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The Elephant

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The Elephant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025

Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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

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

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

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

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

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Germination

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

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

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

I dreamed of teenage romance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, I went up with him.

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

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Anthesis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Phototropism 

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

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

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

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

And now, here we were again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did too.” He calmly responded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have guest list?”

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“Do you have guest list?”

Home » men

It was 2019 and my first year as a fashion marketing student. I had waited 40 minutes in front of Le Rouge with my friends in the cold. A club in the red-light district of Pigalle. They eventually all gave up and went home. I still don’t know why I stayed. The crowd around the entrance was huge and growing, with people shoving each other and waving their hands to get the attention of someone they barely knew, who was already inside, pleading for help to get in. Girls stood at the front, their almost naked bodies pressed against the cold metal bars that separated them from the rigid, stern bouncers, who didn’t even look at them when they tried to speak. It all made me uncomfortable. I hated looking at the anxious eyes, so eager, ready to leave anyone behind just to get in. I didn’t like how it felt like their lives depended on these nights. Yet, they were all so well-dressed, in elaborate outfits. Something I had always deeply appreciated about the youth in Paris. They looked beautiful and desperate, like those Renaissance paintings of women staring into the divine light.  

But what did I expect? It was the Casablanca party, after all, the coolest brand at the time. And not just that, every fashion girl could attest that they also had the most beautiful casting. Gorgeous boys draped in silky fabrics with a tasteful touch of femininity that made them look like wealthy angel boys on a summer vacation. As a newcomer in Paris, experiencing sexual freedom for the first time, I had already had flings with at least four of them, (unintentionally, I promise). I even ended up dating one and quickly learned they were all just beautiful stoners and drug addicts with a weird fixation on new-age spirituality. They loooved that I came from a place like Bali. It was as if I were a deity to them, just because I was born on the Island of Gods. But that didn’t mean I was treated like one all the time, I was still just one of the many girls they seduced and used. They eagerly spoke to me about the meaning of life, sharing thoughts I’d had since I was eleven and then proceed to give me the most mediocre sex of my life. I’ve noticed that male models despite having one of the most superficial jobs are often the ones searching for deeper truths. Maybe it’s because they have more time to look for answers.   

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. Then again, I rarely do at fashion events. Surrounded by influencers dressed in designer, flawlessly glammed by professionals, not a hair out of place, I couldn’t help but compare. They looked so polished, almost plastic, like if I ran a finger across their skin, it would squeak. As if they weren’t real at all—just computer-generated, 3D-printed straight from some high-tech machine. 

And why is everyone so fucking skinny?  

Suddenly, the hairstyle I had worked so hard on felt off, making my forehead look even bigger. No setting spray was strong enough. My eyeliner had already started melting. My outfit? Mediocre at best. Meanwhile, they stepped out of their sleek black vans, parting the crowd like Moses, and vanished in seconds behind the doors.

What was waiting on the other side?

I waited for London Man—a friend and one of those people who effortlessly got in anywhere, no matter where or what the event was. A true socialite who always looked put together in intricate layers, Rick Owens shoes, and a distinct scent that filled my nostrils to the brim when he embraced me. He has soft voice that constantly made me have to ask him to speak up. A posh accent with an elevated vocabulary, sprinkled with just the right amount of London slang, making it a pleasant balance. And, of course, very successful with women—I, too, had once been a victim of his charm. I usually do not keep past lovers around but we really get along, so we’ve remained good friends. 

My anxiety was eating me alive. He was taking what felt like hours to meet me. I was used to feeling uneasy in big crowds, especially at fashion events, but this time felt different. I was physically shaking, like my body knew this wasn’t for me. I stepped back from the crowd and waited impatiently. The “me” now would have left, but I guess, at the time, this was something I needed to do—to experience.  

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted my crush, the one who would eventually become my first-ever boyfriend. But of course, I didn’t know that yet. He had just returned from four months in Tokyo, where he had been working as a model. We had started seeing each other a month or so before he found out he had to leave. I had taken a liking to him maybe a little faster than usual. We were sitting by the canal in the 19th arrondissement on a very sunny afternoon, after picking me up from class when he broke the news. I faked a smile and told him I was happy for him.

We had kept in contact until he ghosted me for a while, which hurt my feelings. He had left me in the dark after I had opened up to him. I was freshly 19 and far more sensitive back then, so it felt like my world was crumbling. But, of course, he came back—like they all do—and apologised for his lack of communication. Me, being young and naive, took him back. We got together almost a year later when he finally wanted to commit. We proceeded to start a relationship filled with grudges, resentment, and deep passion.

London Man finally arrived, accompanied by a posse of beautiful women. He took me by the hand—he, too, held the same power as the influencers and effortlessly made his way through the crowd. He spoke to the bouncers briefly, and as planned, they let us in. The club was soaked in a deep, blood-red hue. The floors shook from the heavy bass of trap music blaring from massive speakers, as if thousands of lost souls trapped underground were desperately trying to claw their way to the surface. Sweaty bodies bumped and ground against each other in every direction. A true depiction of Hell.

London Man ran off to greet everyone he knew, which was half the club. While I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. I saw a few familiar faces and tried to avoid them at all costs — people I recognised from Instagram, where we follow each other but somehow never acknowledge each other in real life. Yet, we know exactly where the other vacationed that summer from our stories. Or the boys who’ve been talking to a wall in my DMs for months, endlessly sliding up to my stories, only to avoid eye contact the moment we’re in the same room. My anxiety was getting worse, especially in the heat, and small talk with people I barely knew was the last thing I wanted to engage in. Although, for once, everyone looked like they were having a good time. Except for a few pouty girls sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones. Maybe it was because, this time, people were already intoxicated and had let loose. Because most fashion events are just people looking at each other, yet collectively trying to hide the fact that they are. A look I would come to recognise at every fashion week event. It was evasive yet subtly charged, as if they didn’t want to be caught looking but fully expected to be watched. Their expressions were unnatural, like the practiced poses models hold during a shoot. Calculated yet effortlessly detached. It forever unsettles me that we collectively choose to look cold and standoffish instead of warm and welcoming. Why is that?

I pushed through the crowd toward the bathrooms. I don’t know why I thought I could be alone and catch a breath there, because once again, I found myself waiting in line.  

The timing couldn’t have been worse—my crush was leaving the bathroom at that exact moment. We locked eyes. I gave him a small smile, and he gave me a big one.  “Hey! It’s so nice seeing you here!” He was clearly intoxicated. Normally quiet and a little timid, he was nothing like that now. “Come near the speakers later!” he shouted before running off.  I felt uneasy about how he spoke to me, like we were just casual friends. Like we hadn’t shared something special. Like he hadn’t already made me cry. But I was happy to see him nonetheless, so I went and found him near the speakers. We tried to talk over the music, but it was nearly impossible to hear. I was nervous, I always was around him. Someone once told me that the intense butterflies in your stomach eventually fade after your teenage years. I believe he was probably the last person I ever felt them with.  

The conversation was awkward—stupid questions like, “How was Japan?” and “What have you been up to in Paris?” We were constantly interrupted by people congratulating him on the show. I felt like a burden. I thought he felt like he had to stay with me out of guilt because of how he treated me, and nothing made me feel more embarrassed than knowing that someone felt bad for me. We sat next to each other without saying anything. A massive elephant was in the room, but this was not the place and time to address it. Having nothing to say made me nervous, but he made me so anxious that I had nothing to say. Looking back, I didn’t know why I stayed around, why I thought the night was going to get better. I didn’t know what could’ve changed my state of mind, maybe my friends would miraculously show up and make it through the gates of hell, but those chances were so slim. And I had hoped he would suggest leaving the party together, going for a walk, catching up to talk about what had changed in Japan. Maybe we would kiss somewhere under the yellow streetlights. But he was enjoying his time and was too drunk to care. I told myself that perhaps I should get an overpriced drink at the bar to loosen up. It took me another 20 minutes to get a vodka cran. Not only was it packed, but I was also met with passive-aggressive bartenders, which didn’t help with the way I was already feeling. Of course, that one drink didn’t do much, and I was a student with a budget. I was miserable and finally admitted to myself that the night wasn’t going to get any better. So, I swiftly said goodbye to London Man while he was getting a lap dance from a drunk model, grabbed my coat, and went outside. The fresh air hit my face, and I felt like I could breathe again.

The more I attended parties, the more I yearned to be one of the effortlessly cool fashion kids. The ones you’re never quite sure what they do, yet they’re always there. They seem to know everyone in the industry, traveling to all the fashion capitals every season, staying in luxurious hotels, and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and important figures. They carry an air of belonging, exuding confidence in every space they step into.  

I was too fixated on the wrong aspects of fashion—the superficial rather than the art. I kept telling myself that in time, once I started working and made more friends in the industry, I’d feel more at ease in those spaces. That I’d master the art of dressing, of walking into any event with grace and confidence. But that wasn’t necessarily the case.  

I did eventually start working, and I did meet some of the most inspiring creatives. I traveled the world for work, interned, and wrote for brands I once admired from afar. My personal style evolved (thank God). I no longer had to sneak into parties, pretending to be a fashion buyer or someone I wasn’t. Yet, despite all of this, the feeling of being out of place never fully disappeared. There are still moments when I feel incredibly uncomfortable, battling major imposter syndrome. No matter how prominently my name appears on invitations or how much I’ve earned my place at the table, I rarely feel good enough. And doing my best to work on it. 

But with time and growth, I’ve come to realise that, in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. Don’t get me wrong, the heart of the industry is beautiful, built by creative geniuses who pour their souls into their craft, bringing breathtaking designs and visuals to life. But everything surrounding it? Mostly fluff, designed to create an illusion of importance. And understanding this has been liberating. I’ve slowly taken a step back from that world. I still work in it, but I’m not as deeply involved as I once was. As I transition toward new pursuits, I find myself looking back on those days—days that now feel like a lifetime ago. And I can’t help but feel for my younger self, who just wanted to belong.  

I wish I could tell her that she would find her people in fashion. The ones who would never make her feel out of place.

Bali, January 2025

Save The Boy.

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Save The Boy.

Home » men

Trump captured the support of young male voters in the 2024 U.S. elections, partly due to the influence of “manosphere” content creators. Figures like Joe Rogan, Adin Ross, the Paul Brothers, and Theo Von were uniquely effective in connecting with this demographic. Meanwhile, the Left struggled to resonate with young men and address issues important to them.  

A key topic of discussion has been the epidemic of male loneliness. Increasingly, men report feeling isolated and deeply depressed, driven by challenges such as difficulty forming meaningful connections, societal stigmas around expressing emotions, and a growing sense of purposelessness. The shift in gender roles also plays a role—men are no longer the sole breadwinners, as more women graduate and begin out-earning men, leading to a perceived loss of traditional identity and relevance.  

Masculinist content creators provide hope for young men who feel emasculated and insecure in a world where they often experience rejection and lack a clear sense of direction. Many blame feminism and “wokeness” for their struggles, believing these movements have stripped them of their power. However, the true cause may lie more in systemic issues like capitalism.  

I am not here to speak on American politics. But, I do have a 14 year old brother. 

I was watching a Max Bernstein YouTube video on the topic when pure panic took over me. I realised how little my mother and his dad monitored the media my brother consumes online. My parents never did with me. But what if my brother got pulled into the Red Pill community? What if he started consuming incel content and slowly became a raging misogynist, wishing harm upon women and seeing us as lesser beings? It sounds far-fetched—but not entirely. Indoctrination doesn’t discriminate. People from all backgrounds have fallen victim to harmful ideologies.  

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve gone to school with them, partied with them, called them my friends. Many of us had access to top-tier education. Our teachers constantly encouraged us to fact-check, taught us about propaganda, and explained the tools used to manipulate and persuade. Yet, I’ve seen those same people post absurd Instagram stories, overheard them say deeply questionable things about women, even down to admitting acts of sexual assault. Thousands of dollars spent on private education—undone by a few YouTube videos.  

In a panic, I texted my brother and asked him which content creators he liked watching online. He was confused and asked why. I said, “I’m writing a paper on influencers.” Being a teenage boy and not particularly interested in my work, he gave me a list. Thankfully, it didn’t concern me, and for a brief moment, I felt relieved.  

But that relief was short-lived. I knew things could change at any time. And what could I do to stop it? What could I, as his sister—a woman—do to ensure he wouldn’t end up hating me and all people of my gender?  

I thought about having those talks with him or monitoring his online activity myself, but I worried it might backfire. I recognise that I’m a misogynist’s worst nightmare—opinionated, headstrong, and unapologetic. Without my looks, I’d probably be a man-repellent, tolerated only by the strongest of the species, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But I might be too intense for a teenage boy who’s still figuring out who he is.  

I’m far too passionate about these issues. I know I’d end up word-vomiting all over him, covering him in big words, studies, theories, and statistics that would overwhelm him. Instead of engaging, he’d want to shrug it all off, to wash away everything I said. I’d take up too much space to actually help. I annoyed the hell out of my male peers in class, constantly keeping them in check, debating every issue, and standing up against sexist comments or behaviour. They found me absolutely insufferable.

The last thing I wanted was for my anxiety and paranoia to take over, leading me to overprotect my brother and suffocate him. I feared pushing him further away with my feminist tirades and relentless scrutiny, leaving him feeling ashamed of his masculinity. I didn’t want him to carry the burden of all men’s wrongdoings or grow tired of the constant feeling that he was inherently at fault.  

If I pushed too hard, he might feel the need to break free from me and from the women in his life—just to stand strong on his own. He might turn to the internet, searching for guidance on how to reclaim his identity, gravitating toward figures who teach him to take pride in being a man. He’d consume content that glorifies being “the alpha male,” letting those voices shape his idea of what it means to be strong, powerful, and worthy.  

Gym, protein, creatine, crypto, drop shipping, lambo, get any woman you want in 3 simple steps, upgrade, high value man, side hustle, alpha, alpha, alpha. 

It is hard to not be a man hating bitch, I have grown so extremely tired of living in fear doing the most mundane things, I am tired of hearing the most gnarly headlines about other women across the world losing their basic rights, another little girl getting raped by her perverted uncle, another woman killed in her own home… Heck! Even hearing my friends being victims of situationships and emotional manipulation. I wish I could be like some of these women who still have hope in men and believe that there more than just a few exceptions. I’ve always wondered where were these perpetrators mothers, sisters? Now, before you point at me and yell “IT IS NOT A WOMAN’S FAULT THAT A MAN BECOMES BE A SICKO!” I agree. I agree, girly, I guess partially. However, just like living through weaponised incompetence over and over again (something our male peers are so good at), I no longer trust brothers and fathers to do the job right. 

Yes, I’m sure your father is wonderful family man, but have you seen how he behaves when he goes out that the strip clubs? Oh he doesn’t go out to the strip clubs? How do you know that for sure?

Your brother is the sweetest, I’m sure he is at home, but do you know how he behaves with girls he is seeing? Do we know how the men in our lives truly behave when we aren’t there? 

We fail to remember that the men who hurt us and do the sneaky shit are also family members just like ours. Many of them were raised by great mothers, have sisters and in fact they like to use that as a way to prove that they’re good people and have an innate respect for women, but they have proven themselves wrong over and over again. It just isn’t enough. 

I don’t think my brother truly understands how anxious I am about the kind of man he will grow up to be. I like to believe he could never be a bad man—no, my baby brother is a good boy. He’s soft, empathetic, incredibly polite, thoughtful, and just so kind. We, as a family, have done our best to instill in him our values and norms, the kind that cling to your mind like barnacles on a whale’s back.  

Norms tend to stick, but values are more fragile—easily swayed by outside influences like greed or peer pressure. What if we didn’t give him a strong enough backbone? What if, despite our efforts, he lets everything we’ve taught him slip away?  

Secondary socialisation refers to the process of learning and internalising norms, values, and behaviours through new social institutions, groups, and experiences beyond the family (e.g., peers, schools, workplaces, and media). While it often intensifies during adolescence, it doesn’t only start in the teens—it continues throughout life as individuals encounter new social environments. This stage is often associated with rebellion, as teens push back against their families while exploring their identities but it is primarily about adaptation and growth through new social experiences. They adopt new values from their peers and what they learn in school, sometimes replacing older values with those that feel more aligned with who they are becoming.  

Don’t get me wrong—this can be a positive thing. Many teens break free from problematic family dynamics and find safe spaces through friendships that encourage them to grow into better people. But, like anything in life, the opposite can also happen. I’ve had moments where I noticed negative influences creeping in—a questionable text from a friend popping up as he showed me something on his phone or an offhand comment that made me tilt my head a little. Things, I am sure didn’t come from our extremely open minded family but from outside influences.

In these moments, I try to stay calm and remind myself that he’s experiencing life for the first time, just figuring things out just like I was at 14. Like we all still are. But sometimes, I can’t help it. My angry, feminist, 16-year-old self resurfaces, and I confront him, demanding to know how he could say something so ignorant. Then I see his confused eyes, trying to understand why that pissed me off so much? What is it that he didn’t know was so wrong?

So, I take a different approach. I ask him questions. I encourage him to think critically about what he’s saying before jumping to conclusions. Most of the time, his kind and understanding nature wins out, and every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief—like a superhero stopping an asteroid just before it crashes into Earth. The problem is contained.  

Moments like these have forced me to work on my patience and understanding, keeping the fiery teenage girl in me calm. For the first time, I care deeply about what a boy thinks. For the first time, I don’t want him to fear me.  

It hasn’t been easy watching my little brother, with such a big age gap between us, grow into a young man. In a way, I feel responsible for him. I’m not his mother, but it’s hard to accept how little control I have over the crazy things the internet throws his way. I could talk endlessly about the dangers of social media—its personalised algorithms, echo chambers, and how it limits diverse perspectives while amplifying extremes. But let’s face it, I’m powerless against the Zuckerborgs and Elongated Muskrats of the world. I can’t just yank his phone away. I have no control over who he will cross paths with. All I can do is trust him and occasionally remind him of the kind of family he comes from—one built on love and kindness. Let him form his own opinions and grow independently. That way, his beliefs will truly be his own, making him more confident and deeply rooted in his values—strong and set in stone.  

Sorong, January 2025

Men in their 30’s

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Men in their 30’s

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I used to think men in their 30s were the perfect blend of maturity, stability, and fun—until I started dating them.

What is dating a man in his thirties truly like?

It is commonly said that men have more trouble multitasking than women, which now I think also applies to their personal development. Even though they may have developed well in certain aspects of their lives, usually in their careers, their emotional or overall maturity doesn’t necessarily follow. It’s kind of like they hyper-fixated so much on building themselves up professionally that they forgot to do the work of growing internally.

Like men in their 20s, these men are often not great communicators. When an uncomfortable topic arises, they are quick to run and hide, or it takes them an enormous amount of effort to communicate. I find that most would rather avoid a discussion, even over simple issues that could easily be resolved with a few exchanged words. They often claim their lack of communication is due to a fear of hurting us. I’ve never understood this way of thinking—how do they believe dragging it out will lessen the pain? They know it might hurt anyway, so why not just rip the bandaid off instead of leaving us confused and wasting our precious time? Also, why do they automatically assume we care enough to be offended every single time?

This summer, I met a man in his early thirties, who I knew was trouble from the beginning (the first thing I ever told him was that he looked like ‘bad news’). We ended up being in the South of France at the same time and figured we’d meet up and so we did a few times, along with his friends and went on a hike with them which was so extremely challenging, it could only bond us. One morning, I asked if he and his friends would like to have breakfast because I just wanted to say good-bye and thank them for letting me tag along. I just thought it was the polite thing to do and would have totally understood if they didn’t have the time. He suggested dinner instead, saying he’d give me the details shortly. He never did. So I thought I’d kindly let him know that I didn’t appreciate that. I understood if his plans had changed, but a quick heads-up wouldn’t have killed him.

He ended up calling me and explained that he just wanted to have an intimate moment with his friends and didn’t necessarily want me there. I told him that was understandable, but if that were the case, why invite me in the first place? And why not just tell me? He said he thought it would be awkward and didn’t know how to tell me, as he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was honestly dumbfounded by his answer. So, to recap: he DIDN’T want to see me, yet HE INVITED me to dinner, but then didn’t want to tell me it was off because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings?

First of all, why would it hurt my feelings? A reasonable person can understand that sometimes plans change. He didn’t have to say he didn’t want to see me; he could have just said he was busy, I’m a big believer in white lies, sometimes lying is necessary. If he just innocently lied, we could’ve both moved on with our lives, instead he made me wait around like an idiot. Thankfully, I made dinner plans with my friends as soon as it hit 6pm. But also, who told this man I would care THAT much? So much so that he was too scared to tell me, assuming I’d be heartbroken.

Obviously, I never saw him again, especially after I didn’t respond to his apology text, which made him so angry that he ‘ended things’—even though my lack of response should’ve made that pretty clear, but I’ll let him have it. Anyways, this is just one of many examples of grown men and their ridiculously bad communication skills.

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The only real difference I’ve noticed between the two age groups when it comes to communication is texting styles. You can forget about texting all day or night like you might with a guy in his early twenties. I’m not a huge texter myself, but when I say I’ve never texted a 30-year-old man for more than 15 minutes total, I’m not exaggerating. They either engage in small talk, asking how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to, send you the time and location for the date later, or dive straight into sexting—where, unsurprisingly, they invest a little more time.

But beyond texting, I’ve also noticed that older men tend to be cornier. It’s as if they’ve perfected the art of being smooth just enough to get by, but every now and then, their corniness inevitably slips through. Once, I met a man on Raya (I lasted a good week on it), a British guy—the only one I ever matched with because he didn’t have a photo on a private jet, or a yacht in St. Tropez. I really adored his creative work, and he was honestly brilliant. He was intelligent and had a great sense of humour—the British kind, which is my personal favourite. We clicked immediately, and I laughed out loud reading his messages. He had a habit of asking for pictures of me. It wasn’t always sexual or inappropriate; he just liked seeing me doing different things and was strangely invested in my outfits of the day. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but eventually, I wondered if he had a power kink—enjoying the fact that I did what he asked immediately. One thing about me is that I’ll always ask questions if I have any, so I asked him directly about the kink. He denied it and just said I was just so pretty. It was probably a lie, but he called me pretty so I didn’t dig further. One night, he asked for another picture, but this time he didn’t say ‘please,’ so I jokingly told him to say the magic word. Nothing, when I say NOTHING prepared to what I was about to receive next. He sent me a video of a close-up of his mouth in the dark, whispering slowly, ‘Pretty… please,’ with an emphasis on the ‘P’s,’ making his lips pop. It made my skin crawl. I almost threw my phone across the room from the ick that completely took over my body. You had to be there to really grasp the level of corniness—it might not sound too bad, but trust me, it was horrendous.

That’s a prime example of how their corniness inevitably reveals itself, no matter how cool they seem. I wonder if it’s just my bad luck meeting ‘cornballs,’ or if this is truly a generational thing—maybe women in their 30s wouldn’t have flinched and might have even found that video attractive, responding with the same energy. I feel a little mean making fun of him, but I’m blocked anyway. Apparently, asking if he would talk to me differently or respect me more if I were his age, which I thought was a simple question, was too spooky for him to answer—further proving my point about poor communication skills and cowardice.

On the other hand, while their mouths may not be great for communicating, they are certainly better for other things. They know what they like, but more importantly, they understand the female anatomy a little better than their younger counterparts. They also tend to have more confidence, which makes the whole experience more fun and exciting. I always go in without knowing what to expect. I’ve found myself in situations I never imagined, like getting my armpits licked—a body part I never thought would be near someone’s mouth (I could go without that happening again, but hey, at least now I know). I also find it easier to be playful with them because I always feel like they’ve already seen a lot, and the chances of me being the weirdest person they’ve slept with are probably low. Being with an older guy has definitely helped me feel more confident and allowed me to let loose, even trying or saying things I probably wouldn’t with someone younger.

Another thing that I really appreciate about older guys is how they tend to find their ‘uniform.’ There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows what he likes to wear and sticks to it. Some might call it boring, but to me, it’s a clear sign of someone who’s confident in who they are. I’ve noticed a pattern: they either wear Uniqlo tees or, if they’ve got a bit more cash, Aimé Leon Dore white tees. I’ve seen three of them with multipacks of those ALD shirts lying around in their apartments. Of course, this might not apply to all men, but it’s definitely true for the type I go for. I also love when they consistently smell the same and stick to the same grooming products. Men often get into these things later than we do, so when they do, it’s a good sign they’re ‘ripe’ enough for my taste.

This extends to how they plan their dates—they know what they like, so there’s never any awkward back-and-forth about where I’d like to eat. I’ve never had to be involved in the planning process. They give me a time and place and I have to do is show up. Since my knowledge of wine is still a work in progress, they usually pick the bottle, and if it’s a sharing situation, they select the dishes—though they always ask if there’s something on the menu I’d like to try. I do not do this intentionally but I usually go out with men who have good jobs which means the bill is always taken care of even when I try to get it. The conversations flow easier as most of them know more about the things I am interested in. I learn so much about various topics, especially their unique areas of expertise or interests. And love to see the passion in their eyes when they talk about them. I’ve spent time with a chef that made me taste such interesting food that I would have never been able to experience on my own, I’ve listened to a movie director the different techniques and the little industry secrets, an art lawyer teaching so much about art and always invited me to weekly museum visits and a rugby player talk about the effects the sport has on the human body while also introducing me to Camus. Time spent with them is so incredibly stimulating and even though most of these encounters never really work out due to all the reasons   I have stated above, I always leave a little smarter. 

By contrast, I genuinely believe I would struggle to date guys my age. While they may eventually catch up, I still find it rare to form a meaningful connection with them. Unlike older men, where I often feel like the student, with younger guys, I tend to take on more of a teacher role. While this can be rewarding in its own way, I find it less engaging overall. I also think I have a strong sense of self and may lack the patience to be with someone still figuring themselves out.  

It’s not that I have everything figured out, but I did a lot of that work during my teenage years and now have a clear idea of who I am, what I want out of life, and the kind of person I aspire to be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking time to find yourself—that’s what your twenties are for. However, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve noticed that many guys (not all—relax!) struggle to balance that self-discovery process with maintaining a healthy relationship. Self-discovery is often time-consuming and requires focusing inward, which can leave little room for a partner. This doesn’t only apply to men—I see women, too, hiding behind relationships instead of facing the sometimes scary challenge of figuring out who they are as individuals.  

So, maybe it’s not just about age. But what I’m getting at is that the likelihood of someone in their early twenties knowing who they are and what they want is often lower compared to someone older.

My first boyfriend, who was 27 at the time (eight years older than me), made me wait a year before committing. This was mostly because he wasn’t sure what he wanted or what kind of life he wanted to lead mixed in with some good ol’ commitment issues. Looking back, I don’t know why I stayed for so long. I think I just wanted to help him and hoped to be the reason he found happiness. At the time, I was still figuring myself out too, but I didn’t find it hard to dedicate my time and energy to our relationship. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do the same. I should have recognised that he wasn’t able to give me what I needed in a relationship, rather than clinging to the hope that he would change. He simply wasn’t ready for that, but I became attached to the idea of who he *could* be, which was obviously the wrong approach.  That relationship was very mentally exhausting, and I don’t think I’ll ever have the patience to go through something like that again.

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I get “You’re so mature for your age” a lot, which I think they think I would take as a compliment but the only type of girl who it’d flatter would be an underaged one that has been groomed. But despite saying that so much, I find that they never truly seemed to take me seriously.

They view me as a temporary fling because I’m in my early, almost mid-twenties—a placeholder for the woman they’ll eventually settle down with. ‘De passage,’ as we say in French. Like when the American director told me he had to end our weird situationship because his childhood best friend was finally single and moving to the city, after holding me in bed a week prior, stroking my face, and telling me how amazing I was. Or the British man who said, ‘Too baby to be wifey for lifey’ (yes, in those exact words). Because I’m young, they assume I’m not expecting marriage, children, or anything ‘scary’ like that. They think I’m naïve and more likely to tolerate bad behavior—which I’ve definitely done in the past. They know that for most younger girls, the bar is lower, so they don’t have to do much to impress us. Commitment is never discussed; these ‘relationships’ survive on my own delusions and hopes. It’s true to some extent—I do have time before those big commitments—but that’s no reason to treat me like a placeholder. I think we can all agree on that.

It’s an awkward phase of dating for me. I feel like I should be dating people my own age since we’re at the same stage in life, but I don’t find spending time with them stimulating. On the other hand, I want to date older men because they’re more interesting to me, but we’re not at the same stage in life. I may need to wait a couple of years before considering anything serious. But will that really change anything? As I’ve proven, maturity isn’t necessarily tied to age.

I’ve also wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with the grown men dating me. Does it mean women their age have rejected them? Or do they refuse to date women their age because they know they wouldn’t put up with half the nonsense a younger girl might? Are they the kind of people who like to take advantage? Do they have Peter Pan syndrome?

Of course, this is just my experience, and I’m not claiming it’s universal. I’m sure there are guys my age who are as mature as women, and there must be men in their 30s who respect younger women and understand they can be taken seriously—or who simply don’t think it’s appropriate to date someone 10 years younger. But this pattern has been hard to ignore in my own life and among the people around me.

As much as I liked older guys for our shared interests, I started wondering if there were deeper reasons I was drawn to them—and I was certain it wasn’t just because my dad died. After reflecting, I realised that being around them made me feel closer to the life I wanted. Not because I expect them to fund everything or share their life with me, but because I get a taste of the future I want: seeing the apartments they’ve bought, hearing about their achievements, whether it’s an award for creative work, a published book, a movie screened, or a sports championship. When they tell me about their vacations and how they only travel business class now, or when they casually pay the bill with a titanium card, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the life I’m working towards. Their busy schedules, filled with things they’re passionate about, reflect the work they put in during their 20s.

I admire how they prioritise their long-term goals and dreams, often refusing to move meetings or calls for something else like parties or dates. Even though some struggle to balance different aspects of their lives, their ambition, motivation, and consistency are admirable. 

Ultimately, I guess, it’s not that I care to be with an older man—I want to be them.

Some of my encounters with men in that age group might seem questionable, but I’ve learned a lot from them, especially about work ethic and prioritising myself. I’ve started doing what they do, and I can already tell you it’s effective. I plan to stick with it, and I know I’ll achieve the things I want. I can’t imagine how unstoppable I’ll be when I combine their aggressive drive for success with our emotional intelligence and ability to balance multiple things. I’ll practically be a fucking superhero.

As much as being around them makes me feel closer to my super-successful future, I’ve come to realise that everything happens in its own time. There are no shortcuts. If anything, they’ve shown me just how much work you have to put in to make great things happen.

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Bali, December 2024