Because there’s no reason we should be living a lesser life. Remove the term “idealistic” from your vocabulary and doors will open. Here’s 5 ways to live the life you’ve imagined NOW.
There are two sides to every story. What is it – but the fear of guilt – that makes you exempt from hearing the other? My recent trip to Fiji saw me unpacking more than bikinis, but factory life and cultural disparity. This is Behind Our Fashion, an intimate look into the other side of the story.
Because when it comes down to it, my 2017 self has a lot to answer for. Here’s the story of how she’s making it into 2018. Warning: You may just find yourself asking similar questions.
I’ve found a note on my phone of which I recall writing on one of the first days of January, 2017. I say ‘one of’ as it was likely not the very first: I’m notorious for both forgetting and avoiding these type things (growth and the universal expectation that
The other day I was listening to Sam Smith’s, “Too Good at Good Byes”, and weird as it sounds, placing myself in his heartbreak. Ironically, all my relationships have ended somewhat amicably, and even more importantly, I’m in a happy one at the present. It made me wonder: why
It’s one of those rare, calm days here in Wellington city. I’ve taken to the waterfront, as I often do, for a little break from my laptop screen. It’s Monday. It’s the 18th of September. Like the bay, I am content. As I wander, Siri documents my words.
Day 5 of NZFW, I began with a rather charming, resort-style outfit. By about 6pm, I had exchanged floral for monochrome; Kate Spade’s ambassador for Michael Jackson 2003. Eh, perhaps I’m overselling it. I got cold. That’s right, it happens. Even at Fashion Week. In fact, especially
It is on two occasions – both at family dinner and in midst of NZFW – that I’ve found life tends to raise a hand with its most frequently asked question. So what exactly are you planning to do with me, it asks. Well, not in
To the absolute pleasure of some, NZFW has finally closed its curtains for 2017. A friend had announced some wise words earlier in the week, “come Friday and I really don’t want to be here”, as if to predict the way I too would feel by close. I was
Just about every second night, I rock up at my boyfriend’s place dressed in his grey trackpants (arguably mine), a pair of stained Nike sneakers and at the very least, four layers of jumpers on top. I literally look like The Rock after a cheat meal – perhaps even