Different jobs, relationships, circumstances, even continents - same general story. Burnt out. Overwhelmed. These are ambitious, capable women in their thirties who, by most conventional measures, are doing really well.

And yet, everyone is cooked.

Perhaps I noticed because, until recently, I was fucking exhausted too.

Burnout has been a consistent part of my annual cycle (I wrote about The Great Creative Contradiction here). I work maniacally, become consumed by whatever project is in front of me, neglect basically everything else, eventually lose my mind, emerge declaring I need to “find balance” - take two months off and think the problem is somehow solved.

This last one felt different though. It wasn’t just work.

I was emotionally exhausted too. I’d spent a long time carrying a lot - showing up for people I love, absorbing their lives, navigating uncertainty as I built a life in NYC. None of it felt particularly dramatic in isolation. I think that was the problem. It was the accumulation of a thousand small concessions I hadn’t noticed myself making.

Eventually, I was running on empty. I didn’t just feel tired, I’d lost my spark.

I was uncharacteristically nihilistic. I couldn’t really articulate what I wanted anymore. And for someone whose default setting is an almost irritating enthusiasm for life, that concerned me.

At one point, someone asked why I seemed reluctant to admit that perhaps some of my desires were changing.

“I think I put a lot of pressure on myself,” I replied.

The sentence surprised me as it left my mouth.

Pressure.

No one necessarily needs to be standing over you demanding more. You can internalise the expectation so thoroughly that you become extremely efficient at administering it yourself.

As millennial women, we were told we could do anything and somehow heard that we should do everything.

Have the career. Be financially independent. Maintain deep friendships. Find love. Exercise. Travel. Read. Eat well. Look good. Be interesting. Build community. Stay informed. Have hobbies. Go to therapy. Maybe have children, but don’t let motherhood derail any of the above. And obviously respond thoughtfully to the 47 text messages currently sitting unread on your phone.

I’m tired just writing that.

The problem isn’t that we’re incapable of building the enormous, interesting lives we want. It’s that we’re trying to live every part of them at once.

And so, I keep returning to the idea of seasons.

You cannot go 110% on every aspect of your life simultaneously.

Training for a marathon? Your social life might take a hit. A huge work opportunity might mean your own creative practice goes quiet. Sometimes you simply cannot be the world’s greatest employee, friend, daughter, partner, artist and person-with-visible-abdominal-muscles in the same week.

Something. Has. To. Give.

The mistake I keep making - and seeing other people make - is allowing that something to consistently be our health.

I’ve spent years treating my health as something I can temporarily sacrifice in service of everything else. I’m (finally) starting to understand that our health is actually the infrastructure everything else runs on.

When I don’t sleep, move my body, eat properly - everything becomes harder.

My creative ideas are worse (rather, non-existent). My attitude is worse. My energy levels are worse.

And once you realise you’re operating like this, fixing it has to become the priority.

Not after the deadline. Not “once work calms down”. Because everything you’re trying to protect by neglecting yourself - your work, relationships, creativity, ambition - is already being compromised by the fact that you feel like shit.

The solution isn’t a weekend away or a massage. The answer is behavioural: building a life you don’t constantly need to recover from.

For me, that has meant small, boring structures. Moving my body. Reading in the mornings. Leaving some nights empty. Saying no. Putting my fucking phone down. Nothing revolutionary - just repeatedly choosing not to abandon myself.

And somewhere along the way, what I find aspirational has changed.

In my late twenties, fun was the priority. I wanted the jam-packed calendar. I wanted to know everyone, go everywhere, say yes to everything: every dinner, every party, every opportunity, every activity. There was something intoxicating about squeezing every possible drop out of a week.

And then, almost overnight, I grew up. Or maybe I just scratched the itch.

These days, I look at an empty Friday night with the reverence I once reserved for a great night out.

I don’t think I’ve become boring. I think what I find luxurious has changed.

Time feels luxurious. Space feels luxurious. Waking up without an alarm feels luxurious. Spending an afternoon reading without feeling like I should be somewhere else feels luxurious. Having enough room in your life for something spontaneous to happen feels incredibly luxurious.

Being booked and busy no longer looks particularly impressive to me. Sometimes it just looks like poor resource management.

Someone can be wildly successful, have the dream job, the beautiful apartment, the money - but if they’re permanently stressed, rushing between commitments and unable to sit through dinner without checking their phone, I don’t find myself envying them.

Increasingly, I think the ultimate status symbol is having ownership of your time and your nervous system.

Being calm is the new rich.

I’ve even noticed it changing who I want to be around. I find dysregulated energy strangely contagious now. The frantic pace, the over-scheduling, perpetual survival mode - I get the ick.

That probably sounds intolerant. Maybe it is. But after spending years manufacturing enough chaos of my own, I’ve become fiercely protective of calm. I want to be around people who move through the world deliberately. People who think deeply, move slowly, leave room in the conversation. People who don’t make urgency their entire personality.

Peace, once you find some, becomes surprisingly difficult to compromise on.

Maybe this is simply maturing. Maybe the things we aspire to change as we do.

I’ve spent chunks of this summer in small European towns (must be nice) where life seems to move at a pace my New York brain initially finds suspicious. Wandering. Reading. Swimming. Eating good, simple food. Sitting around talking for hours. Often having absolutely nowhere I need to be.

And yes, I appreciate that “woman spends summer in Europe and discovers slowing down” is an extremely irritating genre of personal essay. But I’m not really talking about Europe.

I’m talking about time.

Time is such an underestimated currency.

A rushed life, I’m increasingly convinced, is a bad life. You can technically be doing everything you’ve ever wanted and still be moving too quickly to experience any of it.

Presence is luxury. And a burnt-out soul is not truly present.

You’re thinking about tomorrow’s email while someone you love is talking to you. You’re lying on a beach thinking about work. You finally get the opportunity you spent six months desperately wanting and, before you’ve even had a chance to enjoy it, you’re worrying about what comes next.

What’s the fucking point?

I think this is what I misunderstood about ambition for a long time.

I assumed ambition meant relentless forward motion. That if I had the capacity to do more, I probably should. That slowing down risked losing momentum.

I don’t believe that anymore.

I don’t want less from my life. Quite the opposite. I have a million things I want to make. Films I want to direct. Things I want to write. People I want to meet. Places I want to see. Questions I want to explore. My ambition is very much alive and kicking again.

I just don’t want any of it at the expense of my ability to actually feel my life happening.

Three months ago, if you’d asked me what I wanted, I would have struggled to answer. I was so consumed by the noise of what I should be doing that I couldn’t hear myself particularly clearly anymore.

After slowing down (see also: leaving New York), taking better care of myself and having long conversations with the older, wiser friends who function as the unofficial village keeping me alive, the answer suddenly feels incredibly simple.

I want to see, learn and create.

That’s about it, really.

I’m interested in a life dedicated to the pursuit of wisdom and beauty. Of learning about people and the world and how to live in it well. Making things from what I discover. Spreading joy and goodness.

None of that requires me to be permanently frantic. In fact, it requires the opposite.

And perhaps that’s what I’m recognising in all these conversations with women I love. They’re not lacking ambition. If anything, they have an abundance of it. They’re extraordinarily capable people who have spent years proving how much they can do.

Maybe we’ve reached the point where the more interesting question isn’t: how much can I juggle?

It’s: what is actually worth juggling - and at what cost?

I don’t want to get to 40 having achieved everything I said I would and feel like shit.

I don’t want my health - mental, physical, spiritual - to be the price I repeatedly pay for my ambition. And I don’t want to mistake exhaustion for evidence that I’m trying hard enough.

I still want an enormous life. I want to make films and write things and meet extraordinary people and cross oceans and see how good I can get at all of it.

And I will.

I just no longer think a big life needs to feel like a frantic one.

I spent my twenties trying to fit as much life as possible into my time.

These days, I’m more interested in being selective.

Mel x

I started articulating it at a (concerningly) young age - I was ambitious, I wanted a big life, and somewhere along the line I deduced that motherhood didn’t fit into that equation.

No one explicitly told me that. I just observed how things seemed to work. The compromises. The trade-offs. The way women’s lives narrowed. I made a decision early and held onto it tightly.

So when people would say, “you’ll change your mind,” it drove me insane. Why is it so hard to accept a woman’s choice without undermining it? There are many ways to live a life, I’d insist.

And yet - here we are.

Because over the last six months, something has shifted.

I began noticing that I’ve been increasingly drawn to stories about parenthood - books, films, music. A subtle, but persistent pattern - like something in my subconscious trying to get my attention.

I started talking about it with friends - some of the most intelligent, ambitious, creative women I know. Friends who’ve had babies, or are in the thick of deciding whether they want them at all.

They’ve been surprisingly emotional conversations.

I think I’ve been operating under the assumption that women can’t have it all. Despite all the Girl Boss rhetoric, it is impossible to juggle everything at once - you’d be setting yourself up for failure. Or collapse.

But the more I’ve spoken to these women, the more I’ve realised… it’s the “everything at once” part that’s flawed.

I’ll never forget Christmas Day in New York - crying over a glass of champagne as one of my closest friends, Georgie, told me she’d realised she didn’t have to achieve everything before having children.

That she could pause. That she could come back. That life didn’t have to be one perfectly completed chapter before the next began.

I watched something release in her. And I felt it release in me, too.

Another friend, Hannah, framed it differently but just as powerfully - that life is seasonal. Right now, she’s a mother. Sometimes she misses the version of herself that was immersed in work, in ideas, in momentum. But she’s not panicked by that. She trusts it will return. And raising her little boy is her priority right now.

It feels like a pervasive, unspoken tension for ambitious women - this quiet question humming underneath everything:

When? How? Could I? Should I?

And it’s not just a feeling - it’s actually happening. Women aren’t opting out of motherhood entirely, we’re just… delaying it. Building lives, careers, identities - and then, often, circling back to it later when we’re ready.

I suspect part of my resistance has been fear.

The sheer magnitude of it. The responsibility. The permanence.

The idea of being solely responsible for another human being - shaping them, loving them, raising them - feels almost incomprehensible. My perfectionism complex is overwhelmed by even attempting to tackle all that.

Especially when I think about my own parents.

As I’ve gotten older - and now living on the other side of the world from them - I feel this overwhelming gratitude for what they’ve given me. (I’m crying as I write this part, help.)

From my perspective, they’ve been nothing but selfless.

My childhood was full of love, laughter, community, encouragement. They nurtured my ambition from the very beginning - backing every big dream and celebrating every small win. No idea was too lofty. Our house had a real “we’ll work it out” energy.

When I wanted to go on exchange to Paris at 15 - despite mum and dad never having left Australia - they let me go. When I moved to New York with no concrete plan, they trusted me.

And when I called dad, seeking a reality check before starting my own production company in New York (it was going to cost me a significant amount of money and there was no guarantee of success), he said something I’ll never forget:

“Why not? You have the chance to walk a tightrope with a trampoline underneath you.”

Meaning: go for it, and if you fuck it up, just know you always have a home to come back to.

Everything I’ve built, every risk I’ve taken, every magical thing I’ve experienced - it all sits on the foundation they created. The gratitude I feel for that is quite literally overwhelming.

I often feel like I’m living my life for the three of us - trying to make the most of the opportunities they gave me, to see how far I can take it.

Which brings me back to the part I didn’t expect.

Over the last few years, I’ve built a life I once only dreamed of. I moved to New York. I’ve travelled the world. I’ve created things I’m proud of. I’ve surrounded myself with incredible people. I’ve backed myself, fully.

And there’s a deep satisfaction in that. A sense that I’ve scratched the itch. That I’ve proven to myself I can do it. That no challenge is too big.

There’s still so much I want to do.

But there’s also a feeling - subtle, but undeniable - that something has softened.

I feel calmer. More grounded. My nervous system has settled in a way it never has before.

I feel… satisfied.

And from that place, motherhood doesn’t feel like a threat to my identity anymore. It feels like something I could add to it.

Something that could sit alongside my life, not replace it. Something I could move toward, in time.

That feels like a monumental shift.

Like a woman who has spent years pushing, building, proving - finally allowing herself to soften.

I’m not sure anyone is ever truly ready to be a parent.

But for the first time in my life, I think I might want to be.

And given how certain I once was that I didn’t - that feels extraordinary.

And beautiful.

Mel x

P.S. Mum, I know you’re reading this - relax. I’ve still got to find a worthy husband first.
P.P.S. I know it’s been a while - I said I’d only write when I had something to say.

So it brings me such joy to share our first ever guest essay today, courtesy of Jenna Brownlee.

Jenna and I met in New York - I couldn’t tell you when or where - but one day she appeared in my life and, as the good ones do, never left. She’s a deep thinker, a generous listener, and one of the most optimistic, abundant souls I know. And funnily enough, her piece explores themes of avoidance… making it the perfect companion piece to last week’s post (which resonated with all of you A LOT).

If you ever feel compelled to share something - a reflection, a story, a question - please reach out. This space is for all of us. The most personal things are often the most universal.

With that, here’s Jenna…

I had never really understood what it meant to be avoidant until I moved to New York City.

Growing up my entire life in Australia, I had always been surrounded by love & abundance in many forms, platonically, romantically & in a family unit. These connections never seemed to allow space for being avoidant with myself or with those around me. I guess I thought this was a given. In retrospect, it was actually a blessing.

I never really thought I would have the emotional capacity to harbor feelings of avoidance because of these very experiences. This has been one of the biggest growing pains of my 20s & the complexity of self discovery.

This is my story with avoidance.

I was 22 years old when I moved to New York City. No job, no apartment, but an unbelievable belief in my path and in myself to make it work. I still remember to this day tapping into this new sense of mental strength and bravery. Grinning and bearing rejections from apartments, jobs, credit cards, and banks. There was a part of me that started to suppress the feelings associated with rejection, doubt, fear and uncertainty in order to survive the teething period of starting over.

Comfortably flirting between the lines of compartmentalizing and downright suppression, this mindset of coping with imminent rejection seemed to have done wonders short-term. Yet I did not anticipate this would be the precipitating foundation for avoidance to grow and evolve in the years to come here in New York.

The people in this city will forever be what makes this place so special. Ask anyone here, we all feel it. There is a sense of unity between strangers. I find the spectrum of personalities here fascinating, a viewpoint I never take for granted.

The normalized avoidance that underpins individuals here needs to be studied. This place is the perfect grounds for avoidance hyper-independence & emotional distance buried in a playground full of distractions. Avoidance tendencies can be easy to dismiss, but when you are prompted, the behaviors can manifest. You start to see how destructive it can be.

In 2024, I used to date an older guy. It felt like he wrote the playbook on avoidance. I loved him deeply, yet never felt emotionally safe with him.

A paradox I lived in that drained my entire being.

This person taught me how to dance around the concepts of trust, deep communication & commitment, all the while still demanding these very things from me. Every time I would get close, the withdrawals only widened. This way of entering a romantic relationship was so strange to me, yet I knew I felt familiar with the feelings of dissociating.

I thought to myself, I could grin & bear this too.

I felt my inner saturation slowly start to fade. I sank into empty spaces of my mind, confused.

I did not know how to articulate this internal isolation or ask for help. The cognitive dissonance only intensified. Strangely, I was still able to recognize this as emotional avoidance, leaving me in turmoil with myself. How could I let this happen? I had read about this in articles and had heard of these relationships from people I had met in the city. To experience this first hard felt shameful, as if the stories I heard were warming signs. I felt stuck chasing a rabbit down a rabbit hole.

A beautiful and slow development of my healing journey was the unravelling of my avoidance tendencies.

A painful & brutally confronting one.

The undoing of insecurities that had brewed in me for too long, sustained by temporary hits of attention from an unavailable lover.

Letting love in became a focus of my growth, in a way that did not feel overwhelming but enough to take me back to my roots.

In May earlier this year, I attended a music event in Bushwick, Brooklyn, one of my favourite artists: Interplantery Criminal. 30 minutes into his set, my phone was stolen from my bag. My ID and credit card were in the back of my phone case. I continued to enjoy the music.

I was lucky to have befriended another Australian during the night. We connected over his 35mm camera turned out he was part of the artist crew for the event. After the show I went up to him and asked if he could order me an Uber home, since I had no way home. He agreed, and we both jumped in an Uber together.

As we chatted more about his work photographing major artists in the music scene, I mentioned my admiration for a similar photographer back home named Capture Charles. He paused and said, “That’s me.” I was baffled, not only by the interaction itself, but by the full-circle moment. He had taken a film photo of me at Pitch Music & Arts in 2020, stranger to stranger, and here we were, reconnected five years later in Bushwick.

That small moment of human connection was the silver lining of losing my phone and surrendering to the experience instead of resisting it.

I arrived home to my Brooklyn apartment at 6AM, feeling completely naked. My two housemates were gone; the silence was loud. I opened my laptop and WhatsApped my family back home to let them know my phone had been stolen in case they didn’t hear from me for the day… while I was sorting my shit out.

At this stage of my life, I was so hyper-independent that asking for help wasn’t even a thought. They responded immediately: “What can we do to help”. They reminded me I needed to find a phone to call the bank myself and asked, “Who is around you that you can ask for help?”.

My good friend Dan lived around the block from me at the time. I WhatsApped him, reluctantly, at 7AM asking if he was awake and if I could use his phone to call the bank since mine had been stolen. He said, “Of course.”

I walked over, tired and heavy with the realization that asking for help too required surrendering. We sat in his lounge, drank tea, and he helped me. This small moment was one of the first cracks… a moment I let love in.

My cathartic release moment of fully letting my walls down occurred at a music festival in the UK this summer, where the small moments I had encountered throughout the year were ignited. I could feel myself wanting to keep my walls up, but this festival was an I opportunity to reconnect back with myself.

I remember the breakthrough so clearly. The reunion with childhood friends from Australia and the kindness of strangers had created the most beautiful energetic grounds for a release. I was at a Chaos in the CBD and had just met two very special people moments before - Ray & John. Our connection was warm & loving. We were all dancing under the sun. I looked around and saw my two childhood best friends, present and happy. In that moment, I felt my body fill with so much warmth & light as if it were the final disassembly of my walls, allowing me to be completely vulnerable.

The feeling was so overwhelmingly gorgeous.

Crying was the only response. It was as if the internal saturation was dialling back up to 100.

I could feel the warmth & vibrance return into my heart.

I think of this moment often. This physical release was the shedding of an avoidant version of myself I had become over time.

My journey with avoidance is one I am proud of. We are all mirrors at the end of the day, holding each other’s reflections.

I am still learning to forgive the part of myself that forgot how to articulate for so long.

These small moments that lift our saturation deserve to be celebrated.

Final Note:

Places and people are energetic, I thank you Mel May for this glorious space of enablement, discussing the spaces between us, that make us - us.

Not in a self-loathing way, more in a ‘I forget I even have one’ way.

My attention has always turned outward: toward other people, their stories, their feelings, the emotional temperature of every room. Meanwhile, my own physical presence sits somewhere at the bottom of the hierarchy of things I care about. A shadow I forget to inhabit. Only recently have I begun to realise how much that disconnection shapes everything - desire, confidence, communication, even ambition.

I tried to explain this weird phenomenon to a friend recently, “sure, we don’t obsess over our looks,” she said, “but we take pride in our appearance.” And all I could think was: do I?

Makeup feels performative.

Shopping feels like time wasted.

I’d always rather read a book, edit a video or talk about life, than feed myself or go to the gym.

Being “sexy” or physically desirable has always felt like something reserved for other women - women who somehow know how to inhabit themselves in ways I never learned.

For years, I framed this as groundedness. Humility. A kind of low-ego purity. Now I’m wondering if it’s just avoidance. Because bodies matter - not in the superficial sense, but in the ‘this is the house you live in’ sense. It had genuinely never occurred to me that caring about how I look isn’t vanity; it’s self-respect.

Maybe this is its own quiet kind of body dysmorphia - not seeing yourself as worse than you are, but not seeing yourself at all.

And that lack of self-inhabiting bleeds everywhere.

Into desire.

Into confidence.

Into communication.

Especially romantic communication.

I’ll talk to someone for months without ever signalling that I’m actually interested. I tell myself I’m going with the flow, but really I’m hoping they’ll figure it out via osmosis.

It’s almost comedic: the vulnerability expert who suddenly chokes on her own vulnerability when something actually matters.

In most areas of my life, vulnerability is easy. I can talk openly about grief, burnout, loneliness. I can have hard conversations, sit in discomfort.

I can even pull truth out of strangers like it’s a magic trick.

But that’s because those forms of vulnerability don’t require asking for something I might not get.

Desire is dangerous.

Desire makes me visible.

Desire risks rejection and loss.

So I contort. Swallow. Downplay. Deflect. Go mute.

It’s not that I don’t know what I want, it’s that saying it out loud puts something at stake. And when you’ve built a hyper-independent life, silence feels safer. You can’t lose what you never reach for.

Professionally, it looks like waiting to be noticed instead of asking for the credit or title I deserve. I can pitch ideas, lead teams, direct shoots - but recently, advocating for myself makes me want to throw up. I’d rather be chosen than declare that I want to be.

Romantically, it’s even worse.

There’s a pattern my friends tease me about: I become close friends with the men I quietly like. I settle into the friendship, secretly hoping they’ll one day make a move, while giving them absolutely no indication that I ever would. Nothing happens because I’m waiting, they’re guessing, and we both politely ignore the gap.

Silence keeps things in a soft, safe holding pattern. Fear dressed up as nobility.

I’ve also realised how deeply uncomfortable I am being celebrated. When someone mentions my Emmy, I downplay it immediately. Two friends in particular, Dylan and Tom, have confronted me about this repeatedly:

“You’re brilliant. Why do you refuse to own it?”

I never have a good answer. Shrinking feels easier. Deflecting feels safer. Staying in the shadows watching everyone else shine feels… honest? Familiar? Comfortable? More interesting?

But I suspect it’s all connected.

The body thing.

The desire thing.

The praise thing.

The asking-for-what-I-want thing.

I’ve built an identity around being the listener, the observer, the one who notices everything. And I like that about myself. But sometimes I wonder if it has also allowed me to step sideways out of the frame of my own life.

Two years ago, I challenged myself to have one meaningful conversation with a stranger every day. It changed me. Maybe my new challenge is simpler and scarier all at once: ask for what I want.

I have no idea how that works romantically (help), but professionally, I can try. One small risk at a time. One moment of saying the honest thing instead of waiting to be chosen.

Maybe the work of my thirties isn’t reinvention or experimentation (like the post-Covid years in New York were) - it’s letting myself be a physical, desiring, ambitious person. Letting myself be wanted and wanting loudly. Letting myself be a character, not just a narrator.

Giving myself permission to care. Not because I need anyone to call me sexy or successful or remarkable, but because ignoring myself is not the same as humility.

Anyway… these are the things I’ve been thinking about lately.

If any of this feels familiar (or foreign), I’d genuinely love to hear from you.

Are you good at asking for what you want?

Can you tell someone you have a crush on them?

Tips (desperately) welcome.

Mel x

And so, I introduce to you, a new project: Glimpses Between Us - a photo-essay series celebrating the extraordinary people in my orbit and capturing what makes them them.

The aim is simple: to offer elevated, interesting glimpses into people’s souls. Each piece pairs my reflections with portraits created in collaboration with brilliant creatives I’m lucky to call friends. Art for the sake of art.

Eventually, I want to grow this into an exhibition, a coffee table book, a conversation series. But I’m teaching myself the value of baby steps.

So, with that, here’s our first glimpse…

Christina McHale has lived most of her life on a tennis court. She turned pro as a teenager, competed at every Grand Slam, represented the U.S. at the Olympics, and had a career-high ranking of 24th in the world.

But what I admire about her isn’t her career; it’s the way she’s carried herself through it.

A few years ago, she stepped away. Burnt out. Wins had stopped feeling like joy and started feeling like relief. The break gave her space to study, to think, to figure out what she wanted from life outside of tennis. Now she’s back, but on her own terms.

Chris is intelligent, thoughtful, fiercely loyal. She’s observant, listens more than she speaks, remembers the smallest details. Humble, graceful, calm; a quiet contradiction in a world that demands constant competition.

What she has is rare: the discipline to excel, the courage to step away, and the humility to admit she doesn’t have all the answers. Despite a lifetime of achievement, she carries herself without pretension - curious, eager, always willing to learn.

She isn’t timid, though sometimes I wish she’d speak up for herself more. She’ll stay quiet for the sake of harmony, even when she deserves better. But maybe that’s her superpower - her ability to stay measured and show up with gratitude.

Christina is one of those friends who reminds you that success isn’t about trophies, but about the way you move through the world.

Credits
Director: Mel May
Photographer: Erick Hercules
Talent: Christina McHale
Photography Assistant: Nick Pinto
Photography Studio: Boerum Studios

Most of the time, we only ever see our own. We stumble through with half-guesses - decoding short texts, weird tones, awkward silences - projecting meaning where it may not even exist. Somewhere between those perspectives lies “the truth” (or maybe they’re all the truth, just filtered through different lenses).

That’s what makes communication so maddening - and so beautiful. Every relationship in our lives (family, friends, partners, colleagues, even strangers) rests on our ability to bridge those different versions. And it’s really fucking hard. Much harder than we give ourselves credit for.

The first step is learning to interpret your own feelings - to articulate them, even just to yourself. This is important because we are the stories we tell ourselves. The more you repeat a story - I’m happy / I’m unlucky in love / every day has the potential to be the best day ever - the more it shapes your reality (my “Best Day Ever” tattoo is a nod to this idea). That’s why communication doesn’t just happen with others - it starts with us.

Then comes the harder part: trying to share that reality with someone else. Even when you think you’re clear, there are still three versions in play: what actually happened, your interpretation, and theirs. No wonder so much gets lost in translation.

Early last year, I wrote a raw reflection about a relationship with an ex and sent it to him. He instinctively responded with his own version. Reading them side by side floored me - the same relationship, the same moments, filtered through two entirely different lenses. With his permission, here they are.

ME
It always just feels so right. Like we’re in our own little bubble, but not in a suffocating way, more like a warm embrace. He was the second date I ever went on. Can you believe that? So, naturally, we’ve grown so much in the time we’ve known each other. We met on the eve of the second covid lockdown in Melbourne. We were immediately captivated by each other. We dated for months, he was wildly depressed - lost, lonely, jaded. He ended it badly. We rekindled. I moved on. He got a girlfriend. I moved to America. He came to visit and was so happy, the best version of himself and it filled me with joy to see him like that. The chemistry was still there. I’d suggest the feelings were on both sides, not just mine. I came home, he and his girlfriend broke up. He called me. He cried in front of me. Opened up to me. I was there for him. We slept together, it was confusing. We went to Hobart together. It was somewhat confusing but felt like closure. We weren’t meant for each other in that moment, or maybe ever. But it didn’t ruin our connection and the love we had for each other. And that is beautiful. We stayed in touch. I came to Australia. A year since his break up. He’s slowly moving on. We slept together. It felt right. Easy. Good. We fit together. I got weirdly worked up about him messaging my friend inadvertently over Christmas. He admitted he called me Christmas Eve because he was a little drunk, very lonely and it was me he wanted to call. And that says a lot. He says he’ll come to New York in November. And I believe him. I guess part of me hopes he gets the job in North America. When the timings right, perhaps we could be brilliant. It’s been four years. Four formative years. Who knows. But it feels easy. And good. I don’t think we’d ever work properly dating in Melbourne, as history has shown. But for some reason I suspect we’d work wonderfully together abroad. Time will tell.

I think I love him more than he loves me. When we kiss I feel like he’s going through the motions, not kissing me with any passion. He’s easily tempted and I’m pretty enough and he likes me enough. But often that’s all it feels like. That I’ll do. That I’m enough for him to sleep with, but not enough for him to burn with desire. Perhaps I should demand more for myself, have more self respect. I let him get away with it. Let myself be his back up choice. I know he likes me. But does he like me more than that? I’m not sure he does. Maybe he’s not sure either. I never have any clue what he’s thinking, I’ve never been able to read his mind in the slightest. I wish he’d tell me. Because the moments when he’s vulnerable are beautiful and light up my soul. But perhaps I’m guilty of similar behaviour?

I guess every time he’s spoken about being in love with his ex it’s stung. I guess I always swallow it but I’ve always felt it? Have I ever given him any indication of that? I guess not? I wonder if he can see it? Does he know I love him?

---

HIM
I sometimes think I hang out in non-artistic social circles to claim dominance over a bubble of intellectual and cultural superiority. Being the king of my own carefully-crafted skull sized universe has always given me pain relief from the present moment. But it made meeting Mel that much harder when I discovered we were on an equal footing in this regard. The dates were so much fun. She kept me on my toes. Each conversation was a battle of wit. There was some childish desire to one-up her on everything, which was a difficult feat, and I hope she found as much pleasure in it as I did.

She sought my views and recommendations, I felt valued and interesting.

I was intimidated. I craved her ability to make friends so easily. I craved her ruthless ambition and ability to direct efforts accordingly; to find genuine meaning in her work. I craved the way she made daunting life decisions easily, without concern for safety nets, or at least pushed those concerns out of sight. But above all else I knew she found a similar kind of beauty in the world and I wanted this orbit and its energy to make me feel alive for as long as possible.

She gave off this natural air of being in some kind of cultural elite and directly contributed to the movements direction. I don't know if I was more enthralled by this or terrified of not being up to scratch, as if I was moments away from being caught out and losing access to this fascinating and complex woman. Meeting her housemates and friends was terrifying. I died a thousand deaths while choosing which mask to put on to justify being seen in the same world as Mel. At least there was safety in knowing it wouldn't work out.

She wanted to know more about me. I barely knew anything about myself at that point. For me that was the whole point of spending time with her. In Mel I saw a new world of unopened doors and possibilities, a portal to some new reality where I could finally let myself be happy, a springboard to find myself as one does when burdened by the ticking of a clock marking the end of those blissful young adulthood years where ambiguity is accepted and being lost is romanticised.

I can't recall the exact message that spurred me to cut it off. She told me it was cowardly to do it over social media, it absolutely was. But it was efficient and quick. We weren't compatible, I told myself. Though how can anyone be if you cut them off before allowing yourself to develop feelings. A year moved on and Mel moved to NYC. I was immensely proud of her. She deserved everything. Occasionally, I thought of her from Melbourne and wondered how she was doing.

A new woman entered and changed my life.

I went to New York in 2022 and didn't tell my girlfriend about the planned catch up with Mel. I didn't think it was relevant and dreaded being asked about our past. Not that she would have cared. She would have loved Mel.

My girlfriend and I ended. That afternoon I thought about the future and started to physically dry retch. I caught up with Mel the next day. "Oh, do I know about Mel?" my ex asked after I told her about the catchup. "I don't think so" I replied. But I did mention her, numerous times, in stories guised as 'a friend’. This felt like as much disservice to Mel as the way I cut her off. This woman's place in my heart was unwavering, permanent.

Mel the Springboard became Mel the Supporter post-breakup and our complex relationship shifted and shaped. We travelled to Hobart together. While we were sitting on the grass that day she said something that gave me so much comfort that I wished I could have travelled back in time to that dry retching broken mess and hugged him like I craved my dad would.

She recently told me she was struggling. This was strange. Mel was the person I went to with MY issues and how dare she change that. But those indestructible walls were collapsing and I felt worthy to be a part of it.

Mum recently said to me that she wished she could take my pain away, we both know I inherited the depression from her. I couldn't help but think of Mel when she said that, I don't think l've ever wanted anyone else to soar so high.

Beautiful, right? Vulnerable, raw, poetic.

That exchange cracked something open for me. Because how often do we actually get to see both versions at once? Usually, we’re stuck in our own heads, desperately trying to decode the other person’s silence, their short text, their off tone - guessing what they’re thinking, wondering where it went wrong. That spiral will drive you insane. The only antidote is to ask. Sit down and have the conversation. Will they always be truthful? Vulnerable? Maybe not. But at some point you have to trust the words people give you. Otherwise, you’re living in projection, not reality.

This obsession with communication has been my life’s work. I studied it at uni, then did a master’s in media, and now I live it through filmmaking and writing. Compared to most, I’m good at it - but only because I’ve been practicing for years. I remind my friends of this often: if you struggle to articulate yourself, it doesn’t mean you’re bad at it. It just means it’s really fucking hard. Harder than we give it credit for.

Because it’s never just the words. It’s tone. Timing. Text vs. phone vs. face-to-face. Body language. The weight of history you share with someone. The environment you choose for the conversation. Every factor shifts the meaning.

And this isn’t just about romance (though romance is absolutely the toughest). How many housemate conflicts, work dramas, or quiet friendship drifts could be avoided if someone had just said: “Hey, I feel weird - can we talk about it?”

I’ve noticed how much easier it gets when you create shortcuts. Shared language, shared rituals - they lower the barrier to honesty. I wrote about this in a previous post.

So, how do we actually get better at all this? I’m not a psychologist, but here are some suggestions:

• Catch yourself spiralling. If you’re dissecting a text or scripting someone else’s thoughts in your head, stop. Ask instead.

• Pick the right medium. Text is for logistics. Phone is for clarity. In-person is for nuance. Face-to-face will always reduce miscommunication.

• Start messy. Say, “I don’t quite know how to explain this, but here’s what it feels like.” That’s enough to begin.

• Build shared language. A phrase, a place, a ritual. It’s easier to go deep when you’ve already set the tone.

• Trust the words you’re given. At some point, you have to. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself mad.

The point isn’t perfect clarity - I don’t think that’s even possible because every relationship will always hold three versions of the story: yours, theirs, and what actually happened. The point is to keep trying. To be courageous enough to say something, clumsily, instead of nothing at all. And to give each other grace when we inevitably get it wrong.

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this - your versions, your stories, your attempts (messy or otherwise).

Mel x

I think I’ve been conditioned to believe burnout only counts if there’s a salary slip attached to it. That if you have a ‘real’ job, then you’re allowed to be tired. But that’s bullshit. You can be burnt out from so much more than work, and the past three years have been nothing short of insane.

The life I’ve chosen - independent, transient, creative, chaotic - looks shiny on the outside. And it is. But the back-end is heavier than it seems. Navigating visas, tax structures, freelance hustling, being your own HR, accountant, therapist. Managing aging parents and family health crises from the other side of the world. Showing up for friends, for opportunities that might not even exist yet.

All of that takes courage. And all of that takes energy.

Still, I downplay it. Because it feels indulgent to even verbalise. And isn’t that just life? Aren’t we all juggling everything everywhere all at once? But if a friend minimised their experience like that, I’d slap them. And remind them emotional fatigue is real, and that no one gets a medal for pushing through.

So why don’t I offer myself the same grace?

A few weeks ago, I booked a flight to Europe with four days' notice. I was suffocating in New York – the July heat, the professional limbo, the endless waiting. So I left. And the second I landed in London, I exhaled.

Then came Ibiza, for ocean swims and dancing with new mates. The Paris, to hug old friends and wander a city that has long felt like a second home. Then Portugal with my sister, to truly disconnect – to hear a foreign language and be far from everything familiar.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel light again.

I was reading Sylvia Plath while enjoying a solo lunch in Paris (which is an unbelievably obnoxious sentence, and yet incredibly on brand) and came across this line:

“I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover.”

That hit. Because sometimes, the best thing you can do for your sanity is to stop creating. Ironically, it’s often the greatest thing you can do in service of your art, as well.

There’s a difference between momentum and pressure. And I often forget how much I’m putting on myself. Because the challenge is fun. And I’m psychotic.

But even if you love it, even if you chose it, you can’t run on adrenaline forever. The burnout I’ve been experiencing isn’t about doing too much of the wrong thing. It’s about doing too much of what I love – and forgetting to breathe in between.

Last week, I was strangely compelled to watch Zane Lowe’s 2023 interview with Harry Styles (don’t ask me why), and Harry spoke about how, after ten years of hyper-productivity in One Direction, he had to disappear for a while. To live life again. To have something to say that wasn’t regurgitated from a treadmill. He drove from London to Italy. Slowed down. Lived life. What he created after that time won Album of the Year at the Grammys.

I’ve spent the last four weeks letting my nervous system calm down. I feel more inspired now than I have all year - not because I forced it, but because I didn’t. Rest, for people like me, doesn’t necessarily look like lying down. Sometimes, it’s running away to live more.

Be kind to yourself.

Mel x

After last week’s post on how we measure success, I was blown away by your replies - it’s clearly something many of us are contemplating. One thoughtful message from my friend James really stuck with me:

“I think we’ve been conditioned to see a single version of success - the Australian/English/American dream - which, if you strip it back, is just a never-ending hamster wheel of chasing perpetually moving targets: job titles, financial goals... all keeping us slightly unhappy and working until we physically can’t anymore.”

It got me thinking: beyond success, how do we define a life well lived?

For me, these questions are closely linked. If I can look back - or even just look around - and feel I’m living with meaning, joy, intention, connection, curiosity… that’s success. That’s a good life.

Ten years ago, my answer might have looked like this: freedom in my work, the ability to travel across the world often (for both business and pleasure), time to explore creative projects, and close relationships with passionate, curious people.

Well… by that metric, I’m absolutely living my dream. That’s a cool thing to say, and an important thing to notice in real time.

Last week, I was booking flights to London when a friend invited me to join him and a group in Ibiza. I said yes. A trip like that might not scream "success" in the traditional, buttoned-up, corporate sense - but to me, it was a small moment of abundance. The freedom to say yes. To go. To make new memories with friends old and new, many of whom are also carving out creative, chaotic lives that don’t always make sense on paper (until they do!). These are my people. This is where I feel most at home.

I know this version of a good life won’t be everyone’s. It’s transient. Creative. Independent. Introverted and extroverted in equal parts. For someone else, a life well lived might look like stability. A steady income. A beautiful home filled with family and laughter. Building something lasting in one place. And that is just as meaningful.

What matters is that it’s yours.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about how to make this newsletter feel more useful. It’s lovely to share reflections - but when it feels right, I want to start offering something a little more tangible too. Prompts, questions, frameworks - small tools to help you sit with these ideas and shape your own answers.

Because, as you know, this newsletter is a place to gather thoughts as I slowly build towards the book I’ve always wanted to write. So if you find these additions helpful (or not!), I’d genuinely love your feedback.

With that said, here are a few prompts that help me whenever I feel a bit untethered:

• If money wasn’t a factor, how would you spend your days?

• Who are some people you think are living life well? Why/how? What commonalities are there?

• What does success mean to you today? Has that changed over the years?

• When do you feel most present? What helps you access that state?

• What do you wish you had more of in your life right now? What do you wish you had less of?

• What have been your most joyful moments in the past year? What made them possible?

• Where does your time go when you're not being intentional? Where would you rather it go?

I sit and ponder these sorts of questions deeply every six months or so (I genuinely put paper on the wall and mind map it all out - is that lowkey psychotic? Anyway, whatever). It helps me feel grounded. It also lets me notice when something’s off, and gently course correct.

There’s no one way to live well. But asking ourselves these questions - regularly, honestly, without judgment - is a pretty good place to start.

Until next week!

Mel x

That’s when it hit me: surely this is success.

Not the traditional kind we’re sold. Not the loud, linear kind - the one that’s all about climbing, accumulating, achieving. But a softer, quieter version.

I’ve never been one for five-year plans or traditional life timelines. I’ve never been driven by status or money (perhaps to my own detriment). I care more about how life feels than how it looks on paper.

Is there space to be present?
Are there people to laugh with, cry with, create memories with?
Do I feel free? Am I creating? Do I feel happy?

That’s always been my version of success - even if it comes with a bit of chaos and a less-than-consistent income.

Late-stage capitalism would have us believe success is about output. Productivity. A full calendar. A fuller bank account. But that version feels narrow - and increasingly hollow.

Of course, we all need to pay the bills. I’m not romanticising instability - and being a freelance creative in New York City is fucking hard - don’t let my Instagram fool you. There are days when the uncertainty feels a little overwhelming. When I acknowledge that things would be easier had I chosen a steadier path. When I look at friends with reliable salaries and wonder what that might feel like.

But then I ask myself: would I trade the life I’ve built for one that’s more predictable?

The answer is a resounding no.

Because for me, success reveals itself in smaller ways.
A rooftop beer watching the sky turn pink over Manhattan.
The ability to fly to another country to visit friends.
Relationships with depth.
Feeling creative. Feeling healthy. Feeling loved.

That’s the stuff that makes me feel rich.

And I don’t think I’m alone in this. So many of us - especially in our generation - are starting to redefine what a good life looks like. Not out of rebellion, but out of necessity. I don’t want to delay my happiness.

We’re taught that joy is something you earn once you’ve proven your worth. But what if the good life isn’t something you earn - what if it’s something you notice?

I had the chance to chat to Pharrell Williams at a film premiere last year (wild sentence, I know), and one of the things he said was:
“Find what you love doing, and do it as often as you can.”
It stuck with me. Because I really think it is that simple.

We spend so much time putting life on hold:
“I’ll relax once I get promoted.”
“I’ll move overseas when I’ve saved enough.”
“I’ll date her when I feel more ready.”

But life doesn’t wait. It’s happening in real time.

And if your calendar’s jammed with structure and strategy, there’s no room left for spontaneity - which is where so many of the good moments live. The random midweek nights out that escalate. The unexpected conversations that turn into bits of wisdom the shift your perspective. The detours that lead somewhere better than what you planned.

The chaotic way I live my life and the very broke tightrope I walk is not for everyone, I get that. All I’m saying is make sure the version of success you’re chasing is your own. And something you have genuinely reflected on. Because there are many ways to live a life.

So, what does success look like for you?

I’d really love to hear it.

Mel x

I was having dinner with my friend Alexa last week, and she told me about this brilliant little thing she does with one of her best friends. Whenever they need a proper chat - to vent, cry, unravel, whatever - they text: “Have you got 8 minutes?”

Apparently, research says it takes at least eight minutes to actually get into the real stuff in a conversation. To move past the weather and “I’m so busy” and into the bits that matter. Their little tradition is a nod to that - I love how simple the text is, but how much it signals.

We always tell people, “Reach out if you need anything,” but half the time we miss the cues. You text a friend saying, “You got a sec?” and they assume it’s about dinner plans or some logistical thing while they’re distracted at work - meanwhile, you’re quietly falling apart and they brush you off without realising. A classic case of miscommunication.

Have you got 8 minutes? cuts through that. It says: hey, I need your brain, your presence, your care, your attention. Please.

I love stuff like this - shared language that makes vulnerability feel casual. I really believe lowering the barrier to those conversations is key. Having a big chat doesn’t have to be a big deal.

I’ve accidentally created a similar thing with a few of my best guy friends over the past few months. We meet one-on-one at Black Brick, my local coffee shop in Brooklyn with this quiet hidden courtyard. These catch-ups always last about two hours - somehow they’ve turned into our unofficial therapy sessions.

So now, if one of us texts saying, “I need a BBC (Black Brick Courtyard) session asap,” we know exactly what it means. A catch-up that needs to be prioritised, where there’ll be honesty, reflection, and space to feel seen.

It’s funny how these silly little codes or traditions build real closeness. They might seem insignificant, but they’re actually crucial. Shortcuts to connection.

For Alexa, it’s just the words. For me, Tom and Liam it’s tied to the physical space.

Little things like this are the secret to deeper friendships. Do you have your own versions? I’d love to hear them. And if you don’t, maybe it’s time to make some.

That’s all for this week. And remember, none of this should stay Between Us. Talk to your neighbours. Spread joy. You know the drill.

Mel x

Eventually, I realised: this might be my thing - my quiet superpower.
Whether I’m making a documentary or sitting across from someone over coffee - I help people understand themselves through story.

So I’ve made a newsletter.

It’s called Between Us - a space for the things we feel but don’t always say.
Thoughts on joy, intimacy, community, beauty.
Big life questions. Small human moments.
The kinds of things I wish we, as a society, talked about more often - and more honestly.

Because somewhere along the way, we started hiding from each other.

Therapy becoming mainstream was a brilliant cultural shift – but it also created a strange duplicity. We’ve learned to save our honesty for the therapist’s chair while presenting polished versions of ourselves to our actual communities. That feels like a loss to me.

And let’s be honest: social media and dating apps have completely fucked what intimacy even means. Cheers, Zuckerberg.

I want us to bring back the beauty of being open with one another.
To show the cracks. And to keep it casual.
To remember that vulnerability isn’t weakness – it’s how we connect.

I think a lot about friendship.
Platonic love has always interested me far more than romance - the quiet, steady devotion of your chosen family.
The way your friend remembers your coffee order.
The 2am chats in someone’s kitchen when your guard’s down.
In being seen without needing to be fixed.

Those relationships feel under-celebrated and under-utilised.
The secret to a good life is good friendships. I’ll die on that hill.

This isn’t my first attempt at something like this.
When I first moved to New York, I started Befriending Strangers - a personal challenge to form one real, lasting connection with someone new each day.
Some new-age cultural anthropology type shit. And honestly? Pretty transformative.

Before that, during one of Melbourne’s many lockdowns, I mailed out Best Day Ever Bars – rebranded chocolate bars with handwritten notes encouraging people to pass on a small act of kindness and report back.

These projects were small. Imperfect. Fleeting.
But they were sincere.
They weren’t part of some content strategy – they were born out of curiosity, connection, and care.
And maybe that’s the whole point.

Creative work doesn’t need to last forever to be meaningful.
Often, it’s just one part of a longer conversation - each version getting a little closer to what you’re trying to say.
That’s the work. That’s being an artist.

For years, I’ve said I want to write a book about all this - life, meaning, connection in this bizarre cultural moment.
But imposter syndrome is loud. Who am I to write that?

I’m not a psychologist or philosopher.
I’m just a girl with a notes app full of mildly interesting reflections and a strange knack for emotional translation.

Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe this is the start of that book-sized mountain.

And yes – I’m aware of the irony.
Preaching human connection… through something you’re reading on a screen. Believe me, it pisses me off.

I’ve also struggled with how to document moments of authenticity without diluting them. Because the magic - the humanity – has always mattered more to me than going viral or some shit.

But I do believe there’s value in sharing ideas that invite people to slow down, be gentle, reach out.
I just want to make things that feel true and tender and lasting – and for them to land in the right hands.

So Substack felt like the right home for now.
Hopefully, it’ll grow into other things too (hello, IRL gatherings), but one step at a time.

And yes – I’m painfully aware of the optics.
Another barely-employed New York creative launching a newsletter.
I promise I don’t think I’m Carrie Bradshaw.
But I do have a pretty decent track record of turning thoughts into things that resonate.
(Emmy winner, hello)
(Drink – there’s the Emmy reference)

So here it is.
A little home for thoughts that might otherwise stay buried in my notes app.

Some posts will be poetic.
Some (hopefully) funny.
Some might be guest essays from brilliant friends who’ve also had the occasional existential crisis.
But all of it will be real.

And I hope it won’t just be me talking.
I want Between Us to feel like a conversation - the kind that makes you exhale, or think more clearly, or text someone you haven’t spoken to in a while.

So, if something resonates, reply.
Tell me your thoughts, your stories, your half-formed feelings. I’d love to hear them.

Thanks for being here.
I don’t know how long it’ll last or what form it’ll take - but I think it’s worthwhile.

And remember: these chats should never stay Between Us (see what I did there) (sorry).
Talk to your neighbours. Tell people you love them. Spread joy.

Mel x