Figs
I spent many history lessons looking out the window, it was on the second floor of the my school’s building. I watched the lush banana leaves dance in the wind, I loved the way the yellow tones of their colour came through when the sun hit them. Even though the classroom was air-conditioned and we all sat comfortably in 20 degrees celsius, you could feel how hot it was outside just by looking at it when the skies are cloudless and the sun’s beaming. There was something quite comforting about that contrast of temperatures and made me feel sleepy as if my body remembered that this exact condition was when I used to have my afternoon naps as a child growing up in the tropics. It was beautiful and all I wanted was to get the fuck out of there.
I finally saw a way out when my best friend’s family told me about a scholarship program at a posh boarding school on Vancouver island, British Columbia Canada. A 5-figure tuition. A lake in the middle of it, cardigans and pleaded skirt, rugby teams and field hockey. Children of celebrities and Mexican millionaires. An opportunity I could have never even of dreamed of. I may have been very young but I knew I had to take this seriously, this was it—my way out. I studied like I was trying to get into one of the Ivy’s, I wrote countless emails to the board pleading my case. 1000 word e-mails each time, recommended letters, philanthropic initiatives. I had straight A’s and would crash out when I didn’t get a desired grade. I even had the possibility of visiting the campus and flew to Canada and met the other students out there and felt a sense of freedom even with the constraints and rules of living in a boarding school. I loved the spirit of sorority and knew this was where I was meant to be.
I also understood what this meant for my general future, this type of education gave me better chances of making it into the big schools, I dreamed of Yale and Harvard. I could do big things and make a change in this world. I wasn’t picked for 3 years in a row but I kept at it. Then there it was on the 4th year, as my best friend (who was already attending the school) walked into the office and took a picture of my name on the board of selected students for a scholarship. I waited for the acceptance e-mail, I asked my mum over and over again if she’s heard anything. We were visiting my family in Java when I asked her in the car once again, and she finally turned around and looked at me like she couldn’t keep the secret any longer and told me that it wasn’t going to happen.
A feeling of numbness took over, I don’t remember the moment very well, almost like I blocked it out. And I remember in that instance that I didn’t give a fuck anymore. I was initially told that the scholarship program was canceled because they wanted to build a Hockey rink. But, then was told the truth years later and found out that my step father at the time had written a threatening email to the school, saying that if they enrolled me, they would suffer consequences.
I do not know why he did this, why any parent would deny their kid an opportunity of this caliber but I am convinced that he feared that he would no longer have control over me. I understood after years of therapy that I lived in an incredibly emotionally incestuous environment and when a parent views you as a second partner they’ll do the same things to you as they would to their actual partner. He didn’t see me as his kid but his second girlfriend that he had to control.
For the rest of my schooling, I kept my grades to a bare minimum—just enough to pass. I focused on being bad and partying and going out, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Because I understood that doing your best and trying really hard doesn’t always mean you’ll get what you want. So why even bother to try at all.
I graduated high school with decent grades, and despite everything, I still dared to dream again. With my mum’s help, I managed to achieve many of those dreams. I got into fashion school and lived the life I had always imagined for myself in Paris, honestly, even better. The rest is history, but there are so many moments where I sit and wonder where I’d be today if I had gone to that school. If I’d become a lawyer graduating from some fancy university, or worked in finance in Switzerland, or landed some fancy job in a glass building in Manhattan. If I wouldn’t be constantly struggling financially the way I am now, maybe even buying an apartment in Paris in my twenties. If my personality would be different—less spontaneous, more serious and square.
I guess we’ll never know, but at the end of the day, I can look back now and genuinely say I’m more than happy with how everything turned out.
The end of my teen years and my early twenties were colourful, full of stories, surprises, and all the experiences Paris fed me so well. But eventually I got too comfortable, and everything began to feel stagnant. I felt this urge to move, because if I didn’t, I knew I’d get stuck and that terrified me. So I packed my things and went home.
It’s humbling to run back to your mum, especially when it wasn’t part of the plan, but it was the only way I knew to start fresh. Girl on Girl was born, my shop and brand took shape, yet somehow I’m still unsure of my direction and my purpose. I’m 25 now, standing at a crossroads, and there are so many directions my life could take. I think about the different scenarios all the time.
For instance, I could take the family route and spend my twenties looking for a husband, the man I’d probably end up divorcing anyway, statistically speaking. He’d be a normie with a normal job and a normal income. He’d make me laugh, we’d go on cute dates, and everything would feel special in that very ordinary way. But he’d love me for me, and we’d enjoy doing the boring things together. Maybe we’d get married after a year or two, and I’d get pregnant a couple of times. I’d decide to raise the kids myself to make sure they don’t turn into dickheads, and I’d find motherhood fulfilling enough. I’d take them to school, to their extracurriculars, help with homework. I’d create little games to spark their imagination, feed them mostly whole foods but allow fast food on road trips. I’d let them skip school when I sensed they needed a break, and anytime one of them got sick they’d receive the “mommy special”, curled up in bed with ginger tea, chicken soup, and any dessert they wanted. It would become their Madeleine de Proust.
We’d have a multilingual household: their dad speaking only his native tongue, and me speaking all three of mine. My schedule would orbit around theirs until they eventually left the nest, and I’d be forced to find new interests—or new parts of the house to renovate—to fill the void. But I’d be proud of the sacrifice, finding joy in watching them become their own people. I’d base my happiness on theirs and tell everyone I was put on Earth to be their mother, all while quietly ignoring the gruelling “what ifs” whispering at the back of my mind.
Or I could choose marriage, not for love, not for children, but for security. I’d realise I’m tired, that working is hard, and that the economy doesn’t care how creative or ambitious I am. To have the nicer things in life, I’d have to work like a dog… so why not let someone else do that part for me? I’ve always said that if I didn’t have to worry about money, I’d spend my time learning everything I could. And when I got bored of one subject, I’d simply move to the next. I always imagined myself as an encyclopaedia with a pretty cover. So in this version of my life, I’d target wealthy men. I’d know they like thin women, so I’d eat just enough and work out religiously. My looks would become an investment, my full-time job. I’d study their etiquette, learn their circles, and mould myself into exactly what they want, just long enough to be chosen.
I’d also know youth and beauty don’t last, so I’d plan ahead. I’d make sure the prenup is airtight. I’d ask for gifts that are really assets and make sure everything is in my name. I’d let myself find comfort in the things he bought me. I’d give him a baby so the child could carry his last name. I’d keep quiet, look pretty at dinners with his old friends, and tell him how wonderful he is. I’d feel relieved when he travelled for business, and I wouldn’t care about his affairs, as long as he never knew I knew, because that would ruin the fun for him. I’d listen carefully whenever he talked on the phone about business and financial strategy, quietly collecting information I could use for myself one day.
I may end up feeling a little empty at times but I’d spend my life chasing the sun, each year feeling like one long vacation. I’d travel the world learning everything I ever wanted: oil painting, fabric weaving, art history, finance. I’d use all his resources to become the smartest version of myself. And when my beauty faded and my youth finally slipped away, I’d have enough knowledge, skill, and security to do whatever the fuck I wanted, without caring what society thought because no one ever pays attention to what the old woman is doing.
Or I could do the complete opposite and go full-blown business woman, barely sleep in my twenties and make as much money as humanly possible. I’d neglect my love life, prioritise my friends, and become so focused on securing the bag that I’d grow a little sterner than I used to be. I’d be stressed, sure, but I’d also have the resources for every sauna, massage and retreat I needed, so it would balance out. I’d be super healthy, still smoking the occasional cigarette on business calls. My mother would worry that I’d die alone, but that wouldn’t scare me. As we say in French, “vaut mieux être seule que mal accompagnée.” I’d have understood, fully, that no man could make my life better than it already is, making most of them feel like a waste of space. Burned out emotionally, I’d find peace in functioning almost like a robot, living by stoic principles because they were the only thing that kept me grounded. I’d laugh at the memory of my younger self spilling her feelings on a blog, caring so much about relationships that now seem so small.
I’d have built a fortress of security around myself and the people I love, and I’d feel untouchable. My only form of intimacy would be younger men I’d invite over for a night or two, men who’d compliment me, stand at my feet, and know perfectly well that if I liked them enough, I could change their lives with a single phone call or a small investment.
Or I could go back to school and leave all this creative stuff behind. I’d study psychology and finally do what I always wanted as a kid: become a therapist. I’d give it everything, build a career that offers some stability, and earn a “real” diploma my mum could proudly show off. I’d be starting later than most, but that wouldn’t matter, I’ve realised how hard it is to “make it” as a creative and how long it takes to reach the stability I’ve decided I really need.
Maybe I just don’t have the dog in me to push through the uncertainty, or maybe I’ve accepted that turning a passion into a job can drain the beauty out of it. So I’d keep those things sacred and choose work that gives me enough security to enjoy them freely. It would mean committing another six or seven years to this new direction, adjusting my lifestyle, and returning to student life in my mid-twenties, which I imagine would be awkward but worth it.And who knows? Maybe my writing would become sharper, more grounded in psychological insight, and maybe it could help people. Maybe I’d even write a book.
Maybe I’ll end up being bits of all of these women.
But something tells me that no matter which reality I end up in, I’ll find happiness along the way, I have a tendency to do that. Sure, I am afraid a lot of the time and freak out over what could be and always so nervous about making the wrong decisions. However, what a privilege it is to not know! What a privilege it is to have so many choices! What a privilege it is to have the possibility to be surprised by life!
How lucky am I?
Vahine Blaise, Bali, December 2025
