And I am so excited to be a mum. Like, genuinely. It still catches me off guard when I think about it too hard. Australia, the next chapter, all of it. I never thought ‘moving back to Australia’ would be a sentence I’d say about my own life. And yet here we are…

But I am also sad. And I really need everyone around me to let me be sad about it.

Because here is the thing: I know this is exciting. I know it is a gift and a privilege and an adventure. You do not need to remind me. What I need, right now, is to be allowed to grieve the chapter that is closing without someone immediately reaching for the silver lining on my behalf. The silver lining is right there. Yes, I can see it. I just also need to look at what I’m leaving behind, and feel that, in all its glory, before I go.

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When I first found out I was pregnant, it wasn’t quite the movie moment. There was no immediate rush of joy, no hands over mouth, no tears of happiness. There was shock. There were actual tears, the other kind. There was contemplation and silence, a slightly concerning amount of staring at a wall, and nausea, obviously. My partner, who is an absolute legend for this, made a deliberate choice not to react. He didn’t want to sway me. He was sitting on what I later found out was genuine happiness, and he kept it completely to himself because he didn’t want his feelings to become pressure on mine. He just made me feel safe and gave me the space to think.

About an hour later, I knew. And once we sat down at brunch, I told him: I want to do this. I’m ready to be a mum. But only a cool one, obviously.

That certainty came quickly, but what followed it was a slightly different realisation. That at 25, I had been lucky. Lucky to have had five years of my twenties that were entirely, unapologetically mine. Years of London and late nights and spontaneous flights and friendships built over wine and bad decisions and really, really good ones too. I had lived. Like actually lived. And while I was nowhere near done living, I understood that this particular version of life was wrapping up.

It’s funny, it took me three months to tell my family about the pregnancy. Partly because I was navigating it myself, and partly because I was convinced they’d hear ’25 and pregnant’ and think of it the same as teen pregnancy. I’m so glad I was wrong about this. So, when I finally did tell them, my mum’s first response was to accuse the ultrasound of being AI-generated, which, to be fair, is entirely on me. I have a well-documented history of telling harmless white lies when I’m bored in our family, so I cannot fully blame her for the scepticism. But once the dust settled, my dad said something that I’ve come back to almost every day since. He told me that this was a good thing. That I had squeezed years of living into a short amount of time. That I’d studied abroad, worked abroad, built a life abroad, and that there was no version of this that looked like a setback. He was proud. He was excited. And he was right.

If anyone has done their twenties properly, I’d like to think it’s me. Not because I did it the right way; there really is no right way, but because I did it without regrets. I showed up. Said yes when it mattered and no when I finally figured out how. I built something real in a city that really doesn’t make it easy to feel at home, and then I made it home anyway.

And now I’m leaving.

In the next week, I’ll get on a plane, and I will close this chapter for real. And yes, I will be walking toward something extraordinary. But I will also be walking away from something I love. My friendships, the ones built in the specific, particular way that only London friendships are; forged in chaos, cemented over the Tube, kept alive through long voice notes and WhatsApp group chats and showing up for each other in cramped flats with cheap wine when we need each other most. The ease of proximity. The life I built here, brick by brick, that finally felt like mine.

To not mourn that would feel ungrateful in its own way. Like rushing through the last page of a book because you’re excited for the next one. I want to read it properly. I want to feel it.

So let me be sad. Let me sit with these emotions for a minute. Let me say goodbye to my old life with the recognition it truly deserves. I’m not confused about what’s coming, and I’m not second-guessing the decision.

I just truly loved this chapter. And I think it deserves a proper goodbye.

Surrey. Windsor. A pub. A baby. And now, Australia.

If you’d told me twelve months ago that this would be the sentence I’d be writing, I’d have told you to seek professional help. And yet here we are, 15 weeks in, and surprisingly… doing alright?

Let’s rewind.

January 2026. I moved to Surrey, took a job in Windsor, and somewhere between the chaos of unpacked suitcases and bad sleep, I found myself living above a pub with my boyfriend and, secretly, growing a mini person. I was 25. I am 25. Which, in my eyes, fully qualifies as basically a child. A child who has had to swap her Vogues for prenatal vitamins, which is frankly its own kind of grief.

I always knew, in some future-tense kind of way, that I’d have a baby eventually. I pictured it more in my 30s, you know, when, by definition, I should be sorted, settled, with a proper kitchen and a pension (in just one pot). Not now. Not like this. But I’ll tell you what nobody tells you: when the moment actually arrives, something in you just knows. And I knew.

I’m pro-choice, always will be. But I also always understood that if I fell pregnant and the circumstances were what they are, a person I love, a life that is messy but mine, I’d probably keep it. I didn’t have a strict timeline for it. I just had a feeling. Turns out, feelings are annoyingly accurate.

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The first trimester was, and I cannot stress this enough, absolutely fucking vile. No one warned me. No one sat me down and said: “Sash, you are about to feel like you’ve been hit by a bus and then asked to pretend you haven’t”. Weeks of feeling rotten, but still showing up, making sure I look ‘fine’. Soul-destroying is not an exaggeration. I now believe childbearing is left to women entirely because men would, frankly, not survive it.

But we made it. Baby is bigger than expected, healthy, and we’re somehow thriving. We move.

What I wasn’t prepared for, more than the nausea, more than the exhaustion, was the silence and the isolation. For the first trimester, I only told two people. Two. And I’d just moved out of London, so the two who knew weren’t even in proximity anymore. I was alone with the biggest thing that had ever happened to me, starting a new job, living in a pub, filling my diary with endless ink, hoping to rid myself of the isolation that pregnancy quietly throws upon women.

Those eight weeks were truly the loneliest I have ever been. Not the pregnancy itself, the secret of it.

But the secret is out now. My family knows. My friends know. And as of this essay landing in your inbox, so do you.

I’ve spent weeks trying to understand why telling people felt so exposing. I think it’s this: on paper, I am the last person you’d expect this from. I know how it reads. 25, living in a pub… surprise… a baby. I could see a version of this story, my story, getting told at drinks with a particular tone, and I was dreading becoming it. Maybe it’s because I went to an all-girls school and I understand, intimately, how gossip works.

But I don’t doubt my friends for a second. That was never the fear. The fear was simpler and stranger, becoming someone’s news. An “oh my god, did you hear!” If you’ve read anything I’ve written before, you’ll understand why that particular thought makes me want to evaporate into thin fucking air.

And yes, I see the irony. I’m publishing this to an open comment section on the internet. I don’t understand my own logic either.

Here’s what I do know: telling people didn’t fix everything, but it ended the silence. And it turns out the silence was the hardest part.

And yet, for all the chaos, all the secrecy, all the mornings I spent willing myself out of bed and into a life that felt temporarily unrecognisable, I can say this honestly: I have never felt more like myself. I don’t know what the next chapter looks like. I don’t know what Australia looks like, or motherhood, or any of it. But I’m not dreading it, and for me, right now, that’s everything.

What a fucking year… and it’s only May.

I’m not sat there revealing your deepest, darkest secrets or dissecting your childhood trauma over a glass of wine. I’m talking about you in the same way people talk about others. Neutrally. Sometimes positively. Occasionally observationally. The way we’ve always done since the beginning of time.

And yet, the moment I remember that I, too, exist in other people’s conversations, a quiet sense of dread creeps in.

Because suddenly the question shifts: when is it okay to be a topic of conversation? And more importantly, who gets to decide the rules?

There is an unspoken social contract we all seem to operate within. We tell ourselves that discussing someone neutrally is harmless. That recounting a situation as it happened is just context. That sharing something small with a close friend is different from gossip. But the line between reflection, narration and gossip is unfortunately thinner than we like to admit.

I often think about how easily we justify it.

‘I’m not saying anything bad’
‘I’m just explaining what happened’
‘They’re a part of my life… and I’m allowed to talk about my life’

Which, technically, is true.

You cannot live a life that involves other people and then never mention them. That would be wildly psychopathic. Relationships are inherently intertwined. Our stories are never entirely ours; they are built around other people’s presence, reactions, and decisions. To erase them from our retellings would be dishonest.

But then comes the uncomfortable contradiction. I can talk about you neutrally and still feel deeply uneasy at the thought of you talking about me…

Even if you’re being fair. Even if you’re being kind. Even if you’re just recounting events as they happened.

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There is something strangely exposing about existing in someone else’s narrative. You lose control of the framing. The tone. The interpretation. Suddenly, you are no longer the author of your own character. You are merely a supporting role in someone else’s story.

And that is where it becomes complicated.

Because am I problematic for wanting to control the narrative around myself? The honest answer is probably yes. But let a girl live!

I tell myself that when I speak about people, I am fair. That I am not malicious. That I ‘say it how it is’ without bias. But even that phrase is loaded. Saying it how it is usually just means saying it how it felt from my perspective. And a perspective is never neutral, no matter how rational we like to believe we are.

We all curate, even unintentionally. We gloss over certain details, emphasise others, and leave out elements that do not serve the emotional arc of the story.

Not out of cruelty, but out of instinct.

And yet, the thought of someone doing the exact same thing about me is pure nightmare fuel. Not because I assume they will be unkind, but because they will inevitably be incomplete. No one ever tells your story with the full context you hold internally. They can’t. They only have access to the version of you that exists from their experience.

Which raises another question: should we just mind our own f*cking business?

In theory, yes. In practice, impossible.

Healing and growth are processed through conversation. We make sense of situations by speaking them aloud. We seek reassurance. Validation. Clarity. We go to our friends not to dissect people for sport, but to better understand what we are feeling about various situations.

And relationships complicate this even further.

Should I speak to my friends about my relationship?

Instinctively, yes. That feels natural. Healthy, even. Friends are sounding boards. They help us regulate emotions we might otherwise internalise. They offer perspective when we are too close to something to see it clearly. But then the dynamic shifts when I consider the reverse. Should my partner speak about our relationship to his friends?

Logically, of course, he should be allowed to. I would never stop him. That would be absurd and controlling. Yet emotionally, the idea unsettles me more than I care to admit. Because suddenly, private moments become external narratives. Small disagreements become retellings. Complex emotions become simplified anecdotes.

And even if he speaks kindly, the mere act of being discussed feels intimate in a way that is difficult to articulate. It forces me to confront something slightly uncomfortable about myself. I am fine with openness until I am the one being openly discussed.

There is also the question of who is told. Because, of course, context matters. Telling a best friend who exists as a neutral party is very different from telling someone embedded within shared social circles. One feels contained. The other feels like the beginning of Chinese whispers.

We often pretend that information exists in isolation, but it rarely does. Conversations travel. Interpretations evolve. Narratives shift subtly as they pass through different lenses. Not maliciously. Just naturally.

And perhaps that is the real fear. Not that people are speaking about us in cruel ways, but that we are being reduced to digestible summaries of complex selves.

‘She’s dramatic’
‘He’s distant’
‘They’re complicated’

Entire personalities condensed into conversational shorthand. The irony is that we do this constantly without meaning harm. We are observational by nature. We analyse behaviour and discuss patterns. We try to make sense of people because understanding others helps us understand ourselves.

So where is the line?

Not in complete silence, because that would be unnatural. Not in total disclosure, because that would be invasive. Are we speaking to process or to perform? To understand or to entertain? To seek clarity or to gain social currency?

That distinction is subtle but important.

I don’t think the issue is that we talk about each other. I think the issue is forgetting that the people we speak about are entire individuals with a world of their own, just as complex as ours. It is easy to speak about someone as a character when they are not present. Much harder to remember that they are a person who would likely feel exposed hearing the same words repeated back.

And yet, despite all this reflection, I still feel confused.

What is okay and what is not? Where does harmless conversation end and harmful narration begin? Am I being reasonable for feeling uneasy about being discussed while also participating in the exact same behaviour myself?

I genuinely don’t know anymore.

Perhaps the truth is less philosophical. We are human. Humans talk. Humans reflect. We analyse the people in our lives because relationships are not silent experiences. They are lived, processed, and occasionally verbalised.

Maybe the goal is not to eliminate conversation about others, but to approach it with a better sense of responsibility. To speak as if the person will one day hear it. To remain fair, even in frustration. To resist the urge to dramatise for the sake of storytelling. Because at the end of the day, none of us want to be someone’s anecdote stripped of nuance.

We want to be understood, not summarised.

And perhaps that is the contradiction we all live with: wanting the freedom to speak, while quietly hoping we are handled with care in rooms we are not in.

xoxo

He’s a baby boomer, yet over the last decade he’s delegated a surprising amount of his time to consuming social media content. He watches twenty-somethings become millionaires simply from posting online. From yoga instructors to home cooks, even chiropractors filming their appointments. He sees people build entire lives from content, and to him it looks like opportunity.

He’ll tell me how well these individuals are doing and then ask, genuinely, why I don’t use the same platforms to my advantage. Why I don’t just post more. Why I don’t market myself. I get it. I’m his youngest daughter and he believes I’m capable of conquering the world. Or at least the internet.

I tell him I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I don’t know what my niche would be. I don’t know what unique talent I could confidently present without feeling like I’m performing a version of myself that isn’t quite true.

And yes, maybe this sounds vain or ignorant, but I do have cool outfits. I could probably curate posts around that. But the idea of building a personality out of clothes alone feels oddly dull. Like sanding myself down to something more digestible.

Still, the uncomfortable truth is that he’s probably right.

And yet, at the same time, I want nothing more than to remove social media from my life entirely. I fantasise about deleting everything. About disappearing and becoming unreachable in the way people once were. No stories. No posts. No algorithm deciding whether my work is worth being seen. Just me, my thoughts, and the people who actually know me.

This is the paradox of being a creative now.

Instagram or you are invisible. You can write, paint, design, photograph, think, but if you are not documenting it online, it might as well not exist. Exposure has become the currency, and the price of entry is constant visibility.

There are days when I envy the socialites who seem to do the bare minimum yet manage to launch a New York Times bestsellers. Their books hit the shelves with a concerning amount of anticipation and praise before anyone has even had time to read a word. But behind the envy, I mock them too (clearly lol). I tell myself their work lacks substance, that their influence is shallow, that the passion is missing. But if I’m being honest, that mockery probably comes from jealousy. Or confusion. Or bitterness. Let’s just settle on all three.

Because part of me wonders if they’ve simply understood the game better than I have. Or worse, if the game has nothing to do with talent anymore.

I miss the days when social media was for friends and family. When you posted a blurry photo from a night out or a holiday montage that your camera roll made for you without thinking about engagement or reach. When your audience was people you actually knew, not strangers or potential clients or future employers. I’ve written about this before, yet the feeling still lingers. There was something softer about it all. Something less transactional. Now everything feels like a pitch. Even when it’s casual. Even when it’s meant to be authentic.

We talk about the digital age as if it’s neutral, but it has quietly split us into two types of people. Those who create and those who consume. The creators hope the consumers never decide to create, because attention is finite. The consumers envy the creators while telling themselves they could do it too if they wanted. It’s an unspoken tension sitting underneath every scroll.

Creation now comes with pressure. To be consistent. To be visible. To be palatable. Consumption comes with guilt. Hours lost. Comparison spirals. A quiet resentment towards people you do not know. Both sides are exhausting in their own way.

And somewhere along the way, the idea that an individual can be a brand crept in. Slowly enough that we didn’t notice it happening. At first it was celebrities. Then influencers. Then creatives. Now it’s everyone. LinkedIn profiles read like press releases. Instagram feeds are colour-coded and intentional. Even grief, joy, and anger are packaged neatly for public viewing.

So what actually separates a person from a brand?

A brand is consistent. A person is contradictory. A brand has a message. A person has moods. A brand exists to be consumed. A person exists to live. The problem is that social media rewards branding far more than it rewards humanity. Those messy, quiet, uncertain versions of ourselves do not perform well.

When you turn yourself into a brand, you flatten yourself. You choose a version of who you are and present it on repeat. You trim the edges and edit out the inconvenient parts. Over time, that version starts to feel more real to the outside world than the person behind it. And if you’re not careful, it starts to feel more real to you as well.

This is where the desire for a digital detox creeps in. Not because social media is inherently evil, but because being perceived all the time is exhausting. There is no off switch. No private processing. No room to change your mind without it being documented.

Which raises another question. Are people who have turned themselves into brands entitled to privacy? And if so, how much?

We’re quick to say that public figures chose this life. That exposure is part of the deal. But where is the line between choosing visibility and forfeiting your right to be human? Sharing parts of your life does not mean consenting to all of it. Benefiting from attention does not mean deserving intrusion.

At the same time, a strange entitlement creeps in when your work relies on an audience. Followers feel owed access. Silence becomes suspicious. Boundaries are interpreted as arrogance. You are either overexposed or accused of disappearing.

There is no winning.

This is where I find myself stuck. Wanting to build something that requires visibility while longing for invisibility. Wanting my work to be seen without my life being consumed. Wanting connection, not performance. Honesty, without turning myself into a product.

It’s difficult to explain this without sounding ungrateful. Opportunities come through social media. Communities form there. Conversations happen. But watching the constant demand to show up, to comment, to share, to optimise, you start to see how the joy drains from creating. The work becomes content. The process becomes strategy.

And then there’s the irony. The more we’re told to build personal brands, the more identical everyone becomes. Same fonts. Same phrases. Same vulnerability, carefully curated. Authenticity becomes a trend rather than a truth.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we all stopped posting for a week. Not as a protest, but as an experiment. Would the world end? Would the work still matter? Would anyone notice? Or would we all breathe a little easier?

My father’s advice lingers because it comes from a place of survival. He understands that the world now runs on perception. That opportunities follow visibility. That talent alone is no longer enough if no one sees it. He isn’t wrong. But neither am I for wanting out.

The real issue isn’t social media itself. It’s the idea that our worth must constantly be proven. That silence equals irrelevance. That rest looks like failure. We’re taught to treat ourselves as projects, always in development, always improving, always marketable.

I don’t have a neat conclusion. This isn’t a manifesto against Instagram or a declaration of quitting the internet forever. It’s an observation from someone caught in the middle. Someone who wants to create without being consumed. Someone who wants a life that exists beyond the screen, even if the work occasionally lives on it.

Maybe the answer isn’t a full digital detox or a perfectly curated brand. Maybe it’s allowing ourselves to exist in contradiction. To show up when it feels right and step back when it doesn’t. To remember that behind every profile is a person, and behind every brand is someone just trying to make sense of it all.

And maybe, just maybe, we need to stop confusing visibility with value xoxo

Everywhere I scroll, someone’s preaching about gratitude. There’s always a caption about how saying ‘thank you’ to the universe every morning changed their life, as if they’ve cracked the code to inner peace. It’s the same energy as 2015, when every man and their dog flew to the jungle to drink ayahuasca out of a coconut bowl and came back claiming they’d found God in a puddle of mud. The captions all start the same: ‘🌱Gratitude changed everything for me☀️’. Then comes the list of three things they’re grateful for: their morning matcha, their sense of self, and sunlight. It’s like they’re auditioning for sainthood.

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However, I can’t stop asking myself, weren’t we all practising gratitude already? …..Unless, of course, you’re a proper prick. But gratitude isn’t some spiritual discovery; it’s basic decency. You don’t need to write a daily list to be thankful. Most of us just feel it quietly when something goes right, or when life doesn’t completely fall apart. Gratitude isn’t new. It’s not a trend.

It’s just being… grateful.

What feels weird is how it’s being perfectly packaged like it’s the next fast-fashion trend. There’s something unsettling about people monetising basic emotions. Workshops on how to ‘unlock your gratitude’. Guided journals and paid newsletters that promise to teach you how to be thankful. It’s giving Mr O’Hare from The Lorax, the man who depleted the world of air and then sold it back in cans.

I can’t take someone seriously when they’re preaching about ‘living in gratitude’ while wearing a £200 ALO set at a £50 Nobu Pilates class. Honey, that’s not gratitude. That’s just content.

Maybe this is what happens when we lose touch with subtlety. Everything has to be performed. You can’t just feel grateful anymore; you have to announce it. You have to film it. You have to make sure everyone knows you’re spiritually evolved, that you’re ‘doing the inner work’, unlike the rest of us mere mortals. It’s no longer about reflection or growth; it’s about proof. Proof that you’re not miserable. Proof that you’re trying. Proof that you’ve found some secret to peace that the rest of us are too lazy to unlock.

It’s the same with intuition. Every few scrolls, someone’s shoving an online course about ‘tapping into your intuition’ in your face, as if it’s a secret radio frequency you can only access after paying £49.99. People love thinking they’ve discovered something mystical that the rest of us haven’t. They speak about ‘connecting with their inner knowing’ like they’ve just been handed the Ten Commandments. But intuition isn’t a skill that can be taught. It’s a human instinct. You feel when something’s off. You know when someone’s lying. You get that gut sense when something’s right or wrong, even if you can’t explain why. That’s intuition. It’s been there since day dot.

Personally, I think the only people who seem to lack intuition are the ones trying to sell it. They don’t sound intuitive; they sound rehearsed. Every sentence is drenched with words like ‘alignment’ and ‘abundance’. It’s like a new religion built from recycled Pinterest quotes and overpriced açai bowls.

In all honesty, I don’t even think most of them are being deceitful. They probably believe in what they’re saying. They’ve had some sort of awakening and want to share it. But somewhere along the way, it stops being about truth and turns into performance. A money-making lifestyle brand perfectly dressed as ✨enlightenment✨

Maybe people are just desperate to feel something. It’s true, the world feels so numb now, so digitised, that we’ll cling to anything that offers hope for a real connection. Gratitude journals. Intuition workshops. And let’s not forget, breathwork classes in East London basements. It’s all an attempt to feel grounded in a world that keeps pulling us out of ourselves. I get it. We’re all searching for something that feels real. But the irony is that the more people talk about ‘authenticity’, the less authentic it all becomes.

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When I think about gratitude, I think about my mum. She’s never once said the word ‘manifestation’ in her life, and she couldn’t give two shits about vision boards. But she is grateful. She says thank you for the smallest things, and she lights up when her three daughters are sitting around a table together. She doesn’t need to prove it or post it.

She simply lives it.

Her gratitude isn’t loud. Instead, it’s delivered in one of the most genuine smiles you’ll ever see, and most importantly, it doesn’t need a perfectly presented Instagram dump for validation.

Somewhere along the way, we lost sight of what gratitude really is: just showing up and being there.

I think that’s what we’ve forgotten: how to just live. Everything has to be shared now. If we’re healing, it must be documented. If we’re growing, there needs to be a before-and-after. If we’re thankful, the world has to know. I’m not saying people shouldn’t celebrate their progress, but there’s something so powerful about keeping certain things private. The best moments of clarity usually happen in silence, not in a caption.

Practising gratitude isn’t bad. It’s good to recognise what’s working, what we have. But it’s not revolutionary. It’s not a personality trait. Nor is it something to monetise into a career. It’s just life. The small things and the ordinary moments. The stuff you notice when you’re actually living.

And maybe that’s what bothers me most. Not that people are practising gratitude or talking about intuition, but that they’re trying to turn these things into something you can buy; something that needs to be learnt. Gratitude doesn’t need a journal or a subscription. It just needs attention. Intuition doesn’t need a course. It just needs a gut feeling and a sense of reason.

So no, unfortunately, babe, you’re not special for practising gratitude. You’re just human. Which, in a world constantly trying to make us feel like we’re not enough, might actually be the most special thing of all.

The first time I was ever called one, I was probably about ten. No prizes for guessing who said it: my older sister. Now, yes, she may have had her reasons, sibling rivalries are rarely pretty—but let’s be honest, there was definitely a touch of bias in her judgment. Still, even at that young age, it planted a seed. A kind of self-awareness, maybe. Or a warning. Either way, it stuck.

That moment wasn’t just about the name. It was my first real taste of confrontation, the sting of being called out, even if unfairly. And it taught me something important: confrontation can hurt, but it also demands attention. It shakes you out of comfort and forces you to ask questions. Am I really that? Did I do something to deserve it? Or is this just about her, not me? That one little insult made me realise early on that words have power, and confrontation—however fucking messy—can shift the dynamic of a relationship in an instant.

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I’ll never understand why confrontation inherently has a bad rep, especially for women. The act of raising an issue is often considered problematic, and those who raise them are deemed aggressive, difficult, or ‘too much’. But here’s what I’ve learnt: when it’s done right, confrontation is one of the most powerful tools for growth, not just for others but for yourself.

Let’s say I’ve done something that’s hurt you. Maybe I didn’t realise. Maybe I did, and I just didn’t think it mattered at the time. But then you confront me…. calmly, honestly. That gives me the chance to reflect, to apologise, and to do better. It’s uncomfortable, sure. But it’s necessary. That’s how relationships strengthen. That’s how people evolve.

On the flip side, if I disagree with your confrontation, then it opens a door for conversation. I get to explain my side, clear up misunderstandings, and maybe shift your perspective too. It’s a two-way street. A recipe for growth, more often than not.

That said, I haven’t always been good at it. Especially not when my emotions are running high. I’ve walked into confrontations burning with anxiety or stress, already on edge, and it’s clouded my judgement. I’ve said things more harshly than I meant, pushed harder than I should’ve, and misread situations through a fog of fear or frustration. I’m not proud of those moments, but I own them. They’ve taught me the difference between reacting and responding. Between venting and actually communicating.

As a kid, I learned early on that unresolved issues have a way of poisoning everything around them. So, I made a silent vow to myself: don’t let things fester. Say what needs to be said. Keep communication honest, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

In fact, I used to tell my friends, “Fear the day I stop confronting you. That’s when you’ll know I’ve let go”, though now I see how that sounds like a mild threat.

But here’s the truth—I only confront the people I care about. If I didn’t give a damn about you, I’d let it slide. I wouldn’t waste my energy. Silence, for me, is the death knell of a relationship. When something goes wrong and I say nothing, it means I’ve already started to walk away. I’m at peace with the idea of losing you, and no conversation can change that. Even if we fixed the issue, I just wouldn’t care anymore.

That’s the power of emotional investment. I fight to keep the people I love. But I also know when to stop.

Still, I sometimes wonder if I lean too heavily into confrontation. Maybe I do push too hard? Too often? I forget that some people weren’t raised to speak their truths so openly, and that my directness might feel like a storm they weren’t prepared for.

But I’d rather be honest than hold onto resentment. I’d rather risk discomfort than let bitterness take root. And yes, that makes me confrontational. But it also makes me real. And in a world full of people too afraid to say how they really feel, I’ll wear that label proudly.

So confront me. Please.
It means you still care.
And if I confront you, know that I still do, too.

xoxo

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Which is ironic, really, because travel, at least for me, is rarely glamorous. It’s security queues that move at a glacial pace, sandwiches that cost more than my Uber here, and the creeping dread that I’ve definitely forgotten something vital (probably my charger). And yet, every time, I’m there in the terminal mirror, reapplying lip balm like I’m about to run into my ex or someone that I can, in no time, make my ex. I style my outfit like I might get papped at the Pret queue. I pray my messy bun reads more chicly dishevelled than didn’t sleep and cried on the Piccadilly Line.

But why? Who exactly am I trying to impress?

It’s not like I put this much effort into my daily commute. The tube is a lawless place where eye contact is an act of aggression and the scent of someone’s forgotten McDonald’s lingers like heartbreak. No one is finding love on the Victoria Line. But airports? Airports are different. There’s an unspoken allure in the sheer number of people passing through, each carrying stories, secrets, destinations. It feels cinematic, like at any moment, I might lock eyes across Gate 32 with someone who changes everything. Or at the very least, someone who makes a funny comment about the incomprehensible boarding zones.

Blame the rom-coms. They’ve conditioned us to believe in last-minute dashes through terminals, confessions at departure gates, love letters exchanged over plastic meal trays. We all want our own film moment, a missed connection that becomes the beginning of something. We’re secretly hoping our seatmate will be devastatingly handsome, or at least mildly interesting, and that a throwaway joke about turbulence will spiral into a full-blown situationship.

Once, I thought it was happening to me. I was flying to France a few summers ago and found myself next to a man who was, objectively, fit. He was charming, well-travelled, laughed at my nervous babble about flying. We swapped travel tips, favourite beach towns, and existential fears. When the plane touched down, he asked for my number. I gave it to him, heart pounding, already reciting the opening line of our ‘how we met’ speech in my head. He never texted.

And yet, I still believe. I still romanticise. Every time I roll my suitcase through those sliding doors, I carry with me the hope, however irrational, that something is waiting on the other side of security. Someone, even.

So I’ll keep dressing up. I’ll keep pretending I’m the lead in some indie airport romance. I’ll keep looking up from my book in the departure lounge, just in case. Because who knows? Maybe next time, the story won’t end at baggage claim.

xoxo

When did emotion become something to be rationed out in tiny, socially acceptable doses? When did enthusiasm become embarrassing? It’s like we’ve collectively decided that the worst thing you can be is earnest, that admitting you care about something is somehow cringeworthy, and that passion is a liability.

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We’re living in an era where people treat joy like it’s shameful and feelings like they’re something to be overcome. As if giving a shit about something, about anything, is a personal failing. As if we all have to play the brooding lead in some self-serious indie film where nobody actually laughs, they just exhale sharply through their noses and say, heh as they take a drag from a cigarette.

But here’s the thing: nonchalance isn’t mysterious. It isn’t alluring. It isn’t interesting.

It’s boring. It’s rude.

I seriously hate people who don’t care. Like… just FUCKING care. (I know you do.)

If something excites you, admit it. If something upsets you, let it. If you’re proud of yourself, celebrate. Stop diluting your emotions just to fit into some half-baked aesthetic of detachment. Stop pretending you don’t want things. Want them loudly. Chase them unapologetically.

And for fuck’s sake, embarrass yourself. Be cringey. Be earnest. Be all the things that nonchalant people are terrified of being. Because the truth is, you don’t create memories by holding back. You don’t stumble into the best nights of your life by making sure you always look effortless. You don’t fall in love, build friendships, or do anything worthwhile by being so obsessed with appearing unbothered that you never actually experience anything.

The best moments in life—the ones you replay in your head years later, the ones that make you grin at your own ridiculousness—come from caring too much. From throwing yourself into things without hesitation. From looking back and thinking, wow, that was so dumb, but knowing you wouldn’t change a second of it.

The most admirable traits in a person are the ones that define them. Passion. Kindness. Drive. A sense of humor about themselves. There’s nothing defining about nonchalance, because nonchalance is just an absence of character. It’s a refusal to be shaped by life, to be moved by anything, to let the world leave a mark on you. And what’s the point of that?

I care that you don’t care, and most importantly, I judge.

Recognise your wins. Acknowledge your lows. Laugh at yourself. Take risks. Make mistakes. Be fully present in your own life.

The most interesting people aren’t the ones who are hard to read—they’re the ones who aren’t afraid to be seen.

xoxo

To put it bluntly, I seriously can't be fucked anymore. And while that might seem like an extreme—undoubtedly vulgar—statement, I fear it’s the absolute truth.

This isn’t a cry for help or some desperate plea for attention. It’s just a reality I’ve come to recognise, a reality I’ve spent years unknowingly constructing for myself. And now, it’s consuming me.

For weeks, I’ve been sitting with my thoughts, dissecting my existence and trying to map out what comes next. But the same haunting question keeps echoing in my mind: When will I be successful? When will I have my moment?

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I’ve always taken pride in my ambition. My drive. I’d like to believe that others see it in me, too. But as the world continues to unravel, as I gain more knowledge and experience, I find myself questioning the entire foundation of my ambition.

What’s the point?

Of course, I want stability - emotionally, socially, politically, financially. Who doesn’t? And while, theoretically, these things can be achieved, they never seem to materialise to the degree I once thought necessary. The older I get, the further away they seem.

Why does everything feel more impossible with time? What am I doing wrong?

No matter how much I push forward, that question remains unanswered.

I keep circling back to the same thoughts: Where do I want to live? What industry do I truly see myself growing in? What do I even want to achieve in the next five years? But with every attempt to create a plan, the only thing that becomes clearer and clearer is that anxiety never disappears ;)

But here’s the real kicker, while a part of me feels entirely burnt out, drowning in self-doubt and the slow, creeping disillusionment of adulthood, another part of me still wants it all. The big career. The financial freedom. The creative fulfillment. The recognition. The success.

I want to be impressive. I want to walk into a room and have people know exactly who I am. I want the kind of success that makes everything feel worth it.

And yet—I want to do absolutely nothing.

I want to lie in bed for hours, phone in one hand, snack in the other, avoiding emails like they personally wronged me. I want to pause my entire existence for a little while, just enough to regain some sense of control. To stop feeling like I’m running on a treadmill that keeps speeding up, never quite reaching a destination.

It’s the most frustrating contradiction: an overwhelming urge to check out of life entirely, paired with an undeniable, desperate need to be somebody. To be great.

Maybe this is just a phase. A quarter-life crisis wrapped in existential dread. Or maybe it’s the moment I finally admit to myself that ambition alone won’t save me. Because if chasing "success" has only led me to exhaustion, then maybe it's time to redefine what success even means.

Maybe it’s not about a singular moment. Maybe it's about learning to exist in the in-between. Maybe the real challenge is figuring out how to balance drive with rest, how to push forward without self-destruction.

Because right now, I don’t want to hustle harder. I just want to exist without feeling like I’m already falling behind.

xoxo

With that in mind, here’s my completely unsolicited (but obviously correct) style advice. Think of me as your stylish but slightly judgmental younger sister (apologies to my actual older sisters who endure these rants in person), the one who tells you—lovingly but firmly—that your jeans don’t fit right and that, yes, you do need to steam that shirt before leaving the house.

Take it or leave it. But don’t say I didn’t help.

Let’s begin.

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1. Red and pink together? Proceed with caution

Some people call red and pink a power couple. I’d argue they’re more like that chaotic ex-situationship you keep running into; messy, unnecessary, and tricky to pull off without regret. Unless the colors are already mixed in the design, this pairing requires serious styling skills. If in doubt, maybe sit this one out.

Nevertheless, if anyone can show me a decent outfit with the two colours - I’d love to be proven wrong.

2. High-rise, low-rise: just wear what actually suits you

The return of low-rise jeans has sparked deep controversy, and honestly, I get it. But here’s the thing: trends are suggestions, not commandments. Not every waistline works for every body type, and that’s okay. The key is to wear what flatters you—and, for the love of good fashion, let’s stop ignoring mid-rise.

It exists. It’s perfect. Give it some love.

3. Basics are the secret to great style

A well-curated wardrobe isn’t about having more clothes (a painful truth I’m still coming to terms with); it’s about having the right ones. A crisp white blouse, classic denim, a structured black blazer, and a perfectly fitted T-shirt will serve you infinitely better than whatever micro-trend social media is screaming about this week.

Master the basics, and everything else will fall into place.

4. Invest in shoes, accessories, and handbags

You don’t need a designer wardrobe to look put-together, but the right accessories can elevate everything. A well-structured handbag, a good pair of everyday shoes, or a great belt can transform even the simplest outfit. And no, this doesn’t mean chasing logos. Just buy the best quality you can afford, and you’ll realise it actually saves you money in the long run. 

Your outfits (and future self) will thank you.

5. There’s a time and place for opaque and sheer tights

Tights are tricky. Opaque tights are a winter essential, but they can make an outfit feel heavier than intended. Sheer tights, on the other hand, add an effortless polish, only until they snag five minutes in.

The key?

Choose wisely and always have a backup pair.

6. If you’re questioning whether something needs ironing, it does

Wrinkles are the silent killer of otherwise great outfits. If you’re debating whether to iron or steam something, just do it. You’ll never regret looking polished, but you will regret looking like you just rolled out of a suitcase.

7. A silk scarf is the most underrated accessory you own

Wear it around your neck, tie it on your bag, use it as a headband, or even loop it through your belt loops; there are endless styling possibilities. A silk scarf instantly makes you look like someone who has their life together, even if you definitely do not.

8. The best outfits are usually the simplest

Some of the most iconic fashion moments are built on simplicity. A well-tailored coat, great denim, and a crisp white shirt will always look more put-together than an overcomplicated outfit that screams, “I tried way too hard.”

Less can be more.

9. Navy and black can work—if done right

It’s not the crime people think it is, but the shades need to be distinct enough that it looks intentional, not like you got dressed in the dark.

Deep navy and jet black? Chic.

Muted navy and faded black? Risky territory.

10. Your style should evolve, so have fun with it

The best thing about fashion is that it doesn’t have to be consistent. One day, you’re in a full monochrome moment. The next, you’re in cowboy boots, pretending you just walked off a Milan runway. The key to a great outfit? Confidence. You can wear the wildest ensemble, but if you own it, people will believe you.

At the end of the day, wear what makes you feel good. Ignore trends that don’t serve you. Iron your damn clothes. And if all else fails, throw on a great blazer and pretend you have somewhere important to be.

Now go forth and dress well.

Or don’t.

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you xoxo

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Think of it as our own little group chat; an unhinged but stylish space where we can talk about fashion, culture, and the ridiculousness of everyday life.

I’ll drop questions, random thoughts, and updates, and you can jump in whenever the mood strikes.

I’m also thinking of starting a weekly thread where we can post our pets, so our family and friends can finally get a break. What do you think? It feels necessary.

Anyway, basically this chat is like texting your most opinionated friend (who actually wants to listen).

To join, follow the instructions below!

See you in the chat xoxo

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Join chat

How to get started

1. Get the Substack app by clicking this link or the button below. New chat threads won’t be sent sent via email, so turn on push notifications so you don’t miss conversation as it happens. You can also access chat on the web.

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2. Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

3. That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

But somewhere along the way, we lost that.

Whenever I visit home from Australia, my favourite ritual is flicking through old photo albums. Those pictures weren’t perfect; some were blurry, some were tilted, and some had that classic red-eye glow. But that’s what made them real. They tell a story, not just of what was happening in the frame, but of the people, the energy, the life behind the lens. I remember the feeling of those moments, the laughter, the awkward poses, the joy. And that was the point.

Now? I don’t want to take photos. And I don’t want to be in them.

Why?

Truthfully, I want to blame social media.

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Maybe it’s just the Gen-Z in me, but taking photos has become a chore—a performance—a perfectly curated highlight reel. With the rise of influencers, it’s no longer about preserving memories; it’s about crafting an aesthetic and projecting an image. Every picture must be flawless: the lighting just right, the pose effortless yet intentional, the background clean, and the edits seamless. There’s no room for spontaneity, no space for imperfection.

The joy of capturing a moment has been replaced by the pressure to present a version of ourselves that fits into a feed.

Now, before I even take a picture, I hesitate. Not because I want to savour the moment but because I’m already assessing whether it’s “post-worthy.” When did we start taking photos for others instead of for ourselves?

Even when I try to take a candid shot, it turns into a production. I adjust the angle, shift the lighting, retake it again and again until the moment itself feels distant; manufactured rather than lived. The photo becomes an obligation, not an instinct.

And when I do end up in pictures, I scrutinise them in a way I never used to. Before, a photo was just me: windblown hair, an unplanned laugh, an outfit I might cringe at now, but that made sense that day. Now, it’s something to be analysed.

How do I look?
Should I have posed differently?
Does this need a filter?

Maybe I should just take another one.

Another ten photos added to the camera roll, all destined to be deleted in bulk.

I miss the simplicity of film cameras. The anticipation of developing photos, the excitement of seeing how they turned out. No retakes, no endless scrolling through near-identical shots, just a moment, captured once, exactly as it was.

I don’t want to hate photos. I want to love them again. I want them to feel raw, personal, and intimate—a reflection of real life, not a performance. I want to take pictures because I want to remember, not because I feel obligated to document my life in a way that fits into a grid.

Maybe the secret is to go back. Take photos just for myself. Print them. Put them in albums. Keep them offline. Let them be a private joy, not a public display.

Maybe then, I’ll find my love for photography again.

xoxo

• I can’t fall asleep without a cartoon playing in the background.

• I start my mornings with three espressos and a Vyvanse.

• I will always, without fail, have a packet of cigarettes on me.

• I had a tattoo removed at 19 - one I got impulsively and regretted almost immediately.

• I wash my hair once a week, at most.

• I eat pasta at least once a day, sometimes twice.

• I very rarely exercise, and when I do, I spend most of my time thinking about how quickly I can leave.

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Last night, as I pressed play on yet another episode of Family Guy to lull myself to sleep, it dawned on me just how ‘unattractive’ my bedtime routine might seem to an outsider. You’d think that by now, I’d have matured enough to opt for a podcast or an audiobook - something that at least pretends to be enriching. But no, for the past five years, my Disney+ subscription has been my lifeline for sleep, and I have absolutely no shame in that.

Well, maybe a little shame.

At dinner last year, I shared my ‘ick list’ with some new friends. My list, which could be perceived as brutal, is simply a visual representation of my standards. We all laughed as we went around the table, but then one girl chimed in with, “I stopped dating a guy once because he watched Family Guy.”

Ouch. That was a harsh reality check.

I laughed it off and, in a moment of true self-exposure, admitted, “He’s just like me.” The room laughed, but I sat with the thought longer than I should have. Are my defining traits actually considered ‘icky’? Is my routine, my little collection of habits, repelling people in ways I don’t even realise?

In the age of influencers, we are drowning in ‘Day in My Life’ videos that paint a picture of perfect self-discipline: the sleek, slicked-back buns, the colour-coordinated kitchens, the daily ritual of green powders mixed into filtered tap water, and the inevitable shot of a reformer pilates class. These women appear effortlessly put together, their lives neatly edited to fit into a 60-second montage of quiet luxury and aspirational wellness. But the more I see, the more I wonder: what happens when the camera stops rolling?

Maybe my skepticism is rooted in my own insecurities, but I can’t help but envision those same girls with chaotic drawers stuffed behind their pristine wardrobe doors. I picture half-folded laundry sitting untouched on their floor. Maybe, just maybe, they have a rogue Family Guy episode in their ‘Continue Watching’ queue.

With our social feeds oversaturated with daily ‘vlogging,’ I wonder if our perception of a ‘realistic’ day is starting to warp. Have we collectively rewritten what a normal routine looks like? And in doing so, have we convinced ourselves that anything short of perfection is a failure?

Last Saturday, I woke up with a crushing hangover and had to forcibly remind myself that this is normal. I am 24 years old. I am supposed to have a late Friday night every now and again. There is no moral failing in spending my Saturday buried under my duvet, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok, and surviving on carbs and iced coffee.

Maybe my habits are ‘toxic.’ Maybe they aren’t. But they’re mine, and right now, I love them.

And with that, I think I’ll go smoke a vogue xoxo

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My friends are pretty goddamn hot; they’re smart, they’re witty, they’re funny and alluring; pretty much, they’re the girls you’d take home to meet the family. But why are they stuck with mediocre crusty men who can’t even commit to a dinner plan, let alone their feelings? Last year, I experienced the treacherous hell of the London dating scene. After multiple failed first dates, some lacklustre one-night stands, and a failed 8-month-long situationship, I, too, began to question the reality of modern dating. Luckily, when all the doors felt like they had shut, a whole new opportunity popped up out of nowhere, and now I’m with one of the only good men out there, it seems. But that’s beside the point. The point is, where the fuck has chivalry gone?

Growing up, I would spend my Friday nights watching rom-coms with my mother, and in these films, the bare minimum was a man opening the door for a woman, getting her coat, or helping her with her chair at dinner. These were never deemed exemplary tasks - they were simply expected. While I’m all for the feminist movement and encouraging women to strive for an independent lifestyle, this shouldn’t mean manners don’t matter for men. Women still want flowers; we still want you to open the door for us, and we still want you to take the initiative and plan a DAMN date. I’ve heard myself and my friends preach to the lords above about how amazing a man is for simply booking a restaurant?!? Even as I write this, I acknowledge how obscene that is. ‘No, but seriously, he even took me to this new restaurant he has been wanting to try’; I hear us women preach as if this man is a godsend. Instead, he, at this point, is just a man.

But are we, as women, just lowering our standards while men are making the most of these easily achievable expectations? Or have we been forced to settle on the bare minimum in hopes of finding ‘the one’?

It’s a question I often wonder: why are we ever so desperately chasing these breadcrumbs when we deserve nothing less than a Michelin-star experience? On the plane the other day, I watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the first time, and though my first takeaway was ‘Wow, what a cast!’ it put things into perspective. Throughout my short-lived dating adventures, the one thing I would always tell myself whenever I waited for a reply after three days of silence was, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ However, I also fought myself by saying, ‘If I wanted to, I would,’ and I would inherently send that double or triple text.

But will things ever change? And what needs to happen?

I truly believe that dating apps have helped turn the dating scene into a fiery pit of hell. They have allowed people to flee conversations without explanation. Thus, ‘ghosting’ is now a standard practice. The abundance of choice has devalued real connections, turning dating into a mindless swipe game where commitment feels optional. We’ve been conditioned to think that effort is a rare commodity, something to be cherished when we stumble upon it rather than a baseline expectation.

So, where do we go from here? Perhaps the answer lies in recalibrating our standards and demanding more. Women need to stop glorifying the bare minimum, and men need to step up. It’s about valuing effort, not just in grand gestures but in the consistency of everyday actions. Chivalry isn’t dead ….. it’s just on life support. But if we collectively refuse to settle, maybe, just maybe, we can bring it back to life.

xoxo

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I have ADHD, which, for those who know, means I crave every ounce of dopamine I can get my hands on. As a result, I’ve never given myself the chance to be alone, fearing I might confront some of the obsessive thoughts I've been suppressing. My weekends have typically been packed with markets, dinners, comedy shows, and pints with friends. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy these simple pleasures, but I often ended the week in tears. I used to think those tears were a reaction to being alone, but it never occurred to me that they stemmed from pure social exhaustion. While I cherish the memories made with friends, I regret not allowing myself time to recharge.

My older sister often jokes (or mocks, in classic sisterly fashion) about my inability to be alone. Sometimes, it makes me laugh; other times, it stings a bit. I would tell myself, "I can be independent." But it wasn't about independence; it was about dependency. I relied on those around me to provide the dopamine I desperately craved.

However, this month has forced me to slow down, and I’m grateful for that! I’ve never truly had time like this before. These moments alone have re-energised me beyond belief. I did spend January with my partner, but he values his space and quiet, so I still consider this time alone - even if he's within 20 meters of me at any given moment. He has taught me about personal boundaries, and I believe I owe part of this newfound energy to him. To be completely transparent, I also spent the early part of January with close friends and family, but it was in a way that fueled me positively.

Traveling this month has been the best gift to myself. I managed to escape the winter gloom of London, and instead, I indulged in some natural vitamin D (with SPF 50+, of course). Sitting by the pool and reading a book was just the time I needed to clear my mind. Drinking a gin and tonic while reading the Daily Mail (not the best choice, but I can’t resist clickbait) helped kickstart my new year planning, all while successfully reigniting my anxiety about flying. Taking long walks in nature without headphones allowed me to reflect and feel more grounded. Lying at the bottom of the pool, looking up at the world, provided me with complete silence and time to think. These little moments combined to rejuvenate me from all the depleting energy I felt in London. I finally understood the allure of doing nothing - something I once feared to experience.

There’s an undeniable privilege in having the time to do nothing. In a world that glorifies busyness, the ability to step back and simply exist feels like the ultimate luxury. Time, after all, is the one currency we can never replenish. Being able to slow down, rest without guilt, and embrace stillness is something not everyone can afford - literally or figuratively. This past month has made me acutely aware of how precious unstructured time truly is. It’s not just about relaxation; it’s about resetting, recharging, and allowing yourself the space to simply be.

All these moments, whether slightly distracted by external media or not, allowed me to lose track of time and do some much-needed organising in my mind. I’m so appreciative of this period I’ve taken for myself. I feel ready to embrace the new year. I’ll be returning to London shortly, and for the first time ever, I'm excited. I’m eager to jump back into my (new and improved) routine, feeling confident about what lies ahead.

Xoxo

My love for designer fashion didn’t come out of nowhere - after all, when you have a mother as effortlessly glamourous as mine, it's hard not to want to look and be like her. Luckily, by the time I started earning my own money, second-hand designer goods became more accessible. That’s when I scored my first designer bag: a Prada backpack for £175 from Vestiaire Collective. From that moment on, I was hooked. When someone complimented my bag, my response was always, “Thanks, it’s second-hand.” I loved showing off my bargain. I really felt like I’d achieved the impossible with that purchase, but little did I know, it would kick off an addiction stronger than gorilla glue. I’d spend every spare minute scrolling through endless listings on Depop and Vestiaire, making lowball offers to sellers desperate to clear out their wardrobes.

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Almost 10 years later, here we are, with a closet worth more than my bank account ever will be. But isn’t that the price we must pay for good style? ;)

Now, when I have a spare moment, I find myself doom-scrolling on Vestiaire Collective, 'favoriting' an obscene number of products I know I’ll never buy. But occasionally, a few pieces do slip into my basket, and my lovely friend Klarna often helps shoulder the financial burden of these impulsive (but entirely justified) purchases.

My favorite find? A vintage pony-hair Gucci Jackie bag I nabbed for around £500 two years ago. Hands down, it’s the best purchase I’ve ever made. This zebra-print pony hair slouchy tote fits everything I need for work but is also small enough to carry around London without feeling like I'm hauling an Ikea bag. I’ve been stopped countless times by fellow Londoners asking about this bag. It’s traveled all over the world with me and carried me through multiple seasons, proving that designer goods are built to last and truly transcend fleeting trends.

My motto is simple: buy less, buy better. Skip the 100-quid Zara haul every month filled with trend-driven pieces you’ll wear only a handful of times, and that’ll make you blend in with every other Instagram girl. Instead, save that money, and in a few months, you’ll have enough for a luxury piece that will stand the test of time. It’s the cornerstone of building that ‘capsule wardrobe’ we all strive for. Don’t get me wrong, a Zara piece can still be worth it, but only if you see yourself wearing it for years to come. Fast fashion deserves far more justification before it ends up in your cart.

These days, I often find myself eyeing the last few unicorn pieces on my Vestiaire wishlist - those pieces I love but can’t quite justify buying because I either already have something similar or the color isn’t quite right for my incredibly pale skin tone. These beauties deserve a new home, and who better than YOU?

So, here’s a curated selection of luxury finds under £350 that I think are totally worth your money:

1. Marni Multicolour Pony-Style Calfskin Clutch Bag , £81

   

2. Missoni Multicolour Silk Top, £114

   

3. Saint Laurent Silver Crystal Hair Accessory, £157

   

4. Celine Brown Pony-Style Calfskin Skirt, £219

   

5. Miu Miu Blue Cloth Heels, £230

   

6. Burberry Black Cotton Trench Coat, £231

   

7. Prada Brown Leather Heels, £92

   

8. Burberry Black Leather Jacket, £193

   

9. Ami Beige Trench Coat, £246

   

10. Louis Vuitton Colourful Cloth Clutch £332

    

Happy shopping, and may all your low-ball offers be accepted.

xoxo

First, it's clear that five-inch heels are utterly impractical and, frankly, rather ‘naff.’ Second, a Chanel outfit straight off the runway is not as fashionable as it sounds and is the last thing you want to be seen in.

In pursuit of this dream, largely inspired by the character Andy Sachs from The Devil Wears Prada, I moved to London right after finishing high school and applied for a Fashion Journalism degree at the London College of Fashion (LCF). I was thrilled to secure a spot in the course. Writing has always been an escape for my little ADHD mind, which conveniently has this AMAZING ability to process thoughts at a lightning speed of 100 miles per hour. So, putting words on a page helps me visualise my ideas (and those incessant, obsessive thoughts) while sorting through what is genuinely beneficial, and what is merely noise.

However, as I delved into my studies at LCF, this sense of satisfaction began to fade. The once exhilarating escape that writing provided slowly diminished, and with it, my dream of working as a writer at Vogue House began to wither away. I can’t entirely blame my education for snuffing out my writing spark; instead, I fear it was the harsh truth that becoming a journalist often required compromising one’s morals. As someone who values honesty, this no longer seemed like an acceptable path for me.

Thus, I ventured into the workforce, entering the world of Public Relations (PR). PR gave me the opportunity to create tailored narratives for brands through strategic pitching and positioning. Crafting multiple press releases to showcase these fashion brands in their best light offered me a sense of fulfilment, yet the longing to write, a longing I had kept at bay - slowly but surely began to resurface.

Fast forward to the past two years: I have found myself in a relentless internal battle, weighing the possibility of rekindling my writing journey. I’ve always been intrigued by Substack, but articulating what I wanted to share eluded me. I dreamed of creating pieces that would envelop readers, leaving them with insights or emotional echoes. Unfortunately, my stubborn self-doubt and nagging sense of inadequacy tied me down, paralysing my creative aspirations and wrapping me in a thick fog of fear.

Still, my Notes app transformed into a trove of small stories, enticing article titles, and even a couple of chapters of an autobiography that poured out after a bottle and a half of rosé last June. Yet, like the app suggests, those ideas seemed destined to remain mere notes; unfinished thoughts drifting in the digital ether. But as 2025 approaches, I find myself ready to change that narrative.

With a new job on the horizon where I will be writing for a national UK paper, the time has finally come for my words to reach an audience. The fear that has held me captive must unravel. Before I plunge into the whirlwind of daily publishing, complete with clickbait and lifestyle pieces, now is the moment to start crafting the stories I truly wish to tell.

So, hi, I’m Sasha and I’d like to welcome you to my Substack. Here, I’ll publish a vast majority of articles, including reflections, wishlists, and studies, which I’ve probably written over a Vogue cigarette.

I look forward to starting this journey with you.

xoxo

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