As something of a ‘veteran’ journalist, I’ve been to more press events than I care to count. I’ve reported runway trends from the front row in Paris, chatted with stars on the red carpet, and interviewed more than a few A-listers. In fact, I used to write a celebrity-style column for CNN. One of my subjects was Paris Hilton.

Maybe it’s my Gen X credentials, but I have a soft spot for Paris. She was the OG ‘It girl’ — long before influencers, the algorithm, and “bimbofication” were even a thing.

For the Gen Z audience: in the early noughts, Paris was everywhere — at the hottest Hollywood parties, on reality TV, and commandeering the red carpet with her signature brand of Y2K flash meets trash. She was the mega-rich socialite who made being famous for being famous an actual career path, and she did it on the back of playing a bimbo. Say what you want — it worked.

If Y2K Paris was iconic, Paris 2.0, the second act, is earned. Mum, media mogul, author, advocate for troubled teens, and now the new face of a major spring/summer fashion campaign — shot in Paris (where else?) by Aussie photographer Chris Colls. Who, incidentally, I worked with a gazillion years ago.

Which is how I ended up standing in Herald Square on a recent chilly Monday afternoon, press pass in hand.

The invitation promised the square would be transformed into the chic streets of Paris. Paris — herself — would be there to play a DJ set in celebration. Choupette (the late Karl Lagerfeld’s beloved cat) would also be gracing us with her fashionable presence.

To be brutally honest: I’ve been around long enough to know this was a retail event dressed up in editorial clothing — it didn’t happen outside a department store for nothin’. Whatever. It sounded kinda fun, my career wasn’t hanging on it, and it might even be one of those only-in-New-York moments I’ve written about.

So I took my son Javier, who’s a raving Francophile and dreams of a career in fashion and on a Paris runway. BTW: I have no doubt both beckon (check him out on Insta). He’s almost fifteen and has more drip and aura than Paris and Choupette combined. For now, I figured, he’d get a taste of one of these types of events — and his mum — in action.

Pink Runway, Red Flags

We exited the subway and headed to Herald Square, but were definitely not greeted by a Parisian backdrop (actually, no one greeted us at all). I’d imagined stepping into the Marais — accordion music, champagne, croissants. Instead, the press were packed like sardines into a cordoned-off pen, with the public hovering behind us.

And in the place of the Eiffel Tower, we got a tour bus, a pink runway, and a life-size Choupette.

Call time was 3pm. I arrived at 4:30 because it’s not my first rodeo. Paris didn’t show until after 5.

In the meantime, we stood around waiting. No briefing, no chit-chat, and certainly no French champagne.

I spotted a press team member — black outfit, headset, clipboard, lanyard, the whole power trip — and asked by name for my appointed press contact.

“Which one? I have three on my team,” she snapped.

I gave the last name. She tapped my contact on the shoulder. I introduced myself and asked for the rundown.

She gestured vaguely toward the crowd. “Oh, we had some croissants over there.”

I asked when Paris would arrive. “Five minutes.”

40 Minutes Later

The screaming started from the throng behind us. The star of the show had arrived — by police escort no less, and in full Paris Hilton mode: head-to-toe black, dark sunglasses, and drowning in bling. She made her way to the pink carpet.

So did I.

Because that is literally my job.

The press pack descended. I nudged forward — journalistic instinct, nothing aggressive — trying to get a quote, a photo, some footage.

Then I felt it: an arm reaching in front of me, physically shoving me aside.

WTAF?

I had just been physically ‘handled’ for doing what I had been invited to do — cover the event. If the talent was off-limits — the very idea is ridiculous, by the way — the Paris protocol had not been relayed. There was no mention of a designated interview zone. I’m not stupid; I’ve covered enough events to know there’s a hierarchy: bigger publication, more access. That’s the game.

But let’s get real here.

This was a pop-up at a department store. Not the Met Gala. Not a presidential motorcade. A pink carpet in Herald Square. And while I love Paris, she is not, with respect, the Pope.

I got one question in before the arm came again.

Shoved.

Twice.

The Story I Never Saw Coming

Mortified, I searched for my press contact. I wanted to alert her to the situation, assuming she’d be equally appalled. But when I explained what had happened, she glazed over. Then turned away.

No apology. No acknowledgment. No words actually came out of her mouth.

This was not the story I had planned to write. But when you’re handed the scoop on a silver platter…

Free press, there’s no such thing as bad press, and all that.

I’m sure I’ll be blacklisted.

The Selfie

Despite the foul taste in my mouth, I was determined to at least have the moment. So we stuck around until Paris ascended the tour bus for her DJ set.

That’s when I seized my chance to ask Choupette for a selfie.

Which is precisely when the press vultures descended again, this time demanding the photo be taken off the pink carpet. They wanted to protect it.

Despite the fact that it was already covered in footprints, no doubt headed for the skip as soon as this sh*t show was over.

I’m just glad Karl wasn’t alive to see any of this—there’s no way he’d let his precious Choupette out on the street—let alone a pink carpet—like some alley cat.

Love, NSJ 2.0

Photo by Karly Jones on Unsplash

One of my all-time highlights while working at Harper’s Bazaar was interviewing the legendary British-French actress, singer, and enduring fashion icon, Jane Birkin. It was 2018, and she was 71 at the time. She also happened to be hurtling through the French countryside on a train. The background noise was chaotic, her phone dropped out several times, and she had to keep calling me back.

After the interview—shared below—Jane’s agent invited me to watch her perform at New York’s famed Carnegie Hall. I went solo and sat spellbound as she shared stories and sang in French to resurrect her shared history with her former partner and long-time collaborator, Serge Gainsbourg. Ironically, I had just split from my own Serge, so I was raw, very raw.

The couple met and fell in love on the set of the 1968 film Slogan. Not exactly love at first sight; Birkin described Gainsbourg as “terribly arrogant and unkind.” They were together for 12 years, had a daughter, and collaborated musically until Gainsbourg’s death in 1991.

Birkin’s concert—deeply etched into my memory and one of those NYC wow moments —brought to life her 2017 album, Birkin/Gainsbourg: Le Symphonique, featuring 21 songs by Gainsbourg. True to her anti-fashion aesthetic, she wore a man-style white shirt, black suit, and Converse. Set against the orchestral arrangements of her latest musical partner, Japanese composer Nobuyuki Nakajima, there was a haunting vulnerability in her performance. Even if it was in French, I got the memo. Especially true when she revisited tracks from her 1983 album Baby Alone in Babylone, recorded just after her split from Gainsbourg. “He just said, ‘I owe you this,’” Birkin said of the soundtrack to their breakup. You could almost feel the pain and tears she must have cried. And you bet, here I was now crying through it.

The Original It Girl

For all her status as a style icon and the original “It Girl”, Birkin’s life was as rich with tragedy as it was with glamour. Born in London, she arrived in Paris in the late ‘60s, fleeing a bad marriage, and underwent a transformation from shy English girl into the ultimate archetype of “French Girl” chic—a title she will hold forever.

Birkin shot to fame as an actress, starring in over 70 films, including Blow-Up (1966) and La Piscine (1969). But such was the allure of her trailblazing, gritty, “just-rolled-out-of-bed” cool—especially against the backdrop of the Mary Quant mod bob squad—that she became a regular on the glossy pages of Vogue. Enter her twelve-year love affair and musical collaboration with Serge Gainsbourg, and Birkin was catapulted into the cultural zeitgeist forever. Not least because their duet “Je T’Aime... Moi Non Plus” was so scandalous that the Pope banned it, which instantly guaranteed its spot in pop-culture history.

And yes, she of the signature eye-skimming fringe and wicker baskets, which defined an era, is indeed the woman behind the famed Hermès Birkin bag. Considered the world’s most coveted status symbol, a new one will set you back a cool $13,500. Though fun fact: last year, Birkin’s original black leather Birkin bag went under the hammer at Sotheby’s Paris for an eye-watering $10.1 million.

In case you don’t know the story, the bag was born from a chance flight encounter in 1984, when Birkin was seated next to Jean-Louis Dumas, the CEO of Hermès. As she tried to stow her trademark wicker basket in the overhead compartment, it spilled, scattering her and baby Lou’s belongings across the cabin. Birkin began venting to Dumas (having no idea who he was) about how hard it was to find a practical leather bag for a young mother. Dumas famously replied, “But I am Hermès!” and Jane began sketching her dream bag right there on an airplane vomit bag.

Of her many accolades, Birkin was, at heart, a loving, devoted mother to three daughters who all became icons in their own right: photographer Kate Barry and singer-actresses Charlotte Gainsbourg and Lou Doillon. Tragically, Barry died in 2013, aged 46, after falling from the window of her fourth-floor apartment in Paris. The loss was cataclysmic for Birkin, who passed in 2023, and is now buried alongside her daughter in the Montparnasse Cemetery.

A Pin Up of Ageless Style

Following are some excerpts from our interview—the subject of which was “Ageless Style”—where Birkin fondly recalled her wild youth in Paris, finding her fashion “uniform” in her fifties, and her unwavering love of a YSL Le Smoking tuxedo jacket.

In her case, a man’s one.

“I think women only start to really look like themselves after they turn 30. That’s when a girl first dares to be her own age, show her bare face, and not just dress for boyfriends or husbands. I’ve kept all the old photos of myself from the ’60s, but I can’t relate to them now at all. All that dressing up! And the eye makeup! We looked like Barbie dolls.

On the other hand, being well-known because of those photos provided me with an extraordinary life. I could get away with murder. I could stroll right into the hottest nightclub in a long T-shirt and ballet flats, carrying my wicker basket, like I owned the place.

My mother, who was an actress, used to say, “Can’t you make an effort?” That was her thing—she used to change her clothes three times a day. But it wasn’t my thing. In fact, when I first went to Paris as a teenager, I could always spot other English girls because we put everything together so badly. Frenchwomen start with the same ingredients, but they make better use of them. They were always so beautifully turned out with their velvet headbands and clip-on pearls, a scarf casually tossed over their shoulder.

But after the counterculture swept through Europe, it became chic to wear whatever you liked, and it was our chance to laugh at the French girls. You’d see photos of Julie Christie coming down her front steps wearing a raincoat over her pajamas with gum boots, spectacles perched at the end of her nose. It was so unpretentious—and so very English. It’s impossible to be stylish without confidence, you see.

I could stroll right into the hottest nightclub in a long T-shirt and ballet flats, carrying my wicker basket, like I owned the place.”

I found my uniform about 20 years ago, and it hasn’t changed since. To me, there’s nothing more beautiful than a simple cashmere jersey paired with boyfriend jeans or trousers. I was never particularly into high heels, and always go back to my old Converse with the sheepskin linings that I put in myself. If someone tried to put me in a cocktail dress, I’d look quite ropy. I wear an old man’s smoking [tuxedo jacket] in the evenings, which, if you can get your hands on one, is definitely worth buying. You can wear it for years, even if it has holes.

Other than the jacket, my look isn’t tailored at all because I don’t have the figure for it. I also hate shopping. My daughter Kate [Barry, from her marriage to the composer John Barry] used to take me on shopping sprees. After she died, I stayed at home and didn’t see anyone for a couple of years. Then my artistic director called and suggested that I start performing again. Music helped me escape; I didn’t have to think so much. And suddenly I knew what to do at night. Performing—and my best friend, Gabrielle—is what got me through the past four years. And my bulldog, Dolly! She’s a wonderful face to wake up to. She tries to raid the chocolate, and the next thing you know we’re watching the late-night news together.

I don’t wear a lot of makeup anymore. When you’re older you know what to hide and what to show. When you’re 16 you can wear as much makeup as you like, but when you’re my age it can make you look like a witch. It’s far more important that you smell delicious. I made my own fragrance—L’Air de Rien— with London perfumer Miller Harris. It smells like tobacco mixed with musk, neroli, and vanilla. Another tip I’d like to give women? Take calcium supplements. I was recently playing hide—and-seek with my grandchildren and I fell on the stairs. Women need to take care of their bones. That, and don’t ever run up the stairs in socks!

It’s impossible to be stylish without confidence, you see.

Growing older really is the strangest thing. I recently said to my daughter Lou Doillon, “It’s gone.” And she’s like, “What’s gone, Mum?” And I said, “My beauty.” It’s like you wake up one day and suddenly the outside doesn’t correspond to the inside anymore. I’ve adjusted my thinking a bit since then. The essential thing, I now think, is a good sense of humor. Thankfully, my girls have that too.

Aging is also liberating. If you see someone you think is beautiful, you can just come out and say it and no one thinks you’re making a pass. The other day I told my taxi driver that he had a beautiful nose. It was long and hooked, but to me it was beautiful.

He nearly crashed the car.”

Photo by Nicola Fioravanti on Unsplash

I’m not a religious nut, I promise.

I’m not well-versed in the Bible, and if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not even that religious. But I am spiritual — and I did have an epiphany when I found my way back to God while in the most hopeless of places.

Kinda, like Perez Hilton, who, in case you’re not following, is having his own come-to-Jesus moment following a near-death experience. I guess God comes for all of us, even bitchy gossip columnists.

I say I “found my way back”, as I did have a somewhat religious upbringing. Fun fact: my mother comes from a long line of Irish Catholics, and as something of a flat-out F.U. to that lineage, her English father baptized all six of his kids as Presbyterians. I was christened in the Anglican tradition of the Church of England.

My two sisters and I attended Sunday school as kids with our grandmother — a ritual that followed our Saturday night sleepovers (back then, I thought that was our treat, but I realize now it was actually our parents’). Not that any time spent with Nanna wasn’t a treat, especially sitting at the round table eating her famous homemade Sunday breakfasts of fat sausages, fried eggs, and bottomless tea from a china teapot. My tea addiction started early.

I’m not going to lie, Sunday school was B.O.R.I.N.G. AF. Though I did enjoy getting dressed up, and the fruitcake wasn’t bad.

I broke up with religion as a kid.

But then I became a mother. I had both my sons christened on their first birthdays at ‘Our Lady Star of the Sea’, a beautiful sandstone church overlooking Sydney Harbour. My kids’ dad was baptized Catholic, so we fell into line. Tiago even started school at Holy Cross — attending a Catholic school in Sydney is a bit of a flex.

The belief being that you get a better education, with plenty of prayer thrown in. But more importantly, you pave the way to acceptance into posh feeder high schools that follow the old English tradition of Christian-based private boys’ schools.
BTW, that was never my thing, which probably explains why I dragged my kids to New York to live when they were 9 and 2.

When I revisited church as a young mum — baptisms, confession, holy communion, the works — I was not surprised to discover it was still the total snorefest I remembered. Old-school priests, long sermons you tune out halfway through, and really just ticking the box to look like a good, God-following Christian in the school community. Sorry God.

So yeah — not exactly a practicing Christian. But I have always believed in some kind of higher power. The idea that we are being guided, that things do happen for a reason — cliché, I know, but I believe it. Disclaimer: That belief does not apply to the unimaginable horrors we see playing out in the world today; it’s hard to make sense of or reconcile any of that with a loving God. Whether you believe in him or not.

I also believe that the people you encounter in your life and your experiences often carry messages, like signposts leading you along a path the divine has perhaps already laid out for you.

That point was proved when Javier started pre-K in TriBeCa at age 4. At the parent information and introduction night, as these things always go, we had to all introduce ourselves and tell each other what we did. I noticed David and Kate immediately — and not just because Kate was carrying a baby in a sling and introduced him as “Quatro.” His name is actually Eddie, but he’s the fourth kid, so the nickname stuck. They introduced themselves as musicians, which made total sense as they exuded that intoxicating mix of warmth and cool that music people just have.

I promised that night I’d come to a gig sometime. Then never thought about it again.

Until my marriage ended — suddenly and traumatically — a year later. A total horror show. I fell to my knees. The rug had been ripped out from under my entire world, and I had just unknowingly embarked on a long, painful journey that would break me open in ways I never thought possible.

It was in the early days of that unraveling — when I was in my “disassociated from reality” phase — that I hit Kate up. “Hey, I’m single now. I’d love to get out there and go to a gig — where do you guys play?” “Trinity Grace Church,” she replied. “Come.”

Oh. My. God.

I had not expected that — but I went.

Trinity Grace Church — now renamed Good Shepherd New York — was held back then in the auditorium of PS 89 elementary school in TriBeCa. Not even in a church, though we now have a proper home. In a Romanesque Revival style church on East 22nd, just off Gramercy Park. It is actually designed by the same architect behind New York’s famed Metropolitan Opera House and the American Museum of Natural History.

Anyhow, back to mine and the church’s humble beginnings in that school auditorium. I had no idea what to expect the first time I went, but I can tell you what I never expected. To feel like I was at a jazzy Broadway show followed by a TED Talk. In fact, the first sermon was given not by our lead pastor, Michael, who, light years from the stuffy old priests of my childhood, could be mistaken for a Brooklyn hipster. But by a successful fashion creative director — hi, Chidi

I can’t remember exactly what Chidi spoke about during that first “TED Talk,” but it hit a nerve. And not just because the “priest” was a fashionista. He was real, woke (in the best way), and totally relatable. He talked about how navigating and surviving life is tough, no matter your circumstances. And he went on to describe living in New York as having your senses, personal space, and wallet assaulted every single day.

I felt like I’d been called home.

I had lost my marriage, identity, family (and my mind), but somehow I’d found my community. A community whose mission is to spread peace, love, unity, and healing, and who wrapped their arms around me physically and in prayer as I cried for three years straight during every service.

I leaned in hard. Going to church saved my life. It became my therapy and my recovery — in a way that no amount of talk therapy could even come close to achieving.

It’s also my happy place. I mean, if you could hear the music. Led by David and Kate, who I now consider family, the music is an energetic acoustic mishmash of soulful gospel, jazzy New Orleans blues, indie folk, and chamber pop. As I said, it feels like kicking your Sunday off right with a show. The first time I closed my eyes and dialed into the music, I legit saw an image of God holding everything. Including me.

Corny as it sounds, I surrendered. I dropped the tough-girl act I’d spent decades perfecting to survive an abusive father and, ultimately, my marriage. I got vulnerable. I got real about who I was, where I’d come from, and how I’d been assaulting myself, carrying trauma and grief that should never have been mine to carry.

Amen.

Take Me To Church —Happy Easter

A Love Letter to Good Shepherd New York

Thank you for teaching me that God isn’t judgmental or exclusive — that we are all welcome at his table, whatever we bring to it, “even a lot of faith or a lot of doubt,” or none at all, as our pastor Michael always reminds us.

Yep, you don’t even have to believe in God or be a Christian to belong to our community. We also welcome Jewish people, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and those of every faith with open arms.

“Difference doesn’t diminish or divide us; it makes us stronger”. Again, Michael’s words. Translation: whatever your beliefs, your background, or how you do or don’t identify—white, black, brown, gay, straight, queer, trans — you belong here.

We look after our own. Savannah Guthrie is a loved member of our church, and we have held many prayer visuals for her, her family, and her beloved mother, Nancy Guthrie.

When I landed myself in a psych ward, struggling through a grief I couldn’t even name, Michael, David, and Kate all showed up. Not just at the hospital, but in ways that saved my life more than they could ever know.

Happy Easter. If you want to know why I love my church so much, check this out for yourself.

Good Shepherd New York Easter

And Just Like That…

It’s been 12 years since I dragged my husband, two young sons (then 9 and 2), and our Bengal cat, Lola, to New York, “for a year” for an “adventure.”

It’s been a hell of a ride.

Growing up on a steady diet of Sex and the City, Friends, and JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy obsession (the first time around) fueled my lust to live out my New York dream.

Not that I moved here chasing some cringey Carrie fantasy—I’m not that lame. But like Carrie Bradshaw, I’ve written for Vogue—in fact, I started my career at Vogue Australia. Uprooting our lives and leaving everything we knew and everyone we loved was also not part of some strategic career move, despite the fact that NYC is the epicenter of glossy fashion magazines.

We arrived jobless.

Nor was it because I didn’t love my easy, beachy life in Australia. I mean, we lived in a beautiful 1890s cottage house on a tree-lined street just ten minutes from Sydney’s iconic Bondi Beach.

But they don’t call it “Down Under” for nothing.

Australia is a beautiful, sun-drenched paradise overflowing with good-looking people, incredible food, and a lifestyle to die for. But it’s also at the bottom of the world. Truth be told, there are two types of Aussies. Those who are utterly content living in a bubble in the “Lucky Country” (I salute them) and the rest of us who knew instinctively from a young age that there was a “big bad world” out there—and were desperate to be part of it.

I was born in a country town called Wagga Wagga (an Aboriginal name meaning “land of many crows”). Population: 50,000.

Let’s just say, it’s a long way from Wagga to the West Village.

My first attempt at becoming a global citizen happened in 1999, when, in our late twenties, my husband and I chased the Y2K bug to London. I wanted to go to New York. But back then, moving to “America” wasn’t “the done thing”—visas were impossible, and Aussies notoriously took the well-traveled path back to the “mothership” to work in London, travel Europe, and, in our case, spend every possible weekend in Spain.

When the London era ended in late 2003, we headed home and spent the next decade back in Sydney, buying a home, establishing our careers, hosting more drunken backyard BBQs than I care to remember, and having babies. But I couldn’t scratch the itch.

I was not going to die without resolving my unrequited love affair with New York City.

There’s a lot of talk right now about “geographic longing”—the idea that many of us are living in the “wrong” country. There might be something in that, but trust me, I was never not going to get off the island. I also wanted my kids to experience life—and a culture—beyond those blissful beaches.

People thought I was insane.

One horrified mum even asked me, “But what about the lifestyle?” What about it? New York City has a lifestyle on steroids. Not better, just different. It’s also a way of life. And it gets in your blood.

It was during a slow January (Australia’s August, if you like), 15 years ago now, that I finally pulled the trigger on the plan. While everyone else was at the beach, I was at my desk at The Sydney Morning Herald applying for the Green Card lottery.

When I learned we’d actually won, I was two things:
1. Ecstatic.
2. Pregnant.

It was February 2014 when we arrived, straight off the beach, in the middle of an Arctic vortex. Not exactly a soft landing. Still, we’d soaked up every last drop of the Aussie summer, and I reconciled that my oldest was still young enough and my baby (still in diapers and mad about his milk) was now old enough. We told ourselves—and the kids—we’d try our luck in “the concrete jungle where dreams are made of” for a year, for that adventure.

They say you can spot new Aussies in New York as they’re wearing their ski gear. No truer words have ever been spoken. There was nothing that could have prepared us for “snowmaggedon”, and no Aussie clothes that would ever translate.

My boys had barely worn long pants in their lives, let alone a coat. So when they refused to wear them outside—mostly Javier—I let them walk out onto the street in their shorts and a singlet (wifebeater). You’ve never seen a two-year-old beg for “glugs” (gloves) and a “funny hat” (beanie) faster in his life. Snow angels in the streets followed.

It’s funny when you live in New York, the first thing most people usually ask is, “Do you love it?” I mean, sure, Cheryl, it’s New York, of course I love it.

But this is also my life, not the set of Sex and the City, sadly. I’m a mum/mom who does (or did) the school run, spent my weekends on the soccer and baseball field (I miss those days), buys the groceries, does the washing (they call it laundry here), and can stay in and binge-watch a Netflix series like nobody’s business.

I’d be lying, of course, if I didn’t say there hadn’t been incredible highs and “New York pinch me” moments (read on). Nor would I be telling the truth if I didn’t admit the buzz of running into Sarah Jessica Parker filming ‘And Just Like That’ on Perry Street after dinner one night, while with my friend Cynthia, and SJP yelling, “Look, there’s Cynthia Rowley!” (we stopped and chatted)—hasn’t been accompanied by some majorly low blows.

Like the astronomical cost of rent for a two-bed apartment. The implosion of my marriage one Saturday morning and the horror of becoming a single mum forced to navigate this brutal life transition alone on the other side of the world. Having to move 10 times in 12 years and not having two cents to my name at times (those two are inexplicably linked). My oldest growing up and moving back home (I miss you, Tiago). The heartache of missing out on so many milestones and precious times with the Rat Pack, my dearest friends, mum, sisters, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Oh, and the weather (I’m a beach girl at heart, I hate the cold).

Would I change it?
Not for a New York minute.

The New York Moments That Made It All Worth It

Raising my young kids in Tribeca. Or TriBurbia, as I call it—a beautiful, quiet, cobblestoned neighborhood in lower Manhattan with a community that felt immediately like home (it was also JFK Jr. and CBK’s home)

Having friends the first week, thanks to the family vibe at P.S. 150, the postage-stamp-sized elementary school Tiago and, later, Javier attended. Hi JJ, Johnny, Laura, Andrew, and my beloved Gungors (and Britney—where are you?).

My shy, terrified 9-year-old being thrown into an American classroom (no uniforms; they wore Ugg boots and looked like a Mötley Crüe) in 3rd grade and later telling me his first day was “awesome-icated.” Thank you, Reefy. And Martina.

Both boys literally growing up in Washington Market Park (aka the red park), where we splashed in summer, made snowmen in winter, and cemented friendships (me and them).

Javier’s years at Reade Street Prep, another beautiful, loving community. It was an immersion program, mornings in English and afternoons in Mandarin. We wanted him to be in the Spanish class (his dad’s Chilean, hello), but watching him speak in Chinese to Olivia when they could barely even speak was something else.

Our first summer spent on Shelter Island (love you Burdens) and those laidback days and nights at Martina and Rach’s lake house upstate.

Tiago getting accepted into The Clinton School for middle school and high school (the NYC school system is no joke), paving the way for Javier to do the same. A gift that also gave me the Lit Squad.

Forming the Lit Squad in March 2020, when COVID shut down my birthday plans, and I was forced to have a cocktail party over Zoom (not easy when you exude main character energy). Thanks for the friendship, laughs, and support when I struggled, Sarah, Amanda, Anna, Lauren, Cynthia, and Nicole. And for our brand name, Max. You are all LIT.

Living in New York during the pandemic and spending the summers of 2020 and 2021 having socially distanced park picnics and street parties on Duane Street as we rang cowbells and banged on saucepans at 7 p.m. every night to honor the first responders.

Peaking in my career at Harper’s Bazaar with my own office and a killer view overlooking Columbus Circle. It’s been all downhill from there.

Showing my mum, stepfather Gerry, and my friends from Aus who visited around ‘my’ New York. Times Square, my ass.

Raising two New York rats (their words, not mine) who can navigate a subway at all hours, grew up doing god knows what in Central Park, and who have been forever shaped by the grit, diversity, actual rats, and even the crackheads that make up NYC’s backdrop. All of which runs deep in their DNA.

Immersing ourselves in sweet American traditions like the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, the odd summers in the Hamptons, potlucks, and 5th, 8th, and (in Tiago’s case) 12th grade graduation—complete with a prom of the century.

Just walking the streets (and never having to drive a car) of your neighborhood, taking in the smells (dog pee, weed, and optimism), the brownstones, the scenery, and feeling like you belong in a city where you are totally anonymous.

Dancing in Central Park (remember this, Tayla?) at a late summer festival to Jay-Z, before Beyoncé made a surprise drop in. And years later, rocking out to Aussie DJ Fisher in the same park with my Tiago. I could barely walk for days.

New York or Nowhere, Baby.

Reese Witherspoon officially joined the 50 club on Sunday. Welcome, it only gets better from here.

Witherspoon’s milestone birthday has me thinking back to 2017, when I was knee-deep in production on the mega September issue of Harper’s Bazaar. September is always the big kahuna, as it unveils the runway trends we’ll all supposedly be wearing for the coming season, so the pressure is on for it to be star-studded.

Working at Bazaar back then was not for the faint of heart—whether it was the September issue or not. Our job was always to push the envelope (and send ourselves mad in the process) to land a major ‘coup’. That often meant pairing big-name stars and fashion’s elite to do any number of wild and wonderful things.

Case in point: we once put Rihanna in a shark’s mouth. And I was once tasked with pairing a naked Lady Gaga with Karl Lagerfeld, holding his Instagram-famous cat Choupette, at the top of the Eiffel Tower. OK, that last one’s not actually true, but you get my drift.

If you follow fashion (and even if you don’t), you’ll be painfully aware that some trends come and go faster than we can change our undies, and others continue to roll around again and again. And again.

This was 2017, y’all, and the Western look was going strong. Look around now, and you’ll see that tassels, Western shirts, boho-inspired prairie dresses, and, of course, cowboy boots never really go out of style.

They just get better with age.

Like Reese Witherspoon.

It’s impossible not to love Reese—she’s like the labradoodle of A-listers. And not just because she’s a big-deal Oscar-winning actress and producer with incredible range (not to mention a fellow Aries).

But because she’s a boot-scootin’, down-to-earth Southern belle at heart.

If you’re a Gen-Xer like me (and our gal Reese), you might even feel like you know her. After all, we’ve watched her literally grow up and followed her rise, fall, and “get back up again” through three decades.

From the baby-faced 21-year-old who married Ryan Phillippe, became a mom at 23, and starred as the forever-iconic Elle Woods in Legally Blonde at 25. To her Oscar-winning performance as June Carter Cash in Walk the Line and an Oscar nod for trekking in Cheryl Strayed’s steps in Wild.

And like a fine wine, we now get to drink her in as the Type A manipulator Madeline in Big Little Lies and as co-anchor and sidekick to Jennifer Aniston on The Morning Show.

With all signs pointing to the Western front as the trend of the moment, I proposed to Bazaar’s then-editor, the iconic Glenda Bailey, to have Reese Witherspoon speak to the trend. She is, after all, from Nashville, Tennessee, and founded the classic Americana, Southern-infused lifestyle brand, Draper James.

As these things go, unless they have a magazine cover secured (or a new movie to plug), it’s almost always a hard “no” from big-swinging Hollywood agents to get an A-lister to do anything. Well, sugar, imagine my delight when I was told Reese was up for it.

And yep, she was as effervescent, charming, and Southern as she seems.

Bless Her Heart.

Reese Witherspoon On The Western Trend

”I was always dressing in prairie skirts and cowboy boots when I was little. I loved to watch Little House on the Prairie and play cowgirl. I mean, you’re talking to the girl who wore cowboy boots to her own wedding reception.“

”My favorite childhood memories are rooted in country music, doing square dances in cowboy boots. I learned to clog and line-dance before I learned the fox-trot. I’m very influenced by country singers like Loretta Lynn and, of course, is my biggest idol.”

”Western is such a huge style in Nashville. Maybe it’s [the Western trend] about returning to a time and a place that people find comforting, and when everything seemed simpler.”

”I do love the look of a pretty dress or a floor-sweeping skirt with cowboy boots. I remember being in fifth grade and begging my grandmother to buy me a prairie skirt, and when she finally did, I wore it every day with cowboy boots.”

”I have so many pairs of cowboy boots; I buy them new from Betty Boots when I’m in Nashville. The intricate stitching and detail on Western shirts are so pretty and add a little something, as do tasseled bags and purses. And I love cowboy hats, obviously.”

Everyone Loves Reese—Especially The Jenn’s

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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

Maybe Gwyneth started it with her whole ‘This Candle Smells Like My Vagina’ thing.

Or perhaps this is yet another example of Gen Z fueling newfound lust for “Ethical Hedonism”—because apparently, “woke sex” needed a rebrand. They are all after a generation that considers having to define their sexual orientation an assault on their identity, and for whom asking a new love interest (or even a casual acquaintance) to reveal their “body count” is like asking what their favorite ice cream is.

Which I’ll hazard a guess is not vanilla.

As part of a generation of women finally deciding to live and love on our terms, I believe we’ve entered our sexual empowerment phase. Forget the quiet girl era. I’m in my loud libido hour—come join me.

Because let’s face it: we’ve pretty much raised our kids, ended unhappy marriages, and are feeling stronger and sexier than ever—despite the fact we’ve lost collagen, estrogen, and any semblance of patience for men who can’t find the G-spot.

Whatever the reason, somehow the woo-woo mindfulness trend has found its way into the bedroom.

But before you lament the fact that you haven’t even mastered a daily mind meditation, journaling, or mindfulness practice—which involves training your brain to become aware of and live in the present moment—hear me out.

We’re all guilty of journeying mindlessly through our lives, almost missing the entire thing as our minds race with a never-ending to-do list while we numb ourselves, our insecurities, and forgotten trauma with a bottle of Chardonnay. Or Pinot if you’re more of a red type. So maybe all the yogis and spiritual wellness gurus are, in fact, onto something.

If practicing mindfulness means waking up and savoring every precious little moment, why shouldn’t that mantra apply to your body, relationships, and sex drive?

To be fair, I understand that feeling like a sexual goddess 24/7 isn’t exactly easy during early motherhood, midlife, or if you’re in a dead-end marriage. Even if your marriage isn’t dead and you still like your husband, most of us aren’t putting on our fancy crotchless knickers and tying the man you’ve been married to for decades to the bed most nights.

Indeed, the facts are rather grim. A 2025 study published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine revealed that nearly 40% of married couples over 40 report living in “low-sex” or “sexless” households.

To which I say, get yourself a vibrator (or two). Confession: I never got myself a self-pleasuring sidekick until I was in my 40s and my marriage had combusted. But I’m here to tell you it’s never too late. And your future self and toe-curling orgasms will thank you. Not that I’m suggesting you still shouldn’t enjoy pleasure with a partner—indeed, throwing a vibrating plaything into the mix will take the eroticism to a whole new level.

Stepping fully into your sexual power and finally having the best sex of your life (together or alone) involves more than just logging onto Goop and adding Gwyneth’s best-selling Viva La Vulva vibrator to your cart. It’s about embracing sexual mindfulness with the same gusto you did when you discovered actual sex in the first place.

SHOP GOOP VIBRATOR

What Is Sexual Mindfulness?

Sexual mindfulness, according to the sex gurus, is about giving yourself permission to feel worthy of love and great sex and to let go of any feelings of shame. A stumbling block, I’ll also hazard a guess, that plagues many Gen X women. Instead of just getting the job done or doing everything in your power to avoid it, it’s about considering sex as an invitation to explore the mystery while being fully present in the moment. Translation: not thinking about the fucking grocery list, the kids’ sports schedule, and whether your tits look saggy.

Instead, commit to immersing yourself in the physical and emotional sensations you’re experiencing—again, whether you have another human being present or not. Basically, get the hell out of your head and into your body. Dare I say it, like a man. You think they’re obsessing over whether they fed the dog or the state of their dad bod while going down on you?

Strip back the stress of day-to-day life and the clothes (Adam and Eve were obviously naked for a reason), and we’re all scientifically wired to be sexual creatures. And there’s no denying that feeling sexual feels pretty friggin’ powerful—that neuro-chemical cocktail of feeling turned on makes us feel more alive, confident, and in control.

And if nothing else, sex is good for your health. To quote my fellow Substacker Gigi Engle, author, educator, and certified sex therapist, writer of The G-Spot, "Pleasure is not a luxury; it is a vital sign. When we talk about sex being 'good for your health,' we usually point to the calorie burn or the cardiovascular hit, but the real medicine is in the neurochemical reset. A mindful orgasm lowers cortisol, floods the system with oxytocin, and acts as a natural anti-inflammatory for the soul. In an age of burnout, sexual pleasure is the ultimate biohack for longevity and mental clarity." —

Now, if that’s also an invitation to join the longevity movement, I don’t know what is.

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

We Didn’t Burn Our Bras For Nothing

If burning our bras was the first step toward female empowerment, it’s time to take the next step in the revolution. So if you haven’t already, give yourself permission to join the new breed of feminists who are going all in on sexy lingerie, sex toys, and owning their sexual desires, but more importantly, their bodies.

We only need to look at the lingerie brands that unapologetically disrupted the intimates market to serve up sexuality with style and support, inclusive sizing, a dizzying assortment of colors, luxe fabrics, and, most importantly, clever, comfortable construction. For your sensual pleasure, there are now adjustable straps on the front, seamless, wire-free options, and endless smoothing and sculpting.

Love her or hate her, we owe a debt of gratitude to Kim Kardashian and her Skims—now a $4 billion behemoth—for normalizing the “shapewear as outerwear” movement and proving that compression can coexist with a high-key sexual aesthetic. Coming in hot on Kim K’s lingerie parade is Sydney Sweeney—read my interview with her here—whose sultry new line, Syrn, is designed to provide “unfiltered bombshell energy” for every cup size. Talk about a Gen Z main character energy power move—I’m a fan of The Showoff Plunge Bra.

She’s not wrong, though. One of the first things I did when I found myself suddenly single in my early 40s—after that psych ward visit anyway—was level up my lingerie game. Fast.

“Sexuality and sensuality are for everyone; no one should feel intimidated in a lingerie store or be wearing pieces that are uncomfortable, restricting, or the wrong size,” says Sapna Palep, M.D., MBA, co-CEO and owner of Journelle, a luxe multi-brand lingerie store whose entire mission is to bring sexy to every day. So, naturally, in addition to bras and knickers, they have an entire sexual pleasure category, complete with sex toys.

In case you’re interested, for those of us blessed with more than a handful, the search for 'sexy with structure' for me begins and ends with ‘The Scoop’ Bra by Cuup and Skims Smoothing Intimates Full Coverage Bra.

SHOP CUUP

Smash Through The Sexual Ceiling

Sadly, many women—and I’m generalizing here—were raised in an era where there was a lot of shame surrounding sex and intimacy, our bodies, and their natural urges. “It’s time to shine a light on what is holding us back sexually and know that we don’t have to define our sexual experiences anymore,” says Jennifer Gunsaullus, Ph.D. (best known as Dr. Jenn), intimacy expert, sex coach, and author of From Madness to Mindfulness: Reinventing Sex for Women as well as Intimacy Dispatches on Substack.

The first step in breaking free, says Dr. Jenn, is to reflect on the messages you received in childhood and your early experiences around sexuality, body image, and intimacy, and recognize that these don’t work for you today. Next, examine your current relationships: What are your patterns? When do you shut down? When do you want to numb or distract yourself? Mindfulness is about taking ownership of those interpretations and your emotions, and where you feel them. Then opening up with your partner and speaking from a place of vulnerability and authenticity, and creating a safe space for your partner to do the same.

Finally, critique your sexual encounters mindfully. Do you have body image concerns or performance anxiety? Maybe you’re worried it’s taking too long for you to come. You can acknowledge these thoughts, then choose to bring yourself back to the moment with your partner—that’s when you experience real emotional intimacy, and that in itself is very sexy.

Conscious-Sexual-Coupling

Cultivating sexual mindfulness and engaging in a sensual, intimate experience is the opposite of “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” In fact, it doesn’t even have to involve sex. Start a sexual encounter by just looking into each other’s eyes and breathing in sync for a couple of minutes, and then lightly start touching each other’s arms and face. Any time you notice that you’re distracted (or afraid of feeling this vulnerable), acknowledge that thought or feeling and bring your focus back to your five senses and the emotional connection you’re sharing with yourself at that moment.

Hey, don’t know it until you try it.

Over time, you can bring this level of awareness into experiencing pleasure and giving pleasure, asking for what you want, being curious about their needs without shame or blame, and enjoying yourself and each other more. Now look at passion levels. Are you lacking desire? Feeling neglected or pushed? Many people don’t feel horny when they’re stressed or not feeling present or confident in their sexual body. If that’s the case, try a melting hug; hold each other while taking deep breaths together, and literally feel your chests melting together. This creates a little sacred moment to prioritize connection in your relationship. Sexual feelings will grow from there—we promise.

Masturbation Is The New Meditation

And thankfully, the sex toy industry has also undergone an awakening and is meeting us where we are. Along with Goop, Dame is a sexual wellness brand created by a sexologist who aims to inspire women to take matters into their own hands to end the “pleasure gap”. Aka the disparity that has long existed between women and men around sexual pleasure.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Jenn is also an advocate for masturbation. And, well, there’s no argument here. Her advice here is to slow down, explore your body more, and experiment with new sex toys. That way, you may learn some new things about your sexual responsiveness. And let’s face it, once you intimately know your erogenous zones and what really gets you off, you’ll be able to explain it easily and guilt-free to your partner.

Also busy sounding the horn for sexual health wellness is Diana Leon, M.D., FACOG, an obstetrician-gynecologist who offers a revolutionary, non-invasive treatment at her N.Y. clinic. Get this: The ‘treatment’ incorporates soundwaves to change how women orgasm, making sex more enjoyable, less painful, and improving orgasm frequency and intensity. “So many women who don’t orgasm and enjoy a full sex life and are embarrassed to address it, are worried that there is no solution, or that the solution involves an invasive procedure,” says Dr. Leon.

Well, if all that has you all hot and steamy, go forth and get jiggy. Here’s to having more mind-blowing, mindful sex.

Or at least getting back in the game.

The Oscars have, and will always be, Hollywood and fashion's night of nights. Even when television’s night of nights sets up camp on YouTube. And so it goes that every year, the fashion media goes into [now AI-assisted] overdrive to bring you their take on who wore what and who wore it best.

But after decades in the editor’s chair, I can testify that the real stories don’t happen on the red carpet or "best-dressed" lists. Oscar 2026 wasn't just about Grace Kelly-inspired Chanel couture (I bow down, Jessie), Gucci feathers (Demi bringing her fashion game at 63), or the return of the ‘revenge dress’ (Nicole Kidman, we see you).

At The New Front Row, the promise is ‘Style, Storytelling and The Sh*it We Should Be Talking About’—and the Oscar goes to…

Jessie Buckley: ‘The Mother Of All Speeches’

The night belonged to Jessie Buckley, who rightfully took home the Oscar for Best Actress (for her career-defining turn as Agnes Shakespeare in Hamnet). The Irish actress also secured first place on my unofficial best-dressed list. Channeling a modern-day Grace Kelly, Buckley stole the show with her chic sideswept champagne bob (nothing c*nty about it) and the custom Chanel bubblegum gown with an off-the-shoulder wrap neckline in contrasting red (Kelly wore a similar one to the Oscars in 1956).

But more importantly, Buckley won my heart.

Devoting her impassioned speech to “the beautiful chaos of a mother’s heart,” (weep) Buckley, who has an 8-month-old daughter along with an Oscar, said of her character, “to get to know this incandescent woman and journey to understand the capacity of a mother’s love is the greatest collision of my life.” And then there was the public display of adoration for her husband, Freddie Sorensen. “Fred, I love you, man. You are the most incredible dad, you’re my best friend, and I want to have 20,000 more babies with you!” It almost makes me believe in marriage again.

Rose Byrne: ‘The Aussie Connection’

My fellow countrywoman may not have taken home the gold for her raw, intense, career-defining performance in If I Had Legs I’d Kick You, but she was heavenly in a strapless black, floral-embroidered dress with a dramatic mermaid train. And hearing that thick Aussie accent as she rejoined the cast of Bridesmaids to present Best Original Screenplay was gold in itself. Speaking of gold, Byrne did pick up the Golden Globe for her portrayal of Linda, a psychotherapist pushed to her absolute breaking point in the movie, cementing her rightful place among Australia’s best actors—Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett, Hugh Jackman, Margot Robbie, and Heath Ledger.

Ironically, her breakout role was alongside Ledger in the 1999 crime/comedy Two Hands. BTW, if you're in NYC, make sure to check out its namesake café.

But I can’t even with this Facebook post by Hunters Hill High School, where Byrne attended: “Congratulations to former Hunters Hill High School student Rose Byrne for her Best Actress win at the Golden Globes. Rose has also been nominated for Best Actress at the upcoming Oscars. Good Luck Rose!”

Sean Penn: ‘The Iconic No Show’

What’s not to love about Sean Penn? The legend, now 65, took home the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his role as the ruthless Colonel Steven J. Lockjaw in One Battle After Another, for which he was a no-show (ditto when he won the Golden Globe). Penn’s been nominated for an Oscar six times (winning three), and while his MIA status on Hollywood’s biggest night was kind of epic, it wasn’t a diss.

Penn’s focus is currently on the front lines (not the red carpet). He was in Ukraine meeting with President Zelenskyy to continue his work with CORE (Community Organized Relief Effort), the crisis-response organization he founded. His activism has evolved from celebrity outreach to genuine, boots-on-the-ground logistics, providing everything from medical supplies to structural support in war zones. Sean, I salute you. You’re the only person in the world who can win an Oscar from a bunker.

Anna Wintour: ‘Fashion Is Art’

On planet fashion, Vogue is the Bible, and Anna is God. She is, after all, the real-life inspo behind The Devil Wears Prada. BTW: for all you fashion-obsessed cool girls, the long-awaited sequel drops on May 1st. It’s kind of ironic that this year’s Met Gala exhibition is “Costume Art” (dress code: fashion is art) because here was Wintour, the accidental actor playing herself (or rather, the caricature of herself), while playing Oscar presenter.

For this long-time fashion editor, seeing Anna on that stage was the “lit”. It’s about time the queen of fashion had her proper Oscar moment. Rumors may continue to swirl that Wintour, now 76, is on the road to retirement after stepping down as EIC, but I don’t think she—or her signature black glasses—are going anywhere anytime soon.

Gwyneth & Demi: ‘Midlife Fashion Slay’

“Fashion is dead for women over 56,” according to The Telegraph. Kill me now. I’m not sure what bubble they live in, but I hope they tuned in to the Oscars to see a sea of 50-plus women killing it—Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Demi Moore, Maya Rudolph, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, and Sigourney Weaver (76 thank you very much). So to hell with that outdated and obnoxious fashion theory.

For my money, Gwyneth proved why she’ll always reign as queen of old-Hollywood royalty, looking decades younger (not that she needs to, but she does) with her immaculate complexion, sleek sidepart (many stars greenlit its return), and “naked-but-not-really-naked” strapless ivory silk column Armani Privé dress. Talk nailing the naked trend in real life and midlife.

And LFG Demi Moore, who has found her fashion and career stride in her 40s, 50s, and now 60s (as I wrote about for The Fashion Times). In a world of safe fashion, be a Demi, who crushed it in a custom emerald green Gucci gown dripping in peacock-style feathers and a dramatic black train.

At 63, no less.

Nicole Kidman: ‘The Quiet Revenge Tour’

Nic (as she’s affectionately known in our native Aus) continues on her “Keith Who?” “F You” revenge tour, which she’s done quietly and delicately, especially last night in an ethereal powder pink silk dress with a crystal-encrusted bustier and a peplum waist that cascaded onto the skirt in beige, pink, nude, and apricot feathers. Slay.

If the dress spoke volumes, so did her turn as presenter. Kidman dialed up the sex siren act as she flirted with Ewan McGregor to present Best Picture in honor of the 25th anniversary of Moulin Rouge!. When the two burst into “All You Need Is Love” lyrics, it was the dopamine high every divorcée needed.

Jacob Elordi: ‘The Date Heard ‘Round The World’

It was certainly a night for the Aussies, but the Oscar for “Son of the Century” goes to Jacob Elordi. Nominated for Best Actor, Elordi—who spent over 400 hours in the makeup chair to transform into Frankenstein—won hearts for taking his mum, Melissa Elordi (54), as his Oscars date.

The handsome-as-hell Brisbane-born actor, 28, promised her when he was 15 that if he ever made it to the Academy Awards, she’d be by his side. As a boy mum, I can’t even imagine how Melissa must have felt, but the images of them on the red carpet—and her emotional Instagram post—say it all.

Javier Bardem: ‘No War For Hot Men’

Speaking of being a boy mom, my youngest is Javier. He’s not actually named after Javier Bardem, despite my having a crush on him since forever—I mean, when he played the chilling, bowl-cut assassin in No Country for Old Men, I was gone. No, my Javier was actually named after a random guy I met at a dance party on a beach in Spain a million moons ago.

But here’s why Javier (both of them) will always be my guy.

Politics entered the Oscars chat—despite every A-lister being warned to “keep politics out their fucking mouths”—courtesy of Javier’s pin. Buttoned to his suit, the pin read in Spanish “No a la guerra” (No to war), and the actor used his moment at the podium while presenting Best International Feature Film to utter a clear, firm “Free Palestine.” There’s definitely something about the men from Spain.

Michael B. Jordan: ‘The Fashion Flex’

The actor took out Best Actor, a win the rumor mill insists was stolen from Timothée Chalamet after “Ballet-and-Opera-Gate”. I don’t buy the robbery narrative because Michael was sublime playing identical twin brothers in Sinners. He also takes gold for his best-dressed fit—a custom all-black Louis Vuitton ensemble by Pharrell featuring a sharp military-style high collar and a sleek chain detail. A best dressed award approved by my stylish son, Javier, the 14-year-old up-and-coming influencer/fashion model, giving young dudes the green light to dress well. I mean, give him Michael B. Jordan and Pharrell all day, every day.

Jordan is only the sixth Black man to have ever won Best Actor, and he called out the giants who paved the way—Sidney Poitier, Denzel Washington, Jamie Foxx, Forest Whitaker, and Will Smith (even despite the slap). He also honored the real heroes in his story: his father, Michael A. Jordan, who flew in from Ghana, and his mother, Donna, also his date for the night. Aww, these boys. But perhaps the best bit? The actor celebrated the old-school Hollywood way: hitting up In-N-Out Burger, still wearing “that suit,” and placing his newly minted statue on the counter while he ordered. Flex.

Jimmy Kimmel: ‘The Comedic Resistance’

In a sanitized political Oscars, kudos must go to this comedic duo for the digs heard ‘around the world’. In a short segment, Jimmy Kimmel didn’t hold back regarding freedom of speech. “There are some countries whose leaders don’t support free speech. I’m not at liberty to say which. Let’s just leave it at North Korea and CBS.” Then on the subject of documentaries: “There’s an international community of filmmakers dedicated to telling the truth, oftentimes at great risk to make films that teach us, that call out injustice, that inspire us to take action, and there are also documentaries where you walk around the White House trying on shoes.”

Gloves off.

Next came O’Brien’s quote of all quotes as he returned after a break. “Welcome back to the ‘Has A Small Penis Theater’—let’s see him try to put his name on the front of that one,” in response to the outrage around the renaming of the Kennedy Center by you know who.

Conan O’Brien: ‘The Host For Life?’

Hosting the Oscars is an honor that can make or break your career. The jury is out on Conan re-hosting—what were your thoughts? Clearly, the Academy was pleased, and that’s all that matters.

In pure cinematic gold, the final scene/skit sees Academy officials tell Conan he’s the permanent host and lead him to a plush new “Host for Life” office. O’Brien is locked in his new room with a view, gassed through the vents, and his body is unceremoniously dumped down a garbage chute. Sound familiar? Let’s just say Sean would have been proud.

If only he’d turned up.

Cassandra Kulukudis: ‘One Battle Finally Won’

And finally, for the first time in Oscar history, an award was introduced for Best Casting. Unbelievably, its inclusion has been the subject of fierce debate, with purists arguing it “clutters” the telecast. Incidentally, the inaugural award went to Cassandra Kulukundis for her work on One Battle After Another. She was the one who assembled the massive, high-stakes ensemble—hello Leonardo DiCaprio, Sean Penn, Benicio del Toro, and Regina Hall. Not to mention Chase Infiniti, the 25-year-old, ‘completely unknown no more’ breakout discovery of the film.

Let’s be clear: casting directors are the ones who source and recruit the talent that catapults these stars and their movies to Oscar glory. Just like a top-tier recruitment agent, ensuring the best hire lands the job to guarantee a company’s success.

Put through an Aussie lens, an Oscars ceremony without a casting category is like a pub with no beer.

That’s a wrap.

Like it or not—it’s officially the ’90s again.

Kate Moss is back slaying the runway—closing the Gucci F/W show in Milan, no less. Britney is back in the headlines for all the wrong reasons (arrested for drink driving). The Clintons are testifying (but weirdly not Trump). And low-rise jeans, kitten heels, and black turtleneck sweaters—aka the OG of “quiet luxury”—are trending out of control.

Not to mention the entire planet is obsessed with JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, thanks to the TV series Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette.

Do you, like me, find waiting a week between episodes literal torture?

As we relive their tragic real-life romance, the media is in overdrive—fueling both new and renewed lust for everything Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. With good reason: The former Calvin Klein publicist turned Queen of Camelot—who famously snagged America’s most eligible bachelor—was the ultimate downtown cool girl.

The Hailey Bieber of her day, if you will.

Bessette was the embodiment of the ’90s minimalist aesthetic—her signature style was chic, understated, and impossibly modern: jeans, trench coats, turtlenecks, and an endless sea of black, black, and more black. Then there’s the platinum gold hair, nearly as famous as she was, which flip-flopped between undone waves, sleek blowouts, low ponies, messy buns, and slicked-back in a headband.

And she could also take the crown as the pioneer of the ‘no-makeup makeup’ look, which women have painstakingly tried to fake for decades.

And lest we forget the influence she had on brides the world over, who, nearly three decades later, are still channeling her 1996 wedding style. If you watched the latest wedding episode, the iconic slip dress was created by then-unknown designer (and her close friend) Narciso Rodriguez—the same man behind Michelle Obama’s unforgettable gown on election night in 2008.

But while all eyes are on Bessette (played by actress Sarah Pidgeon), my attention is firmly fixed on two other women in this story.

First: Daryl Hannah—the ’90s actress who shot to fame as the sexy mermaid in Splash and who dated JFK Jr. from 1988 to 1994. Hannah herself is trending again after penning a scathing essay for The New York Times over her portrayal in the series as the shallow, irritating, unstable ex-girlfriend.

The headline? How Can ‘Love Story’ Get Away With This?

Ouch.

And last—but even more importantly—Caroline Kennedy: the stoic, fiercely private sister of JFK Jr. and the sole surviving child of President John F. Kennedy and the legendary Jackie Kennedy Onassis (played to perfection by Naomi Watts).

But I’m not actually referring to the real-life Caroline Kennedy here.

I’m talking about the actress portraying her in the series—the formidable Grace Gummer.

If Bessette has been cast as the pin-up of ‘quiet luxury’, Kennedy—or rather Gummer—is without doubt the queen of ‘elegant luxury’.

And here’s where things get personal.

I was lucky enough to have tea with the then-buzzy up-and-coming Gummer—now 39—eight years ago in a café in her then-neighborhood of Dumbo, Brooklyn.

You can read the full interview here.

Gummer—who you may or may not realize is the daughter of the iconic Meryl Streep—was an indie theatre darling who landed her big break in Arcadia on Broadway in 2011. TV roles in The Newsroom and American Horror Story followed, earning her a reputation for playing smart, complex women with real depth.

What you also may not know is that Gummer studied art history and Italian at Vassar and contemplated becoming a costume designer before a theater director friend sent her a script that changed everything.

Meeting Gummer all those years ago, it was clear she was well on her way.

Watching her now transform into Caroline Kennedy—with her composed demeanor, political savvy, and regal-like restraint—has been fascinating.

Here are a few highlights from our interview, Gummer’s thoughts on style, and how she approached becoming the classy, enigmatic Caroline Kennedy.

Grace Gummer “Modeled” For A Max Mara Shoot For Harper’s Bazaar

“I really understand why supermodels are paid a gazillion dollars. It’s 95 degrees, I’m wearing wool pants and cashmere sweaters, cars are coming in every direction, and the photographer is yelling, ‘Smile! Okay—back, front, turn around, hop in the air!”

The Actresses Who Inspire Her

Carey Mulligan, Sarah Paulson, and Claire Danes. “They’re my friends—but I also genuinely admire their work.” Just don’t mention Meryl.

Fame Quietly Elevated Her Fashion Game

Gummer was a fixture in the front row at Michael Kors, Proenza Schouler, Calvin Klein, Tory Burch, and Khaite during New York Fashion Week. “Khaite makes up about 40 percent of my wardrobe. I don’t go to work in sweatpants anymore, I’m a little bolder now.”

One Vintage Shirt Helped Her Find Caroline Kennedy

An' 80s-vintage Valentino striped shirt helped unlock the character. “The moment I put it on, I thought—oh, here she is. It has a little bit of a shoulder, buttons all the way to the top, and the most beautiful fit. It’s one of those pieces that just couldn’t be replicated today.”

Gummer Deeply Respects Caroline Kennedy

“I think she has impeccable style—and still does. I have so much admiration and respect for Caroline. She’s such a strong, powerful woman of integrity. Fundamentally decent, intensely private—and in our show, she becomes an incredibly important voice of reason for John.”

5 Things You May Not Know About The Real Caroline Kennedy

1. She Has Lived Through Unimaginable Grief
Kennedy was just six when her father was assassinated in 1963, lost her mother, Jackie Kennedy Onassis, in 1994, and then her brother John Jr. in the 1999 plane crash that also claimed Carolyn Bessette Kennedy and her sister Lauren. And heartbreakingly, her daughter Tatiana Schlossberg passed away in December 2025 at 35 from acute myeloid leukemia.

2. She’s A Respected Diplomat
The Kennedy matriarch served as U.S. Ambassador to Japan from 2013–2017 and is currently serving as U.S. Ambassador to my homeland of Australia.

3. She’s A Political Author
Kennedy has published several books on American history, poetry, and constitutional rights, including In Our Defense: The Bill of Rights in Action.

4. Her Son Is Following His Grandfather Into Politics
Jack Schlossberg—JFK Jr.’s nephew—has emerged as a vocal political voice and has become increasingly active in Democratic politics.

5. She Remains An Enigma
Despite being born into America’s most scrutinized political dynasty, Kennedy has spent her life fiercely guarding her privacy—making her portrayal in the series all the more fascinating.

At The New Front Row, I promised smart, stylish storytelling—which means breaking up the midlife madness and the occasional trauma dump with a little fashion, beauty, and celebrity style ‘fluff’.

Because, as you may or may not know, I’ve been covering the fashion and beauty beat for two decades. And seriously, who doesn’t need an escape from all the crazy right now?

So on that note, let’s move on for a moment from breakdowns (we’ll be back to those, I promise) to beauty.

Or rather—Sydney Sweeney.

Forgive the blatant name-dropping, but in the not-too-distant past, I wrote a regular celebrity style column for CNN, The Essentials, and interviewed some pretty cool kids—Hailey Bieber, Brooke Shields, Millie Bobby Brown, Gwen Stefani, Miranda Kerr, Ken Jeong from The Hangover (just as funny IRL), and the list goes on. But I won’t.

One of my most unforgettable interviews was with Sweeney—and not for the reasons you might assume.

If you’re a fan of The White Lotus and Euphoria (and if you’re not, guys, get on board), you’ll remember Sweeney as the cynical, acid-tongued privileged brat daughter from season one of TWL, and of course as Cassie—the sweet, people-pleasing, and low-key emotionally unhinged senior in Euphoria.

In real life, Sweeney, 28, who has 26 million followers on Instagram, is also the face—or pin-up, if you ask the guys—of a new generation. Such is her allure and star power—with her classic doe-eyed blonde-bombshell meets modern-cool-girl vibe—among Gen Z — that she’s landed lucrative brand partnerships with Miu Miu, Armani Beauty, American Eagle, and Laneige; she’s the Korean skincare brand’s first global ambassador.

Which is how I scored a one-on-one interview with her in a New York penthouse overlooking the Hudson River in Chelsea on a late fall morning in 2024. The newly appointed “skinfluencer” was in town to launch Laneige’s new Firm & Bouncy Sleep Mask.

BTW: I’m not being paid to spruik the product, but I do genuinely rate their sleeping lip balms and face masks. And I’m clearly not alone—after teaming up with Sweeney, the brand reported a 227% surge in TikTok followers and a 53% spike on Instagram.

Anyhoo, as these press junkets go, I arrived at the tightly under-wraps studio space and stepped straight into Laneige’s glossy world: cue an explosion of pink flowers, an Alice-in-Wonderland-style morning tea, a glam cam, and more sleeping masks than you could poke a stick at.

When it was my turn for our tête-à-tête, I was ushered into a room to meet a smiling Sydney, dressed very on-brand in a tight lilac mock-turtleneck midi dress by Tom Ford.

I liked her immediately. She was warm and excitable, and seemed genuinely appreciative when I told her how much I enjoyed her work. I liked her even more when she clocked my accent.

“OMG, what are you doing in New York? Why would you ever leave Australia? I don’t understand anyone who leaves Australia. Go back!” Maybe she’s onto something. Especially right now. As a matter of fact, I’ve just returned from my homeland after a two-month reset, and it truly is a dreamland (more on that and how I ended up in NYC later).

Sweeney, you see, had just spent six months Down Under filming the rom-com Anyone But You—fairly forgettable, I won’t lie, but further proof that Australia is the new Hollywood. Everyone is now filming there.

“I had an amazing place right on Bondi Beach,” she told me. “We filmed in Palm Beach and on the Gold Coast, and when I was there, it was one of the hottest recorded days ever.” Thankfully, being so skin-savvy, she drenched herself in sunscreen while the rest of the crew went scorched earth.

Pleasantries done and dusted, we got down to the business of chatting through her beauty and style picks (see below if you need a fix) for the allotted 15 minutes, as her agent hung on her every word (as they do). Then it was a wrap, and she graciously agreed to the selfie above.

And that’s when it hit me—I’d forgotten to bring a pen and paper so she could sign an autograph for my boys.

Because ask any teenage boy and he’ll tell you: Sydney Sweeney is “bad” (Gen Z for hot).

When I confessed to the failed autograph attempt, she floored me.

“Let’s FaceTime them.”

Hands trembling, press team now hovering, we tried my youngest, Javier, then a 12-year-old middle schooler. It was around 11 am, and I reasoned that if God was on our side, he might be at lunch. “This is not the call he wants to miss,” Sweeney said. No joke. But alas. No answer.

He’s never gotten over it.

Next, I frantically tried my eldest, who at the time was a freshman at Purdue University.

And so it was that on a random Monday morning, a shirtless, bed-headed, still-in-bed (probably hungover) 18-year-old Tiago answered his phone—only to be greeted by a smiling Sydney Sweeney and his equally as shell-shocked mother.

As Tbone (as we call him) casually shot the breeze with Sydney, his stunned frat brothers gathered on the sidelines, filming the exchange in a moment that will no doubt live on in Delta Sig legend forever.

Needless to say, that year I was appointed Frat House Mom.

Sydney Sweeney’s Style Picks

SYRN The Show Off Pluge Bra, $89
Sweeney has launched her own lingerie brand, SYRN (pronounced siren).

LEVI’S 501 Straight Jeans, $98
”I’m much more comfortable in jeans and tees. “

Cotton On 90s White Baby Tee, $20
”I discovered Cotton On while filming in Australia, and I was obsessed.”

Laneige Firm & Bouncy Sleeping Mask, $36
”It has these little balls of collagen in it, and I wake up looking hydrated and radiant.”

Kérastase Elixir Ultime Refillable Hydrating Hair Oil for Shine, $62
”My hair is just so dead right now; this helps to bring it back to life.”

Armani Beauty Luminous Silk Foundation, $69
Sweeney gets her lit-from-within “no makeup look” courtesy of this foundation.

If Eric Dane’s passing wasn’t heartbreaking enough, last night I watched Famous Last Words—the Netflix documentary in which Dane is interviewed by Brad Falchuk, American Horror Story creator (and, yes, Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband). Filmed in early 2025 under the proviso that it would only air after Dane’s death, it sent me spiralling.

Dane was 53.

A year younger than the father of my two sons—and not much older than me. That alone triggered me into confronting my own mortality, and served as another tragic reminder that once you hit midlife, it’s no longer uncommon for friends to die or be diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses.

In his case, Dane stunned the world when, less than a year ago, he revealed he had been diagnosed with ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis). A brutal, progressive neurodegenerative disease that traps a fully functioning mind inside a body that has forgotten how to move, speak, or breathe. It’s a terrifying terminal diagnosis that comes with a countdown rather than a cure.

This is when my anger kicked in.

A cultural icon who famously played the charming and devastatingly handsome Dr Mark Sloan on Grey’s Anatomy—Dane had stepped into a new role, one he didn’t audition for, as an advocate in the fight against ALS. In the documentary, the actor, who, decades after his mid-noughties heartthrob heyday, captivated an entirely new generation with his brutal portrayal of the closeted, tormented Cal Jacobs on Euphoria, revealed that only 31,000 people in the US live with the disease.

“It’s a money problem. If they had unlimited funds and research, we would find a solution pretty quickly. I think it’s hard to understand the concept of a single life and how many people it affects when you’re an executive looking at numbers.”

Now, I promise I’ll never get political in The New Front Row (trust me, you don’t want me to go there), but forgive me this once: fuck every billionaire hoarding more money than they could ever spend in a lifetime, when it could go toward life-saving medical research and treatments.

Witnessing Dane—once the blueprint for physical perfection—wheelchair-bound and speaking his final words in a voice reduced to what he jokingly described as sounding like a “frog,” was as sad and surreal as it was powerful and prophetic. As he stared death in the face, baring his soul for the world to see after he was gone, it was not lost on me that he was still as handsome and magnetic as ever.

But perhaps what hit the hardest was his raw, emotional, authentic unveiling of the real Eric Dane. A man who, as he so eloquently put it in his own words, is “kind, thoughtful, considerate, empathetic, sensitive, vulnerable—a person who cares a lot.”

There was also an intensity to him, and a profound fragility.

Not purely because of the cruel diagnosis fate had dealt him in the prime of his life and at the height of his career, but because, at the heart of it all, he was a father. And a son who had carried the trauma and invisible grief of losing his own father to suicide at the tender age of seven.

My heart aches for Dane’s two daughters, Billie (15) and Georgia (14), who—in a tragic case of history repeating itself—will also grow up without their father.

The world may have lost McSteamy—but they lost their daddy.

Following are some of Dane’s most powerful final words, which I’ve personally taken as a call to action—and maybe you will too.

ERIC DANE’S FAMOUS LAST WORDS

On Doing An Interview That Will Air After His Death

“It’s a weird concept. You and I are talking here right now, and we’re very much alive. Living on past the moment when you peace out is pretty interesting to me, speaking from the dead. I still can’t believe this is happening. I didn’t think this was going to be the end of the road for me—that I would get something as crazy and deadly as ALS.”

On Death Itself

“I’ve got a very controversial relationship with the universe right now. I don’t believe there is another place for our souls to go. I think people believe that because it provides them with a lot of comfort. I believe when we go to sleep, it’s lights out. Once we’re gone, we’re gone. We live on in the memories of the people who miss us. I don’t feel sorry for myself—I feel bad for Rebecca, my kids, and my friends. I’m not going to be around for my kids, to walk my girls down the aisle, or have grandkids, and that’s a tough thing to deal with.”

On His Father’s Tragic Suicide

“My father struggled with life and never felt like he was enough. I think about how lonely my father must have been. It’s heartbreaking. I think trauma reaches somebody on a cellular level. It’s really hard to get it out of your system—probably impossible. Being told by my mother to be strong meant ‘don’t feel, don’t cry’. She has a black belt in denial. I don’t think she accepted how profoundly my father’s death affected me. I ended up going to a treatment center for trauma and depression, related solely to my dad.”

On Confronting His Own Demons

“I’ve always had a warped sense of who I am. I thought I wasn’t enough—that I didn’t deserve a great life. Cal and I are very similar; we know what it’s like to lead a double life. I know what it’s like to not have my insides match my outside. I can feel lonely in a crowded room. I’ve had my experience with drugs and alcohol. This thing, [ALS], has made me softer, more open, and more available to experience the truth about myself. It’s a fucked-up way to realise you were enough the whole time—when everything gets taken away.”

On His Work

“I’m proud of some of it. You know what—fuck it, I’m proud of all of it. All of it got me to where I am today. I think I had moments in my career when I was undeniably good, like some of the early days of Grey’s Anatomy.”

On Meeting His Wife, Rebecca Gayheart

“I will never, by the time anybody sees this, have fallen in love with another woman as deeply as I fell in love with Rebecca. She’s the mother of my children. I met Rebecca and turned to her friend and said, “I’m going to marry that girl.” Four years later, I married her. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”

On The Breakdown Of His Marriage

“We still love each other deeply. We’re best friends. Rebecca was more willing to show up and do her part than I was. I don’t have that gene that makes you want to keep going regardless of what’s happening. If there’s a hole in the boat, don’t try to patch it—scuttle the damn thing and go find a new one. I’ve always been envious of people who fight and persevere. Rebecca is a fighter, and she perseveres.”

On Being a Dad

“My girls would say I was tough, resilient, loving, endearing, compassionate, empathetic, and trustworthy. I’m a good dad. I haven’t been perfect, but I’ve always been there when it mattered. I’ve shown up to all of Billie’s ballet recitals. I go to Georgia’s beach volleyball games. I’m present in their lives whether I’m in front of them or 2,000 miles away.”

On His Most Treasured Memories

“We travelled as a family and saw some wonderful places. We drove through the French countryside in this crazy rental car, and I spoke in a French accent the whole time. For fifteen minutes, my French accent was spot on.”

THE ACTOR’S POWERFUL PARTING MESSAGE FOR HIS DAUGHTERS

Live Now

“Right now, in the present. For years, I would wander off mentally lost in my head for long chunks of my time, wallowing and worrying in self-pity and shame. Out of pure survival, I am forced to live in the present, but I don’t want to be anywhere else. The past contains regrets, the future remains unknown. The present is all you have; treasure it, cherish every moment.”

Fall In Love

“Not necessarily with a person—although I recommend that too. Fall in love with something. Find your passion, your joy, the thing that makes you want to get up in the morning. When I was the age you are now, I fell in love with acting. That love got me through my darkest hours, days, and years. My work doesn’t define me, but it excites me. Find something that excites you—find your path, purpose, dream, and then really go for it.”

Find Your People

“Choose your friends wisely. Give yourself to them. The best of them will give back to you—no judgment, no conditions, no questions asked. Just show up. Love your friends with everything you have. They will entertain you, guide you, help you, support you, and some will save you.”

Fight

“Fight with every ounce of your being, and with dignity. When something unexpected hits you—and it will, because that’s life—face it with honesty, integrity, and grace, even when it feels insurmountable. Never give up. Fight until your last breath. You inherited resilience from me—that’s my superpower. This disease is slowly taking my body, but it will never take my spirit. You can face hell with dignity.”

Happy Year of the Fire Horse.

The Lunar New Year just galloped out of the gate. Renowned for its energy, independence, and fiery intensity (sounds kinda like me), the arrival of the Fire Horse has—if we believe Chinese astrologers—ushered in a year of transformation, forward movement, and courage.

And to that I say: thank fuck.

I’m an Aries (we’re caramel in the middle, I promise), and if you also believe the Western astrologers, we Rams have just wrapped a 12-year karmic cycle. No shit. Could it have been realising, at 51, that I’ve spent my entire life in survival mode, desperately trying to outrun my childhood trauma (you can run, but you can’t hide). Or maybe it was crawling on my knees for the past decade, desperately trying to rebuild my shattered life, identity, and soul after the rug was ripped out from under me—gory details to follow in future posts.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to sound victimy (I’ve never actually felt so empowered or sexy), or self-indulgent (I did warn you, I’m an Aries). What I’m trying to say is, I’m finally awake, and my midlife reckoning starts now.

I’m also in good company. Ask any fabulous Gen X survivor navigating the end of parenting, the hellscape of peri and full-blown menopause, and all the sh*t they’ve long buried, and they’ll tell you the same thing: we’re waking up, cleaning house, and hitting the reinvention button. Some, like my friend Tam, even say they’re happily entering their “quiet girl era.”

Not me.

Like the Fire Horse, I’m coming in hot—taking up my rightful position as CEO of my own life.

NSJ 2.0 means hiring myself (hello, Substack), getting my ass to the gym to join the resistance-training brigade, and—most importantly—switching out overgiving for giving zero f*$ks about who I am and what I want my future to look like.

Authenticity is the new glow-up.
Midlife is the new sexy.

I’m not gonna lie: this 12-year “karmic cycle” has been one hella crazy bitch. There were times I genuinely wasn’t sure I’d make it. But if age, wisdom, and emerging from one very long journey through the dark night of the soul (bruised, battered, but not broken) have taught me anything, it’s this. The highs, lows, and psych-ward-inducing rock bottoms have brought me exactly to where I need to be. The point of no return.

I am [a midlife] woman, hear me roar.

I mean, I might have lost my marriage, my identity, my confidence, and everything I thought I wanted—along with my mind, gallbladder, and plenty of collagen—but there were so many blessings (most of them in disguise) along the way.

I achieved my long-held dream of living out my SJP fantasy in New York. I peaked in my magazine career as a director at Harper’s Bazaar, under the editorship of Glenda Bailey (who I’m proud to say rated me). I met incredible friends (hi, LIT Squad). I braved online dating (hot mess, watch this space). I discovered I was ACOA (Adult Child of an Alcoholic—awareness if a gift). I dropped the tough-girl façade I’d clung to for survival (vulnerability is the new badass). I discovered vibrators (where had I been?). I fell in love—and by being loved right, learned what a healthy relationship actually feels like. And best of all, I found God (in a hopeless place). And he’s nothing like the judgy version you might have had shoved down your throat as a kid.

All the while, raising two of the smartest, kindest, most loving, empathetic, emotionally intelligent—and handsome—boys on the planet.

Oh, and I got a divorce dog. Her name is Faith.

I should have married her.

Love,
NSJ 2.0

PS: Thanks for being here, it means the world.

Hi, I’m NSJ in NYC.

Or rather, Natasha Silva-Jelly. An Aussie-born, New York–based fashion, beauty, celebrity, lifestyle, and culture journalist whose spent decades orbiting the glossy pages of the world’s biggest magazines and media brands. And yes, I’m aware that shows my age (Gen X survivor here).

Now reporting live from the front row of real life (and mid-life), in a past life, I was the former fashion and features director of Harper’s Bazaar and a life and style reporter and editor for Vogue, Grazia, Elle, CNN, Forbes, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and The Sydney Morning Herald. The shameless name-dropping could go on.

Confession: I actually wrote my first Substack four years ago but never hit publish. I was too busy navigating a gut-wrenching marriage breakdown and journeying through the dark night of the soul—on my knees.

But as I’ve now aged out of fucks (and fear), here we go.

At The New FRONT ROW, I’ll deliver smart, unfiltered storytelling on life, style, and all the shit in between. So expect to read how my marriage breakdown sent me to a psych ward one day, and why the perfect button-down should be the foundation of every stylish woman’s wardrobe the next.

Yep, I’ll be riffing on everything from trauma to trendspotting, my latest beauty obsessions, and travel crushes. I’ll also serve up shopping edits for real women—curated by the beautiful, influential women of style in my little black book—not runway spectacles.

I’m all fired up to finally drop the Substack that’s been swirling around in my brain. I hope you’ll join me on this ride.

I promise it will be a rollercoaster.

Love,
NSJ