be on the phone with me to let me know that it was all going to be okay—and she was right, all was okay. 

I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. We did keep contact, but I have always been so bad with calling my family members. But we would text and give each other updates. She would send me videos and photos of her garden, that she meticulously took care of. A garden filled with the most beautiful, bright colours—a reflection of her soul.

I hate to say this, but I was nervous to see her after so long. I feared that it would be awkward and that it wouldn’t be the same. The boys were so big now, and they probably didn’t really remember me. What if we had nothing to talk about and we just wound up having small talk? But it warmed my heart to hear how excited she sounded on the phone, and it made me feel even more terrible to feel this way. She offered to drive from Maryland to New York City because the Amtrak tickets were really expensive and I couldn’t afford them. She told me that she hoped she’d have the energy because her medication had been really tough on her. That’s when I found out that she had cancer again—and this time, it had spread.

I tried to keep it together on the phone and told her I was sure that she was going to be okay. I got off the phone and stared out the window, looking at the view of Turtle Bay, when my vision became blurry and the tears started to pour down my face. I sobbed and sobbed. I called my mum and asked her if she knew, and she told me she did and was sorry that she didn’t tell me—she just assumed I already did.

We were only able to finally see each other on my last day in New York. It was rainy and gloomy. I had trouble finding them—Times Square being so busy, like usual. But then there she was, with the same bright and warm smile. She could never be a stranger to me. How could she ever be?
She held my face in her hands—she couldn’t believe how much I had grown and how beautiful I had turned out. She looked radiant; no one could have ever guessed she was fighting cancer. Her familiar laugh instantly awakened the child that was resting inside me.

My uncle had not changed much at all—it’s like the two of them kept each other young.
However, my baby cousins had grown a whole lot. Those little toddlers were now young men with deep voices. The eldest, who once always used to hug me so very tight and never wanted to let go, now gave me a swift hug.

We decided on a Korean restaurant for lunch. She sat quietly in front of me as my uncle and cousins asked me questions about what I had been up to. She’d occasionally say some things, but she mainly sat there smiling and eating. The meal was a seafood stew and hot rice—warm and comforting for a cold day.

We walked around Times Square, under the rain. It was the first time I had been back since 2009, when I screeched out of excitement at the amount of limos there were, and felt pure euphoria entering the Toys R Us building—thinking that I finally knew what the American Dream was. We went into the M&M’s building, and I felt disappointed that I no longer felt the same excitement I felt the first time. A cruel reminder that time has passed and that I am now grown.

We decided to go on the free ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. The sun was setting, and a beautiful orange hue poured into the ferry’s interior. Her head rested on her husband’s shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. An expression of deep gratitude and calm written on her face, like that moment was all she ever wished for. He gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead, like he already knew how she felt. A wave of sadness struck me in that moment.

We finished the day off with an all-American dinner at an all-American diner. I do not recall what we were talking about, but I just remember feeling upset that it had taken us all these years to have such a wonderful meal together. How eager I was to see her again, to be close to her, and how proud I am to be her niece. I hugged her tight and told her that I would be back in the U.S. soon and that I was looking forward to seeing her garden.

We spoke during the summer, here and there. At this point, she was starting stronger medication that she told me was tough on her. But, as always, she remained extremely positive. She asked me to pray for her—to make it through, that this was going to cure it all. And I did. Even though I wasn’t sure who it was I was asking, I asked them to please give her the chance to come home and reunite with her family in the country that she loved so much. To let her see her sons grow and thrive. To give her more time in that beautiful garden of hers.

But, I tried my best to bite my tongue and not curse the sky and ask: how could they ever give a good person such a cruel and merciless disease? How could they give it to someone who would have never deserved to feel so much pain and suffering, someone who had dedicated her life to the happiness of others? Dedicated so much time at church to help the homeless?

If God is real and good, how could he watch her cry at the doctor’s office time and time again? Watch her get chemo and feel sick afterwards? Put her in a position where she couldn’t be with the rest of her family?

It was the end of the Indian Summer. I had spent a couple of weeks by the water in Nova Scotia to reset. As I was on the way to the airport to board a flight to Toronto before eventually flying back to Paris, I booked a last-minute modelling job in New York. Before I knew it, I was back in Manhattan. I was exhausted but made it on set on time the next day. As I was getting my hair and makeup done, I received a text from my uncle telling me that my auntie’s condition had worsened. She was no longer conscious. I called him, and he just told me that he didn’t know if she was going to make it this time and that he thought it would be a good idea for me to hop on a train to Maryland.

It may have been the hardest shoot I have ever worked on. It was one of those super smiley and happy shoots. So I smiled and smiled for hours on end while trying to keep it together as my heart sank deeper and deeper into my stomach. I booked my train tickets the next day.

I don’t think I fully gauged the situation by the time I boarded the Amtrak train. All I could think about to distract myself was how, when I was nine, my mum and I were leaving the Hamptons to go to New York, and when I boarded the train, the doors shut—leaving my mum on the platform. The story made it into the local papers because, for the first time ever, a train had come back to pick a person up. 

It was a peaceful and quiet ride. I had assembled a comforting meal for myself for the ride, a mix of sushi and my favourite American gummy candies. I put one of my comfort shows as I drifted in and out of sleep. The soft white noise of the train lulled me, and I struggled to stay awake. I figured that I subconsciously was taking care for myself because I was going through it all alone, my mind was trying to protect from any anxiety or fear I was experiencing. I have always found how fascinating it is that the brain is able to protect you from yourself at difficult times. 

Suddenly, I received a text from my cousin asking me to please give her condolences to my uncle and the kids. I think what happened is that everybody didn’t want to tell me that she had passed because they knew I was travelling to see her and didn’t want me to freak out, but my cousin wasn’t informed. And there it was again—the weird silence, the numbness. The beaches drained, getting ready for the big waves to come in full force. I think I was kind of in denial for the whole ride until Washington D.C. I just focused on making my way to her, and I knew I couldn’t do it if I got too emotional.

I am, to this day, so surprised at how calm I was when I called my uncle to say that I was sorry for his loss. He asked me how long it would take me to arrive so he could ask the hospital to keep her in her room so that I could say goodbye. I thought it was so thoughtful and kind that he would request such a thing for me, but I didn’t know if I could bear seeing her dead. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted my last memory of her to be of her on her deathbed. However, I also couldn’t refuse to see her. 

I was picked up by my Uber, a gentle Jamaican man who tried to make small talk with me, but I think he quickly saw that I was not in the headspace to speak, so we drove silently for two hours. My tears eventually came flooding, but I was trying my best to make no noise so that the driver wouldn’t hear me. When we pulled up, I think he knew I wouldn’t want him to acknowledge that I was hurting so he just told me to “have a blessed day”. 

I felt scared, disoriented, and frankly nervous at the thought of seeing her. I made it to the lobby and waited until it was my turn to speak to the lady at the desk.
“Hi darling, what can I do for you?”
At that moment, I broke down. There I was, in this semi-empty hospital lobby with my three bags, bawling my eyes out. The lady at the counter was taken aback by my reaction.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, my aunt just passed here and I’m trying to find out where she is.”
“Could you give me her full name so that we can find her quickly for you?”

And in that moment, I realised that I didn’t know what her full name actually was. Indonesians don’t have family names—the names are just composed of multiple first names. I just didn’t know if she had taken my uncle’s last name after getting married, or in what order her names were in. Another painful reminder that we had been apart for so long, so long that I had forgotten her name. Thankfully, my uncle came downstairs to find me at that exact moment. I ran into his arms, and we sobbed for a little bit. He expressed that as much as he was saddened by her leaving us, he was relieved that she had finally found peace after such a long time of suffering.

When we made it to the floor, the first person I saw was the eldest son. He was calm and composed—the last thing I ever thought he would be based on how he was as a child. He dropped the bags he was carrying to the car and took me in his arms, repeatedly telling me how sorry he was for my loss. He had just lost his mother, and here he was, sorry for my loss. He was the one comforting me. She will never truly be gone, as long as these boys were here, her kind heart and ways lived on through them.

I finally made it to the room and didn’t expect the number of people that would be in there. A whole bunch of Indonesian ladies greeted me—I didn’t even know there were this many Indonesians in Maryland. She didn’t quite look like her normal self. She looked at peace though, like a deep sleep after a very long day. I tried to hold her hand, but I feared it’d suddenly go cold. So I just kneeled by her side and cried. I spoke to her through my thoughts in hopes that she would hear me, and I apologised for the fact that I didn’t make it in time. I apologised for not coming to see her garden sooner and that we didn’t get the chance to do all the things we wanted to do. I was sorry that she didn’t make it home and that her family was so far away. That I loved her, oh so very much.

It was time to go. One of her wishes before she passed was for my uncle to enjoy himself and take some time off from taking care of her, so she asked him to go to a concert. The concert ended up being that night. So the kids and I drove back to the house by ourselves. I sat in the back. The eldest drove. It was silent in the car until he finally broke it by telling his younger sibling that it was “okay to cry and to let it out, but Mum wouldn’t want you to be sad for long. As much as I am going to miss her, I am glad she can finally properly rest.”

The same orange hue from the last day I spent with her filled the car—it was a beautiful drive home, with big trees lining the quiet and windy roads.

I spent a few days in her home and was finally able to see her garden in person. I sat on the swing as my cousin read a book right beside me. I imagined how she would show me around and talk to me in detail about the flowers and the way to properly care for them. I imagined her delicate hands cupping one of them gently as she gave me that big, bright smile of hers.
“I’m glad you could make it, Nduk.”

V.B, Jakarta, April 2025

Sometimes, I wish I could fuck my bed

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Sometimes, I wish I could fuck my bed

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Sometimes I wish I could fuck my bed. Not in a weird way. Not like, “Oh my God, this memory foam is so sexy.” No. I mean it in the way that if my bed were a person, I would marry it immediately. I would drop to one knee and say, “You have seen me at my worst, and yet you have never left me. You have never judged me. You have never told me to calm down. Make me the happiest woman in the world. Let’s make this official.”

Because my bed has been there through everything. The 2 a.m. breakdowns, the “I swear I’m just resting my eyes” six-hour naps, the nights I’ve dramatically thrown myself  and hurled into melodramatic despair because somebody with the respect of a man who calls women females dared to breathe in my direction. It has absorbed the tears, the raged indignation, the existential crises, and—most impressively—the avalanche of crumbs from so many fucking snacks.

Think about it: my bed has borne witness to every stage of my mental decline. It has caught me after tragic crushes, terrible haircuts, and the soul-crushing realization that I have, yet again, procrastinated a major assignment until the last possible second. It has witnessed me cry over things that logically, don’t deserve tears, but still feel like the end of the world in the unforgiving stillness of the night. It has held me through stomach aches, breakdowns, my marathon-like binges of Orange Is the New Black, my devilish period, people who’ve fucked me over, and those occasional humiliating nights where I suddenly remember something insanely embarrassing I did in school the other week.

And let’s not forget my beds role as an unwitting curator of my messes. The way my bed airs out my dirty laundry; literally. My pink frilly bras sprinkled across it like fallen soldiers. Random objects? Lost to the abyss, never to be seen again—until I finally get my ass to make the bed, and unearth a hair tie, a spoon, and my favorite pair of socks I swore were gone forever. And does my bed ever complain? No. It holds onto my things like a pirate hoarding treasure, even if half of them end up buried beneath the entirely unnecessary amount of pillows I insist on keeping because “it’s cute!” My bed just accepts its fate, knowing full well that no matter how much of a mess I make, I’ll still come crawling back, completely unapologetic, acting like I’m the one doing it a favor. What a cuntbag I can be huh?

And let’s talk about loyalty. Unlike certain people, my bed has never ghosted me, never left me on read, never made me feel like I was asking for too much. My bed is consistent. It’s not out here saying “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now” while fully expecting me to sleep in it every night. No, my bed is committed. And honestly? That’s more than I can say for most people.

And yet, despite all it does for me, I never appreciate it enough. I use it. I throw myself onto it dramatically, whisper “I hate everyone and everything” into my pillow, scream like a banshee into it, probably leaving its ears ringing if they had a pair, and then go about my day like it didn’t just support my entire existence, and the weight of the person I am. I don’t say thank you. I don’t even acknowledge its sacrifices. Which, now that I think about it, is probably how my boyfriend feels when he picks me up after my merciless rage-filled bitchfits I have about the most minute things that I swear test me every single day. (shout out to you, babe!)

But here’s the thing: it’s not just about my bed. It’s about all the things that hold us up without getting any credit. Women, mostly. Moms, sisters, best friends who text you “he’s literally so ugly” when you need it the most. The ones who let you fall apart, who hold your weight without asking for anything in return. Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about my mattress. Because in a world that persistently demands me to be smaller, to be quieter, to be easier—my bed says, “Nah. Collapse. I got you.”

And honestly? That’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.

Kika. Bali, March 2025

Death to the Cool Girl

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Death to the Cool Girl

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Right after my most recent break up, I had my “I just want to have fun and keep things light” phase which meant me dating multiple people and not expecting anything serious. I wanted to be the Cool Girl: free, spontaneous and maybe a little reckless but like, in a hot way. You’d think I would have learned something from watching the iconic Gone Girl monologue about this very topic, but I guess not. This is also obviously an interesting decision for a lover girl like myself— someone who at their core, values deeper connections, enjoys giving her attention to one person and seeks love. But I was tired of being vulnerable and brave— putting my heart out there just to get hurt. However, I also wasn’t ready to be fully left alone. So this casual dating situation, I thought, could be a good middle ground.  Fully ignoring my BPD diagnosis, I told myself that since my feelings were mine that meant I could have control over them. That if I set clear boundaries and explicitly expressed them, I would be good to go for short lived romance filled with lust and cute stories to tell my friends.

I was committed to be the Cool Girl, a man eater. I had to be chill. I had to kill the cry baby bitch in me. This girl doesn’t give a fuck about anything. She treats sex like a man— it’s just physical, it doesn’t have to be deep. She’s so free, her hair is always blowing in the wind, I picture her in biker boots and cut off shorts. She cuts her own hair and she’d look hot bald. Most importantly, she has full control, you’re not using her, she’s using you. This is modern feminism right? She’s reclaimed the power, men are here for HER pleasure. No more cute gestures, no more hand written notes or morning messages— Cool Girl has no time for that shit. 

After my pseudo mental metamorphosis, I put myself out there. I tried dating apps, speaking to people more, I even gave out my number the old fashion way— written with a dull lip liner on a piece of cigarette paper. I did feel liberated at first and excited, it was a new era. I was exploring new parts of the city while on dates and learning about things I wouldn’t necessarily be curious about on my own. I was confronted by different personalities and opinions which I found super stimulating. I’ve even reconnected with old flames from my high school days, which was sweet. Even though our lives have changed so much and we’ve all grown up, a bit of that teenage spirit still lingers when we reunite.


We could say that I did have fun and I did provide the girls with fun stories. But I cut ties with most of these guys quite fast, swiftly moving on to the next thing— unable to be entertained by anything that didn’t constantly keep me on my toes. I knew that it was commonly said that slow and steady and even sometimes boring can be signs of a healthy relationship but I was not in a place to build anything at the time, I was chasing a thrill. However, I carried the hope of finding The One with me, tucked away somewhere in my heart, but obviously I couldn’t admit this to myself because I was Cool Girl now. She doesn’t believe in love like that. 

Obviously, my fabricated desire of wanting only meaningless and casual relationships attracted truly emotionally unavailable men. And these type of men were always able to keep me on the edge of my seat, so I kept them around longer than the rest. They were clearly so uninterested in anything serious at first which made me feel comfortable, nothing real could happen, surely they won’t break my heart, I thought. We would keep things light, go on fun dates here and there. Then there would be a shift— the talks got deeper and we’re sharing intimate details about each other’s lives, forehead kisses and sleepovers. I liked it, I was not alone but I was still free. I felt like I could handle this, easy work for Cool Girl. So we’d keep this dynamic up but as a fake emotionally detached person, I slowly but surely still grew attached. I naturally would not admit this to myself. Then came the infamous ‘What are we doing?’ talk, where I had to ignore the pinching sensation in my heart as they told me they weren’t looking for anything serious. ‘Me neither,’ I’d say.

One faithful day, they’ve gotten bored. Now only text me whenever they’ve got nothing else to do, multiple cancelled dates, see them maybe a couple times a month. Because I mean, no strings attached right? They don’t owe me shit, doesn’t matter if they’ve looked at me and stroked my face like I was the love of their lives a couple of weeks ago, we said we were nothing serious! 

I had to act like it didn’t bother me when they’d only reach out only once in a while. Punish myself for wanting to do a kind gesture for someone I’ve grown to care for because for some reason caring is a sign of weakness now. Sometimes, I would slip up and the regret I would feel for being nice would eat me alive. I told myself I wasn’t standing on business enough, I had to keep the ice in my heart cold. God forbid if I messaged first or double texted. I had to keep the communication short and dry, I couldn’t sound too eager. As somebody who pays attention to details and romanticises everything, I forced myself to believe that things I would consider special weren’t special anymore. 

Before I knew it, the vines of my disregarded feelings have taken over, wrapping around me in a chokehold. I am fighting for my life over a story like. Social media posts are more calculated, messages triple checked by three different girlfriends. Long walks to try forget that it’s been weeks since I’ve seen them. Who are they seeing now? Who will they leave for? 

Nothing feels light and casual anymore. The hope I kept in my heart has come out of hiding, I’ve finally been able to admit to myself that I want them to be mine. However, the Cool Girl way to go about things is to not communicate about her feelings, Cool Girl is patient and believes that her coolness will somehow change his mind. I’ll have to keep everything bottled up and make sure nothing spills over. My feelings will scare them off, they can’t know. I can’t have them leave me because having them just a little bit is better than not having them at all. I’m trying to keep up with them, wonder how it is they can say or do things that make it really fucking seem they have feelings for me but truly have none. I try to analyse everything they say to me, hang on to any signs that they might finally like me back. I feel delusional, crazy and silently desperate. Cling on to the idea of what we could be together if they just saw how fucking cool I can be, hoping that the next time they’d see me they’ll look at me differently. I may have been indoctrinated by romcoms where men always change their minds and finally realise that she was the one all along. I’ve learned that it can happen however always a little too late when we’ve already gotten the ick. 

No matter how hard I tried to keep up, I failed to grasp one simple truth—this is just who they are. Careless and nonchalant isn’t an act for them; it comes effortlessly. While I’m drowning in heartache, for them, it’s just another Tuesday.

At the end of the day, the Lover Girl in me always wins the battle and after a long and painful fight, Cool Girl dies— leaving my true self wounded, drained and tired. I’ve tried going against my nature so many times and at different stages of my life. Building unnecessary walls that don’t end up protecting me from getting hurt anyway, just killing me slower. Maybe it’s time to embrace the Lover Girl in me. Life is filled with pain and rejection anyway, might as well make it as romantic as it can be. 

I’ll remember their favourite ice cream flavour and bring it the next time I see them. Every birthday gift will come with a five-page handwritten note, filled with all my favourite quirks about them. Every special moment will be commemorated with a keepsake, safely tucked away in a box. Every kiss, truly cherished. Every feeling, expressed loud and proud. 

Ready for BIG FAT ROMANCE. 

Vahine Blaise. Gili Air, March 2025

The Never-Ending Peril of Smart Women

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The Never-Ending Peril of Smart Women

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They say, lay just beneath the surface.

Don’t ever let yourself bubble up over the pot.

Fuck you.

I’ll burn the kitchen down.

Better than anyone? Definitely not.

Smarter? Well…

And that’s where I always stop myself. God, can I get any more up my own fucking ass?

They all love us girls like they love their tea—sweet, smooth, quiet, and preferably piqued to their own liking. I, however, am an espresso martini—bitter, cold, and practically no different everywhere I’m served. I like to think I have fully caffeinated thoughts—controversial in their benefits but still pretty enjoyable in the mornings right after you wake up.

There is a very thin, hate-threaded line between being impressive and being annoying.

And apparently, I pole-vaulted that contradiction the minute I hit middle school. Before I turned 12, older people would gawk and awe over intelligence.

“Oh! You’re such a smart little girl!”

They’d laugh and ruffle the top of my head like I was a particularly obedient and talented dog. But then, one fateful day at the school lunch tables, I corrected one of my guy friends on something he said, and suddenly, it was, “Well, actually, it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

It isn’t. He’s just wrong.

I’ve learned that being a smart girl is like protesting through a microphone, screaming obscenities—people only like it when you’re saying exactly what they want to hear. Otherwise, they reach for the big red button, and it’s the same fire drill all over again.

“Don’t be difficult.” “Don’t overthink it.” “Stop being a smart-ass.” But holy shit, I can’t stand it. I refuse to act like an airhead just to protect the comfort of people who aren’t even that fucking bright to begin with.

We are so charming until we become inconvenient. Teenage boys have been the death of me, but then again, what can I expect? I’m 16. My love life throughout high school so far has been nothing short of a series of boys who—beyond my knowledge at the time—were at a constant, silent war with my intelligence, one-upping me any chance they got. I’ve always wondered why. Because these are the same boys who claim they’re so fucking done with these dumb bitches, yet the moment they stumble upon a girl who actually challenges them, who refuses to shrink herself into something easy to digest, they panic. How do you not starve?

They score exactly what they wanted—a girl with wit, depth, and something real to say—and then lose the ball so badly it’s almost funny. They crumble, not because they’re incapable of keeping up, but because they never actually planned to. The idea of a woman having any proficiency over them in any way, shape, or form absolutely shatters them. It’s not that they wanted intelligence; they wanted the illusion and luxury of it—something tame, something they could claim as a trophy but never actually have to compete with.

And so the game begins all over again, almost like a well-known children’s story—cutting me down in conversations, dismissing my thoughts with a scoff or a smirk. They don’t argue to debate; they argue to exhaust. Ugh. And when they finally realize they can’t outmaneuver me, that I’m not something to be conquered, they don’t just walk away. They rewrite the narrative. Suddenly, I’m too much.

Too opinionated, too stubborn, too sharp, too unwilling to let them win a game we were all destined to lose anyway. Give me a break.

It’s almost poetic, really. They spend their lives praying for a girl with brains and then act like they’ve been cursed when they find one. Sue me for it.

I think it is so bizarre how young girls are taught to be patient, understanding, and nurturing toward emotionally immature boys. The idea that if you love him enough, he’ll change. But in reality, no amount of patience or love can force growth on somebody who refuses to see you as an equal—chalking it up to some twisted, ego-centered idea that we’re all just victims of the Dunning-Kruger effect. As pretty as we are, we’re no accessories. Why oil the roads to keep me slow and steady? Keep the fuck up.

And then there are the ones who think they’re different. The ones who call themselves feminists, who roll their eyes at the toxic masculinity of other boys as if they’re above it, who tell me I’m “so smart” and “so strong” with just a little too much strange surprise in their voice. The ones who like to claim they “respect intelligent women” but only as long as that intelligence is convenient for them—agreeable, palatable, something they can nod along to like their favorite song, without ever feeling threatened.

These are the ones who will repost Instagram infographics about gender equality but still interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. The ones who will tweet about how much they love women’s rights but still laugh along when their friends make degrading jokes about us. The ones who say, “I would never date a girl who isn’t smart.” Make it make sense, please!

It’s a subtle game, one that inevitably plays out under our noses. A trivial dismissal of my ideas in a group discussion, followed by him repeating the exact same point five minutes later like it’s brand new. A quiet shift in tone when I correct him—suddenly, I’m “argumentative,” “overanalyzing,” “taking things too seriously.” A self-satisfied smirk when I call something out because, of course, I’m one of those girls. A performative acknowledgment of my frustration, but still—zero. fucking. change.

And yet, if I call it exactly what it is—if I point out the blatant hypocrisy, the way their feminism only extends as long as it isn’t “cringey and gay” to their friends—I become the evil super-villain. I’m “too harsh.” I should “be grateful” that they’re even trying. But that’s just it, isn’t it? They don’t want to change. They just want credit for claiming they have. And to add that men only get worse as you get older; they grow older, but they don’t grow up—just trade school desks for office chairs, teenage arrogance for adult condescension, and playground taunts for boardroom dismissals. The tactics evolve, but the game stays the same.

So what now? Do I shrink myself down into something digestible? Smile and nod, let them win debates they didn’t even earn, let them pretend I’m less so they can feel like more?

Yeah. No.

And there we have it, the never ending peril of smart women. 

–

I’m not here to coddle egos or hand out gold medals for the bare minimum. Consider that maybe the real problem isn’t my tone, but really just the truth of it. If your first instinct is to be upset rather than self-reflect… I’ll hold your hand while I tell you this…

Kika. Bali, March 2025