on beauty, lasers = the very intense, very effective facial treament I had done, & finding love when you look like toast
My face looked like I had rolled it in coffee grounds. I was swollen like a chipmunk with pillowy under-eye bags you could pack a set of lingerie in.
“You look so beautiful” he said dreamily staring at me from across the sofa. This man is clearly insane/in love, I thought to myself, mentally calculating how many more hours until the swelling would subside enough for me to venture out in public again.
The day before I had been to see a dermatologist in Lisbon to get the first of three BBL Forever Young Light Treatment sessions done to treat some stubborn pigmentation that was steadily corralling into a dense forest of shadows on my forehead peaks and jaw-to-neck areas. Think topographical map of the Himalayas, but in various shades of brown.
I had spent my 20s feeling invisible to life’s inevitable decomposition running around under an ozone hole in Australia, armed with nothing but youthful invincibility and coconut oil. While I am olive-skinned thanks to my Italian father, I also have a tendency to inconsistent melanin thanks to my Austrian mother – a genetic cocktail that left me with skin that couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be when it grew up.
Freckles are cute but brown patches that shadow the skin less so. Am I needlessly vain? Maybe. I spent the past decade repenting for my sins and trying a range of ‘natural’ treatments, becoming something of an unwitting guinea pig for every trendy skincare solution that promised salvation.
Vitamin C serums did nothing for me except drain my wallet and stain my pillowcases orange. Nor did Living Libations expensive miracle oil Dew Dab, which only succeeded in making me smell like a hippie’s medicine cabinet. Microneedling made my skin plump and luminous but the brown shadows remained, stubbornly unmoved by my thousand tiny sacrificial wounds. Sunscreen kept them in place like a preservative for my shame.
Every summer the freckles on my nose and cheeks deepened which I loved – they gave me that sun-kissed, carefree look I craved. But so did the uneven patches which I hated. They acted as reminders of the lack of care I had for myself and skin once upon a time, like permanent Post-it notes from my younger self saying “Remember when you thought you were invincible?”
When I arrived in Portugal 2.5 months ago I made a promise to finally handle the boring parts of self-care: see a gynecologist for my once-every-10-years checkup (lol, please don’t judge, these sorts of things are just not that important to me until they become absolutely necessary), go to the dentist for a clean and to fill two fillings that had fallen and been bothering me (turns out teeth don’t actually heal themselves), book in with a dermatologist, get a haircut. You know, all those adult things that pile up while you’re busy living life.
At the dermatologist’s office he took a scan of my skin murmuring things like “you have very big pores” (thank you, I hadn’t noticed them in the mirror I torture myself with daily) and “your skin is inflamed” (a polite way of saying my face looked angry at the world). Then he asked me questions about how I felt about it. I told him about the hyperpigmentation. He told me he had the perfect solution. A series of three BBL Forever Young Light treatments. I told him I’d need to do some research on them and would need to think about it, secretly already knowing I’d say yes. Then I had a hydrafacial (highly recommend) with a wonderful beautician who at 55, could be a walking ad for every treatment in the place. I walked out feeling hydrated, glowy and on a perfect skin high.
That night the man who is now my boyfriend whom I had only met a few times kissed me and on some subconscious level I decided it was because my skin was dewy and delightful like never before. Isn’t it funny how we attribute every good thing that happens to whatever we last did to “improve” ourselves?
A few days later I contacted the dermatologist’s office and agreed to go ahead with the treatment, my bank account weeping quietly in the corner. To prep I had to put on sunscreen every day twice a day for a month – an Olympic sport level of responsible adulting.
A week before my next appointment I told my new boyfriend “I have to go to Lisbon for an appointment next Friday. Do you want to come?” trying to sound casual while internally drafting contingency plans for how to hide my face from him afterward.
“Of course!” he replied, with the enthusiasm of someone who had no idea what they were signing up for. He blocked out his calendar with a big pink rectangle that said 1ST LISBON DATE, making my heart simultaneously melt and cringe at what was to come.
Inviting him was a mistake.
Wait. I mean. We had a wonderful time!
We went to a secret magical cafe in a Theatre overlooking the city (the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re in a Wes Anderson film) and ate delicious fried tofu ramen at Panda Cantina and walked through the Christmas markets, our hands intertwined like we’d been doing this forever. Then we parted ways while I went to my appointment and he sat in a cafe eating cake and reading Murakami’s latest book, living his best main character life while I went off to voluntarily torture myself.
It’s the moments after this that I regret.
I had no idea what I was about to put myself through. In retrospect, this is probably why they make you sign waivers – to prevent people like me from dramatically declaring “Nobody told me it would be like this!” afterward.
First I signed said waiver, which I did not read, because I was already there and going to do it so why should I read it (future me would like to have a word with past me about this decision). And then I was walked into a sterilized room that looked like a cross between a spa and a sci-fi movie set, laid on a table and tucked in with blankets like a beauty treatment burrito.
Then the beautician silently spread some clear gel all over my face – cold, thick, and abundant enough to make a slug feel at home. She placed tiny speed racing goggles over my eyes that made me feel like a very small, very nervous Formula 1 driver. “Tell me if it hurts too much,” she says with the casual tone of someone who’s about to do something that definitely hurts. “How much is too much?” I ask, already regretting every life choice that led me here. “So much that you can’t stand it.” “Ok” I mumble from underneath a pound of gel, wondering if it’s too late to make a run for it.
She begins, zapping at specific areas. I smell hair, singed and burnt – my own hair. She finds another tool and runs it across every part of my face, concentrating on the pigmented areas. It stings like angry bees doing the cha-cha on my face. She returns to zapping specific areas. And continues alternating back and forth for an hour, which feels like approximately seven years in beauty treatment time.
It’s not comfortable but it’s also not unbearable, like a really intense game of “how much do you want perfect skin?” I try to focus on staying relaxed, mentally reciting my skincare mantras: “Beauty is pain,” “No pain no gain,” and “Why did I do this to myself?”
At the end she softly whispers “All done!” and unwraps me like a Christmas present that’s been returned slightly damaged. As she walks me back to the reception she asks me how my skin feels. “Spicy!” I reply, meaning like I’ve just french-kissed a volcano. She looks at my face more closely and excitedly says “You have the perfect skin for this treatment! All the hyperpigmentation is going to get much much darker over the next few days. And then fall off. I can’t wait to see the results!” Her enthusiasm would be contagious if my face wasn’t currently hosting its own personal inferno.
I text my boyfriend. I’m so sorry. I’m done now. The appointment had run late. What I really meant was “Please still love me even though I look like I’ve been slow-roasted over a BBQ.”
Outside I feel foolish and embarrassed, like a child who’s been caught trying on their mother’s makeup – except the makeup is my actual face and it’s screaming for help. I don’t want him to see me like this. He remains tactful and kind and orders us an Uber home, pretending not to notice that I’m trying to hide behind my hair like a sheepish sheepdog.
The next day, sitting on the sofa across from him, forcefully resisting my desire to run home, to not be seen by the man that I want to be cute and pretty and attractive in front of, he reassures me that with or without the treatment he loves me and thinks I am beautiful. And in that moment, I realise that maybe the real treatment wasn’t the laser at all, but learning to be seen at my worst and still feel loved.
The days following occur exactly as the beautician suggested. The redness and swelling disappeared, the dark shadows became darker – making me look like I’d tried to apply self-tanner with my eyes closed – I wore sunglasses whenever we went out and hid myself indoors as much as I could, until finally a week later a new skin emerged, like a butterfly from a very expensive chrysalis.
Tiny invisible pores! Zero pigmentation! Even skin tone! Baby soft! No need to wear makeup ever again! It was like someone had hit the reset button on my face, erasing a decade of sun damage and poor life choices.
It was a miracle. An expensive, slightly painful miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.
I never expected the treatment to be so effective. And it’s only the first of three. (My wallet quietly sobs in the corner.)
I fought with my vanity and insecurities and the shame I had around having vanity and insecurities – that peculiar modern paradox of wanting to look perfect while pretending not to care about looking perfect. I battled with being seen at my worst. I faced unexpected pain. And was rewarded with a 10-year dream: perfect skin. Or at least, perfect enough to make peace with the imperfect journey that got me here.
As it turns out, sometimes the path to self-acceptance involves a few laser beams and a very understanding boyfriend.
ageing as a process of becoming one self and thriving beyond ‘middle-age’ because the markers have moved
I have a Pinterest board of women, ageing gracefully. They are wrinkling, greying, vibrant, alive and beautiful. In a world that fetishises youth like it’s the last avocado toast on Earth, I created this board and look at it frequently to prime my brain for the future.
Sometimes I find a white hair shimmering amongst my brown ones and admire it. Sometimes I pull it out reactively and immediately wonder why I did that. Did I just assault my own wisdom? Sometimes I look in the mirror and see that the bouncy suppleness of my skin is melting into something that can only be described as… well, tired? I have a skin routineto combat it, and people tell me it’s working, which boosts my vanity faster than you can say “retinol.”
As a millennial privileged with growing older, I am not immune to the flashy world of plastic unlined skin and coloured hair that belies our true nature.
At the same time, I think it’s important to note that our aspirations and ideas about ageing are changing so fast, maturing and growing older and wiser is something to be embraced, and how we age can be a choice.
Research tells us that most people under 50 are going to live to 120.
That means that if you’re under 50—which I understand to be most of us here in this community if we have the fortune of being healthy, educated and well-resourced to take care of ourselves—you’re only a third of the way in your life.
Knowing that, changes the way we move through our lives.
There’s no rush! We have no timeline to adhere to. Life is long! At the same time, death is imminent, and what we do with our life is all that matters. It’s like being at an all-you-can-eat buffet that lasts 120 years – pace yourselves, but also, maybe try the dessert first sometimes?
Last year I decided to stop telling people my age. Sometimes I lie about it.
Not because I have any shame around it. Because I refuse to allow others’ projections of what is deemed socially acceptable for my age group to dictate my life. Most people still operate on an old trajectory of go to school, get married, have babies, build a career somewhere in between, and then retire.
If you’ve followed that course, your life is supposedly “done” by 50.
By modern standards, it means you still have another 70 years to go! What do you do then? Learn to juggle? Master underwater basket weaving? Start again?
Let’s revise this set of life expectations. Here’s a new perspective.
Every human life has its own timeline, journey and course. There is no linear path. You never arrive. And you can do anything you want any time you want in between the two doorways of birth and death. You are a soul tied to a body. An individual tied to the collective. It’s up to you to decide what you do with your life.
The only expectation…
To live the life that your soul asks for. A path meant solely for you. One that only you can devise from the depths of yourself by checking in and choosing heart-mind-body-soul-intuition alignment over and over again, moment to moment.
I am fortunate to be sourrounded by a community of like-minded souls who also delicately attempt to curate a life of their own, on their own terms. I like to think that the adage is true that we attract those most like us and act as mirrors for one another.
Often they send me truly kind words (my Leo sun laps them up) about my apparent youthful- and attractive-ness.
I like to think that the more preconceived notions and conditioning I release the lighter and more open (attractive) I become. In doing so I completely reframe ageing as a process of becoming one self.
If I am to live to 120, then I want to ensure I do so with as much vigour, vibrancy, mobility, flexibility and yes, attractiveness as possible. This means that I choose to live life in such a way that the number of years I’ve lived has nothing to do with physical ageing and everything to do with inner maturity and life experience. It’s like Benjamin Button, but with better skincare and more existential crises.
Recently I read a letter from Garance Doré who proposed the following:
“Remove ten years from your age.
Good.
Take me as an example, I am now 39.
Now, feel it. You’re ten years younger, but you know everything you know. Yum!
Great.
Now think of all the things you would do if you were ten years younger.
Perfect.
Okay well now go ahead and do them.
Because in ten years you’ll look back and tell yourself you were SO YOUNG ten years ago, and you should have done the things.”
She added that people who think they’re younger actually live younger, and are measurably stronger, healthier and happier—it’s researched and proven.
At the same time, while I am devoted to taking care of myself mind-body-heart-soul, I also am loyal to the natural passage of my human life.
I don’t get my nails done. I think natural nails are beautiful. Look how pink they are! And perfectly shaped! The intelligence of nature knew what she was doing (take that, acrylic overlords!). I pluck my eyebrows myself but mostly let them grow wild. They’re quite demure anyway, like shy caterpillars trying to blend in. I occasionally die them at home. My hair is its natural colour. My bikini line gets waxed twice a year if I feel like it.
Mostly I find all this extra upkeep so boring and tedious and also painful and expensive and most of all, time-consuming.
I believe the best antidote for navigating the cult of youth is untamed authenticity.
Let the rest of the world shape itself into an amalgamation of sameness. Uniqueness and knowing who we are and how to truly be ourselves are going to become the most powerful markers of life in the near future. The ones that will stand out in the end are those of us who reclaim ourselves exactly as we are.
Eventually, we will all decay and our bodies will rejoin the earth. Youth may be wasted on the young, but wisdom is the ultimate revenge of ageing.
This easy step-by-step guide will teach you how to find real treasures and unique styles you’ll love for years to come for a fraction of the cost by thrifting online like a pro.
The last time it happened I was crossing the road in Hove and a cute, little elderly lady (maybe in her mid-sixties?) rushed over to me.
“I love your dress! Where is it from? It fits you so perfectly!”
“Thank you! It’s from a French brand called Rouje, but I bought it preloved online.”
It was a recent purchase (shown above) made in pressing haste for summer to arrive by finding summer dresses before it was warm enough to wear them.
“I’ve still got good legs, I think I could pull something like that off!”
“I bet you do!”
I laughed swinging my long legs and curvy hips down the street filled with gleeful joy after our encounter. There’s nothing I love more than getting stopped in the street and being told that they love my outfit. I am a Leo Sun after all.
Something that surprises me, due to the comprehensive gravitas of professional online fashion influencers, is how often I receive emails, messages, voice notes and comments about my clothes and style.
I love using clothing to express myself; a daily creative ritual that I do for myself. That you appreciate it too always astounds me.
Especially since — as I repeatedly say whenever anyone asks me where something that I wear is from — everything I own is either old or secondhand.
This is always followed up with another question…
How do you find those clothes?
Today I am transmitting my step-by-step process on exactly how. But let’s begin with why.
I have always tried to live life in a resourceful way. One thing we all know for sure is that more stuff doesn’t bring us more happiness. In reverse, it often brings us more stress and overwhelm.
The trick is to find that perfect balance of enough.
How much of the things you need is the right amount? What is enough?
I’m always thinking of ways that I can minimise my impact on the world while maximising my pleasure and enjoyment. Whenever I look in shops or malls (which is increasingly rare) I instantly feel completely dazed by the amount of stuff there is in the world.
Do we need all of this? And who buys it?
A few years ago I decided that one of the ways I could stop adding more stuff to the world was by buying clothes, a creative expression which I love and have no intention of giving up, that already exist.
As someone who prefers to shop online (no crowds! no harsh lighting! no driving somewhere I don’t want to be!) over the years, I’ve honed my skills in what to buy, how, and from where.
There’s only one way to do that. Examining yourself and reflecting on who you are, your lifestyle and what you are attracted to plus trial and error.
A great place to get a sense of your personal style is to start a Pinterest board where you start pinning things you like on other people who have a similar body shape, size, lifestyle and clothing style to the one you have. Maybe start following a few ‘influencers’ and pay attention to the brands they sling, the shapes they wear and how clothes fit on their body to get an idea of what you are looking for.
That way you always have a moodboard to refer to when deciding to add to or update your wardrobe.
While we are always going to be seduced by aspirational impulses make sure that you are looking at buying clothes that match the life you live today, not the life you think you might live one day. If you’re a busy mum or self-employed, it’s highly unlikely that you will be living in cocktail dresses or beach coverups.
What is the perfect proportion of practical and beautiful, for you?
KNOW YOUR BRANDS
Every brand has its own set of tailoring, cuts, styles, colourways and sizes that are unique to each one. The better you know the brands you like the better choices you can make. This takes some detective work.
Firstly, by knowing yourself and seeing which brands match your personal style. Secondly, getting to know the brand(s) by trialling some of their pieces. Fortunately, online thrifting makes this much easier as the risk and cost of something not working for you is much lower, and you can always resell it if it’s not for you.
Once you have a clear understanding of what your favourite brands are, online secondhand shopping becomes fun and easy because you can go for brands you know and like.
BE SPECIFIC
The more you know what you like and the more specific you are in your searches the more successful you will be. This means using filters.
I always filter for my size (S) but sometimes like things to be oversized (like woollen jumpers and coats) and include the next size up (M). If I am not searching by brand which I mostly do to alleviate overwhelm and for quality control, I also filter for material with a preference for 100% natural fabrics such as cotton, linen, silk, cashmere and so on.
Recently, inspired by the all-white outfit worn by the lead singer of La Luz whom I saw on the weekend at a festival. I searched for a “white collared shirt women S” and included the filters “cotton” and “good condition”. A lot of Zara options came up which isn’t the worst, and often at half the price or less than in-store.
the lead singer of La Luz whose entire outfit inspired me so much that I desperately want to replicate it
HOW
SEARCH BY BRAND
This is always the best way to start.
Look up your favourite brands, put in your filters, and then bookmark the search to come back to from time to time, whenever you’re in the mood for a bit of online thrifting.
I go through phases. Sometimes, when I have a specific gap in my wardrobe or am feeling inspired (see above) I’ll go in to search a few times a week. Other times, I’ll go weeks or months without opening the app (Vinted) because I just don’t need anything.
Lately, I have been helping a friend update her wardrobe so I am searching for specific things that I think would suit her and am in there searching at least once per week. Her scope was “I need everything” which is a carte blanche for me to have fun finding whatever I think would look good on her.
To me, this is the best job and one I sincerely wish I could get paid to do because I love the process of finding the perfect items at the best prices so much.
MAKE A FAVOURITES LIST
As you find pieces you like (or love) ‘heart’ them to add to your favourite list. As you look for items try to think about what you need and how the things you are looking for could work together with what you already have and for different occasions. This list is where the pieces you are thinking about buying can rest until you make your decision.
TRUST THE PROCESS
Be willing to take the occasional fashion risk especially if you have a strong hut (heart+gut) feeling about a piece. You can always resell it again. Don’t buy in urgency unless it’s something you’ve been looking for for a while and you know you are ready to commit and don’t want someone else snapping it up. Try to sleep on purchases before making them in haste and let go of things if they don’t work out i.e. are no longer available or not at the price that meets your budget. I believe if something is meant for you, it will be yours. If not, it’s not.
HAGGLE ACCORDINGLY
Make sure that you know the value of things, and offer a price that feels right to you in your hut (heart+gut). It’s always worth going a bit lower than the asking price.
Keep in mind that insurance and shipping are added on top so barter accordingly. I often deduct the £5 it’s going to cost me for postage from my offer. Sometimes I even try bidding at the lowest possible price if I am uncertain about the quality or fit of something but want to try it.
Don’t buy things because they’re cheap; make sure you know they are good quality first and foremost. Otherwise, you’ll end up with things that you don’t want or use that end up in a landfill which is precisely what we are trying to avoid by thrifting online in the first place.
ENJOY THE PROCESS
It’s like treasure hunting from the comfort of your sofa/bed/hammock/favourite garden and treasure hunting is always fun! Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, be experimental, and keep an eye out for special pieces. You never know what gems you’ll discover.
He was right. I felt like a fallen angel gracing the earth that night.
Last night I traced the light fine lines that have settled under my eyes and remembered a time when I thought I’d be young forever.
When time stretched out in front of me as a limitless expanse in which anything was possible. When I would wake up with dewy skin and never wash my face or use skin care or makeup unless I was going out-out.
I don’t remember ever classifying myself as a party girl. I did not go out looking for parties. They actively came and found me and swept me off my feet. But I do remember being the only one of my friends in my Psych class who would come rolling into class on Monday still a little bit high from acid and mushrooms and ecstasy.
Except for one of the few guys who took a Psych minor alongside a journalism major. He and I would share secret glances and smiles and pretend to pull triggers to our heads in a gesture that meant “kill me now”. We are still distant friends to this day, though I would have to look him up to remember his name.
I was a good girl. I didn’t do drugs or get drunk. I was innocent and naive and just trying to figure out what on Earth I was supposed to be doing on this planet.
Six months earlier I was working as a receptionist at a tiny film editing studio in London’s Soho. We mostly made ads for B&Q and other ads, that’s where we made our money. Like a men’s cologne that was directed by a famous director who would rack up so many lines of coke at every meeting during production that by the time the ad was done both he and the main actor were so bloated that they didn’t resemble themselves anymore.
Every morning on my way into the office I would greet the transgender junkie that seemed to live in an empty access to an abandoned store as she flicked needles onto the ground nearby. My co-workers said it was mostly methadone because she couldn’t get heroin.
I was young and without life experience and found it both scary and sad.
That winter, cold and determined to do something different with my life, I decided to study Psychology in the hottest place I could find. I found a university in Far North Queensland, Australia, set in a small jungle edging the Great Barrier Reef. At the time I still had a permanent residency visa for Australia on account of my mother immigrating there when I was a child. I applied, was accepted, and booked a flight to begin my new life.
My boyfriend at the time was a manager of a pub in Old Street. One where all the lawyers and barristers would go and get drunk after work. In the very pragmatic way that only teenagers can, we agreed to part ways when I left.
I started my four-year degree committed and high-spirited. I would apply myself. I would study hard. I would complete and hand in my assignments early.
One day my friend’s friend and his friend called me and asked if they could use my car park to sort out their car that had broken down. I said yes, of course, and was delighted by the excitement of young men and cars and who knows what might happen. One of those men asked me on a date and a week later we were a couple.
Slowly I discovered that my new paramour was a bong-swilling pot-head which confused and unnerved me. Mostly, because it felt like there were always three people in our relationship. Him, me and weed.
Later I discovered that this is a common trait amongst addicts.
Substances take priority and create an impassable distance between vulnerability and intimacy. I could write a lot on intimacy, romantic love and substance abuse, but that’s a story for another time. Leave a comment below if you want to read it.
I resisted and resented his habits but I was young and naive, had low self-worth and self-esteem and didn’t know that I could just walk away. So I stayed and tried to change him while he tried to change me.
The first time, he convinced me to come to a secret party in the woods which in Australia they call a ‘bush doof’. He popped a magic mushroom in my mouth and I promptly went to sleep right there on a blanket on the ground. I had just finished a shift waitressing at a pizza restaurant on the beach and no amount of magic mushrooms or loud music could disrupt my 20-year-old self and a circadian rhythm that lives and dies by the sun.
In the morning he asked me if I felt anything and I said “No, I was asleep.”
The next time, it was my birthday. He gifted me a tiny white capsule filled with fluffy white powder that he said was called ‘MDMA’ and would make me feel amazing. There was a white party — which, as the name suggests means that everyone wears white — that Saturday night and had to take it there.
That night I donned a white tube dress and slung a wide belt low on my hips (it was the mid-2000s) and a group of us drove in my boyfriend’s beat-up car to the party. Before we got out we all popped pills filled with white dust in our mouths and swished them down with water.
Soon, I found myself floating, my feet not touching the ground from room to room of the candlelit, flower-bedecked white party, eyes the size of saucepans, an unmoving soft smile pasted to my face. He was right. It felt chemical. And it also felt amazing. I felt like a fallen angel gracing the earth that night.
After that, I was no longer sceptical. I decided that some drugs, not all, but some were something I wanted to explore and discover more.
Especially because I loved music and dancing but not drinking. I hated the ways I saw my girlfriends pour out of bars and clubs wasted, doing things that would ripple shame through them in the morning.
But drugs were empowering. I felt in control, astute, aware of myself and safe.
That summer, a year since I started my degree, and 6 months since I started seeing this man, we went on a road trip to go to some festivals. A convoy of hippies from the jungle travelled from the north to south of the country and back again in 2 months, working on farms to fund our travels and stopping at music festivals along the way.
The first one we went to, one of our friends asked if I had tried acid. I shook my head, scared by the name but curious.
“What’s it like?” I asked. “It’s unexplainable but it will give you a spiritual journey beyond your wildest imagination. The experience is unique to each person.” I was told. “You won’t like it,” my boyfriend told me.
I walked up to the dirtiest man with dreadlocks so long they almost touched the ground and asked him if he had any acid. He looked at me surprised. “It’s my first time” I explained. He smiled and told me to hold out my hand face down and stretch my fingers so a little divot formed between my thumb and forefinger pulling out a tiny bottle with a dropper, dropping a drop of brown liquid in the hollow. “Now lick it,” he said. “And if things get weird, just remember that it’ll pass.”
I went to the edge of the dance floor to wait and see what would happen.
Later I found myself having danced for eight hours straight while having the most healing cosmic epiphanies and internal psychological healings and thought loops closing in such a way it felt like my entire world and life had been put right for the very first time.
My boyfriend was wrong. I did like it. I liked it very much.
Months later, back at university, during a neurobiology lecture my professor inadvertently confirmed my suspicion that not all psychoactive substances are created equal or necessarily bad for you and that there were ways to work with these substances that had a positive impact on the brain and human psyche.
no going to parties with the intention to take drugs
no getting into a habit of taking them or feeling like I need them to have fun
no nightclubs or bars. I only went to outdoor parties in nature, a rule I broke 3-4 times
For six years I experimented explored and tested my edges with various substances. I discovered what my limits were, what I could take and where those experiences could take me. I understood what worked together in little psychoactive chemical cocktails. I learned how to eat well to recover fast.
And then, slowly at first and then all at once, I lost interest. My party girl era was over as another season of my life journey seduced me.
I found that I could reach many similar states of expansion, insight, growth and healing through spiritual and self-awareness practices, self-attunement and alignment, and by working with energetics.
It became so much more satisfying to be able to reach heightened states without the crutch of chemicals.
Fun found in a different form I deeply treasure human connection in sobriety. I cherish the nuanced and delicate reading of energies that arise within interactions from moment to moment. Fragile whisps sensed through the air that I became sensitive to in my party girl era.
Last night I looked at my face and wondered how it has changed between the era that led to another. Tracing freckles and lines I gave thanks for every moment that contributed to the memories imprinted in my skin softly starting to gather.
My period is 7 days late and it is making me irate. I know it’s fine because I ovulated late and I assume I ovulated late because I had covid in my last cycle. This has thrown my 5-month record of ovulating on the new moon and bleeding on the full moon off which greatly displeases me. I was emotionally attached to this kismet multiplicity.
The crescendo of hormones has been pulsing through my bloodstream for the past week. I feel like I’m slightly hallucinating from the cocktail of oestrogen and progesterone that are elbowing each other behind some imaginary door in my uterus desperate to get out.
All I want is release.
I have an intuitive idea. I google “enema after eating“. The first lines of the search are “Do not eat for at least 30 minutes before using the enema. Make sure you can get to a toilet easily. Find a comfortable place to lie down.”
Great! I think and watch the final episode of ‘All I Know About Love’ to let the peach I ate earlier digest.
I boil the kettle and get the at-home-colonic kit from my bathroom and light the candles because I might as well make this experience as romantic as possible and while there am distracted by the two hanging plants that are dying and decide I need to re-pot them into an outside planter and come back with fingers covered in soil. I laugh at myself and wash my hands and then pour some filtered water into the colonic bag followed by the hot water and then realise it’s still too hot so reach to get some ice cubes out of the freezer but see a shoot of water squirt out of the tube that I had forgotten to clamp and accidentally drop the entire icecube tray into the bag while trying to shut it off. I know I must seem ridiculous right now. This is why I like living alone. There’s no one around to judge. I like to be at peace in my maddest moments.
I unravel my pilates mat and place it on the bathroom floor and two cushions for my head and strip down and then remember I need to lubricate the nozzle and rummage for the coconut oil under the sink.
I think I’m ready so I lay down on my right side knees up and gently insert and slowly let the water in counting the seconds between release and clamping the flow until I’m ready to stop. I roll on my back knees up and hear the water making noises as it travels through my digestive tract. Good. Things are moving. Until I suddenly realise how uncomfortable I am. It’s really hot in here.
I am committed to this cause so following the first toilet visit, dash through my apartment naked to get the fan from the living room and set it up by the bathroom door. Better.
After two more rounds, I feel extraordinarily cured. My emotional emancipation is visceral with my intuition to thank for this eccentrically brilliant move. Minutes later I feel something and go to the bathroom and there she is. Those first few light red drops have landed. Finally. Sweet, sweet release.
The history of cacao [chocolātl] began in Southern Mexico sometime in 450 BC.
The Aztecs believed that cacao seeds were the gift of Quetzalcoatl — a feathered serpent — who was connected to the planet Venus. Perhaps that is why, alongside its large quantities of magnesium, cacao is considered to open one’s heart. Originally prepared only as a drink, chocolate was served as a bitter liquid, mixed with spices or corn puree. It was believed to be an aphrodisiac and to give the drinker strength.
When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, they didn’t like the bitter taste and added sugar, and made it a fashionable drink amongst high society.
Cacao is the unprocessed raw cacao bean, ground into a sort of paste that then looks like chunks of chocolate. Most people are familiar only with cocoa, the processed and roasted version that usually comes in a powder or store-bought chocolate which is the powder mixed with fats, sugar and flavours.
When I first moved to Mexico in 2018 I was pleased to discover how easy it was to purchase locally-grown cacao. Being caffeine sensitive but loving the ritualistic motions of making a hot beverage in the mornings’ cacao is one of my favourite go-to’s.
Since I am asked so often how I make my cacao, here are 3 ways to make real Mexican cacao [chocolātl] at home.
Morning Beauty Cacao
The perfect ritual to start to the day and bring presence, mindfulness and connection as well as some beauty-enhancing ingredients into the mix.
20g (2 tbs) cacao paste (I chop it up and put it in a jar for when I want to use it) / 1 cup of filtered water / placed in a small pot on the stove / heat / a pinch of sea salt / a pinch of chilli powder / pour into a blender / a dash of vanilla essence / a scoop of collagen powder / blend until smooth and frothy.
For any of the 3: self-love or to give love to someone or encourage someone to fall in love with you, this love spell cacao drink works.
1 cup of filtered water / placed in a small pot on the stove / heat / 1 tsp cinnamon / / 1 tsp sprinkle of organic edible dried rose petals / 1 crushed cardamom pod / pour into a blender / 1/2 tsp ‘I Am Gaia’ powder / blend until smooth and frothy.
Ceremonial Cacao
You don’t have to wait to go to a cacao ceremony to create your own ceremonial cacao for deep connection, meditation and practice.
30–40g cacao paste / 1 cup of filtered water / placed in a small pot on the stove / heat / 1/2 tsp cinnamon / pinch of cayenne / pour into a blender / blend until smooth and frothy.
If sharing in ceremony, you can gently reheat the blended mix on the stove when you’re ready to serve.
Always keep on low heat and never let the cacao come to a boil as this changes its molecular structure and the way our bodies are able to absorb its nutrients.
Try cacao unsweetened for a deeper, potent dose. Cacao’s bitter medicine is good for us… For added sweetness, I recommend adding raw honey.
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