“I just quit my job!” I announced to the Uber driver as he loaded my suitcases into the car.
“Ok.”
“And I’m moving away from New York!” I exclaimed with a maniacal grin — all teeth exposed.
“That’s nice, ma’am.”
“This is the best day of my life!”
At this point I knew he didn’t care, but I couldn’t contain my happiness. I was finally leaving a city, career, and life that had been draining my energy for years. For the first time in years, I felt true uncontainable excitement.
I mean, did I start crying 15 minutes into our ride to the airport? Sure, but knowing what was ahead of me made breaking away from New York infinitely easier. Think, Nicole-Kidman-finalizing-her-divorce-from-Tom-Cruise vibes.
London… briefly
After a long red-eye flight, I took the tube from Heathrow straight to my friend Hannah’s home. We were roommates in New York, so she wasn’t shocked when I walked in looking like TikTok’s Jasper the Doll. I didn’t sleep that much on the plane and wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and long nap, but my friend Barb Stegemann was speaking at the opening of the first Sephora UK store and I wanted to support her and her fragrance brand — The 7 Virtues. So, I took a quick shower, hopped in an Uber, left my phone in said Uber, chased the Uber down the street while shouting and waving my arms in the sky, recovered phone (phew!), and got my bum over to Sephora.
To keep the story short, I got there, gave Barb a hug, smelled almost every perfume on display (including her new launch, Coconut Sun), found a place in the food court that sold vegan burgers, and scooted my way back to Hannah’s. There was no time to rest, though — I had to pack for a four-day trip to Athens.
Baby’s First Stag
Thanks to jetlag, I fell asleep at 2:30 and woke up half an hour later to make our 6AM flight. Hannah and I dragged our sleepy selves to the train station and made it with over two hours to spare before our flight. #Goals
We were going to our friend Neil’s stag, or as mortal Americans would say, bachelor party. OoOoOh, YoU’rE gOiNg To A sTaG? aS a GiRl? Yes, friends are friends and outdated gendered rules are boring. Next.
The party of 20+ people trickled in throughout the day. Most of us stayed in a building designed for tourists in a bustling area with tons of bars and restaurants nearby. Hannah and I got placed in an apartment with four of the guys, most of who were very nice. (One of them has a permanent spot in my black book for blasting music at 6AM after a rowdy night out.)
In many ways, the weekend was exactly what I needed it to be — pure dumb fun.
There was one day where we dressed Neil up as Pegasus and we all dressed up as Neil, which basically meant just slapping on a mustache and wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt. (Bonus points if it was colorful or had retro-looking graphics.) About five of us had what can only be described as an espresso martini marathon, which is just as dangerous as it sounds. Throughout the weekend we all jumped on beds like children while singing at the top of our lungs. One night I forced four of our friends to watch “Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron” at 4AM (IYKYK). Our apartments were also conveniently located across the street from the Death Disco — a nightclub designed for Grecian goths that happened to have an 80s pop night where they blasted ABBA all night.
It was the best of times, but I was more than happy to hop back to London and not share a two-bedroom apartment with four guys — as lovely as they are.
So, what’s the deal with London? I’m waiting on paperwork necessary for my Spanish citizenship application, so I can’t exceed staying for more than 90 days in any 180 day period. I want to spend the summer lounging in the south of France, setting up my new home in Madrid, and sailing in Croatia without worrying about accidentally overstaying. (Read: These are things I want to do, not things I will or can do.) Thankfully — and randomly — most of my best friends live in London, so here I am.
The Wild, Wild West of Freelancing
For the first time in my life I’m dipping my toes in the freelance world, and it’s equally as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I went from receiving roughly 2,000 emails a day to getting about 50, which every now and then sends my mind into a spiral. “Nobody cares about me now that I’m not at a magazine,” “Shit, am I going to find work?” “Crap, how will I afford this life I want to have? I like nice things, damnit!”
But, in the words of my lord and savior Taylor Swift, I’m learning to “shake it off.”
On day two of freelancing, I got offered a really fun project with a beauty brand I love. In the last two weeks, I’ve had meetings with publicists who rep hotels around the world who are interested in working together on travel-related stories. I went to a few beauty events in London and have started meeting editors here. I pitched a few pieces and got my first assignments.
Phew… I think I’m going to be ok.
One of the most affirming moments I’ve had so far came last week when I turned in a few ideas for this fragrance project I mentioned. The founder emailed me back with her team cc’ed and praised the work I had turned in. This may not sound like a big deal, but anybody who has worked in publishing knows how ungrateful the job can be. So, the founder’s recognition overwhelmed me and brought me to tears. So much so that I called my mom about it.
It’s been an interesting process to learn how different publications work, how much brands pay for content, and how companies strategize collaborations. It feels like the Wild West in many ways — there’s no roadmap. But that’s exactly what I expected in this new chapter of my life, I just need to learn to navigate these waters. And as free-spirited as this period may be, I am a creature of habit, so thankfully I’ve been able to work out of London’s million Soho Houses and recreate some semblance of a work environment.
* Exhales in corporate *
Puppy Yoga
You’ve likely heard of the benefits of animal therapy. Some fancy rehab facilities have horse therapy, an increasing number of universities offer dog therapy during mid-term and finals season, and now you can take yoga classes in the company of puppies. (On a similar note, I took a goat yoga class on a trip with Beekman 1802 two summers ago and cried the entire time — see evidence here.)
My friend Matol, who is not only a talented aesthetics doctor but is also housing me while I’m here, found a place called Pups Yoga and rounded the troops. Next thing I know, she, our friend Andi, and I are running through the rain to our yoga *cough, therapy, cough* class. We got on our mats and waited for the eight cockapoo puppies to be unleashed into the studio.
Did we actually practice yoga? Definitely not — we stretched for maybe 10 minutes, tops. The rest was dedicated to rubbing warm puppy bellies, playing tug-of-war, hugging puppies, crying into puppy fur, sobbing about not being able to take home any of the puppies, planning ways to steal all eight puppies à la Grinch — all normal things. They were jumpy and playful and perfect. And when it was done, we went for brunch with our other High School friend and filled our bellies with breakfast pizzas and pistachio lattes.