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I have this recurring dream. It goes like this: I’ve left my husband and I’m back with my ex-boyfriend. Where I am or how I got there always varies but the feeling is always the same. Guilt, sadness and feeling trapped and helpless. I feel the guilt because I genuinely care for my ex and I know I gave him hope and yet I also know I will have to hurt him when I face the truth. I’m trapped because I got myself so deeply into a mess that is going to be so difficult to get out of. The sadness is for the person I left (my husband), whom I desperately love and miss. I need to tell him I made a mistake. I need to explain the mess I got myself into and hope he’ll forgive me and take me back. Sometimes in the dream there are opportunities to find him, to contact him and yet I never quite get there.

There was a time in my life when I had this dream every month or so. I didn’t tell my husband initially because I thought, ‘Morning, darling, I dreamt I got back with my ex’ might not fly. But I eventually became so frustrated by the dream that I did tell him.

‘Again?!’ he’d say. ‘You’re worrying me,’ he’d joke – or maybe he wasn’t, because I did leave him to get back with my ex once.

To be truthful, who would be happy with their partner dreaming about their ex, month in, month out…

I started noticing patterns. When I started to write regularly, the dreams subsided. After we’d moved from Sydney to Auckland, I started an interior and lifestyle blog and writing it brought me so much joy. I don’t recall having that dream around that time. Life got in the way – our family moved from Auckland to Stockholm and the blog entries were inconsistent while our family settled. The dreams returned.

‘You know what I think it is?’ I told my weary husband over breakfast. ‘It’s the feeling in the dream that’s the clue.’

‘Huh?’

‘When I got back with my ex,’ I said, ‘I knew with every inch of me that I wasn’t supposed to be there… that I wasn’t living my truth.’

I figured my dreams were trying to tell me something because they were using a moment in my life where my feelings were so heightened, when all of the alarm bells were going off inside that I was going down the wrong path. I couldn’t ignore it then and therefore I should pay attention now.

I started another writing project – a memoir (funnily enough, part of it centres around this ménage à trois of sorts). We moved again, this time to London. The writing stalled for a good year while we settled, and you guessed it…

I got back into writing. I took it more seriously. I started a degree specialising in English literature and creative writing, I finished the memoir, I started working on a collection of short fiction and then at the end of my final year of uni I found the literature module consuming and decided to fully focus on it as I didn’t want to sabotage my degree. My writing, here on Substack and anything creative (apart from academic essays) was close to non-existent. And yes, one morning a couple of months ago, I rolled over in bed and said to my husband, ‘Guess what I dreamt last night.’

So here I am and I wonder… What if our dreams aren’t always telling us what we want, but instead they are there to remind us how it feels when we stop listening to ourselves?

It’s good to be back.

Sending you hugs.
Mel x

Photo by Mel Chesneau. De La Espada’s immersive exhibition, ‘Let’s Pretend This Never Happened’. Stockholm Design Fair 1998

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It began with a check-up. I was about to move to Stockholm and I thought it would be wise to get all of those pesky things out of the way before I navigate life in a new country. I was forty-one, young for screening, but two of my aunts had had breast cancer, and it felt like the sensible thing to do. A peace of mind. That morning, my seven-year-old son woke with a sore throat, and I nearly cancelled, but it was a small, secure clinic in Auckland, and so I packed a bag of snacks, books, and Matchbox cars, taking him with me. The ultrasound and mammogram would be quick I thought. They weren’t.

I turned my head to the screen when I heard the clicks from the breast consultant taking measurements. I remember how her brow furrowed; her eyes gave it away. She’d seen this kind of thing before. The tumour was large, with irregular edges. She didn’t need to tell me what it meant. The receptionists entertained my son while they took six samples in a core biopsy. She placed her hand on mine. ‘You need to brace yourself,’ she said as we sat at her desk afterwards. My heart thumped in my chest, and in that moment, I pictured my husband and our three small children sitting in the front pew at my funeral. Eight years later, and a year after arriving in France, I had a mastectomy. But nothing about the journey that led to that moment was straight forward.

While waiting for biopsy results, I turned to meditation, I said affirmations and prayed while I lay awake as my family slept – anything and everything to calm my wild mind. I told my husband we can never say the C word out loud. I was desperate. The results came back as a Papilloma, a rare tumour that mimics cancer and as you could imagine, the relief was overwhelming. It still had to come out, my surgeon advised, as they can conceal or become cancerous. Before the surgery, I had another seven biopsies to be sure there was nothing lurking in there, the results would also dictate the radius he’d need to take around it. When the pathologists examined the entire papilloma after surgery, they found DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ, a non-invasive form of cancer). A second surgery followed to ensure a clear margin and the multidisciplinary medical team suggested due of my young age and family history (not great), I have a low dose of radiotherapy on a targeted area along with genetic testing for the BRCA gene. It came back negative. We moved to Sweden (after a three-month delay), happy to put this moment behind us. I told myself it was over, but something shifts after you’ve heard the words brace yourself.

Six years later, we were living in London and, on another routine annual check-up two small papillomas were found. Once again, no sign of DCIS in the biopsy, but the pathologist found it in surrounding tissue after excision. My surgeon suggested I get more genetic testing – technology had advanced since the first. This time I tested positive for a CHEK2 gene mutation. Not as risky as BRCA – but still a significant risk, especially coupled with my story. A professor of oncology advised a mastectomy, or at the least, hormone therapy like Tamoxifen. It felt like a choice between bad or bad – lose a breast or the possible side effects of early menopause, weight gain, loss of libido and/or depression. I wasn’t ready for either. Unlike so many, I had the gift of time to think. I didn’t have the urgency of an invasive cancer but something was obviously going on in that breast and if it were to come back again, we could never be sure what type it would be. I began to do my research.

My breast surgeon put me in touch with her plastic surgeon to discuss my options. It turned out that my prior radiotherapy could complicate the reconstruction. The skin might reject the implant. He could, however, rebuild the entire breast using fat from my stomach (tempting!), requiring a week in ICU. It just felt extreme for a non-invasive cancer. I decided to bide time and continue with my regular monitoring consisting of a combination MRIs, ultrasounds and annual mammograms.

A year later and five months after arriving in Paris, another papilloma appeared. Something was clearly going on. I couldn’t take any more risks, not with my history – not with my family. I made my decision. The plastic surgeon I consulted confirmed the risks of the skin rejecting an implant with previous radiotherapy but suggested a Lat Flap procedure where she takes muscle from the upper back, placing it between the skin and the implant, lowering the risk to that of regular implant reconstruction. I met with the gynaecologist-surgeon she works with and who would perform the mastectomy. This might sound unusual outside France; but gynaecologists here specialise in all areas of women’s health, which makes a lot of sense. Sure enough, they found DCIS in the papilloma again.

Throughout all of this, what struck me most was how little information there was online about real-life stories of DCIS in papillomas and CHEK2 mutation. Even today I struggle to find stories like mine. It’s a grey zone, a space that rarely gets spoken about. So with October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, I thought I’d share my journey. Because, like breasts, every story is unique.

I still remember the first consultant saying, ‘If there’s a cancer to get, breast is one of the best because it’s easy to treat or, remove.’ I remember thinking how brutal it sounded. But she was right – if you catch it early enough. So please, if you’re a woman, go get checked. Remind the women around you. I was lucky throughout this process. I had time. I could wait. I could seek more opinions. Not everyone gets that chance.

Mel xx

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I went to a dinner party the other night to celebrate a friend’s 50th. I knew about half the people, so on the way there, I rehearsed a few lines in my head about ‘what I do’ – in French. Je suis étudiante (I’m a student). Je suis écrivaine (I’m a writer). J’ai écrit un mémoire et je suis en train de contacter des agents littéraires (I’ve written a memoir and I’m in the process of querying agents). But I didn’t end up using these lines, because no one asked me.

It wasn’t because they weren’t interested – there was plenty of conversation, centred on the person as a whole. We spoke about places we’ve lived or visited, weekends away, the education system, politics, and what’s on at the cinema. At the end – after a few too many champagnes – we all bonded over music from over the years.

I’ve thought about this moment a number of times, and I realise it’s actually not unusual here. In fact, it’s very common – something I noticed when I first stepped into French social life over twenty years ago, during a brief stint living here. There’s no identity placed around what you do for a living. I remember how refreshing that felt, even then.

It became even more obvious to me when I returned home, and a couple of years later, had a mini breakdown at work. I was working in the television industry, and after a particularly bad experience, I quit to do some freelance work – but I eventually ended up in a far less glamorous industry. It led to an identity crisis. Suddenly, when I met people and they asked me what I did, their responses were vastly different from what they once were. I used to get a lot of ‘wows’ and follow-up questions. Now, it was more ‘oh, okay,’ and then a change of subject.

My self-worth suffered, and for a while, I found myself saying, ‘I do Y, but I used to do X,’ as if to justify my existence. Then I stopped doing that. I realised I had to do some internal work and stop relying on labels to validate me.

There were a lot of accomplished people at that dinner party: a business owner, a CEO, theatre actors, a published author, a doctor of science – so it’s not that no one had anything to say about their work. It’s just that work isn’t a social centrepiece in the same way. Of course, conversations can hover around someone’s job or industry, but here, it’s approached differently. It might come up as a reflection, or a transition someone is going through, rather than being the headline.

That night reminded me that it’s enough just to be present. That we can connect over stories rather than status and by leaving the ‘what do you do’ question at the door we make space for deeper conversations.

Mel x

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I was back in Australia recently, and while staying with my parents, I messaged a photo of my dad to my kids and husband in Paris. Papi with a heart emoji was all I wrote. They all understood and sent love heart emojis back. The photo showed Dad sitting on the patio with a cup of tea in hand, gazing into the distance – just him and his thoughts.

The first time I really noticed this ritual was when we were living in Auckland, New Zealand. Our children were around eight and under, and I was caught in the usual after-dinner chaos, bathing them, reading bedtime stories. Dad was visiting us, and I happened to slip into the living room, where I saw him sitting quietly with a glass of wine in hand. It was almost dark.

‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You can put the TV on, you know. Or music. Don’t wait for us.’

He told me he was fine. I asked him what he was doing.

‘Just sitting here, enjoying the moment,’ he said.

This came to mind last night while we were watching a TV series with my eldest son. It’s set in the 80s, and there was a scene in a hospital waiting room. It struck him that they literally had nothing to do but wait – no phone to scroll. I told him that waiting rooms often had magazines, but yes, if we didn’t bring a book or a Walkman, sometimes the only option was to wait.

‘We had a lot more time with our thoughts in the 80s and 90s,’ I said. ‘We had a lot more time to get bored.’

But was it boring? That time we spent with ourselves – often unintentionally – was when solutions surfaced, or creative ideas popped out of nowhere. It wasn’t mindfulness, or meditation exactly; it was something in between, maybe even something more.

I love to go for walks and listen to audiobooks or podcasts, but I feel better when I just walk, observe, and be. That’s often when I solve the missing piece in a creative writing project or come up with a business idea (note to self: I really should start acting on some of them).

It’s also in those moments sitting in a café and watching people walk by, that I catch a glimpse of what they might be feeling. Joy. Sadness. I notice without realising I’m noticing. I’m feeling. Our surroundings. Ourselves.

I think my dad’s been on to something all along– taking time with no phone, no book. Just him, his thoughts, and a square of dark chocolate.

Mel x

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I’m on my way to visit family in Australia. With school commitments keeping the rest of my people in Paris, this will be a quick solo trip – family hopping, two nights with each sister, and three with my mum, then my dad and bonus mum.

In the spirit of this whirlwind visit – and the promise of burying my toes in the sand (hello, summer!) – I thought I’d share a poem I wrote about growing up in Australia, where the beach was my playground. It’s part of a collection I created a couple of years ago for my first creative writing module at uni, capturing the essence of the places I’ve lived. Each poem reflects a different location, with its own style and personality, much like the countries themselves.

This one, Sydney Beach, is light-hearted, with a few insider jokes that perhaps only Aussies will truly appreciate.

Mel x

Sydney Beach

By Mel Chesneau

Two bottoms squash together,

under the shade of a striped umbrella.

Fingers dip into vinegar drizzled over hot chips,

long lingering licks of salty drips.

Fighting off the                     bloody seagulls!

Tumbling bodies in churning motion

in the washing machine Pacific Ocean.

Hair is matted and a cossie crotch full of sand,

a lifesaver raises his hand and whistles:

Get away from the                    bloody surfers!

Sandy toes circle a ruddy rockpool.

Chubby fingers point at zebra snails, cone shells and barnacles.

A child’s hand dips into the lukewarm water,

a mother’s quick thinking as she reaches for her daughter:

Be careful of the                    bloody blue-ringed octopus!

Tweens in midday gun fights with Neptune’s Necklace.

They run and dive, with not much space,

one dodges a castle where kids dig moats.

The parents form a fortress and clear their throats:

Move away from the                    bloody Frisbee!

A Rubber Duckie nose dives the waves,

two red Speedos with budgies smuggled away,

yellow torsos and white painted noses,

screaming towards the helicopter that hovers:

Chase away the                    bloody shark!

Drifting in and out of sleep,

murmured voices mixed with crunching feet,

thuds of crashing waves and distant squeals.

Umbrellas snapping shut, tin cans cracking open.

A day at the beach is                     bloody beautiful.

I wonder if, when we’re younger, we catch glimpses of what our life might be? Or perhaps we say things with so much conviction and then the forces of the universe kick in and we attract it without knowing. Some swear by it; others dismiss it as nonsense.

For this story, I’m somewhat in between. I believe at times we do attract what we think about, good or bad. At times I’ve made vision books filled with images of the lifestyle and things I wanted and I’ve noticed a pattern: The things I deeply wanted – the ones I thought about over and over – haven’t yet come to fruition. But the things I simply thought, oh, that would be nice, and pasted into the book without much thought? Those are the ones that have appeared in my life. Quite often, I had completely forgotten about it, only to open the book years later, see it there, and realise that my wish had, in fact, come true. We even unintentionally ended up with artwork after pasting a photo once of a happy couple together on a sofa to represent my husband and me. Yes, we’re very happy, and also happily own artwork by the same artist behind the couple in the photo. I had no idea it was in our book tucked away for years in a box, when we bought it.

I think it was about a year ago, that I thought about what I said when I was around eighteen years old.

There was this Nescafé advertisement on Australian television in the early 90s, capturing everything quintessentially French. It was set in Paris. A woman shakes a tablecloth out the window and calls out to a ‘Pierre’; a beautiful woman (in a beret) walks past admirers along the Seine; there are baguettes, and artistic-looking people everywhere, and then a scene inside a Parisian bistro. There’s a couple who begin to argue passionately and the man storms off. All of this, to the soundtrack of Édith Piaf’s ‘Je ne regrette rien’. That 45-second commercial packed a lot in. While it might seem cliché now, it was adored in 90s Australia. I wonder if there was a bigger surge in ticket sales to Paris from Australia after that ad went to air.

Of course I wanted to go to Paris, I always had, but there was one thing that fascinated me more in that ad than the passionate couple, the Eiffel Tower and the coffee: it was the older woman drinking it. I was captivated by her elegance. Her white coiffed hair was pinned up, a scarf wrapped around the neck, and she watched the passionate couple make up with knowing eyes that have lived.

I turned to my boyfriend at the time and with conviction, I said, ‘that will be me when I’m older’.

Did the universe take me literally? Okay, I’m far from the age of the woman in the ad, but I don’t think my 18-year-old Australian self would quite believe it if I told her that, at 50, she’d be settled in Paris – with every intention of looking that elegant when she retires here.

Mel xx

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My first school was opposite the beach; I could smell the ocean as I chased my friends around the playground. It was a carefree life. My mother would collect my sister and me at the end of the day and we’d spend the afternoon playing in the sand. The only type of homework we had was the occasional project where I’d stick pictures relating to the topic onto an A2 cardboard poster, with a few lines written beside it. I spent more time perfecting the project titles, colouring block letters with markers and shading them for a 3D effect, than the researching the topic itself.

I had a rude awakening when we moved to Sydney when I was eight. It was my first week at the new school and I somehow missed that we had a list of 30 words to learn during the week for the Friday spelling test.

That Friday morning, we sat at our desks with our brand new A5 exercise books. We were told to write our names on the front cover, along with the class 3B and Spelling underneath. I turned to the first page, wrote the date and as instructed; I proceeded to write 1 to 30 on each line covering two pages. That afternoon, after lunch, my teacher walked the aisles between the desks, handing the books back each student. ‘Not bad,’ to one. ‘Excellent,’ to another. I smelt the mothballs on her tweed grey skirt as she paused beside me for a moment, before skipping me, and handing it to the student behind. When she finished returning all books but mine, she sat back at her desk and called me to the front of the class. With her stern voice she announced to everyone that I had 28 words incorrect out of 30. I don’t recall exactly what she said; it certainly wasn’t compassionate and it was chosen to make me an example. I was the sacrifice. But this is what my subconscious heard and held onto:

You can’t spell. You are stupid. You are the dumbest in the class.

My face was burning and I kept my eyes glued to my black leather Clarke shoes, before returning to my desk with my damned new exercise book. I felt the entire class, snickering and whispering until I took my seat.

When I look back at that moment – and over the years, I’ve looked back at the moment countless times – I was clearly at a fork in the road. I had two paths. I could have channelled my humiliation into determination and prove her wrong. But my sensitive spirit was bruised and her words crushed me. From then on, I believed her assessment of me and school became a miserable experience.

Fast forward to age fourteen. I was still not going well at school. By that point, I had decided that playing up in class was better than letting anyone think I was dumb – it made me look like a rebel instead. My English teacher refused to see the protective persona I created, though. When he handed my creative writing back, I received words of encouragement with good marks; when I stood in front of the class and delivered a speech on my – one might say fitting topic choice – of Apathy, he told me it was a powerful speech. Along with the marks and encouragement, I could see something flickering in his eyes: it was belief in me. I held that flame inside me for years.

I thought about this teacher when I turned up to an evening creative writing class in my early twenties and sank into my chair, feeling out of my depth as others read excerpts of their work. I also thought of him at the end of each year as I received distinctions at university as a mature age student, as I did when I typed The End after countless drafts of my first memoir. I tell my children about both of these teachers and the impact they had on me.

This article touches on themes of my work in progress, my next memoir: something I believe I was born to write.

Teachers hold so much power, and words even more so.

Mel xx

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At 23, I boarded a one-way flight to Europe, escaping a life that felt like it was falling apart. In the space of a couple of weeks, my long-term boyfriend dumped me and the cable television channel I was working to launch announced it wasn’t going ahead, and we were all about to lose our jobs. Was it chance or fate? When we run from something, I wonder if sometimes it might be because we’re unknowingly being pulled to new beginnings…

I was reminded of this recently when my friend Anna, from Australia, was in Paris. I took her on a walking tour of Montmartre and we reminisced about old times and if only we’d known back then, when I called her devastated, that I’d one day be living in Paris.

‘Why don’t you take this opportunity to travel around Europe,’ she told me back then. ‘You’ve got nothing tying you down now and it’s something you’ve always wanted to do.’

She also happened to be a travel agent and as she said it, I could hear her tapping away on her keyboard, searching for possible flights.

I didn’t have any savings at the time, I was too busy spending my salary on partying on the weekends and while the idea excited me, I had no idea how I could do it. It was January and she found a cheap flight for me in May. I had four months to save as much money as I could. And I did.

At the time I was reading Paulo Coelho’s, The Alchemist and his words, ‘When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it,’ played out in my head. What he wrote about was happening: I picked up a Saturday café job, washed cars, cleaned houses, and even cashed in some superannuation. I applied and received British citizenship by descent (thanks Dad) which would allow me to work anywhere in Europe (pre-Brexit) and to top it off, I received a redundancy package. It felt as though everything was falling into place.

In four months, I had saved a considerable amount of money. Sixteen months later, I was still in Europe, having the time of my life – and that’s when I met my husband.

While Anna was the key person to set me on the path to Europe – and ultimately my life now – so many other people and events had to align for us to meet.

Nine months into my travels my ex-boyfriend visited me in Europe and took me to a small ski village in Austria near where he once did seasonal work. He suggested I look for a job there. It was there that I met Neil, a British guy, and we agreed to buy a Kombi and travel around France and Spain in the autumn. That summer Neil met a girl from France. When we started our travels in the Kombi, we headed straight to Toulouse to see her. And it’s there I met my husband. France was one of the first countries I wanted to visit and yet it took me sixteen months to set foot inside. Why? Perhaps it was because he was doing compulsory military service until just before I met him and the universe was conspiring for me to wait.

Life is full of unknowns – how people and events connect in ways we can’t predict. Is it chance? A map of possible paths? I like to believe it’s synchronicity, weaving everything together at the right time.

Mel xx

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Since 2011, where we live has depended on my husband’s job. It started when we left Sydney while I was pregnant with our third child, and from there, we’ve called Auckland, Stockholm, London and now Paris home. Given the choice? If I could rewind, where would I choose to live? I asked that million-dollar question a few years ago.

One Friday evening, we were sitting in our living room enjoying a glass of wine in our rented terraced house in Highbury & Islington, London. Something had been on our minds the past month: we knew that his role in London was coming to an end in the foreseeable future and he’d be offered a transfer to another country. We had some hints of a couple of places it might be, but we weren’t sure. It conjured up some uncomfortable feelings along with some excitement for our next adventure.

‘If we won £10 million and weren’t tied to a job,’ I asked him. ‘Where would you choose to live?’

What I was really asking was, where do we belong?

That question has stayed with me through each move, shaping my understanding of home and belonging.

Not only are we expats, but we’re also an international couple. He’s French and I’m Australian and we met while I was travelling through France in my twenties. I initially moved to France and then later, we moved together to Australia for the next ten years until our expat journey began. The fact is that at least one of us will always live away from their home country.

One thing I’ve noticed is I tend have this knee-jerk reaction when something in a new country doesn’t go as planned. I tend to question everything – just like we do in relationships, jobs, or diets when things don’t meet our expectations. It’s human nature. Because we’ve known what it is to live in other cities, there will always be something better, or worse, than where we are right now.

At times I envy families who have always lived in the same place, with the security of their communities, family nearby and years to invest in paying off their home. I also envy the time they’ve had to dedicate to other things rather than starting over, time and time again. It’s that old grass is always greener syndrome. Having that time again, I’d never give up the enriching experiences we’ve had. I believe they’ve made our family of five closer, our teens have a global mindset, they’re resilient and they have friends (who they’re in constant contact with) all around the world. I guess, what I’m searching for doesn’t exist.

This is what utopia looks like to me:

• The outdoor lifestyle and closeness of family and friends in Sydney

• The carefree lifestyle and tight-knit community of Auckland

• The design, snow, and endless traditions of Stockholm

• The culture and village charm within the big city of London

• The architectural beauty, rich culture, and vibrant arts of Paris

Let’s call this new utopian city Sydnauklonholmaris. Can you pronounce it?

So where do I belong? Nowhere and everywhere. A piece of my heart is in each of these places and I wonder if I’ll ever feel like I’ll truly belong anywhere in particular now. In the end, home is less about a place and more about where my four people are. It’s both wonderful and bittersweet, and perhaps that’s just the nature of belonging.

Sending you hugs,

Mel xx

I love starting a new year. It’s an opportunity to reflect on what doesn’t work, affirm what does, and dream of what might be possible. But we don’t need to wait for a new year to do this; the gift of starting over is always within our reach.

In my twenties, when I landed in Rome in 1998 with a one-way ticket in hand, I didn’t set out to reinvent myself. I was simply drawn to the adventure ahead. But one thing became clear to me quite quickly: I was free from the labels others had placed on me, and it was liberating. For the first time, I understood the power of labels—how they can define us, limit us, or even corrode our confidence. I realised I had the chance to define myself differently. I was no longer ‘cute Mellie’, ‘drama queen Mel’, or even ‘irresponsible’. I carried many more labels—some of them quite damaging (don’t we all!). In this new chapter of my life, I was ‘independent’, ‘adventurous’, ‘curious’, and even ‘brave’.

This leads me to Demi Moore. Did you watch her powerful acceptance speech? She spoke of a producer who, around thirty years ago, labelled her as a ‘popcorn actress’. She believed it. Of course she did. That’s what we do. While she didn’t doubt the films she was in could be successful, she never thought that her acting could be ‘acknowledged’ or award-worthy. Over time, this label prevented her from seeing her full potential. It took her forty-five years in the industry and a successful career until she believed this, all because of a stupid label put on her by someone else.

I’ve had many resets in my life: from the international moves, starting university in my forties, writing a memoir, new jobs, moving from the suburbs to the city, to name a few. But we don’t need to wait for some major shift in our life to be the person we should be–the person prevented from being because of a label. It could simply come from deciding what you’d like to be known for and saying, I am that person.

Demi Moore’s speech couldn’t have come at a better time, five days into the new year. It’s a powerful reminder for us all to choose the labels we wish to believe and by challenging the narratives we internalise; we can rewrite our own stories–any time, and at any age.

Sending you hugs for the new year!

Mel x

Growing up, I always wondered why my father’s side of the family called him by his middle name, Vin, while everyone else called him by his first name, Robert, or even Bob. I can’t tell you why I didn’t ask them. I might have put it down to some British thing; they did, after all, speak and act a little differently to the other people in my life in 1980s Australia. I asked that question eventually, but as an adult.

My father, who was born in the midlands of England during the final year of World War II, was named Vincent Robert. His mother, my nanna, assigned her sister to go to the registrar to fill out the relevant forms. It turns out she got the names back to front, and he was registered, Robert Vincent. I’m not sure why they didn’t go back to amend it, but there was a lot going on in the world at the time. They, of course, always called him by his intended first name.

At sixteen, he officially took on his legal name when he and his family immigrated to Australia. When he was in Paris last September, I asked him why he did that, and he answered it was probably because it was just easier that way with the paperwork. I inquired whether it might have been a subconscious decision to go with his new life persona. He told me he hadn’t actually thought about it before, but it could have been that. When I think of the many times he spoke of his transformation after moving to Australia, I don’t doubt it was that.

What’s in a name? How do they shape us? I recently revised a part in my memoir when my ex-boyfriend from Australia visits me in France. He called me ‘Mellie’ and it jolted me back to the person I no longer was, nor wanted to be, which, in retrospect, I should have taken as a warning sign. At that point, I had been away from home for almost two years, and was living with Guillaume in Toulouse for about four months. The time I had spent travelling were formative years and while I was still me, that ‘Mellie’ represented a different part. She was a building block to who I was then in that café sitting opposite my ex in Toulouse in 1999, and also to who I am today sitting at my desk writing this to you from Paris in 2024. I touched on a similar topic here on Instagram.

Sometimes it is grounding to hear an old nickname though. When my dad calls me ‘Lissie’, for instance, a spark of that inner child comes back; there is lightness there, of a carefree childhood. When I hear it, a part of me reverts to that little girl.

When I reflect on this, I realise each name I’ve adopted over the years represents a unique part of me. Do you find that? Do you have nicknames associated with you at different stages in your life, and when you’re called that again, do you revert back into that person you once were?

Sending love,

Mel x

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When I look at this first photo, it depicts how I felt much of 2023. Frazzled. Most of it wasn’t a good year for me, nor for each member of my family. We all had our very own personal challenges and each of our ‘tests’ touched the other, and it all seemed magnified. At times it felt like we were sitting in of those spinning teacups at a theme park and the technician forgot to end the ride. Life goes like that. Cycles.

I count myself lucky because the last time I had such a terrible twelve months was almost twenty years ago. I guess it was my time.

As I write this, we are preparing for our dear friends we met while living in Stockholm to arrive tomorrow. We’ve caught up to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them each year since we left Sweden, bar one, but that was during the height of the pandemic. Other than a good meal, too much champagne and tragic karaoke, we have a tradition of filling a wall or two with photos from the past year. We call our tweens and teens out and we spend a while reflecting and remembering. While I flick through these photos, it’s a reminder how many great times we’ve really had, amongst the turmoil. I call them pockets of joy. They are the ‘best of’. We’re not putting the other stuff on display.

I think this is something to remember while we look at everyone’s round up reels of 2023 on social media. It’s their ‘best of’. We need to celebrate our best moments.

Now back to cycles. This last quarter has been hinting towards a positive year ahead. I feel an energy shift. I’ll finish with this photo of me, which represents how I feel about moving into 2024.

Sending you all blessings for 2024 and beyond.

Mel x

Unless you follow me on Instagram, you may have wondered (or not) whether I disappeared. When we moved from Auckland to Stockholm, my blog posts became less regular and after our next move to London, they stopped altogether. Why? It was never intentional, but I guess I was uninspired and felt I was churning out posts for the sake of it, rather than from the heart. During this time, I focused my creative energy on writing a memoir and enrolling in Uni. I’m still working on both, but more about that another time.

We live in Paris now, and it’s where we are finally planting our roots. With this move, comes a sense of security in knowing we have time to build a life somewhere. And so, it is from here that I will write to you. I imagine it as something like this:

YOU ARE SITTING ON THIS SIDE OF THE TABLE

AND I’M ON THIS SIDE

Perhaps I saw, read or experienced something that got me pondering: why we do the things we do? I’ll then share these thoughts with you.

Welcome to my musings about the human spirit. I hope you stick around, share what you enjoy, and join the conversation in the comments.

I missed you.

With love from Paris,

Mel x

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