With the Cannes Film Festival kicking off today, I wanted to share an old piece I wrote for the Sunday Times (South Africa) ten years ago. It marked the tenth anniversary of my first Cannes, as a correspondent for Eyewitness News, and it presents a snapshot of who I was then—a young(er) reporter running on the fumes of her passion. At this point, I had already been in New York for five years.

When I think back on my whole Cannes adventure, it’s one of my proudest accomplishments. Not that I covered the festival, but that I got there at all.

I remember pitching it to my boss at Eyewitness News, where I’d joined as a reporter determined to focus on arts and entertainment; my idealistic self wanting arts stories to sit alongside sports and weather in the daily bulletin. Tsotsi had just won the Oscar for Best International Feature Film (then called Best Foreign Film), and I believed that going to Cannes would open doors to more stories about South African films gaining traction abroad.

She asked for a budget. It was too high.

So I started looking elsewhere for sponsorship. Around that time, the French Consulate in South Africa was actively building cultural ties between the two countries. I pitched the idea that my coverage of Cannes could feed into that exchange, and be useful for both sides. They agreed to cover my flights.

With that secured, I went back to my boss. She approved a modest accommodation budget, and I found an apartment on a hill that gave me a great workout after a day of eating pan au chocolat and sitting in darkened cinemas.

I went on to keep finding ways back. The following year, I was told there was no budget at all, so I looked for other avenues. I kept searching, and somehow, I kept being able to make my return, year after year. When I became a freelancer, I often was only able to cover the cost of going, and nothing more. But for me, at that time, that was all I needed.

I covered Cannes for 14 years in total, until the pandemic and pregnancy ended the streak.

I share these highlights—just a handful—from my time there, knowing that I probably would have written this now with a little less breathlessness and a little more discernment. But I share them to remember the wide-eyed girl who would go out all night, and then wake up to queue for the 8am screening (oh, to be 24 again and able to ask so much of your body and mind and they cooperate). I share this because while I remember these moments, I also remember what they taught me.

It isn’t the glamour that I’ve held onto, but the logistics of it all—the constant problem-solving, the uncertainty, the improvisation. The woman who kept figuring out how to get there is the same one who later came to New York on nothing more than belief and a dream.

One of the biggest lessons I learned at Cannes, with so many things going on and access and timing being so precarious, was to make my own Cannes. I found the stories that I could tell, the events that I could get into, the people that I could meet, and made something of it, whatever it turned out to be.

In New York, I used the same lesson. There is always something out of reach, always a door you don’t get into, always a story you miss. So you focus on what is available—the streets you can run, the people you can meet, the work you can do from where you stand.

That has turned out to matter more than any celebrity sighting.

It was the second day of the 60th edition of the Cannes Film Festival in 2007 and I found myself inside the grand Théâtre Lumière of the hallowed Palais des Festivals, heels in hand, hair dishevelled, unable to breathe.

This being my first time at the world’s most prestigious film festival — my first time as one of 4,000 journalists jostling for Julianne Moore’s attention — meant it was also my first time experiencing the tiered credential system that put me on the (almost) bottom rung, with limited access to the films and film stars I was to report on.

With five minutes to go until the doors closed, I, along with about 100 other people, had only just managed to squeeze into the opening film after an hour’s uncertain-we’d-get-in wait.

Flashes of photographs I’d seen over the years of the glamorous international film festival played in my mind as I was pushed up the stairs by other bodies rushing past me — learning, also for the first time, the difference in manners between nationalities.

“This is so glamorous,” I thought, as I wiped the sweat from my brow and elbowed my way through to find a seat right at the very back corner of the theatre.

I quickly caught on that “glamorous” is not quite the word to describe the event that takes place in the south of France every May. Oh sure, it’s glamorous for the designer-dressed and stylist-primped stars, and for those reading glossy magazines and tabloid websites at home. But for a reporter trying to file two stories twice a day for 12 days, it can be a harried and quite startling experience.

Over the years, I’ve missed out on seeing U2 perform on the steps of the Palais des Festivals; I didn’t catch a souvenir hat from Spielberg as he tossed dozens of them out into the crowd at the premiere of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull; and I have yet to blag my way into a Vanity Fair party.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in nine years of covering the Cannes Film Festival, it’s that the stuff you miss out on doesn’t mean that much in the face of all that you do get to experience.

Here, then, are 10 of my standout moments — both weird and full of wonder — that I’ll think back on fondly as I sip champagne on my yacht overlooking the Côte d’Azur at this year’s fest (just kidding — I’ll probably be standing in a line somewhere, inhaling coffee and a pain au chocolat in time to make the next screening).

10. The Time I Became Paparazzi Because of Brad and Angie

There’s nothing quite like the buzz of Brad Pitt Day in Cannes. Especially when it precedes or follows Angelina Jolie Day.

Hollywood’s hottest couple take the dial from “0 to 100 real quick” when they’re in town. I say “in town”, but the Jolie-Pitts always stay just outside Cannes, and pop in for a short while to promote their latest projects and do a spot of shopping. As they did one sunny afternoon in 2008.

I was walking back to the apartment where I was staying when I turned the corner and saw a huge crowd of people in the street where I was headed. Whispered hushes told me Brad and Angie, who was pregnant at the time, were inside the exclusive baby clothing store Bonpoint two doors down from my apartment.

“How silly of all these people, standing outside gawking,” I thought, looking at their faces eagerly pressed up against the window — in the same moment that I felt my own arm lift up, camera in hand.

As a journalist, I should be recording this, I reasoned, edging closer. You know, to report how very blonde little Shiloh’s locks were, and the way the fedora sat perfectly on Papa Pitt’s head.

When the family exited the store, the frenzy turned delirious, with cries of “Braaaad! Angelinaaaaa!” turning the usually quiet street into a scene from the pages of Us Weekly.

They got into a car and drove away. Just like that, they were gone, and I felt my cheeks flush from the excitement.

How very silly of these people, indeed.

9. The Time I Met Robert Pattinson Before He Was Edward Cullen

Before Lee Daniels directed Oprah in The Butler, and before he brought us Cookie Lyon in Empire, he put a makeup-less Mariah Carey on the big screen, and instructed Zac Efron to pee on Nicole Kidman in his films Precious and The Paperboy, both of which debuted at Cannes.

Before Ben Whishaw was Q in the Bond franchise, he was John Keats in the fest’s 2009 opener Bright Star.

And before Robert Pattinson became a vampire in love with Kristen Stewart, he was a little-known half-blood, in Cannes to preview footage of the first-ever Twilight movie.

As we hugged for a photo opp, during which he bent down and endearingly said, “I need to come to your height,” I heard a small group of girls, who had gathered at the entrance of the beach where we were standing, scream at the top of their lungs.

A small but telling indication of the level of fame he would achieve.

8. The Time I Chased Tarantino Down the Street

The Cannes Effect can be quite crazy when it first takes over.

I remember comedian and now The Daily Show with Trevor Noah writer Dave Kibuuka joining a bunch of photographers running after Pamela Anderson down the Croisette — the boardwalk-like strip of Cannes in front of the beaches — and telling me afterwards that he didn’t know why.

“What was I going to do once I’d caught up to her?” he laughed.

I laughed too, until the next day, when I found myself chasing Quentin Tarantino after spotting him at the Carlton Hotel and saying hello.

He said hi back and waved, and I figured if I could speak to him a little more, maybe I could try to arrange an interview. This was before I knew how the game operated — that you have to be nominated by the film company to do an interview.

With hopeful naïveté, I dashed after him as his black-and-white sneakers jumped into a car.

There was no way I was going to keep up, and I thought of Dave’s chase as I stopped in my tracks a block down the street.

What was I going to do if I caught up to him — shout through his window?

I could only laugh to myself a few days later, when I sat down in front of him for an interview organised by his film’s South African distributor back home — all with the click of a mouse.

7. The Time a Danish Director Silenced Us All

A journalistic faux pas at Cannes is nothing too special; it’s far more outrageous coming from a filmmaker or actor.

The president of the 2008 jury, Sean Penn, complaining about the strict new anti-smoking laws in France and then lighting up a cigarette and chain-smoking was nothing compared to Danish director Lars von Trier’s audacious actions.

One minute he was waxing lyrical about how great an actress his leading lady Kirsten Dunst was in his film Melancholia, the next he was admitting his sympathy for Adolf Hitler, to the visible horror of said leading lady.

It was a moment when even those journalists with a lot to say were stunned, as we all looked around at each other, wondering if we were truly hearing the words being said.

Cannes banned Von Trier after the incident, lifting his persona non grata status only upon his apology, and it’s gone down in the history of Cannes controversies, along with Heelgate last year and the incident the year before when a Ukrainian reporter crawled under America Ferrera’s dress on the red carpet.

6. The Time Leonardo DiCaprio Made My Knees Weak

Before going to Cannes, I considered myself fairly adept at press conferences.

Not one to shy away from sticking my hand up, I’d asked Oprah the first question at a press conference about the alleged sex abuse scandal at her girls’ school and, in Germany for the World Cup, I had no problem asking our then-president Thabo Mbeki about South Africa’s preparedness in front of the world’s TV audience.

But put Leonardo DiCaprio and a microphone in front of me and my thoughts aren’t quite as clear.

I knew I wanted to ask something about climate change when I took the mic, as he was in Cannes with the documentary An Inconvenient Truth.

I felt my mouth go dry and my knees knock the seat in front of me as I stood up to ask my question.

I heard myself try to break the ice a little with a joke about how we South Africans appreciated his accent in Blood Diamond, which seemed to work because his resultant smile gave me the chance to regain my composure.

I’ve interviewed the Oscar-winning actor a few times since, and while I no longer get weak at the knees, I treasure the memory of what it was like in the days before I became a certified Professional Name-Dropper.

5. The Time Mike Myers Became Forever My Hero

He may not have made a non-animated movie in forever, but whenever Mike Myers decides to release Austin Powers 4, I’ll be his biggest supporter.

Covering the glitzy amfAR fundraiser, hosted by Sharon Stone, is a hard task when you’re not one of the major TV shows like E! or Entertainment Tonight.

At one of the events, I was put right at the bottom of the red carpet, where I could barely catch any of the celebrities walking past because my arm was too short to reach over the barricade.

Seeing me struggle, Myers — who was there for Inglourious Basterds — took my microphone out of my hand and began talking directly into it, answering questions, mine and those of other journalists around us, giving me some great material.

Ms Stone was walking behind him and, to continue the goodness, Myers passed the mic to a French journalist [Ed note: That was Didier Allouch, and I ended up befriending him through ] , who placed it in front of her, making not just my story but my night.

4. The Time Schwarzenegger Almost Ran Me Over

Stars will do a lot in the name of promotion.

Sacha Baron Cohen has walked down the Croisette in his barely-there Borat costume, and Jim Carrey has brought snow to the south of France.

But last year, some of the world’s biggest action movie stars drove tanks down the street for The Expendables 3.

The combination of all that star power was blinding, and when I stepped in to get a closer look, I almost had my toe run over by the tank Arnold Schwarzenegger — part of the line-up — was driving.

3. The Time Salma Hayek Blew Me Away

I have not seen a woman win the coveted Palme d’Or in the time I’ve attended the fest — except for when Blue Is the Warmest Colour’s two lead actresses shared the prize with the film’s director. (New Zealand director Jane Campion won it in 1993.)

Stunts in Cannes are fun, but the jaw-dropping moment of watching Salma Hayek talk at a panel on women in the movie business made just as much of an impact on me.

Using one of the best quotes in movie history, she said:

“Show them the money!”

Over and over, she used facts and figures to prove the monetary value — and plain common sense — in championing female-driven projects.

2. The Time a Foreign Film Made Me a New Foreign Friend

Tickets to red-carpet premieres are not easy to come by, and every day of the fest, people stand at the doors of the Palais with signs begging for tickets to the night’s big screening.

I’m usually scrounging myself, but one year I had been given two tickets to the closing-night ceremony.

Everyone I knew had already left town, so I went to the front of the Palais and asked a woman who looked like she was waiting for a ticket if she wanted to come with me.

She nodded.

Turned out she didn’t speak English and I could only speak un petit peu French, so we hand-signalled our way through taking pictures of each other on the red carpet and watching Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky.

Afterwards, we shared a Nutella crêpe before she hugged me goodbye, saying merci beaucoup for what felt like the 50th time.

I’ve made many friends from all over the world since first setting foot in Cannes (indeed, one of my best friends is someone I met the night we both snuck into an Ivana Trump party), but the one I made that night — even though I don’t see her anymore, because she didn’t have Facebook and I lost the piece of paper with her email address on it — was a pure highlight.

To riff off Humphrey Bogart: “We’ll always have Cannes.”

1. The Time That Life, Above All Got a Two-Thumbs-Up

For a film lover in Cannes, very little tops the feeling of seeing a truly great movie — and the experience that’s left when the lights go up and you feel like something inside has shifted.

Little tops the moment for me, then, when the credits began rolling after South African-born director Oliver Schmitz’s moving drama Life, Above All debuted in 2010, and the audience rose to its feet, clapping solidly for 10 minutes, accompanied by passionate hurrahs.

Roger Ebert had sat near me during the screening and, when I asked the revered critic — who died three years later after battling thyroid cancer — what he thought of the film, he gave me the two-thumbs-up he was known for.

It was a moment that made me feel as proud a South African as if I had made the film myself.

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It was too cold in New York, so I went somewhere colder.

I know, I know. I should’ve gone somewhere warmer. With snowfall after snowfall, my January heart felt frostier than ever. Recently laid off, my once-bustling inbox had gone silent — no pings, no deadlines, just a hollowed-out digital shell. Old anxieties were creeping back in, and my almost-four-year-old daughter was finding new ways to remind me daily that she isn’t a baby anymore. She, like the rest of the world, eager to move forward; me, stuck — wanting to keep her little forever and stop the days from passing by.

When the flight credit with its looming use-by date presented itself, my bank account — missing its biweekly hits — dictated the terms. I knew I needed a break even if it wasn’t going to be a full-on vacation. I was in limbo, suspended between the job I’d lost and whatever came next, but I wanted to make sure I used the time well.

Detroit had always been a small-ticket item on my bucket list — as a bedrock of music history, to be sure, but also because, as a South African, I knew it as the birthplace of Rodriguez, the singer who found fame in my home country before he did in his own.

Detroit felt like the right place to go for a stalled heart; a place that knew a thing or two about the rise and fall, and rise and fall of it all.

So off I went.

I planned a tight schedule, hoping to pack enough into the short visit to leave no room for the racing mind that had been my only constant since the New Year. When I arrived at The Siren, with its velvet and amber glow, it felt like the hotel wanted to give me a warm hug. But I wasn’t ready to be still. I whizzed up to my room, traded my coat for my running jacket, and headed back out into the chill of the Michigan air.

Light flakes stung my eyes as I headed towards one of the ‘crown jewels’ of the revival that had earned Detroit its Wallpaper Magazine’s ‘City of the Year’ title. I planned to run along the edge of the water so I could take in as much of the five mile route as possible.

Snow from days before made the path precarious, but I kept going, eager to remind myself that I was someone who could move through all kinds of obstacles.

Dodging black ice, I got to the edge — only to find a giant orange fence blocking the way. The path was closed. I couldn’t continue on. With not a soul around, I heard myself sigh in exaggerated disappointment. But then I heard another sound: the slow moving slabs of ice on the frozen Detroit River. I looked at the river, carrying these slabs of splendour in a slow-motion parade. Moving, without effort. I took out my phone to make a video for my daughter and husband, then retraced my steps to the street detour, trying not to slip and determined to keep going.

The detour led me to a green street sign that made me squeal out of the blue. Up above me, in white lettering it said: Nelson Mandela Dr. As engines hummed low and cars at the port nearby inched from Windsor across the river, over into the U.S., I thought of the pivotal trip Mandela had made to this country in 1990 — at a time when he himself was suspended between prison and presidency, looking to find solidarity in a city that knew how to survive a hard season.

In between Miami and LA, Mandela came to Detroit where he spoke to a massive crowd at the no-longer standing Tiger Stadium. Seeing his name fixed there, in the cold, felt unexpectedly steadying — a thread of the familiar stitched into a place seemingly not entirely open to me. I stood a moment longer, snapped a selfie, and pulled my gloves back on, ready to tick off more of my itinerary.

The Belle Isle Aquarium, the oldest in the country, was next. But in Googling directions to run there, I saw it was closed for HVAC repairs.

I re-routed for The Shepherd — a 110-year-old church turned up-and-coming art gallery. I wanted to experience the magic it injected into an old space. It, too, was closed.

That night, walking to dinner in a deserted Greektown, bazouki music played out in speakers overhead, to no-one else but me. The wind picked up. I pulled my coat hood over my beanie as I made my way past the orange netting and gray fencing and signs saying Pardon our dust — only the dust was actually snow, and it would take a lot longer to clear.

I felt the chill on my legs. A poster advertising a new square that will open in the summer time with its coat-less people happy and laughing and eating souvlaki in the sunshine seemed to taunt me. Look what you’re missing out on. Why did you come here in winter?

While eating my pastitso, I looked up the Motown Museum on my phone. It had stopped running its tours two days ago for renovations. I wasn’t sure if that meant the whole museum was closed or if parts of it would still be open. I don’t need a tour, I thought. I can just look around by myself.

The next day, as I climbed over a boulder of old brown snow to get out of the bus, I saw there would be no “looking around” the museum. The modest house on Grand Boulevard that Berry Gordy bought in 1959 was closed, closed, closed.

A redness began spreading through my cheeks. Why did I do this? Why did I come to a place colder than where I was, to not be able to do the things I wanted to do?

Gentle raindrops began to fall. Wiping my eyes, I then saw it — the gray scaffolding towering behind the small house.

A space so big, I didn’t even realize it was part of the museum. I stood looking at it, my mouth slightly agape, as the rain turned to sleet. The drilling and knocking going on behind the house was creating space for something bigger, something more deserving enough for all that music history — history that warranted a space large enough to contain it, to honour it. It was closed now, but when it opened, it would be so worth it.

I couldn’t see the museum, but there was plenty I could see, in the meantime.

So, off I went.

To check off the things on my list that were open; to take in as much as I still could. Walking through the maze of dusty books at John K. King; standing up close to trace with my eyes the intricate lines of the Diego Rivera murals at the Detroit Institute of the Arts; eating a meal at the East African restaurant Baobab Fare that is the most nourishing thing I’ve put in my body in a long time.

The city’s indefatigable spirit gently nourishing mine, book by book, mural by mural, back to life.

I filled myself with the tiny bits of wonder that were available to me — if I was available to them, embracing the city in its becoming state.

The only thing I didn’t do was go to a music show; those started too late for this overtired mom who chose sleep in a solo bed over DJs and saxophones.

As I packed my carry-on to leave, a “Detroit Techno” candle from the Fisher Building next to my bag of sweaty running clothes, I felt a little less miserable. There was still a lot out of my control, but I could occupy myself with other things as I move through this season.

Passing Greektown on the way to the airport bus, I saw the summer posters hanging in the windows again — with those people still laughing in sleeveless dresses, souvlaki in hand. I pulled my bag a little higher on my shoulder and kept walking. The city was still in motion, even if I couldn’t see it all. And so was I.

On Oscar Sunday, three years ago, I nursed my just-born daughter while Beyonce, dressed in tennis ball-green, opened the ceremony with a dazzling performance of “Be Alive” from King Richard. After my husband placed our baby back in her bassinet, I tried to stay awake to watch the show. The Oscars had been a fixture on my calendar for over two decades – first as a film fan in South Africa, then as a journalist covering them in LA. But that night, I found myself too exhausted to keep my eyes open. I missed most of the ceremony, including the slap that was heard around the world.

In hindsight, it was a not-so-subtle indicator of how my sense of self and my relationship to time would change after having a baby. March would no longer be defined by the Oscars. It would be marked by my daughter’s birthday. I wasn’t sure I’d ever cover the event in person again, but let’s be honest, I was too busy Googling how to soothe a crying newborn to care.

Time is no longer something I have in abundance. It has become a vessel seemingly too small to hold all the various parts of my identity; something I have to ration out after work hours between the things I love: films, running, and the new role I am still figuring out as a mom.

Before motherhood and the pandemic significantly reshaped my life, I used to watch multiple films a week. Especially if I was at a film festival — friends there would joke about who could see the most films in one day. As an entertainment journalist, going to Sundance, Cannes and Toronto, and covering junkets and award ceremonies filled my days. Watching films was a big part of my job.

And I loved it! I still do; I love sitting in a darkened cinema being enveloped by a film. Its music, its people, its emotions. The best part is leaving with a feeling like something inside you has shifted because of what you’ve just seen, what you’ve just experienced.

Before motherhood, I also used to run multiple miles a week. Especially if I was training for a marathon. It wasn’t something I did for work, but running was more than a hobby; an essential tool for keeping my mental and physical health in check, and feeding the drive I had to achieve goals I used to think were impossible. When I was a freelancer, without a typical 9-5, my 5-9 daily miles would keep me rooted and stable, even when everything else felt up in the air.

Somewhere along the way, my two passions — running and film — began to complement each other. I’d run early in the morning along the Croisette on the Côte d'Azur or Toronto’s Harbourfront before a day of screenings, or hit the pavement after spending hours inside a cinema, letting my thoughts process what I’d just seen. My runs became a kind of reflection, a way to let my thoughts wander and work through the emotions films stirred up in me. It was a symbiotic relationship.

I even started blending the two — making running videos, where I’d talk about films while on the move. It was back before the age of ‘running influencers,’ when the idea of recording and running at the same time was met with confusion (I remember trying to explain to the salesperson at Best Buy that yes, I did want to run, talk, and record all at once). I made reviews of films I loved, from Celine Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire to Bradley Cooper’s directorial debut, A Star is Born, all while running through city streets. It was my way of combining my two worlds, and I felt like I was creating something truly unique.

Then came motherhood. Before, I was never really bothered much by the running time of a film. If it went for 1 hour and 36 minutes or 2 hours and 15 mins, I was in. But now, the running time of a film bumps up against the literal time I have to go running, forcing me to weigh them both: long run or the latest Almodovar? I finished the New York City Marathon in just about the same time as it took to watch The Brutalist. To me, both felt just as rewarding.

I’m no longer the person who watches everything, takes chances on films I know little about. I’m now more selective. With limited time, I need to know that a film will be worth my while. But even with that selectivity, there’s still the issue of time. I can’t help but feel like I’m constantly torn between two passions — neither of which I want to give up.

I’ve run 11 marathons, with at least one or two a year on the calendar. I had almost done all the so-called Big Six of the World Marathon Majors, with just Tokyo left to go (until they added Sydney to the mix!). But since the NYC Marathon, in November last year, I decided not to train for another marathon, at least for now. Not just because I want to spend more time with my family, but also because I want to have time to see films. I can’t do both to the extent I once did.

While I may not be watching films for work, I still need them. I need them to make sense of the world around me. I need them to nourish my weary heart. I need them to strengthen my resolve, and uplift my soul. I need them to fuel my creative practice of writing and of just being.

Even as our habits change, and our collective attention spans get shorter, nothing can replicate the feeling of being wholly swept up in a film for two hours or so. Empathy for each other is an ever-needed thing, and I believe it will never not be important for us to put ourselves in the shoes of others. Great filmmaking still does this. Whether it’s sharing the desire to be free and live in peace, as in No Other Land, or witnessing how A Real Pain lets us in on the ancestral trauma of second-generation Holocaust survivors while still reminding us no one pain is greater than another.

Or I’m Still Here, in which we learn about a woman who, while taking care of five children, relentlessly searched for answers about her husband’s disappearance in the military dictatorship of 1970s Brazil.

Running and films are a part of me that I don’t want to lose, but I’m still trying to figure out how to make room for them alongside my role as a mom, and how much I don’t want to miss any part of my daughter’s life. My husband supports me, often giving me the space to watch films on weekends while he looks after our daughter, or taking her out for errands so I can go for a run. Priorities, ambition, appreciation for the small moments, the need to be productive and be a present mother and partner, self-care — it all never seems to quite fit in.

One thing’s clear, I want to be able to pass on my love of films and of running to my daughter, for her to be as rewarded by them as I have been, and so I’ll keep trying to make it all work. And who knows, maybe I should start doing “Reviews on the Run” again. Only this time, perhaps I’ll call them, “Reviews from a Mom.” I’ll try keep the films I recommend to under two hours.

When I first moved to New York over a decade ago, I took a creative writing class where the instructor encouraged us to “write about the whore of your experience.” I remember sitting in Bryant Park, among the twenty writers on a beautiful summer day, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “Who is he calling a whore?” I thought. My eyes darted around the group, but no one else seemed perturbed. They simply continued taking notes in the glimmering sunshine.

When he said it again—explaining that he was encouraging us to dig into the messy, uncomfortable parts of our lives—it became clear he’d been saying horror, and his strong New Yorker accent had made it sound very much like the other word I’d heard. At the time I chuckled, aware of how much my ears had yet to adjust. It was a funny misunderstanding, but it also became emblematic of the rocky relationship I’ve had with language in this adopted home of mine.

Recently, I was reminded of this moment when listening to the first episode of Lupita Nyong’o’s fantastic podcast, Mind Your Own. In it, she shares the story of her struggle to “sound American” when she started out as an actress in Hollywood. Lupita, who was born in Mexico and raised in Kenya, recalls how the more she tried to emulate the speech of actors she admired, the more she felt as though she was losing herself. “I couldn’t find myself in my mouth anymore,” she says, a sentiment that resonated with me.

I, too, know what it’s like to be acutely aware of how different you sound to those around you, and to toy with the idea of how to fit in sonically. When I first arrived in New York from South Africa 14 years ago, I was hyper-aware of how I sounded. When I spoke, I could hear my own voice echoing back at me; sometimes, I’d even struggle to form the right shape with my mouth.

But New York, I’ve since learned, is a city of accents. The more time I spent with friends from Tokyo, from Madrid, from Accra, from Dublin, the more comfortable I felt with how I sounded. And I learned, my accent, my way of speaking, is part of the city’s collective lexicon, a tiny fragment in a much larger, richer aural tapestry.

Unlike Lupita, I haven’t ever feel the need to change how I speak for work; in fact, it was almost the opposite. For the first eight years in New York, I was still reporting for a South African radio news network. Rather than risk being ridiculed back home, I stuck to my pronunciations. I’d say Sundahnce Film Festival (with a long ‘a’) rather than the clipped Sundaynce; Roos-a-felt Island instead of Rozevald. And, water—well, I’ve never been able to bring myself to say waadar.

To be sure, there are times when I do want to “sound American.” On the podcast Lupita mentions she’d measure her progress by seeing if the automated voice message system—like the ones you get when you call a help center or your phone service provider—could understand her. When faced with the robotic voice on the other end, I’ve found myself slipping into my best Valley Girl voice and saying "operator" with a rolling 'r' and blunted 't' so that it sounds more like a 'd': "Operrrada!" All in a desperate attempt not to have the voice say I need to repeat myself, or worse, hang up.

And it would be nice not to have to place my order at a coffee shop three times, or to have my surname written down correctly the first time I spell it out to someone: “N-E-O,” not “N-E-R.”

Still, there are things I just can’t change. I answer questions that need a positive reply with a hearty “ja (soft j),” and more often than not, I’ll greet you with a “howzit!” rather than a “hello!”

For me, the sidewalk will always be the pavement, a trash can, a dustbin and a band aid, a plaster.

Over the years, I’ve had people tell me that they love my accent—usually after first mistaking me for being from Australia. “You don’t sound South African,” they often say. To which I’d explain that South Africa doesn’t have one accent; we have 11 official languages. And I’d add that, as a white South African with Greek heritage, I probably sound even less like Matt Damon in Invictus than expected.

In some ways, my accent isn’t too dissimilar from Lupita’s. We both tend to pronounce every letter, as she says: “It’s there for pronouncing, so pronounce it!”

We both have trouble with how Americans say can’t. To me, there’s sometimes no difference between can and can’t when the t is softened to the point of disappearance. I could ask, “Can you help me with this?” and still not know whether the person answering means “yes” or “no.” Language can become a series of clashes where there should be connection.

I’ve been thinking a lot about accents and identity as I watch my daughter learn to speak. My husband is Australian, and, well, if you’ve read this far, you know where I’m from. When she first started talking, she sounded like me—her water was just like mine, flat and unembellished. She said pants and hands the same way. Her diapers were nappies, the stroller was the pram, and her swimsuit, her swimming costume.

When she went to daycare, I’d let her know that there were other words for things—that jerseys are also sweaters, for example—just so she wouldn’t be too confused. As she spent more time among her fellow toddlers and teachers, she began picking up American inflections. I shouldn’t have been too surprised then when one day it happened: she came home and asked for her waadar boddle. The t’s were barely spoken. I shuddered. She had an American accent.

Then it happened again: “Where my pants?” she asked, the “a” making a grating, aay-like sound. “Help wash hands?” she said. “Hands,” too, with that elongated haaynds.

It’s not that I dislike an American accent. It’s just I am proud of where I come from, and I feel like it’s such a part of me that I want it to be a part of her, too. As someone who was fortunate enough to come to the U.S. to seek growth and adventure, my accent, and the broader way I speak, the words I cling to, are my bridge back home. I may have left to explore the world beyond, but I’ve never forgotten where my roots are. And I don’t want to ever forget. When I speak, and someone asks where I’m from, I relish talking about South Africa, and the things I love most about it.

With the shift in my daughter’s language taking shape, at first, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something—like it was just one of many moments in which the space between us would be growing further apart. It felt like she was losing not just the accent I’d given her, but a bit of me, too. So I took comfort in the words Lupita’s mom told her when she decided to finally embrace what her accent had become. “Your accent is representative of your life experience,” she had said.

I’ve come to know this: My accent isn’t just something I “keep” or “lose,” it’s a living symbol of who I am; of what I’ve left behind and what I’m passing forward, from South Africa to New York—from me to my daughter.

And she’s not losing anything, either. She’s adding to her identity. She’s becoming a little bit of everything. A New Yorker, yes. But also, a bit of South Africa. A bit of Australia. And maybe even a bit of something that doesn’t exist yet. It’s just like Lupita’s mom says, her life experience will inform her voice, in so many ways.

Lately, when I ask my daughter if she wants her water, she replies “ja.” One day she may drop that word but for now, I know I’m still very much a part of her, and so is the country of my birth.

Dear Reader

A few weekends ago, on a chilly Saturday morning, I snuggled up with my almost two-year-old daughter and proudly watched her say – and act out, with cute, flailing arms – the word “run!” We were watching on TV over a hundred of the fastest women in the U.S. of A. take to the streets of Florida for the US Olympics trials. Among them were a handful of women who had recently become mothers – and even one who was actually seven months pregnant. 

When an @nbcsports post on Instagram pointed out the fact that 20 new moms in total took part in the trials, a guy (I’m assuming he’s a guy, but hey, he could’ve been a bot) responded: “So you mean if you are a runner and mother nowadays it’s abig [sic] deal.” I resisted the urge to respond back to him on the post itself. But, yes, @manuel_maiyo, it is abig deal – a big deal, even – for many of us, to be a runner and mother. But more so, it’s a big deal to see a runner and a mother. 

It’s a big deal to have examples of what can be where previously there weren’t that many, whether that’s due to greater exposure or an increase in the actual number. Or due to, you know, a change in policy. It is no small thing to see mothers still chasing after high-hope dreams and audacious goals, when for so long it used to be the thought that those ambitions would fly out the window after having a baby. 

It’s a big deal for society at large, but particularly for mothers ourselves, too. We know how inherently strong we are, but sometimes we need a little reminding. And sometimes, that’s a lot of times.

Especially in the haze that is postpartum. It can be a time of such great uncertainty, of not knowing what’s to come, of wondering which parts of you may return, and which may not. Seeing moms out there — professional runners and amateur semi-elites alike — showing us what’s possible helps fill that space left open by an imagination that’s been taken up by all things baby.

For those who haven’t quite settled into a postpartum running routine and for those who thought they had, only to find, as with so many things in parenting, that had changed rather quickly.  

For those in the lingering fog of lost achievements who’ve forgotten the feats they’d previously achieved (like running a marathon or *ahem* having said baby).

Or for those who are still dealing with the physical remnants of the whole life-giving act, and its very body-altering repercussions, way beyond the six-week check-up.

Having others who’re running up ahead lets us know, through their feats, that it’s all going to be okay. Both for the times when you just can’t see how it will be, and for when you’re just too overwhelmed or busy or anxious to remember. 

It’s also valuable to see the runner and mother not doing those big, magnificent things either. Every birth and parenting experience is different – it’s a refrain we hear over and over. But being exposed to a range of these experiences also helps us know we’re really, truly, not alone in them. Seeing women go for big goals and not always reaching them also lets us know it’s okay; the beauty lies in the tale itself. All these runners and mothers, in all their various guises, they all remind us — whether it’s four months or five years — that the story continues. It always does. In wonderful little ways we may not be able to quite see, in our sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled state.

I think it’s really important to hear these different experiences. Even though I’m closing in on two years of motherhood, I find I’m still calling myself a new mom because I believe it’s a state of mind, and I’ll be new at this forever. But I see the act of sharing the wisdom that has been learnt so far as a relay race of sorts – passing what I know to be true on to someone else in the hopes that they may benefit from it.

So I’m going to start sharing more stories from other new moms over on a newsletter called New Mom Run Club. This newsletter, The Rundown, will continue on, and be saved from you having to read about how I almost started stalking Michael Cera in my desperate attempt to find new parent friends, or how I just can’t seem to make myself a pre-daycare runner, no matter how hard I try.

In the meantime, I remain ever grateful for the runners and mothers. To me, they will always be A BIG DEAL. 

Thank you for reading!

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader

One day over the holidays, struck down by an illness no doubt likely brought home to me by my daycare-going babe, I found myself flicking through the channels and landing on the no-effort-required Love Again, a saccharine film involving a music journalist and Celine Dion, who stars as herself. It’s not the kind of film I’d include in my top ten of the year – film snob that I sometimes pretend to be – but when you’re sick and not wanting to do much, it does the job.

I had to get past the film’s premise, first – where Ms Dion helps said journalist, played by Sam Heughan, nudge himself further in the direction of his budding love interest, played by Priyanka Chopra. As someone who’s interviewed musicians and movie stars for a living, I have never had one become invested in my love life this way. There was the time I accidentally flirted with Chris Pine (or was it accidental?) but for the most part, there has never been anything too personal in these interactions. I have, however, met Celine Dion, and if ever there was a celebrity who was going to play match-maker, she would be it.  

Because she really is as nice as she seems to be. The kind of sweet presence that is genuine and from the heart, free from pretence. Watching her in the film made me think of how I came to know about just how nice she is; of a story I’ve told only a few close friends. It’s a story I’ve kept saved for if I one day ever led the kind of life that inspired writing a memoir, and then I would somehow work it in. But no, I shall tell you here and now, why I once lied — actually, let’s phrase it, told a small fib — to the sweetest of Canadian and chart-topping female singers, Celine Dion.

But first, some context. 

Growing up in small-town Benoni, in Johannesburg, South Africa, Celine Dion was my de facto love guru. Back before you could Google things like “how to get over a boy who you thought liked you but indeed, it turns out, doesn’t,” and “when does life start to not suck so much?,” there was Celine. For me, as a young teen, dealing with the proverbial angst of life at that time — which included parents on the edge of divorce, the beginnings of depression, and just the general malaise that comes with being ‘not yet a girl, not yet a woman’ — my Sony hi-fi stereo was my shrine, and Celine, and her kin, No Doubt’s Gwen Stefani, Sheryl Crow and Mariah Carey, were my oracles. Oh sure, at school, I’d pretend I liked Green Day and the Offspring so I could try to fit in, but when I got home, I didn’t have to think twice about who to play.

On days when I was feeling too many feelings to process, I would place the Falling Into You disc, the fourth of Celine’s English-studio albums, into the hi-fi and press shuffle, letting whatever lyrics she sang at the moment be my fate; my comfort or my instruction. Yes, they were cliched; yes, they were the ultimate in pop ballads, but to me, her voice was a guide where I had none. And what better way to work through your feelings than to sing them?

Some days it was like Celine was wanting me to feel what I was feeling, encouraging me to belt out my “Declaration of Love.” Other times, she’d let me know: ‘You can say it’s all right, but I know that you’re breaking up inside,’ and I’d be okay for one more day, feeling understood, at least, for now, even if it was by a woman who had no idea I existed. I started addressing my journal entries to “Dear Celine,” and so it went.

Moving into my later teen years, my love for Celine dipped greatly, as I began preferring to spend more of my time in the company of Tracy Chapman’s poetic, socially-conscious lyrics or Lauryn Hill’s melodic rhymes. But I always felt a silent gratitude for the pop diva who got me through a tough spot in my life. 

Fast forward to 2008. 

Celine Dion was coming to South Africa for the first time, on tour, and I was, as the entertainment journalist for a major radio news network, given the exclusive first interview with her. It was set to happen as soon as she landed at Lanseria Airport, a private spot just outside of central Joburg, a few nights before the first show. I was full of nerves, the history of what she had meant to me tucked into my back pocket, as I drove over to the airport that night. 

Watching Celine’s private plane hit the runway, and dozens of Louis Vuitton bags of luggage being conveyed out, I double-checked my notes and my recorder, making sure I was ready. This was before iPhones and their built-in, oh-so useful recording function. Back in those days (I dare say, the olden days?), we had to use a brick-shaped box recorder, together with a long, cylindrical microphone to capture our audio interviews. 

Celine walked in, was presented with a bouquet of flowers, we were introduced, and then she sat down. I should add that it was after 11pm, and she had no issue about sitting down with me for a brief interview at that time. Or if she did, she never let on a smidge. (I’ve interviewed plenty of artists who let it be known they really didn’t want to be there – hello, Avril Lavigne, so long, Justin Timberlake.)

With her French Canadian lilt, she was gracious and thoughtful in her answers, and after about twenty minutes, we were done. I headed back to the newsroom so I could file the story with Celine’s sound-bites, ready for the morning news — otherwise known as “drive,” one of the two most important news slots of the day. 

But, when I got to the office, and pressed play on my recorder, nothing came out. There was no sound of that delicate French accent anywhere. I immediately felt panicked tears come on: Had I pressed record? Had I inadvertently erased the interview after I was shaking her hand goodbye and trying to keep my cool? Was the machine malfunctioning?

I recreated the scene of her arrival through my own recap for morning drive, but I didn’t have any of the exclusive soundbites we were meant to be running. I didn’t have The Story. 

So I called the PR team and left a voice message, trying to explain through sobs that I’d had an accident with my recorder, and begged for another interview. I doubt they could have heard me properly through my crying, which by that time, had become exacerbated by the early morning hours and the come-down of meeting one’s teenage heroine. 

Thankfully, the next day, they called back and said to head to Celine’s hotel, where they would squeeze me in for another interview. I was elated — and determined to make sure that nothing was going to go wrong this time. 

Once at the hotel, I sat inside the lounge and waited for Celine, again. And when I saw her elegant figure walking towards me, I got up and hurried over. “Ms Dion, I’m so sorry you have to do this again…” I started. 

“Mon chéri, I don’t care about that, how are you? How are your knees?” she said, looking down at my legs. “Are you okay after your fall? Come, come, let’s get a seat.” 

I couldn’t believe how much she was fussing over me. And it began to click; I realized it was because I’d said I’d had an “accident” with my recorder. And now, it was too far gone to correct.

So, I went with it. 

“Really, I’m okay,” I replied back, before getting to the first question, again. And again, she was gracious in her replies.

I left, feeling thankful to have gotten the second chance, and bad that I’d inadvertently lied to her, especially after how nice she was. And whenever I see her pop up — in a movie, at the Grammys — I still feel a little bad, all these years later. But I also still carry with me the silent gratitude for a pop diva who got me through another tough spot. Even if, once again, she never knew it.

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Thank you for reading!

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader 

Here we are, a few days into 2024, and there is so much I hope we see this year. Not least of all, peace for every single person on our dear, beloved planet. It seems such a pie-in-the-sky ideal to hold, and most days it just feels so mockingly far away; like the thing beauty pageant contestants call for and we all just laugh and go on with our lives. 

But I feel just a tiny bit closer to it becoming within our grasp when I see things like this: Over the past couple of days, on the Facebook page of my local Buy Nothing group, a woman has been posting frequently about her efforts to help people that have come to the area, migrants, who are in need of food and clothing. The response to her earnest words and haphazardly-made videos featuring her stroller-bound dog has been a domino-effect of people adding their own ways of taking action. Of course, there are the usual one or two souls who don’t seem to get it, but for the most part, people care, and they want to help. 

It’s this I go into 2024 holding onto tightly – ever assured of the power that exists in small bits of collective action. 

New York is a city of immigrants. That much is, and has been, true since the 1600s. It’s what truly makes the city. Beyond the magnificence of buildings like the Empire State and the Chrysler and Grand Central, and all those beautiful churches in Harlem, it's the people that arrive here, from near, from far, some with multiple bags in tow, others with the clothes on their back; people that come to make their mark, shoot their shot, better their lives – they’re everything that makes New York, New York. 

And it’s in their trying, their efforts to soar beyond where they came from, that the crazy, chaotic magic of the city exists.

For many, like me, someone who dreamed of living here before I moved from South Africa, New York can be a pinnacle of achievement – the big pond little fish come to swim (or flounder!) in.

But for so many others, it’s a place of desperate hope; the chance of something, anything, that will be better than where they’ve come from. It’s been this kind of hope ever since the 19th century when millions passed through Ellis Island, escaping political conflict, economic strife, religious persecution, or all of the above. It’s a chance for survival.

Over the past year, more than a hundred thousand people have come to New York, seeking this chance. For a place that has always held its arms Emma-Lazarus-wide-open to those who wish to venture here, there has been much disappointment and anger at how the city has responded, and its inability to provide accommodation or direction for incoming migrants.

Two shelters that have been set up near where I live can’t contain the number of people that have arrived here. Heartbreaking is a word that no longer covers it — to see mothers trying to look after their small children in these conditions; a feat that’s hard enough even when you have all the given essentials. At times, I admit it’s become almost too much to take in and feel what they must be going through. This incredible piece of reporting from NPR journalist, Jasmine Garsd, is a testimony to their strength and fortitude. A strength and fortitude they shouldn’t need to have to display, and we shouldn’t need to marvel at. 

As a new mom, seeing the news play out in front of me feels even harder to bear. To be sure, you don’t need to have a child of your own to feel the pain of other parents. It’s just that it seems to feel all the more overwhelming, far more than ever. The sadness feels paralyzing; when so many people need help it feels insurmountable.

I don’t have the answers. But I do know that turning away is not it. In the times where I start to perhaps lose sight of that, I am reminded of it, over and over. As I was while sitting in the theatre this past year, watching Jocelyn Bioh’s debut Broadway play, Jaja’s African Hair Braiding. 

In it, we, as the audience, chuckle at the daily comings-and-goings over the course of a day of a group of West African women who braid hair inside a Harlem salon. Bioh has the skill to pile on the laughs, but, at the right moment, can turn a joke on its head, making us empathize with the unsettled state of being for many immigrants in the city. We share their day, listening in on their hopes and fears – and then, witness what happens as one of the latter becomes real.

As Jocelyn told me when I interviewed her, “We pass by things, read news articles, all the time about something really tragic and kind of keep going. In the theater, you are in a dark room with hundreds of other people sharing the story of these characters, their stories. You have nowhere to go except your own feelings.” Taking that time, to feel and to connect with the humanity of others, she reminded me, remains necessary for creating, and sustaining, the kind of movement that’s going to help find solutions and inch us forward together. 

Jocelyn’s words made me think of another interview I once did, with the founder of indie Brooklyn bookstore, Mil Mundos, María Herron, who posed the question, “How do we create community and neighborhood, for me, for you? If the quality of life and how members of your so-called community are living is not of concern to you then you are not in community with them.” The word community is used so often, but what does it really mean?

I think the answer lies somewhere within each small act of care for those around us. It’s buying churros on the subway, even if it’s too early in the morning to eat one; it’s continuing to take bags of clothing to where they’re most needed, it’s making an extra sandwich for the guy who has been sitting outside the Keyfood for years. Or it’s lending your writing services to an organization that is on the ground already doing the day-to-day grind and is need of a newsletter. Whatever it is, it’s looking at what others are doing and letting it buoy you forward each day. When I am overcome by the simple fact that I can’t help everyone, I try to remind myself to return to where I can be of service with what I have. 

And so, I go into 2024 heartened by the work of places like Mil Mundos, and playwrights like Jocelyn Bioh; by DIY groups like Artists.Activists.Athletes; by film critic David Ehrlich, who is using his annual, always-highly-anticipated best films video to fundraise for the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund. And by Nancy from the Buy Nothing group, with her unfeigned efforts not to let the anguishing sights we see everyday become an acceptable norm. 

Wishing you a wonderful 2024. 

Thank you, as ever, for reading. And thanks to Neil Young, for inspiring this week’s title.

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader

A few weeks ago I had a telephonic date with a hero of mine. When I say telephonic date, I mean a Zoom interview. And by hero, I mean heroine — since that is a detail that’s specific and important to this story. Caster Semenya’s battle to convince groups of people and organizing bodies (especially those concerned with regulating women’s sport) of her sex is one that’s courted reams and reams of op-eds and debate. Now, finally, with the release of her memoir, The Race to be Myself, we hear from the South African Olympic middle distance runner herself, in her own words.

Her memoir is a book I absolutely recommend, even though parts of it will make you angry. At least, if you believe that an 18-year-old shouldn’t be subjected to the kind of poking and prodding Caster was, when she was made to undergo gender verification tests before the World Championships in 2009. It will make you disappointed all over again to read the harsh comments about her appearance made by other athletes you may have admired (and may still) — said directly or under the breath — at various races over the years. Reliving the gossip and headlines that swirled around her as she made her ascent in the athletics world will really rile you up on her behalf — “PROVE THIS IS NOT A BOY,” “HERMAPHRODITE CONTROVERSY,” “SOUTH AFRICA’S GOLDEN GIRL MAY BE BOY,” are just a few examples that were published. 

For some, Caster’s case is a complex one: she was born intersex and produces more testosterone than the average woman, and World Athletics (the sport’s governing body formerly known as IAAF) has deemed that in order to compete she needs to alter her body, either by surgery or by taking medication, in order to lower that amount. (Over the years, they’ve changed the amount they’ll allow.) For others, who believe the science that says testosterone is not always a predictor of performance, and that a woman’s body shouldn’t be policed by others, it’s simple: the way Caster has been treated over the years is horrendous. As she puts it, “I’m different, but it doesn’t make me any less of a woman.”

When Caster first broke out as a rising star in track and field, she should’ve been welcomed with arms wide open for the exciting competitor she was/is, and lauded for the excitement she brought to women’s running. Instead, she’s faced barrier after barrier in her attempt to fulfill her potential and compete; to run free.

But Caster’s memoir is not so much about running as it is about a human being facing tremendous amounts of discrimination and admonishment. The story starts in her home village in rural Limpopo where her dream of being a soccer star was trumped by her running prowess, and ends in France, where the European Court of in July ruled that Caster’s human rights had been violated by World Athletics’ regulations. The ruling doesn’t grant her the ability to go back to racing though, and, as the legal struggle to do that continues, the window for her return to the track grows smaller and smaller by the day.

Her battle now is not for herself but for others who are coming up behind her, and for those who have been made silent. We know so much about Caster’s story because she’s become the poster person for this issue. But what of all the other women – mostly from Asian and African countries – who’ve faced similar trials because they are different, who’ve taken the medication or had the surgery and it’s left them unable to compete anyway? What of the stories we don’t know, haven’t heard, won’t read? What of the other “different women” who just wordlessly disappear from the sport completely? How far do you go in regulating talent? And what is the end point of this game of altering women until they fit what the Western world has deemed to be the ideal body of an athlete?

So yes, there’s a lot of anger you’ll feel when you read this book.

But, you’ll also feel empowered.

You see, reading Caster’s book, and, indeed, talking to her, feels a little like conversing with a self-help sage; someone who’s walked the road ahead and wants you to know what’s coming can only be helped by rooting yourself in your own confidence, your own worth and inherent value. Each time she uses words like self-love and self-acceptance, it can be a little guru-like, but it’s like she’s really wanting the message to sink in.

It’s about human rights, Caster says. It always has been. And whatever may happen with her legal battle to run, she wants to see respect win the day: “Human rights must be considered first before any other thing,” she told me. “We are not animals here. We are human. We are all people. Respect comes first.”

When I watched this year’s World Champs, I missed seeing Caster compete, and her trademark “Cobra pose.” I asked if she still watches the races and she enthusiastically nodded. “Remember,” she says, that self-confidence on full show, “I made athletics look good. Just because I'm not running, it doesn't mean I should stop watching athletics. For me to support people that are running, I watch; I watch everything. I love athletics.”

In spite of it all, love wins. Caster has every reason to turn away from athletics, to dislike those who’ve stood in the way of her competing. But she chooses to focus on the love and reverence she has for the sport — whether she’s on the field or off.

It’s like she told me, “I'll always be part of running. I'll always be part of athletics. And it doesn't mean if I'm not running, I'm not going to be part of it. I'm going to coach. I'm going to develop athletes. I'm going to teach. I'll always still fight for what is right. That's me.”

As the book goes out into the world, and the sport grapples with how it treats people in the name of fairness, her message is the hope that “each and every individual, especially those who are different — that feel like they don't belong in this world — end up feeling like they do belong.”

“There's nothing wrong about them,” she says. “My hope is they find it in their heart to understand themselves; understand their purpose, that they’re here for a reason. My hope is to change the perception of this stigma, this stereotype of feeling rejected.” It’s a message for anyone who’s ever felt the sting of not being accepted; a message even even the most amateur of athletes can stand to hear: “It's okay to be rejected. You must not be scared of rejection.” As Caster did, maybe you even run towards it. 

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Thanks so much for reading!

Your neighbour

Nadia

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Dear Reader

I’m now a person who cries at book dedications—especially if they’re from a mother to her daughter. And so it was that as I finished Lauren Beukes’ latest novel, Bridge, I found myself wiping away a few drops coming out of my eyes as she wrote of loving her child Keitu, “in every world, every life.”

Those lines make sense in the context of the novel which, as the Shining Girls author has become known for, is set in a mix of otherworldly here and there. Only this time, she explores the multiverse, and her own take on a fraught mother-daughter relationship story. If this sounds a little Everything Everywhere All At Once, that’s purely coincidental, since this book was in motion before the Oscar-winning film came out. Besides, there can never be enough stories that speak to the range of experiences within that most intricate of relationships.

The basic premise is about a woman, named Bridge(t), who is dealing with the grief of losing her mom. Only she’s not processing it too well, since she believes her mom is waiting for her in another realm—another universe where her mother hasn’t died, where another version of her mother followed a different life path with knowledge that prevented her death. This world can only be accessed by ingesting what’s called a “dreamworm,” and so Bridge does that, as she tries to go looking for the clues her mom left behind for her to find. It’s part thrilling drama, part sci-fi choose-your-own-adventure, part existential crisis blow-up.

I think I was drawn to the book’s premise so much because I used to really grapple with thoughts of the different paths my New York life could have taken if I had made different decisions upon moving here from South Africa. Not so much, what if I had chosen a career other than journalism, but more like, what if I had made better choices? ‘Better’ is a tricky word, because you can’t really measure it and so it can keep a perfectionist like me stuck in a cycle of frustration and inaction. But I used to really struggle with the idea that I should have figured out how to live in New York City quicker than I did; that I wasted so much time. I feel like it took me ten years to finally be able to breathe properly, and part of me wishes I got here sooner—if only by making decisions other than the ones I did.

For example, I told myself for years that I was just a radio journalist; that my writing wasn’t good enough for my dream publications, and so let many years go by before pitching to magazines like The Hollywood Reporter and Billboard. I moved here as a freelance U.S. correspondent for a network of radio stations back home, and spent a long time earning rands and living in dollars, which, in New York City currency, is an unforgiving exercise.

I spent time on relationships that didn’t go anywhere and broken hearts that took too long to mend, and at one stage, truly lost sight of ever seeing a fulfilling future in that regard. I have ideas that never took off, drafts that remain unfinished, books I still hope to write. In some of the most trying of times, it was so easy to go full Sliding Doors, and slip into thoughts of what I should’ve, could’ve, would’ve done differently in another world. There are lessons I wish I’d learned faster.

But, as the old adage goes, all of that—the years in between where I was and where I now am—weren’t a waste. Moving to a new place, be it city or country, with no existing network of colleagues or family to lean on is no mean feat. It does take time. Years, for some. Decades, for others. And more often than not, mountains of credit card debt.

Somehow, I was always able to make it work; I learnt to develop so many different skills, and how to assert myself in ways that I couldn’t before; how to lean on a community I am privileged to have been able to build as a white immigrant. All the small wins I accrued, after countless hours of chasing invoices and sending emails that seemed to go to that place where lost socks and unanswered prayers go, turned into a portfolio to be proud of. I also learnt how to live frugally in one of the most expensive cities in the world—and hey, if you can make it (living like that) here, you can make it anywhere, right?

The cheesiest cliches are often the truest; I had to go through all that to get to here. And here is where I am: Feet planted so lovingly in Brooklyn, with my partner and baby daughter in tow. And a whole lot of grace for the person—and the therapy—that got me here.

But every once in a while, the idea of what it may have been like if a different me had made a different move at any one point in time catches hold in my mind. The multiverse, with its offer of alternate plots and divergent paths, can be so appealing. In those moments, I try to lean on gratitude for the here and now, and the knowledge of hard-won victories along the way is worth its weight in the moon and stars.

So while I was drawn to Bridge for the “what-ifs” it allowed me to explore through its characters—and I’d highly recommend it if you’re in the market for a new read—I am glad that at the end of it I felt a happy satisfaction for this universe that I live in right here, right this moment. One in which I have a baby girl, who I now think of when I read book dedications, and is the reason for my (happy) tears.

Thank you for reading.

Stay well,

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

For the past few months, the exterior of the Brooklyn Library’s main branch has been covered in Jay-Z lyrics. It’s part of a tribute to the man and mogul, created (without his prior knowledge) by his company Roc Nation. Inside, The Book of HOV is filled with artifacts of his story, physical manifestations of Shawn Carter’s life’s achievements so far, a literal rundown of the pillars of his existence. Aside from being an engaging look-back at one of the most influential rappers of our time, it also made me think about the things that go into a life’s collection — hip-hop titan or other.

The Book of HOV is available to view online, if you don’t happen to live in New York, where it’s staged just a few miles away from where Jay-Z grew up in Marcy Houses. But it’s not as rich an experience as walking through the two floors of the library that feature the “chapters” of the exhibition, weaving in and out amongst the ephemera that together add up to the sum of his work. From the lobby, where you can see artist Daniel Arsham’s cast of Hov’s Hands throwing up the roc in fool’s gold, to the numerous tickets and lanyards from tours over the years, and the various media his hits have been recorded on, this is a very tangible exhibition that is best seen IRL.

There are newspaper articles and magazine covers, some of titles that don’t exist anymore (RIP Q). There are DATs — of “Can I Live” and “Meet the Parents,” VHS tapes — of the “Run This Town” music video, DV cassettes — of “The Gift” (the clean version) and even floppy disks — from 1997 with “Where I’m From.” Each has little details written on them about the producers and engineers involved; little pieces of history on technology no longer used today. There is a Magna Carter setlist, a handwritten letter from Nancy Sinatra, the mic stand from his 2008 first-rapper-to-headline-Glastonbury show.

To be sure, there is also a plethora of items which the I’m a business, man has created to expand his empire, along with rows of his Decoded memoir. There is also a whole white-walled area of HOV-recommended books to browse through and, should you wish, check out. And there’s a full-scale replica of the room where he recorded some of his best-known songs. If not for the glass coverings over most items, this is a very tactile exhibition. 

Walking through it, I wondered about what musicians and artists coming up through today’s digital airwaves would likely put together if they were awarded such a tribute. That opens up a whole other conversation about the stature of today’s entertainers, and so I began thinking about collections on an smaller scale, everyday ones. Like mine.

Having made a giant move from Johannesburg to New York City over a decade ago, I had to downsize my life’s possessions a while back. With the help of a dear friend who is brilliant at organizing a panicked mess, I whittled my life of 29 years down to one big suitcase, one small suitcase, a laptop bag and a backpack. I can barely travel to the Cannes Film Festival with that small an amount of luggage, but somehow I moved to New York like that. I had to give away most of my books, magazines, vinyls & CDs, and trinkets collected from over the years. In a New York apartment, there is just nowhere to put them. You can store them, sure, but rent’s already too damn high.

After all the consolidating, there were three boxes left that I absolutely couldn’t part with. They stayed in one friend’s basement for eight years before moving to the spare room of another. I kept meaning to send for them, but before I knew it, 12 years had passed.

Even though I haven’t used their contents or have needed to use them over these years doesn’t mean I don’t want them. They are what’s left, the essentials, of me. If you laid them out, they’d tell a large part of my story. The first award I won as an arts & culture journalist. The journals I kept from the age of 12, with Tracy Chapman lyrics scribbled inside and pasted letters from overseas pen-pals (remember those?!). Baby pictures of growing up in small-town Benoni (the same place Charlize Theron grew up!), and pictures of family members who are no longer around — photos taken in a time before digital snaps ensured we’d have an abundance of photographic memories to hold onto.

How much are these boxes worth? What are any of our physical memories worth? When space is a premium, and the realm of the online world holds more and more of our collections; our movie rentals, our books, our voice notes and texts, what physical value do the things we’ve gathered and accrued over the months and years hold?

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve thought about this a lot as I’ve tried to figure out how best to send for the boxes. It’s time. I want to be able to show my daughter the things of my life, an extension of hers. It’s like that credit card advert goes. I don’t have to have a library’s worth of keepsakes, but I can have a few boxes. To me, they are priceless.

Thank you for reading. Here are some digital snaps from The Book of HOV.

Stay well,

Nadia

Dear Reader

One of the things I appreciate most about living in New York is that the city is a living shrine to those who are no longer here. The streets have memories etched into them; some shared by many, others shared by only a few. It is a place where we can gather publicly when someone dies, whether we knew them or not, to have somewhere to put our feelings—about an untimely passing, about a celebrity it felt like we knew, about how fragile and fleeting this life truly is. Sometimes it’s with others, sometimes alone; bringing flowers, notes, or just our own presence to a site, turning it into an ad-hoc altar.  

This past Saturday, I took my morning run to Basquiat’s old studio (up for lease), where a tribute to Sinéad O’Connor had been put up on the wall, following the news of her death. In a city where she had suffered great indignity—where the SNL show in which Joe Pesci said he would’ve slapped her for ripping up a photo of Pope John Paul II took place, where she was subsequently booed at Madison Square Garden a few weeks later—someone had upheld her fearlessness all these years later with their art. 

The quote, put up by two someones, artists Adrian Wilson and Erin Ko (thanks to EV Grieve for the info), is from a 2014 interview, where she spoke about experiencing music as the manifestation of the Holy Spirit, and the accompanying photo reminds us of how she openly condemned church abuse way before history proved her right. For however long it stays up, the piece is a temporary keepsake of Sinéad O’Connor’s courage and conviction. And even when it is buffed over, the layers of paint and paper, and what they stood for, will have embedded themselves into the story of the city—a story that includes the ineradicable mark Sinéad O’Connor left. 

I like to think the same is true for the other makeshift tributes that have been created over the years. Maybe it’s because the city has known such absolute grief and sorrow that it makes honouring those who were once here a deeply cherished pastime. No matter how big or small the display may be, no matter how well-known the person may have been. 

When I first moved here, Steve Jobs died, and around 2am, I went to the Apple Store on 5th Avenue (it’s open 24-hours) as people gathered to put little notes and lit candles in the street outside the store. One person had set up an iPad, ingeniously, to run a video of his face. I stayed for a while as I was reporting on the story back then for a South African radio network, and watched how people came from all over the city to congregate, and share stories about their first iPod (rest in peace) or latest Mac. I couldn’t really understand what drove this, but I observed with great interest the growing tribute to the Apple co-founder, which continued in the days that followed.

Over the years, as a journalist, I’ve borne witness to many makeshift tributes for public figures. In L.A., when Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson died—those were huge massive outpourings of everything from teddy bears to flowers to CD covers and charms. In South Africa, too, when Nelson Mandela died, you could hardly see the grass for the flowers that had been placed around his Houghton home in Joburg. 

In New York, when someone beloved has died, it doesn’t take long for impromptu offerings to be set up. The Post-It notes that covered the exterior of Anthony Bourdain’s restaurant, Brasserie Le Halle. The “Let’s Dance” lyrics sprayed on the wall outside David Bowie’s Soho apartment. The adding of '“Aretha” to the Franklin Street subway, together with all the flowers and candles outside the Apollo Theater, where she performed in 1971 to sold-out crowds. The bouquets that gathered around the giant photograph Spike Lee put up outside 40 Acres and A Mule when his father, the composer and bassist Bill Lee, died. Even outside Philip Seymour Hoffman’s nondescript apartment, small pieces of ephemera lauding his life were placed in the wake of his passing.

Beyond the tributes to the famous are those done in solidarity, too. Like the powerful one at The Stonewall Inn, when the Pulse nightclub shooting happened in Florida, and hundreds of rainbow flags and handwritten placards covered the exterior. Or the cards and messages of support placed outside the French Consulate on the Upper East Side after the attacks in 2015. I’ve watched these sites grow in size, as others add to them. A physical gesture of caring for someone known or not.

Perhaps even more moving are the smaller tributes to everyday people, so-called ordinary citizens, who may have been lost before their time. Often, I’ve stumbled upon a group of prayer candles gathered in a corner on a quiet street or on the outskirts of a school, marking the passing of someone who is being mourned by those who love them. Sometimes a tribute becomes permanent, like the white bicycle outlines that tell of an accident that occurred there. I try to stop and take a moment to read the accompanying placard that provides details about the person who died or look at any photographs that have been placed there. 

Whether temporary or not, it feels like these improvised public memorials give us the chance and the space to acknowledge the hurt and the sadness, even if it’s for a brief moment. Even if it isn’t mine. Especially if it isn’t mine. As author Valerie Kaur notes, there’s value in showing up, in bearing witness to the suffering of others; it’s part of how we build ourselves back up in the face of all that challenges and divides us. There’s something sacred and healing about that, a shared humanity, and I’m here for at least trying to do it more often than not.

Thank you for reading. If you haven’t yet seen it, the documentary about Sinéad O’Connor, Nothing Compares, is really worth a watch. 

Your neighbor,

Nadia

Dear Reader

Did you survive the cultural event of the year, “Barbenheimer?” I did, but didn’t get the t-shirt to say so. I know it’s all a lot of hype, and there’s so much going on, including a writers/actors’ strike that needs to be urgently addressed. But I’ve been delighted to witness the excitement for both films, the packed cinemas and vibrant discourse around them (even if that discourse got a bit too much over in bluebird-land).

I saw Oppenheimer earlier in the week. It’s a technical marvel, for sure. I’d just prefer to talk about Barbie. Much has been said and written about Greta Gerwig’s film, but I’d like to share a small moment that made it a cinema-going experience I hadn’t had in a very long time. And that wasn’t just because in-my-head-bestie Beth (the wonderful Susan Kelechi Watson) from This Is Us was at my screening.

Sadly, Beth had opted to sit quite a few rows away from me, so when a woman wearing a gorgeous figure-hugging light pink pencil skirt and white blouse asked if the seat next to me was taken, I said it was wide open. “I asked my boss if I could leave work early,” she told me, as she settled in, and we chatted some more. It was 4:30 pm in Brooklyn. I, too, had asked to leave work early, but not for me; I’d asked my husband if he would be able to come home early to take over baby duty while I popped off to the cinema for one of the few not-sold-out screenings left.  

Going to the cinema or watching a film at home these days has become somewhat of a gamble for me, in terms of how it’ll affect me. Since having a baby, it’s as if all my emotions have become heightened, and I just feel everything so much more. My anxiety over the past few months, as my daughter grows and develops, has only increased too—with thoughts of how to keep her safe and protected while not suffocating or stifling her constantly on my mind.

I’ve found these feelings often tend to surface, unsuspectingly, while watching a movie. Yes, I shudder at news headlines even more so now. But it’s when I’m settled in for a film, my defenses seemingly completely lowered, that it happens; something on screen stirs up deep emotions that sometimes overcome me.

It happened during the Barbie movie. I wasn’t really expecting it to happen during the Barbie movie. The film is a love letter to being an independent woman, to freedom, to equality and perseverance and asserting one’s own identity. And to, of course, the colour pink. Babies are relegated to the opening scene of the film, and discontinued pregnant Midge makes only two brief cameos. Indeed, Barbie, in all her iterations, has never actually come with a child.

But the film is also a love letter to mothers. (It probably shouldn’t have surprised me, given that Ruth Handler, who created Barbie, did so for her own daughter.) It’s about mothers, both new and not so, who juggle independence with caregiving; who try to reconcile shifts in identity; who bring life into this world knowing it can be full of wonder and joy, but also cruel and deeply unfair. Who strive to get over their own ideas of perfection so they can model the beauty of imperfection for their children.

At least, that’s what it felt like for me. And so, during one of the film’s stand-out scenes, I felt the tears coming, faster than I could wipe them away. I took a sharp breath. “It’s okay,” I heard the voice of the woman next to me say. “You got this. It’s getting me, too. You’re okay.”

What is it about an encounter with a stranger that it can be the thing you need at the time it’s most needed? A voice carrying a reminder of something you know, but you just need to hear it, often and in different ways and forms, until maybe one day it really sinks in.

Directors are strangers of a different kind; they can feel familiar, in the sense that sometimes they, too, know what you need to hear, just by virtue of the fact that it’s something they need to hear. Gerwig is a mother herself, and recently had another baby. While Barbie prodded at my anxiety, it also calmed it. (Just how, you’ll need to see it for yourself but it had a lot to do with wonderful words by an elderly Rhea Perlman and a montage of home footage.) In that darkened room, both the film and a fellow film-goer offered some comfort, a short respite, and a little nod to an everlasting maxim that often gets lost in amongst overwhelming thoughts.

“Thank you,” I whispered back—to the woman sitting next to me, and to the screen.

And thank you for reading.

Stay safe and well!

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader

Two major things happened this week—in my sphere of interest, at least—and they both involve women who run the world. One in the global iconic pop-star sense of the phrase; the other, a literal Olympic champion runner. The former wrote a song about it, the other uses her whip-fast feet to speak of her accomplishments. Both are history-making mothers who have galvanized fans across the world.

On Wednesday, I traveled to Philadelphia to go see Beyoncé fly across a stadium on a diamond horse as thousands of pieces of glitter rained down on her. It was the opening of the U.S. leg of her Renaissance tour, and I was invited by a dear friend to take part in the festivities. It’s taken me a while to find my feet as a new mom, and this was to be my first night away from the babe since she was born. It was the perfect occasion! I was utterly and absolutely wrapped up in the excitement of two-and-a-half hours of thrilling costume changes, epic set design and jaw-dropping choreography that I only texted my husband six or seven times during the show. (Just kidding, it couldn’t have been more than five texts!)

What I loved most about the show, though, for all its opulence and spectacle, was the small moments in between all the big ones that gave me goosebumps. That first instant when you catch a glimpse of Bey, as regal as she is, in the flesh, on the stage in front of you, in a striking black number, right before her image is beamed onto the large screen behind her. When she sings the line ‘supernatural love up in the air’ into the camera as it hovers high above her face. Even when Blue Ivy came out for her guest cameo dance—I’d read about it on the European leg of her tour and wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the 11-year-old being on stage—it left me a little teary-eyed for the pure pride and exuberance it elicited.

But those big moments—gosh, were they giant! Photos and videos don’t do justice to the magnificence of the set design, impeccable lighting and the intricately-constructed videos that seemed to reach out and bring the audience even closer into Beyoncé’s realm, exalting her form and essence. Solidified by impassioned choreography that honored ballroom culture and allowed her dancers to shine, it was all so outstanding. A flying horse seems like the only truly fitting way to end the show (while also nodding to the cover of the album responsible for this year’s tour) since Beyoncé continues to soar.

The woman at the center of the other momentous event this week, however, has had her wings clipped for the past few years. 800-meter Gold medallist Caster Semenya hasn’t been able to participate in her speciality for the past four years, barred from competing in track and field lest she suppress her natural testosterone through surgery or medication. This week, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that she had been discriminated against, and her human rights violated.

While the ruling is in her favour, the court didn’t strike down the regulations (it isn’t able to) and no clear path currently exists for the 32-year-old runner’s return to the track. In the comedown of Beyoncé’s concert, I thought of Caster, who happens to be a fellow South African, and all the other women athletes who’ve had their bodies policed, who aren’t able to revel in their talent. A few years ago, around the time of the IAAF’s ruling, I wrote about how Caster has been a motivating force for many women around the world. Despite being in a completely different arena of play than Beyoncé, she has upheld the ethos the Grammy-winning singer espoused with the release of Renaissance, “to feel as unique, strong, and sexy as you are,” all while challenging traditional notions of femininity. Sometimes she does this through social media, but most of the time it’s just through her very existence. Yet she has been denied the prime years of her athletic life, and the longer this draws out, the more unlikely it is she will ever get to fulfill her full potential. Her eyes had been set on breaking the longest-standing track world record, the women's 800m from 1983.

Before it’s not too late in her career, I hope Caster Semenya gets to fly around the track again, soon, and stun us with her ability to confidently dazzle. In the meantime, her own legal battles with athletic governing officials are set to lay a precedent for the future of women in the sport. You could say they won’t break [her] soul. But it’s more like they’ll never take her power.

Thank you for reading!

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader

There was a time, back in Joburg, South Africa, when I would watch any and everything that was set in New York. Of course that included the likes of TV shows Sex and the City and Gossip Girl but it also extended to silly reality spinoffs such as The City, where I would ignore the shenanigans going on with whatshername and the other whatshername, and just focus on the filler shots of city streets and buildings. That I’ve lived here for the past 12 years and call New York my (adopted) home is still somewhat of a pinch-me feeling. Even more so in those moments when I remember I gave birth to a New Yorker, who very likely will have a New York accent (and not, sadly, a South African one—not that there is one accent, but that’s a conversation for another time).

It’s not easy to upend one’s entire life and move to another country. And, as I sometimes have to clarify, I didn’t come here to live in the U.S.; I came here to live in New York. It’s the city that I was drawn to—as a big fish in a small pond back home, I was eager to dive into a bigger pool of water, even if that meant starting all over again. Which is how it felt when I first came here. Overwhelmingly, so.

New York is a city that will show you the best of what could be, of what’s possible for your dreams. But it can also bring out the worst of your fears. The expense of living here, the overwhelming choice in just about everything, the noise—the unrelenting cacophony, the fact that there’s almost always someone who’s better than you at the thing you do.

It took some time, but I learned the best way to live in New York City is to try to make the city your own. For me, this meant finding little pockets of space where I could feel like I belonged. As a freelance journalist, I didn’t have a 9-5 to naturally create that, and so that’s where running really helped. Running the streets of the city and its outer landscapes allowed me to become familiar with neighbourhoods and boroughs, people and places. And it led me to make The Rundown series. By running to the places in my favourite movies and TV shows, I felt a little more closer to the magic, to the wonder of the city. And to the make-believe of it all. It’s that make-believe that powers a lot of New York: taking a chance on oneself, often making something out of very little, being persistent, and yes, even, unrelenting.

All of this is to draw your attention (if it hasn’t already been) to a fantastic exhibition currently on at the Museum of the City of New York, called This Is New York.

The museum (among my favourite of them all) is 100 years old, and to celebrate this milestone of milestones, it has put together an all-encompassing exhibition that looks at how the city has been portrayed in art and pop culture. It’s true that for many of us transplants or immigrants, we came to know of the city through images and sounds transported across the seas before we ever set foot in this concrete jungle. The books, plays, movies, TV shows and songs made New York a familiar place. The exhibition gathers some of these seminal moments across different media in one place, making for a rich dive into what artists have said and felt about this tumultuous town.

A stand-out piece is the video montage of New York films that covers 16 screens, drawn from hundreds of I’m walkin’ here movies about the city made over the past century. There is so much to take in—from Langston Hughes to Edward Hopper, from the album cover art to the on-set photographs of classic films. It’s an exhibition to go back to over and over—before it ends on July 21st, that is.

And as a flashback, here’s an old episode of The Rundown dedicated to something I celebrate yearly, my New York-aversary! [This one happened to be my 7th—we’ve come a long way, baby!]

Thank you for reading!

Stay safe, stay sane,

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

In March 2021, I was watching an advance screener of the Tina Turner documentary that was due to come out on HBO a few weeks later. While I wish it had been because I was going to fly to Switzerland to interview the legend herself, it was because I was doing the next best thing (okay, maybe the 3rd next best thing, after a Zoom interview with her), and that was interviewing the filmmakers. Titled, simply, Tina, the documentary is centered on a rare sit-down with the icon, in which Anna Mae Bullock reveals how she felt about being Tina Turner.

I wrote at the time, for American Songwriter, that it was a parting gift for fans. She was, as the line in the Hamilton song goes, teaching us how to say goodbye to her. She was leaving the public eye for good. Even after retiring from performing in 2009, she continued to give us parts of herself—whether writing another memoir (My Love) or consulting on the mighty Broadway show about her tumultuous, triumphant life. Now that she has actually left us, the record will show—and has shown, through countless obits and tributes, how vast her influence was.

We know she led the way for generations of rock and pop stars, from Mick Jagger to Beyoncé. But her passing has drawn mourning from those of us who didn’t know her personally because, as Amanda Petrusich puts it, we know how much further her influence went; how she contributed to the world, in such “a robust and profound way.” She gave us music—oh so much music—that we’ll still delight in for years to come. But for so many of us, she showed us more.

It may seem a little trite to say, but she showed us the way back to love—of self and for another. And even though she didn’t like being a role model for all the trauma and pain she had to go through for it to be so, she left behind a map of sorts for us to follow. For how to live with vibrancy—in spite of it all. For how to still find success later on in life. For how to be in an adoring relationship.

One of the biggest takeaways for me from the doc is that she shows us that healing is not a linear path. You don’t just go through something and then you’re done with it. The doc honours the hurt she still felt from the abuse she endured. As co-director T.J. Martin said to me, “The person we’re sitting down with, is someone who’s still processing these things, not overcome them,” says Martin. “She is making the decision to survive every day. It’s not, ‘I survived and then it was over.’” Healing comes from the little choices made on a daily basis.

The doc also goes into Turner’s Buddhist practice of chanting, specifically the line: Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, which she was known to do for a long time in her life, and how it helped “change the poison to medicine.” Stuck in my own toxic environment, in the middle of what seemed like a pandemic that would never end, I was intrigued by this. I bought her book, Happiness Becomes You, and began sitting in front of a white wall and gave it a try myself, saying the phrase over and over.

I can’t say for sure if it was the chanting that did it, since I also gave up alcohol at the time (and feel like that helped clear up a lot of things), but slowly, things started to change around me, and for me. And not to simplify this too much, because I also did a LOT of personal work, but two months later, I met B, who’d end up becoming my partner and Zoe-Rose’s dad. We have so much to thank Tina Turner for—the music, the dancing, the tenacity she modeled for us even though she didn’t want to be a role model of any kind—but I am most thankful for this. (Also, if you don’t have “When The Heartache Is Over” on your running playlist, you’re missing out!)

All of this to say, it’s worth re-watching, or watching for the first time, the documentary, Tina, as a celebration of her life and legacy.

Long live the queen!

Thank you for reading.

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

Three weeks ago I crossed the finish line of the London Marathon. It was a fulfilling end to a goal I had set for myself — to train and run my first marathon as a mom, 13 months postpartum — and I felt oh-so proud for making it through, and in good time, too.

The marathon itself may be an Instagram memory now, but I feel like it was preparing me for something else. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve found myself facing another endurance event, one that also requires mental fortitude and physical strength: sending one’s baby off to daycare.

I had read all the memes about how you fork over large sums of cash to daycare and in exchange they give you the latest range of viruses. I knew it would be a little tough to send her into the care of someone else after all this time of tending to her. But I didn’t expect the kind of separation anxiety and anguish over her health that came over me.

On the first day, a pit of sadness sat in my stomach as we dropped her off. Despite knowing how good it would be for her overall development to be there, I was feeling so many loud emotions about it all. She seemed fine; me, on the other hand…

Being that our baby’s daycare is right next to a well-loved bakery, I sought solace in one of their famous cardamom buns, as I tried to hide the tears in my eyes. I got one on the second day, too, and thought this is how I would get through the week: one drop-off, one cardamom bun, at a time.

But within the short window of being there, she had already picked up something.

Two things, actually.

A few days later when we took her to the doctor, we got the one-two punch diagnosis: bronchiolitis and an ear infection. I felt so much distress about it, even as I tried to stay calm for her sake. Preparing for daycare, I had expected a runny nose here and there, not a heavily congested one that required us to physically help clear it — in spite of the agony it clearly caused her in doing.

I have never felt so helpless as I did while watching her little body struggle to regain itself after a coughing spell that felt like it was trying to expel every bit of content from her lungs but couldn’t.

She didn’t sleep.

We didn’t sleep.

And yet, I needed every bit of physical strength to get through the day. (Grateful for an equally committed partner who helps share the load!) I needed, too, the strength of mind to remind myself, ‘You will get through this. She will be okay.’ I leaned on friends who became de facto cheerleaders with their tidbits of advice from the other side of the finish line. Although — I soon came to learn — there are multiple finish lines. Getting through one illness means you qualify for the next one. One finish line begets another.

But when my emotions got the better of me, I willed myself to remember that London Marathon finish line. The tenacity I knew I had in me; the ability to be stronger than my weakest thought. After all, what good is running a marathon if you aren’t able to use the experience in your everyday life? What use is it putting yourself through the training and then the doing, if not to simulate what it takes to get through a rough patch IRL?

And so it’s been: One moment at a time, remembering to breathe, and stay focussed on the goal at hand, which is, of course, making a tiny immune system stronger and healthier. And becoming a mother who is able to model a healthy and secure attachment style for her child. Or at least, trying to. One cardamom bun at a time.

In other news, the Cannes Film Festival is underway. Both Michael Douglas and Souleymane Cissé are getting honorary awards this year. And while I’m not there this time, I thought I’d run it back with an episode of The Rundown that I made in 2017, at the 70th edition of the fest (with special cameos from Tilda Swinton and Will Smith, and my pal Lorna Mann).

If you’re in New York this weekend, be sure to take a look at what’s on offer at the New York African Film Festival, and I’ll see you at the St James Place Biggie / Hip-Hop’s 50th Anniversary block party!

Thank you, as ever, for reading.

Stay well

Your neighbour,

Nadia

Dear Reader

In 2019, shortly after I ran the Berlin Marathon, I signed up for the London Marathon. It’s the penultimate stop on my “World Marathon Majors” scorecard, after having run New York, Chicago, Boston and Paris (which is actually not on the list but I thought it was). It’s an extremely popular marathon that takes place in April, and you can either enter a lottery or raise money for a charity to try get in. After watching the documentary Crip Camp and finding out all about activist Judy Heumann, I wanted to run it by raising money for Sense Charity, an organisation that works with people who have complex disabilities; advocating for them and supporting them throughout their lives.

So, I started fundraising, started training, and then…March 2020 happened, and I started this newsletter. Eventually, it became clear the marathon was going to be cancelled, and when it was, I continued to run, but soon came down with an injury. I was pushing myself a bit too much during that most uncertain of times, and running so hard for so long was not the answer.

When the new marathon was set for a date in October 2021, I finally seemed to have a hold on the injury, was rested and excited to give it a go again. It would be my tenth marathon, and I had raised all the money needed for Sense. I started training again, doing speed sessions and hill workouts with my friends Sarah and Victoria. Only during those workouts, I started to have to run to the bushes when bouts of nausea came over me.

You see, in the beginning of April, I had met the man who would become my husband four months later, and we had both wanted to start a family together. And we did.

Rather than chance anything, I decided not to go ahead and run the marathon (I would have been around 16 weeks if I had). Fun fact — my OBGYN ran it, with her parents! Thankfully, Sense allowed me to defer my place to 2023. The next one was again in October and it would have meant training at 3 months postpartum. Many new mothers have done that, but for me, it felt unnecessary to put that strain on my body, so soon after a C-section.

Which brings us to this Sunday!

April 23rd, 2023, I will run the London Marathon, my tenth marathon, and my first as a mom. While I have a time goal in mind, this marathon I’d like to use the 26.2 miles to revel in all the wild and wonderful moments that have happened during these past 3 years. Over the course of this training cycle, as up and down as it’s been, I’ve learned how to truly listen to my body — to push myself according to effort and feel — and how vital it is to carve out this time for myself, even when a million other things are calling.

This Sunday will also be a return to my old self, yes, in a way, but more so, an embrace of who I’ve now become. This new body, changed and adapted, strong and resilient, carried a life for nine months. What’s 26.2 miles in the face of that?

Still, I’d appreciate any good wishes you might want to send my way!

Here is the video I made about why I wanted to run for Sense:

As ever, thank you for reading.

Stay well

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

I’m currently in the UK ahead of the London Marathon, getting in some quality time with the family and trying to acclimatize. In order to get to the UK, we (myself and the baby) had to take our first transcontinental flight. Granted it was under 6 hours, and overnight, but it felt like a marathon in and of itself. Especially since I was departing on my own with the baby, as B is only going to be returning with us.

I will say that people were, on the whole, very kind to me — as I tried to manoeuvre a pram with a baby inside it, a car seat, carry-on luggage, and all-important, must-be-easy-to-access travel documents through JFK to one of its furtherest gates. As I knocked on the door of the accessible bathroom and waited for whoever was inside to come out, a woman asked if I needed help. I told her I was okay, and thanked her. “I know I don’t know you, but you’re a saint!” she exclaimed, before wheeling her own luggage away.

Not a saint, I thought to myself as I continued to wait for the door to open. Just a woman trying to integrate the life she led before — frequent trips to see family in the UK, travelling for work and to run marathons, enthusiasm to take on new challenges — with the life, and the one-year-old, she has now.

This past week, the marathon has continued. You spend a year getting your baby onto a sleep schedule that finally works, only to lose it all the moment you go overseas. And if the little one doesn’t sleep, no one sleeps. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will be showing up to the start of the London Marathon definitely not well-rested, as one ideally should be.

But if I have just an ounce of the dogged determination my little one has had this week to not sleep through the night, then I’ll make it through those 26.2 miles no problem!

It’s not just the London Marathon we’re excited for. This coming Monday, it’s the Boston Marathon — that mecca of marathoning. Sharing a video I made after surviving the 2018 Boston Monsoon, and wishing good weather to those running this year!

Thanks for reading!

Next week, it’ll be almost go-time for the London Marathon — eeek!

Stay safe,

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

My husband and I have been spending our weekend evenings watching old New York movies. From the sweetly poignant Moscow on the Hudson with the late, great Robin Williams, by the late, great Paul Mazursky; to the Upper East Side-situated Three Days of the Condor with the ever-suave Robert Redford; and 1957’s Sweet Smell of Success, with dialogue lines so ‘cookie-full-of-arsenic’ good I’m tempted to use them to spice up everyday conversation.

In one scene from Sweet Smell of Success, Tony Curtis, who plays publicist Sidney Falco, tells Burt Lancaster, the omnipotent J.J. Hunsecker, that he’s got a situation handled. “The cat’s in the bag, the bag’s in the river,” he says, in one of the film’s most notorious quotes. It’s a line I’ve been trying to use but doesn’t land quite as smoothly — maybe because my life is not filmed in a black-and-white noir-scape, and I don’t have that fast-talking New York accent that makes it sound so assuredly confident.

But I am at least trying to embody the spirit of the line; trying to stay calm and confident that the next few days will be fine; that all will be handled, and adequately so. I’ve been down in Sickville for the past couple of days, stuck with a cold/flu thing that interrupted my training, sleeping and parenting. Definitely do not wish you were here!

It seems to be an unwritten rule of marathoning that the closer you get to the big day, the more likely you are to get sick or injured.

Unlike Tony Curtis, who you’re never quite sure is actually doing much work, I have done quite a lot up until now. As haphazard as it may seem — runs stolen here and there, strength workouts done sometimes after the baby goes to sleep (or, at times, with her laughing at and crawling on me as I try do them) — I’ve put in the time for the London Marathon. So a few days not running is not going to hurt now. Still, it can still be a tad frustrating.

We also have the travel to the UK coming up (for both the marathon and family QT), and that will be an adventure in and of itself. Flying with a baby for the first time! And the first leg is me flying with her on our own, and B joining us on the backend. I think it will definitely help to take on some of that Sidney Falco swagger and not be too apologetic about a simple fact of life, i.e. to get from A to B, sometimes one has to fly with a one-year-old on a plane.

Still, wish us luck!

This week’s flash-back episode of The Rundown plays on the theme of New York movies, and who better to feature than Mr New York himself, Martin Scorsese? I really loved doing this episode and want to update it in the near future. So many of the buildings in his movies are no longer around, and that’s quite a shame.

In women’s empowerment running news, this week also saw the release of Des Linden’s (aka Boston Monsoon winner, 2018) memoir, Choosing To Run, which is a stellar addition to recent releases by Alison M Desir (Running While Black), Lauren Fleshman (Good For A Girl) and Kara Goucher (The Longest Race). All of these help give us a greater understanding of the issues facing the sport that need to be addressed in order to make it an uplifting and fulfilling space for everyone.

As New York starts to see vibrant signs of Spring arrive, I want to wish you a fantastic weekend ahead.

Next time we chat, I’ll be in the land of wet weather and real Cadbury’s!

Stay well

Your neighbour

Nadia

Dear Reader

I’ve always had a fraught relationship with time. I think many of us do. There’s just never enough of it, and if I think I had too little of it before, then having a baby has only exacerbated that feeling. I laugh when I remember how much time I used to spend on exercising before having a baby. True, it became something I did more of as the pandemic took hold of the world and we saw less of each other, as a way to try control something small within my orbit — adding on strength training to my runs, and following the workout Michael B Jordan did to get in shape for Creed, plus teaching myself how to do pull-ups and handstands helped fill the, well, time.

But now, training for a marathon sometimes feels like I’m stealing time — time I should, or want to, be spending with the baby. Or even could be spending doing those menial tasks that fall by the wayside, like getting my hair cut or deep-cleaning the apartment.

This past weekend, as I set out to do my really-long-run of training for the London Marathon — one in which I knew I’d be out on the streets for more than 2.5 hours — I thought about another thing I could be doing with that time: watching the new John Wick. Number 4 in the franchise had been getting rave reviews from my critic friends before it came out, and I really want to see it. But, dear reader, there just is very little time right now to fit in both going to the cinema to see an almost-3-hour film (along with the time factored in to get there) AND going on a 20-mile run. It really is a case of one or the other.

“What am I trying to prove?” I thought, while running that long run. I should be a in a cinema eating popcorn and watching Wick get his vengeance on. What am I trying to prove? Nothing — except to fulfill a goal I had before having the baby. A goal that shows I’m still the same person, even if I feel and look a little different.

I’ve made the choice to do this marathon and that means choosing to put time into it — for a few more weeks, at least. And it means waiting patiently for John Wick to hurry up and get himself on demand already!

Here are 5 things this mama would suggest spending some time on this weekend:

1. Listening to the new Nakhane album.

2. Celebrating Tracy Chapman’s birthday by re-watching this.

3. Watching A Thousand and One, starring Teyana Taylor, which is not 3 hours long, but its just under 2-hour runtime will take you through New York City, specifically Harlem, in the ‘90s, to tell a devastating story of gentrification, family ties and belonging that will leave you stunned.

4. Picking up an Anna May Wong quarter.

5. Getting stuck into the African Folklores Reimagined series on Netflix with UNESCO that aims to support the next generation of African filmmakers.

Thank you for reading!

Your neighbour

Nadia