I hate having to feel smart. Or feeling pressured to know what I’m doing. That is not my zone of genius. Instead, I’ve been encouraging myself to just do, be, exist. To follow my impulses without the constant analysis paralysis.

Am I any good at it? I’d say I succeed 50% of the time, which feels like remarkably improved odds for me. But what I am learning is that the messy grey area is where it’s at.

This era of transience has shifted so much in my internal landscape. For that I’m grateful, however it also feels like I’m stuck between a lot of different things. Copywriter. Author. Astrologer. All different identities coexisting in a hodgepodge that feels icky. It’s like knowing where I’m going and also having one foot stuck in the past.

I read a fab Substack from on this exact phenomenon. It’s been rolling around my head for weeks, specifically this bit:

“There were moments, usually in very ordinary parts of the day, making coffee, replying to something small, closing my laptop a little earlier than I used to, where I’d catch myself and think, oh… I am not the same person I was last year… even three months ago. Things internally shifted in a way I couldn’t quite explain; the way I was making decisions, the things I was no longer rushing, the way certain thoughts didn’t land in quite the same place anymore. And then I’d look around… and nothing had visibly changed in my life.

And that’s the part that gets you. Because the external world is still rearranging itself around that. And that gap can feel strangely destabilising. Because you’re no longer who you were, but you’re not fully living as who you’re becoming either. You’re somewhere in between, holding both versions at once. And I think this is the part that matters most. Because if you misread this phase, you can undo the very thing that’s about to work.”

Uff. And that’s where I’m at.

I’m feeling v uncomfortable and sticking with it. That’s what’s required when you’re in the midst of personal evolution. Keeping the faith – especially when there’s no evidence to trust, and your intuition is your only guide.

Hannah shares a whole bunch of tips on how to navigate this period in her post, which are very helpful. For me, though, I’m focused on staying present, like the eye of the storm. I can be still, watching all this change swirling without getting pushed around by it. I can let things unfold in their own good time, and trust that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. (Or at least that’s what I’m aiming for!)

I’m trying not to be one of those people who assign meaning to everything based upon Astrology, but after months of having my nose in books on the subject, it’s uncanny to notice how the skies seem to inform everything. Enrolling in Jules Ferrari’s Astro School only confirmed my hypothesis. This is a lineage of mythology and pattern recognition that has been around for millennia, and if it was good enough for the Sumerians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians, I figure there’s wisdom enough for me, too. Moreover, stargazing in search of cosmic wisdom feels like practising witchcraft, ie, right up my alley.

I have a Gemini Ascendant, so the effect of the sun moving into Gemini makes a lot of sense. That persona I have created for myself has been illuminated by the sun shifting gears (Gemini season began on May 20th). For all of us, though, this progression into a new sign is going to change the tone – the energetic flavour – of what we’re experiencing.

Gemini Energy in a Nutshell

Gemini is as quick as the air. It’s the intellect, open and curious about the world it finds itself in. Moving from Taurus to Gemini is essentially moving from the domain of the body to the terrain of the mind. We transition from something deeply rooted in our earthly, tangible senses to flying through the ethers at supersonic speed. Depending on your own chart, this dramatic acceleration can feel invigorating or, conversely, disorientating.

The magic of Gemini is its ability to communicate. To take a vast, unending stream of information, chew on it and then reinterpret it as something meaningful. The message, clear as day. When I think of it that way, it seems to be exactly what we might need more of. Day and night, through images and words, we are being bombarded by information. Crafty little Gemini can withstand that – and in fact, if channelled intentionally, can revel in the chaos. The big question for us all during this period is how we can metabolise the noise into something useful.

Feeling distracted, neurotic, or anxious? That’s a Gemini thing, too. In its shadow expressions, Gemini doesn’t know where to put its focus. I know for myself, I can become as obsessive about mid-terms as I can about Married at First Sight. I need rigorous guard rails around scrolling, viewing, and gossip, because without boundaries, I’m in a perpetual state of overwhelm.

Gemini also governs the nervous system, and I think a big part of the Gemini maturation process is figuring out how to self-regulate. When the input is completely unfiltered, and you’re letting everything and anything be ingested into the mind, you’re constantly spiralling. And so learning to channel that intellectual capacity can help you harness the Gemini superpowers of perceptivity and insight.

The Aspects

It’s worth noting which other planets are dancing around the sun for further context. Most notably, Uranus’ transit into Gemini, now conjunct (side-by-side) with the sun, had a lot of astrologers going ga-ga. It’s a planet that only moves every seven years, so it is definitely significant. Uranus, a planet that disrupts the status quo with lightning bolts of insight, will have a massive effect on how we engage with each other and what we believe in. Yes, we have access to more information than ever, but how much of it is actually landing? Is it connecting us or tearing us apart? I’m hoping that Uranus stationing here is going to break down some of the nonsense that we’ve been swept up in. At the same time, those surges of power don’t necessarily feel great if your nervous system is already dysregulated. You can get fried, quite literally.

A more harmonious tango IMHO is with Pluto in Aquarius, currently trining our lovely Gemini Sun. We’re moving away from all the Aries fire into synergistic air. Pluto is the keeper of our hidden power, and the sun can help us unlock some of that. All of those concealed parts of ourselves, whatever might be lurking in our subconscious, crave the feeling of being lit up. Maybe it’s even an invitation to embrace the complex spectrum of ourselves more fully. And Gemini does indeed have the ability to hold and process all of that.

What I’m Keeping in Mind

So as we step into this portal, dressed up as Hermes, the trickster messenger of the gods, I’ve been thinking about a few questions I can ask myself to frame the season. This is what I’ve come up with:

• Am I actually paying attention to what I’m consuming? Does it add value and meaning to my goals and aspirations for this year?

• How can I stay curious and invite some of the more unconscious parts of myself to come out and play? What would make that feel fun?

• Where can I go deeper rather than wider? How can I take advantage of this boost in intellectual insight and learn something that’s far from superficial?

Curious to hear how Gemini season has been feeling for you, and if any of this resonates ;)

I have moped, and “processed”, and prayed. I have looked for him in all things and implemented a slew of rituals in his honour. Wherever I go, I take my hurt with me, and watch as it recedes and comes flooding back again.

On the weekend, a friend let me know that her darling boy had also crossed the rainbow bridge, and it fucking broke me. To know the pain that she’s about to go through, the ache that will never go away. I cried on the tram, writing back to her. I wanted to save her from the awfulness of it — offer a kernel of something that would help — and felt useless instead.

I spent so many nights after Slim passed, reading Reddit threads about pet loss. Strangers consoling each other and sharing their stories. A friend lent me a book that gave some comfort. This TED Talk validated my pain. I wanted to celebrate him in all the ways, like sticking up stickers of his face wherever I went. I wrote to him, meditated with his ashes. His little bed is still in its spot. I kept waiting for the lump in my throat to stop choking me and for my frayed nerves to recalibrate back to normal, as if that was even possible anymore.

And still, I would not change a thing. I’m sorry to all the other dog owners out there, but Slim was The Best Boy. Being his guardian made my life immeasurably better. He loved all the weird and wonderful things about me that not many others get to see. My ridiculous little scruffball taught me lots of stuff, including:

• You can love someone and still need your space.

• It’s ok to clearly express what you want and don’t want.

• Going outside in nature will make everything better.

• Ditto for a delicious meal.

• Having a routine (and regular bowel movements) is the baseline for a good life.

• Spontaneous adventure is what makes life even better.

• I’m able to take care of myself and my loved ones.

• Being yourself is what you’re here to do.

• Cuddles can fix just about anything.

It remains a mystery to me how I can go on without him.

I’m not who I was anymore. Losing him has meant losing a big chunk of me, too. The preposterousness of his absence means I can’t ever go back — and it’s not a sorrow that I can do anything about.

On his last night on Earth, Slimmy fell asleep in bed, nestled between Urs and I. He’d never done that before. Maybe he knew it’d be a final loving memory for us to share? Our silly angel had a fabulous life, and at the end, he showed us he was ready for it to be over. I’m so glad that I was able to give him that. And if his suffering ending precipitated the beginning of mine, so be it.

I’d like to believe that at some point, the grief will give way to something beautiful. I have glimpses of it – where the gratitude for our time together feels like a wall of love colliding with my aching heart. Mainly, though, I feel irreversibly changed. I’m doing my best to give all of this, the love and the longing, the space that it needs to breathe. This is not the time to find some deeper meaning, a silver lining that puts it all into perspective. I just want to be with it, to hold my grief with kid gloves, and stay close to the joy he brought into my life.

I have lived the last forty years genuflecting at this altar. Chasing short-term accomplishments has given me a sense of purpose. I won’t lie and say that it hasn’t felt good. One of the things I respect most about myself is my discipline. I commit, fully. I have trained myself to do what I say I’m going to do, even if, after climbing the mountain, I’m left unimpressed by the view.

What I’m exploring now is a different approach to getting what I want. Usually, I break my year down into sections, assigning checkpoints to hit along the way. I’ve become addicted to dopamine. The tick-boxery of it all. It’s a successful strategy if you want to stay on the hamster wheel; however, as I cast my net a little wider, it’s become unsatisfying.

In this season of life, the things I want won’t come to fruition in the space of months. It may take years. That dopamine surge won’t go the distance. Oxytocin, on the other hand, which fosters the deeper feeling of connection, trust and contentment, seems like just what I’m looking for.

It hasn’t been a conscious shift, but I see a recurring pattern emerging. I’m naturally prioritising activities rooted in a slow burn. That’s not to say I don’t have shit to get done! Because I actually think I’m more ambitious than I’ve ever been. I’d just like it to mean more, and I’m zooming out to look at decades rather than days.

Project 1: The Novel

The most obvious paradigm shift has been moving from writing predominantly short-form to tackling a book. A year ago, taking on 5,000 words felt big. That’s zero surprise given I’ve spent so long copywriting, which I’d categorise as the junk food of the literary buffet. Having written a cumulative total of over 70,000 words so far, it’s become obvious how much I’ve been limiting myself.

I have deep respect for the ability to synthesise complex ideas into hot takes. It’s what I’ve built a career on! My underdeveloped skill is probing further. I’m allowing myself to explore a medium that has a far greater breadth, and it’s been liberating. This, as with all the projects below, has become an act of faith. It’s building a new muscle. Every day (and that’s what’s emerging as a trend as I write this), I’m chipping away at it. Whatever comes through in each session feels miraculous. Today, I cannot imagine not having the space to explore these more meaty ideas.

Project 2: This Substack

Strategically, I knew that focusing all my writing capacity on one project that would remain unseen for a long period was not a smart move. I need more practice in honing my craft, as well as exposure therapy to help me feel more comfortable publishing my work.

I’m not used to having my name attached to my words, or even writing in my own voice. And yes, I could have just been on here sporadically, though I knew I’d weasel my way out of it. I want to actively rewire my self-consciousness, and that will require repetition.

Committing to a year of personal essays feels like a sufficient timeline to create a new pattern. I know many people will think it’s excessive, and yet for me, it feels like the tip of the iceberg. Next March, when I open this app to 52 essays, I can only imagine what shifts will have occurred. I’ll have explored so many different corners of myself, and invited all of you to have a poke around in my head. That’s not nothing. The year is going to pass regardless, and it feels constructive to direct my energy into something that only I can do.

Project 3: 1,000 Days of Gyan Chakra Kriya

This one feels daunting in a high-priestess initiation way. Every summer, I embark on a Kundalini meditation called Gyan Chakra Kriya, extolled as one of the classic practices of the lineage. It is said to clear out the space junk from your aura (purifying) and also call new opportunities into your orbit (prosperity).

Last year, I completed 100 consecutive days, which felt like an accomplishment considering how weak my arms were. Perhaps it’s a placebo, although I choose to believe in the mysticism of it all. The evidence was not imagined: new clients, unexpected money arriving, and a growing sense of accomplishment. What would it look like to commit to 1,000 days? When my teacher planted the idea, something rippled through me. By the time December 2028 rolls around, I think my life will look completely different.

Project 4: Ten Years of Marriage

In a slightly different category, my marriage is my favourite project of all. On the precipice of ten years (this November!), this constant recommitment to each other is the beacon that, I believe, gave rise to all of this.

I’ve always been thoroughly obsessed with my man, but the ebb and flow of the years has burnished us into something far more interesting. Being in a relationship is so far from easy. Every ugly thing you’ve ever thought or felt is reflected back at you. However, the gift of having someone witness you fully, who holds your embarrassment/fear/shame with gentle hands, is that you realise each of us is fundamentally lovable. Including you, silly.

Staying together requires trust, in ourselves and in each other. Whatever comes, we believe we can figure it out. And counter-intuitively, it’s also a reminder that if my needs aren’t being met, I’m more than capable of leaving whatever we have behind and starting over. (Babe, don’t worry, that’s not happening lol.)

Back to the Point

It’s interesting that none of these things feels particularly scary to me. That’s the big recalibration. I used to be shit scared that I’d fail. Now, there’s a level of inevitability to my endeavour, a knowingness that patience and persistence are what will serve me most.

Keeping things small and manageable meant I stayed stuck in that fear. Constant reassurance, it turns out, is not what builds confidence. Maybe only time can do that. Some breathing room has reminded me of what I actually enjoy doing. Spending all morning in a cafe with a mechanical pencil and a notepad is my happy place. On the weekends, I’m excited for a Monday to roll back around.

In a few years’ time, these inner workings will have materialised into tangible things I can point to and say “I did that”. It’s not worth obsessing over the end result right now. I’ll have enjoyed myself along the way, too. What more could a girl ask for?

Today is my first day back home after the most delightful long weekend in London. I took the opportunity to refill my cup – visiting the theatre, the ballet, and the happiest place on earth (The Row, not Disneyland). The things I saw are burrowing away inside me, quietly biding their time until they worm their way into my work.

But now, back at my desk, I’m reminded that all the input in the world is no substitute for putting words on a page. After a pause in regular scheduled programming, the pulse of my cursor flashing on the screen feels ominous. Creativity, we are told, can run dry. Writer’s block! Even the most talented are not immune.

And I just wanted to say that I think this is utter bullshit.

I am convinced that there is always something to write about. Usually, I’m not even aware of what I’m interested in, and then suddenly, it appears before me. Genius, the Romans believed, lived in the walls and visited artists it found toiling away. (I first read about this in Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic). These were guardian spirits, akin to deities, who’d pop by and lend a hand. Mere humans were not solely responsible for creativity. It was an act of co-creation, birthing sublime beauty into an imperfect world together.

I’ve always found this idea incredibly seductive. First off, I don’t need to be the most talented or the most intelligent. I just have to be diligent about my practice. These spirits need to find me ready and willing to shepherd one of their ideas into life. And that, I can do.

As a silent offering to these benevolent entities, I start every single writing session with three pages of free writing à la The Artist’s Way. If I’m to be an open channel, I need to clear away my own mental detritus first. This brain dump sweeps it into the trash and acts as a signal. My light is on for the muse! It might sound silly, but I swear it works.

I started work on the manuscript for my first novel almost a year ago. This has been an incredibly revelatory period for me, as I’ve been figuring out if I, Katerina, actually have something to say. Subconsciously, I think I was terrified that writing was a skill I could only employ in the service of others, bringing their visions to life, but never my own. In reality, I’d never actually given it a proper go. Now, I show up five mornings a week and bust out 1,000 words. It is at the top of my priority list, despite the fact that I draw no income from it. I have begun to see that what I have to say, the stories that are moving through me, have great value. And if I don’t create space for them, everyone else will be deprived of them, too.

I feel like there are so many people on Substack who are aspiring writers. It’s wonderful! And yet, it feels like the tidal wave of information on here about how to use AI as a content partner or how to grow an audience with a new notes strategy is leading everyone astray. If you want to write, just fucking write.

We desperately need more voices. People who don’t know what they’re thinking until they’ve written it down. Uncomfortable, trepidatious, half-formed thoughts, vulnerably shared with anyone who’ll listen. Not for ephemeral social media acclaim, but because that’s how their brain works.

And if that’s you, I’m honoured to find you here. <3

Let’s start with a disclaimer. This is not a list of stuff you should buy. None of these things is necessary. This exercise is more about looking beyond the objects, into the deeper comfort and meaning they offer. Questioning why that might be. Maybe it’ll inform what I buy next (if anything), or perhaps solidify my belief that things have sentience and acquiring them is one of the great joys of my life! Regardless, it’s my little ode – and round of applause – for things that make my daily life immeasurably better.

The Abercrombie & Fitch Essential Cropped Sweatshirt

Starting with a curveball, but nonetheless, the workhorse of the bunch. It is the perfect sweatshirt. I will fight to the death on this. It’s from the men’s section, but cropped to hit at the perfect spot. A faded black that hides food stains and lint with ease. It works dressed down with a tailored trouser and looks equally at home with sweats (more on that below). Also comes pre-softened and perfectly worn in, so you can avoid the vintage trawl.

It was recommended by a stylist friend in LA (pictured above) whose immaculate taste has never led me astray. Urs and I both own it (me in an L and his in an XL), and I’d say I wear it at least five mornings a week.

The tragedy of it all is that it’s no longer available (although they still make the cropped hoodie version if that’s your vibe). This unassuming garment has been with me through everything, including holding my sweet, precious fur baby as he ascended into another plane. When I’m feeling low, it’s the first thing I turn to.

The Row Gala Pants in black cady

You know I love the high low of it all. Often imitated, never matched. The drape is sublime, and even though I squirted nail glue onto them during their first wear (devastating!), it hasn’t stopped me from wearing them on repeat, no matter the season.

It is rare that a trouser works with sneakers, loafers, AND heels. I hear this Almada version is a good alt, but if your budget stretches, go for the real deal. I will never travel without them, and as my body has been shapeshifting with my current riot of hormones, these are the bad boys I know I can rely on.

Scarf from Folegandros, Greece

Is there anything better than a piece that is unlinkable? Methinks not. Even better, this scarf was picked up on the remote island of Folegandros in the Cyclades, meaning it will forever remind me of swimming in the most glorious, calm waters I’ve ever seen.

In the summer, I wear it with my uniform of colourful button-throughs and poplin pants. In the winter, it’s a great foil to my swathes of brown wool, cashmere, and deerskin leather. It clashes with whatever I’m wearing, but in the best way.

Long story short, well-picked holiday souvenirs can be winners.

Alex Eagle Berwick sweatpants

I have had three iterations of these sweatpants, each one with tiny design tweaks that have elevated them to holy grail status. Again, I wear these an embarrassing amount of the time, which is one of the many perks of being a freelance writer. I can wear whatever the hell I want, but I’ve learned that the simple switch from grey to white sweats makes me feel ten times more put together.

Pockets in sweatpants will always read as frumpy, which is why the silhouette of these is great. With a cashmere sweater (I favour the Patty from extreme cashmere), a tailored coat, and a beanie or cap, I’m coffee shop ready and cosy AF.

The Row bags

I’m cheating here by lumping these all together, but this is my little corner of the internet, so I make the rules.

A few years ago, I had a handbag reckoning and did a major cull. That included selling what I had always considered the pinnacle of handbag acquisition – an Hermes quota bag. In my case, a Kelly 28 in black box leather. Like an ill-fated lover, what I’d loved about her in theory, I’d hated in practice. She was stiff and ostentatious. Beautiful, no doubt! But I never felt at ease with her on my arm.

Now, I’ve amassed what I consider to be my dream rotation of slouchy-yet-sophisticated purses that I don’t have to be too fussy with. An XL Park tote for schlepping my laptop around, a deerskin India for softening an all-black look, and a Margaux 12 in smooth leather that is ageing like a fine wine. I could care less what the internet regards as the latest it-bag. These guys make me feel more myself, no matter what else I’m wearing.

I can think of a slew of other pieces I could include here. These are a sampler, if you will, but nonetheless my beloved picks. As I reflect upon each of them, they’re a good measuring stick with which to compare anything else I’m considering. Will that drapey silk/cashmere v-neck really be something I reach for over my A&F second skin? It’s also exposing some gaps, like I definitely DO NOT need any more house clothes, but a couple of collarbone-baring essentials might help me feel a little more excited to leave my apartment. I can’t function in an outfit that doesn’t feel good – can’t face the world in a hemline I need to constantly adjust. Is it just me? I’m curious. Is there anything you wear that feels comfy in the best of ways? HMU in the comments.

Everything is vibrating. The wind through the leaves, bees pollinate new flowers. And me, sitting here thinking about how much I just want to be naked, frollicking around in it all.

It’s funny timing, really. I’m not exactly feeling at home in my body, with my uterus keen to cause a kerfuffle. But nonetheless, I have this urge to just fuck it all and lean in. To thumb my nose at what I should be doing at 40, and instead do what I please.

Last week, I bought a new nightgown that started me down this train of thought. This little confection is the sheerest wisp of cotton voile, much more indecent than it appears on the website. When I unwrapped it, I immediately had to put it on and saunter around the apartment. In the mornings, I wear it as I meditate in the morning light, and watch as my husband starts drooling quietly so as not to disturb my concentration. Sometimes the suggestion of nudity is even more seductive than going the full monty.

Perhaps these feelings are bubbling up right on time? Taurus season kicked off on the 19th, and if you’re at all astrologically inclined, you might know that this is the season of tactile pleasures. Of tending to a garden, having sex outside, and eating with your hands. The abundance of earthly delights that are yours for the taking. And after the unpredictable fire of Aries, it is a soothing balm to my spirit.

This summer, nudity is on the menu. I get the attraction to nudist beaches now, especially here in Europe, where you’re less likely to encounter gawkers. I want to spend mornings with the sun kissing my buttcheeks and the evenings in some naked-adjacent getup that is thoroughly indecent.

Am I losing it? Probably. But also, a little hedonism feels required once the darkness of winter finally lifts. I notice it more now that I live somewhere with distinct seasons. That craving for light, touch, sensation. So I look to the wild women, like Vivienne, who get it. Head back, tits out. That’s the only kind of energy I have time for.

Once I became a teen, going to the mall to catch a movie with friends was the ultimate excursion. Pre-cell phones, there was a lot of organisation involved! I’d arrive early with a Tupperware full of treats that were definitely not from the candy bar, order a massive frozen Coke (all the flavours, please), and wait for my posse to arrive at the box office. Then together, we’d escape into another world, within the confines of a dark room full of strangers.

Recently, I’ve been rewatching some of the movies that influenced me most during that period. Cinema in the 90s and early 2000s was just it. Still shot on film, a little gritty and a lot less Marvel-y. Much of it has dated, but many have stayed with me. The following are a few that I am so grateful to have watched in my formative years, and that still inform my aesthetic persuasions.

Romeo + Juliet (1996), Dir. Baz Luhrmann

Can you believe it’s been 30 years since it came out?! This is the only movie poster that my mum ever allowed me to pin on my wall, and how I wish I had held onto it.

As an Aussie, I’d loved Strictly Ballroom. The bawdy characters, the stylised flashbacks, the pageantry that would become Baz’s signature. R+J took things in a totally different direction, though. Catherine Martin is also a genius. The production design is masterful, considering the measly $14.5 million budget. And as a whole, every frame feels like triumph.

I was only eleven at the time, and this film completely rearranged my brain. That was what love should look like, as far as I was concerned. What desire, and passion, and unending rage could be reimagined as. The tragic ending barely registered for me. I was too enamoured by the visual feast set before me. The whole thing is such an odd premise, pairing Shakespearean language with the ganglands of Mexico, but you gotta hand it to Baz – it works.

The Virgin Suicides (1999), Dir, Sofia Coppola

To know me is to know that my obsession with Sophia runs deep. I had read Jeffrey Eugenedis’ debut novel before I could properly understand the subject matter (sensing a theme here?) and seeing Sofia reorient the story to focus on the girls’ experience felt revolutionary.

In many ways, the movie is true to the book. I feel like a lot of the dialogue was word-for-word. But it was the intermingling of girlhood and calamity that struck a chord for me. It is a film that takes the melancholy of being a teenage girl seriously – and that was something I desperately needed to see at that age.

Beyond that, the aesthetic choices in this classic are so spot on. The precursor to her first feature, LICK THE STAR, was a short that set it all up. I love the idea that a creative can spend an entire career exploring the same theme and never get bored. That’s something I’m still inspired by to this day.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), Dir. Wes Anderson

I was the only person in the queue to see this film. Whatever blockbuster I had planned to see had sold out.

A happy accident indeed! The film that spawned a million Halloween costumes and made incest-adjacent relationships seem like the height of romance. How I longed to be part of a family of eclectic misfits living in a brownstone.

These days, I’m a little over the schtick of his work, but this film was sublime. Neurotic in all the right ways! The narrative was snappy enough to keep me interested and loose enough to house plenty of oddballs. It’s another example of a modest budget that a scrappy young director made the most of, which I pray continues to be possible in today’s studio landscape.

Did I Miss Anything?

Now that I’ve written this, I’m realising that there are probably many more films that I simply cannot remember but would love to rewatch. If you’ve got a favourite, please send it my way!

This was an era where imperfect cinema still had a place. Actually, I had a similar feeling watching Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! recently, which really excited me. Seeing films like this, that are not dictated by bankable celebrity casting or algorithms, is really important. It allows us access to different kinds of stories. And as a teenager who wasn’t sure of my place in the world, these films helped me see that being a little weird was probably a good thing.

The unsavoury part is what’s going on in there. It’s become apparent that the discomfort I’ve been normalising is not normal at all. And that’s both a relief and anxiety-inducing when I consider what my next steps are going to look like.

If you also struggle with fibroids, this will sound familiar. I have a nasty one that’s decided to take over my uterus – a squatter that refuses to vacate the premises. It took my new doctor pointing out the many ways in which it’s affecting my day-to-day life to realise that action is no longer optional. This small but mighty asshole has me bleeding for sometimes half the month, is a constant throbbing ache in my abdomen, presses down on my bladder, makes itself known during sex, and is now protruding from the left side of my guts as if I’m an anaconda that’s struggling to digest its last meal.

It’s not cute, and it hurts. A couple of years ago, when removal first came up as an option, I dismissed it. The pain wasn’t that bad. It’d probably just go away on its own, right? Just like the cervical pre-cancer I managed to clear with the help of an incredible TCM practitioner and accupuncturist, whom I now call a dear friend. The thought of more exams, procedures, and the poking and prodding that went along with treatment turned my stomach. There is something about the vulnerability of being splayed out in front of strangers that will never feel natural – and I’m completely unsurprised that so many women have their own experiences of gyneacological trauma.

But now, at age 40, it’s time to pull my head out of the sand. Due to the position and size of my myoma, at least partial removal of my uterus is looking probable. Of course, I won’t know more until I have a consult at the university hospital and see exactly what’s going on with an MRI. My head has been constantly whirring with thoughts about it all, and I’m hoping ejecting some of them onto the page so I can better process what’s ahead.

Things I’ve Learned From Women Who’ve Been There

First stop, after having a big cry in the bath about it, was reaching out to the women in my life. Many have walked this path before me and faced much more harrowing situations, which was a wakeup call I needed.

What I picked up was that I would figure this out. That I had multiple options available to me and that I should definitely advocate for what I felt was right for my body, and seek multiple opinions if need be.

Of course, there was also a lot of very practical info that helped me understand what I was in for. Advice on what kind of conversations to have with my surgeon (myomectomy vs partial vs full hysterectomy, the benefits of keeping my cervix), what recovery might look like (months not weeks), how to prepare for surgery (arrange meals and potentially stay in a first floor apartment), and what to be aware of post-op (reactions to anaesthesia, scar tissue, and how sex might be different). Knowledge is, as they say, power.

Footnote here, if you are avoiding your gyno, let this be your loving and friendly reminder: DO NOT SKIP REGULAR PAP SMEARS AND CHECK-UPS. The temporary discomfort of these appointments is nothing compared to the price of avoidance. Your body is your responsibility.

Considering the Subtle Bodies

After the shock of realising I might need to remove one of my organs, my head went to what other things, beyond the physical, might also be affected. I’m not in a position where fertility is a concern, having already decided that procreation isn’t for me. It’s easy to imagine, though, how much more complicated this decision would become if that were in the mix.

Regardless, my womb is something I’m pretty attached to. It feels like the seat of my creativity. Where all my ideas start out. The sacral chakra encompasses your reproductive organs and governs creativity, desire, and emotions. What would that feel like with a part missing? Would my ideas dry up? Or was that absolutely ridiculous, and I should just shut my mouth?

What it brought into focus is that my womanhood is about so much more than my body. Trans women and non-binary folk have already taught me a lot in this area, and I am grateful to exist in an era where gender identity and expression is undergoing a radical (and much-needed) evolution. A uterus is not the thing that’s going to make me a woman. Duh!

Can We Talk About Sex Now?

I’m sick of having a pervy intruder in my sex life. It’s not that the discomfort is unbearable, but now that the option of having the little bastard gone is on the table, I think this is one of the things I’m most excited about.

It seems to me that in many medical settings, enjoying sex is seen as a “nice to have” and not a main concern. I have really valued the directness of my Dutch doctor – she has zero issues going there. Ditto for the women who’ve shared their experiences with me. So glad to have these kinds of friends! And I know now that post-op, things might feel really different for a bit. There’s a risk of scar tissue or a shortening of the vaginal canal, depending on which procedure pans out, both of which can be alleviated if you speak up and have a team that listens.

I have a really good life. Sex is a part of that mix, and I’m feeling more confident now that a hysterectomy won’t change that.

Wrapping It Up With a Bow

Reading back over this, it’s pretty clunky and many of my thoughts aren’t fully formed. I’m going to give myself a bit of grace with that. My feathers are ruffled, and I have a lot left to figure out. My hope is that this is a more productive approach than spiralling on Reddit?

I’d really love to hear from anyone who has any advice – or likewise, if you’ve got questions, please do hit me up.

And in the meantime, I’m starting to see how something that caught me off guard might actually lead to me having a fuller, bigger, more enjoyable life in the near future. Or at least that’s what I’m keeping my fingers crossed for ;)

It’s not just how things look – or indeed how I look. It’s a feeling. The delicious caress of a meticulously-milled cloth, or entering a space that feels like a portal to an undiscovered world. Details that elevate the mundane to sublime tug at me, subsuming my attention. It’s a golden thread that calls out to something inside me, forever searching, searching for something that will light me on fire.

Look, I know it sounds like a lot. And it seems even more outrageous when that pursuit becomes sullied by the world of modern marketing, but I swear there are businesses out there that go far beyond selling you stuff. To me, these purveyors enrich my life in deeply meaningful ways, inviting me to discover something that sings out amidst the bleak gloom of brand land.

There is no greater example of this than Lyn Harris’ Perfumer H. This is a woman who values integrity, having built something pared back yet deeply entrenched in sensory pleasures. Wearing one of her scents is otherworldly. Each feels like stepping into a different persona, an opportunity to embody something tantalisingly untouched.

How the Love Story Began

My first foray into her fragrance was Rose Oil (devastatingly no longer available.) My husband came across the storefront while sauntering around Marleboyne, and once inside, I knew I was home. We spent an afternoon diving deep with their delightful staff, who even ushered Lyn to join us and help navigate the collection. I think it was around 2019? And this was my pick.

That first selection was out of left field for me, having never been drawn to florals before. Her interpretation was like unearthing a forbidden rose on the dark side of the moon – moody and rebellious. It reminds me of living in Los Angeles, knowing that I didn’t fit it… and deciding to carve out a different kind of life. Actually, as I’m reflecting upon it now, it’s no surprise to me that this is also the year that I started studying with [Desiree] of [Benshen].

I’d always liked the idea of fragrance, but I’d never been a serial wearer. My allergies made me super sensitive to department store offerings, and everything just seemed a little gaudy and expected. Perfumer H whispered my name in hand-blown glass vessels (crafted by Michael Ruh) and oil paintings of raw ingredients (painting by Will Calver). The interiors of the stores made me want to move in immediately. And it was that complete universe, everything, including and surrounding the products, that converted me into a superfan.

My Selects

Choosing a scent is a highly personal experience and difficult to translate through a screen. You can find top notes and technical stuff on the website, of course, but I wanted to share a more emotionally-informed description of my favourties…

INDIAN WOOD

My current dalliance. I picked this one up during a private appointment with Montana in London (highly recommend booking a session with her as she is super knowledgeable). To me, it’s far from a traditional, heady sandalwood. It’s incredibly subtle, so people tend to really lean in when I wear it. Imagine a carved wooden box, full of ancient jewels kept locked away until it was forgotten. This is the kind of fragrance I imagine Mary Kate Olsen wearing, sprayed generously across a Yaser Shaw scarf. (I also put INCENSE WATER in the same category, and nine times out of ten, I’m wearing one of these during the day.)

SMOKE & WHITE SMOKE

My husband chose SMOKE most recently, and I was doubly happy as it meant I could pilfer it from his vanity drawer too. WHITE SMOKE feels like its ethereal twin to me – the visual I got from it was a high priestess deep in meditation, burning incense to ward off evil spirits. There’s a slight sweetness and muskiness that feels transcendent in some way. In contrast, SMOKE feels more grounded and earthly. For me, it’s the smell of coming home from an adventure far, far away, to find your handsome male companion stoking the fires.

POWDER

I wouldn’t describe anything from Perfumer H as gourmand, but this fragrance immediately makes me think of Tilda Swinton as the White Witch offering Edmund a silver platter of Turkish Delight. I’ve run out, but for next winter this is what I’ll be wearing, along with a slick of shimmering silver eyeliner.

INK

Obviously, as a writer, I needed this one. I bought it as encouragement last year when I first started writing a novel. When I wear it, I’m transported to the Library of Alexandria, quill in hand and brow furrowed. I can feel the long lineage of writers stretching into the past and future when I spritz it on my skin. And when I’m 90, looking back on all the worlds I’ve committed to paper, I hope I still have a bottle on hand to remind me where it all started.

Recognising your reflection

I want to close by saying that this is not really about a product recommendation. Something that you need to buy in order to elevate yourself. That’s codswallop. A brand like Perfumer H is special because it reflects what’s always been within me. A dreamer who believes in nuance and storytelling. Seeing that out in the world feels weirdly medicinal. It’s a reminder that the things I value are indeed important to others.

We could go down another rabbit hole about curation and experiential retail, but I could care less. Go into a perfumer and experience something with your senses. See yourself in a new way. You are in no way obliged to buy anything – but if we want these kinds of intentional businesses to survive and (hopefully) thrive, then you know where to go when you’re ready.

Many thanks to my darling husband and tour photographer, for allowing me to share his images.

Not everyone can possess beauty… or at least that’s what we’ve been told. For only a special few, this gift is arbitrarily bestowed, but it’s also a double-edged sword. Attractive people are more likely to be promoted, they’re favoured by the justice system with more lenient sentencing, and they’re proven to have a higher rate of reproductive success. The flip side – being constantly ostracised and glorified for one’s physicality – must be a very strange experience, which I can only imagine would distort your sense of self-worth.

Humans are wired to spot and chase after beauty. Civilisations have immortalised it in architecture, sailed ships to seek it out, and created rituals to harness it. So it truly baffles me that we’ve started pointing our fingers at beauty, calling it superficial or insignificant.

A big part of me rallies against all of this. The idea that beauty is an inherent trait, fixed upon birth and destined to slowly fade. The notion that it should be hard work. Our obsession with beauty as some kind of popularity contest means we’re destined to forever fall short.

As I’ve gotten older, my relationship with beauty has evolved. It’s got nothing to do with reshaping me into a more palpable version of myself. I actually think it goes hand in hand with a no-fucks-given attitude. This other expression of beauty is wild and unapologetic. It takes up space and is far more intoxicating than a perfect, pretty face. Yes, you can find it within yourself, but my entry point has been a little further afield.

Over a year ago, I started a Whatsapp group filled with friends from across the globe, all keen to spotlight the beauty within their everyday lives. We sporadically share pictures of what we find: the first bloom of spring, the hazy reflections in a puddle after the rain. Simple stuff. And yet this act has reframed much of how I see myself and my place in the world.

Beauty exists everywhere, without asking permission. Witnessing it makes us accomplices, reconstituting us in its image. Every time we see it, touch it, or feel it, we seem to plant a twin seed without ourselves.

The kind of things that draw me in now are very different. Smile lines earned over the decades, the busted seat of a well-worn chair, a smooth pebble caught between my toes. The patina of life is my ultimate crush. Something I can’t buy or force into being.

And when I take this mindset and turn it inwards, it feels radical. This act of self-sovereignty, if you will, reminds me that beauty is not for the few but for the many. I get to slap that label on anything I see fit – and choose to use it liberally.

Being starved of beauty makes everything feel stale. It’s like prioritising function over wonder, or choosing safety instead of standing out. You can of course survive without it – but what kind of life is that?

So my rallying cry is this: finding beauty, both inside and outside yourself, will make everything richer, deeper, and more meaningful. You don’t need to buy anything to get there, you just need to open your goddamned eyes.

It’s not that I see it as a shortcoming, it’s more of a trick I acknowledge I play on myself. The beginning of anything daunting needs to be fun. I crave the feeling of unrealised potential thrumming through me, that quickening of a pulse that spurs me into action. I’m most comfortable playing the part of the initiator, the starter of things, so it’s the part of the creative process I look forward to most.

Last week, I discovered that this delightful phenomenon has a name. “Unconscious incompetence”. Justin Schuman explains it perfectly here. And yes, it did burst my bubble momentarily, before I decided it’s actually quite an eloquent way to describe the state of not knowing what you don’t know.

Where I, and the rest of humankind, tend to get tangled up is the second act. When you start out in unconscious incompetence land, everything is peachy! You’ve got a big, shiny goal, and you’re jazzed about it. It’s when conscious incompetence enters the chat that things get a little hairy.

Exhibit A: 15 years ago, I accompanied a friend to an ill-fated contemporary dance class at Sydney Dance Company. He harboured a secret fantasy of being a dancer, and I, ever the optimist, was only too happy to go all in on the vision. We arrived at our first class buoyed with excitement, only to have our glaring lack of skill slap us in the face. Surrounded by a room full of professional dancers side-stepping into a new genre, it dawned upon us that high hopes were not a substitute for years of training. Ugh.

We sucked, and we sucked badly. I’d love to tell you that we stuck with it and had some miraculous montage sequence leading to a spectacular triumph, but in reality, we simply went home with our tails between our legs.

That’s what usually happens. Most of us drop off the second our incompetence becomes visible. The dream evaporates, and we are left with a choice: lean into that discomfort, or throw in the towel.

I’ve been in this spot a lot over the past few years. I’m here again right now, trying to do things I’ve never done before with mixed results. There is no elegance to my conscious incompetence, and yet it’s made easier when I remind myself of other difficult things that turned out to be figureoutable, like:

• Moving to multiple foreign countries, including learning to speak a new language (no, not Dutch. Hopefully one day though!)

• Making lingerie I’m truly obsessed with and building a little world for it to live within (hey PATINA!)

• Renovating my dream home with zero experience (almost died but not quite)

• Marriage (no further explanation needed)

A little bit of historical evidence goes a long way when you’re trying to stick it out. And is a little embarrassment really that awful? I’m so tired of hype, of optimization, of getting places fast. It’s boring! Maybe it’d be a bit easier if we all admitted when we didn’t know what we were doing?

The smartest people I know are constantly scratching their heads. When I saw Tilda Swinton in conversation with Tim Walker, they were both incredibly unfazed by what they didn’t know. They’d show up on shoot with a vague idea of exploring something or other. There wasn’t a pre-established plan or a method in mind, but they did stuff – vigorously – until something interesting emerged.

I’m taking the same approach to writing a novel. I’ve been a copywriter for years, and yet in this arena I am a true novice. There is no “good work” yet, only an accumulation of words on a page (currently 41,078, which is the longest thing I’ve ever written). It’s mindless drivel, but at some point, I know I will learn the skills to make it good. For now, the pile of pages is just waiting for me to catch up.

Put simply, competence seems to be a long, uphill battle that rewards persistence and patience. I allow myself to drift back into the blissful ignorance of the beginning often. Imagine being on a tram one day and seeing someone reading my book?! It’s so tantalising. The world I’m dreaming up may one day live in the minds of others. That’s enough to keep me going while I keep chipping away, grateful for another opportunity to shake hands with my (temporary) ineptitude.

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Ultimately, I knew the only way to alleviate my (his?) suffering was to take his hard but fair advice. “Shit or get off the pot, babe.” Appointment booked, no going back.

Obviously, it’s not just about the hair. After consulting my camera roll, I realised I’ve been growing it out for the past decade. It had become a talisman for the kind of woman I wanted to be in my 30s: feminine, free, a creatrix. In many ways, that seed of manifestation came to fruition. I’ve made a living writing for clients, I’ve built a beautiful life on two different continents, and I’ve learnt a lot about what kind of womanhood I want to embody. The ‘do was a valuable piece of the puzzle. Sometimes we need an external yardstick to measure our growth against, and for me that was my goddess-length locks.

But today, newly in my 40s and in the midst of a predictable identity shift, something has been nagging at me. A lot of things don’t fit the way they used to. I loved having long hair, but it’s a little sad to hold on to anything so tightly. The shift from “I’m committed to this aesthetic” to “my appearance is the linchpin holding my life together” has been less than cute.

I’ve held this decision close to my chest, not wanting to be influenced by anyone else’s projections, but also because I’m thoroughly embarrassed. No one cares – and that’s a positive thing!

The universe decided to add a dash of kismet when I discovered that had appointments available at the glorious Flore Salon in Los Angeles, where I’ve been holed up the past couple of months. This is someone I’ve followed (low-key stalked) online for ages. She’s a hairstylist, wellness advocate, foodie, and fellow renovation enthusiast. My kind of woman. She’s also in recovery from ovarian cancer, making her a literal heroine, but her identity never seemed like it was flattened by her diagnosis either. Watching her navigate that level of personal challenge blew my mind and put my insignificant worries into perspective quick smart.

I’m in the midst of my own kind of reckoning, realising that fear has been the majority stakeholder in my decision-making. It might have started with the best intentions, legitimately keeping me safe and secure up until this point, but seeing people both close to me and in my periphery doing things that are courageous is reframing that. Now, I want to use the time I have here at the intersection of spirit and matter to challenge myself. I want to look back at 74 like Stellan Skarsgård and exclaim, “I’ve had a fucking great life!” and that’s never going to happen if I allow myself to get stuck in second-guessing every move.

To get to the point of this diatribe, the hair on the head had begun to feel more like a noose around my neck. It echoed an expectation I was upholding around how I had to present myself in order to be desirable/sexy/magnetic based solely upon my own hang-ups. So yes, I might chop it all off and hate it, but at least I’ll have given it a crack.

I want to be more like the powerhouse women I admire. The Tilda Swintons and Michèle Lamys of the world… except more me. That zero fucks energy that delights in the ever-changing nature of “being a creative”. I want to be so steadfast and secure in myself that I feel comfortable showing up fully in any room, no matter what I look like. Sitting down in Leanne’s chair to pull the trigger was the first step in that direction.

Fast-forward to the day of the appointment, and it could not have gone smoother. Within 60 seconds of sitting down, it was all lopped off (and subsequently donated.) An audible exhale escaped me, and I could just chill the fuck out while the artist worked her magic.

I’m now the proud owner of a chin-length crop. My hair still surprises me as I pass reflective surfaces, but maybe that’s a good thing? Big shifts take a second to integrate, especially when the associated thought patterns have been hanging around like a bad smell. Moving forward, I’d like to treat change like a familiar old friend, with curiosity and a smile, rather than immediately running in the other direction. And if that’s the biggest takeaway from a totally indulgent identity conundrum, I think it’s a lesson well learnt.