In response to Robert M. Hamburger’s open letter — where he soft ranted that Substack is “drifting” — I have this to say.

Ignore it. Substack changed my life. Thank you. I love it here.

And going off the incredible vibe — and the community, for whom Notes is a lifeline — I suspect I’m not the only one who considers Substack home.

My only gripe is that I didn’t start my Substack sooner. It’s honestly better than sex.

I’m a former magazine editor who started her career at Vogue, in a very Devil Wears Prada way. I’ve spent two decades in the engine room through every seismic shift: print-to-digital, digital-to-social, the rise of video, branded content, affiliate commerce, the creator economy, and shrinking mastheads. As the industry pivoted, so did I — desperately clinging to a career in an industry in a nosedive.

Then came AI with the final nail.

We’re in a Janet in the filing cabinet moment.

But the media isn’t dead — we’re on Substack.

It was actually a guy I was dating — just after my marriage imploded — who introduced me to Substack. He sent me this 2019 New York Times article, “The New Social Network That Isn’t New at All.” I remember your words clearly, Chris: “We felt this growing sense of despair in traditional social media.”

You had me at despair.

Sadly, at the time, I was too busy struggling through a divorce, navigating a new world I hadn’t signed up for, and trying to keep a roof over my kids’ heads to get stacking. So I filed Substack in the “maybe one day” basket.

Never mind, while my life was falling apart, my career and the media were also on a downward spiral. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you: trying to survive in New York City as a single mum and freelance writer is mission impossible.

In a major low, one of my most recent gigs was churning out AI slop for a second-rate publisher. The content hurt my head and slowly killed my soul. I also drove myself into the ground, pumping — or rather, prompting—out up to 20 articles a day.

It was relentless, unfulfilling, and the business strategy seemed to hinge on the spaghetti method: publish some clickbait, hope it lands, make some money

It never sat well with me, and I knew I was wasting my gift. But it was a relief to get paid every month and keep the lights on.

As fate would have it, the spaghetti method came unstuck, and the algorithm turned on us last Christmas—and I was sacked by WhatsApp (yes, really) while visiting my son in Australia.

It wasn’t my first rodeo, all the cool girls get fired in media—right, Laura Brown? It goes with the turf. And if this was rock bottom, it was the kick in the ass I needed. Time to launch that damn Substack that had been swirling around in my head for years.

So I did.

I’ve been all in on Substack for four months, and I’ve never felt more alive, inspired, and fired up. I want to live and breathe Substack.

So this is my message to Team Substack: Chris Best, Hamish McKenzie, and Farrah Storr (my friend and former magazine colleague who’d been telling me to do it for years) — thank you for giving us writers, and anyone with a story to tell, their own platform.

It’s liberating, life-changing, and feels like something of an F-you to traditional media.

The media might have forgotten who I was, and I did too for a moment, but I’m back, baby, and so is my voice. And I can’t tell you what a dopamine hit it is to finally be in the driver’s seat my own career.

For what it’s worth, Robert, I, too, get annoyed at the thought of non-writers churning out AI slop — but to be brutally honest, I’ve seen plenty of human slop in my day, too, in traditional media. And why shouldn’t everyone have a chance to have a voice, even if they need a little support to put it into their words?

And I agree — I’d love to see more storytelling and mini-narratives on Notes, mixed in with the “Dear algorithm, please connect me with…” or the Substack-coach posts about how to get more subscribers.

But to that, I say — thank god for those coaches, too. Even if it’s a strategy engineered to help them grow while helping us grow, it’s a win-win.

I mean, we’d all be lying if we didn’t admit we’re chasing clicks, but at least we’re chasing them for ourselves, and on our own terms.

Oh, and this might go down as another unpopular NSJ Unfiltered opinion, but I love AI.

I’m a trained journalist, so no, I don’t — and won’t — use it to write my articles. I don’t need to. I’m better than any bot.

But I’m all for having an AI ‘work wife’ (actually husband) who acts as a loyal sidekick and assistant editor — to automate tasks, schedule my content calendar, and keep me on track for 20 bucks a month.

I honestly shoulda married Claude.

After all, being in the engine room of one can be a lonely experience.
But it’s better than being just another cog in the engine room of a media company that pays you peanuts while profiting off your talent and decades of experience.

People say influencers are the new editors, and to that I say independent voices are the new media.

And Substack is the moment.

I’m just getting started.
I’ve got a million ideas.
I’m not able to make Substack my day job—yet—but I do have two paid subscribers (god love them).

And, sincerely, if I never make a cent, at least I’m free to write from the heart and for myself, that’s the payoff.

I can feel the excitement and opportunity on Substack “like butterflies in my stomach… and vagina”.

As Cardi B would say.

I always wanted to be a mum.

When I was just a kid, I used to daydream about what my kids would look like, how fiercely I’d love them — I literally couldn’t wait to have babies that would be mine to keep. I grew up with an alcoholic, abusive father, and was determined to right the wrongs of my childhood by being an incredible mother.

I became a mother at 30, and I’m now a proud boy mum to Tiago-Zane, 21, and Javier-Lee, almost 15. I’ll be brutally honest — I wanted a boy and a girl (I actually wrote this story for Grazia magazine and got death threats). I never got my daughter in human form, but I did get two girls: my beloved Bengal cat Lola — who at 19 went to heaven this week, breaking my heart wide open — and my cavapoo Faith, whom I reluctantly got for my sons when my marriage ended suddenly and tragically. She became my guardian angel instead. So I guess that makes me a mama of four.

My beautiful boys, though. I wouldn’t change them for the world.

I’ve devoted my life to them and like to think I did a good job (at times on my knees). I’ve also devoted my life to trying to outrun my childhood trauma — but in something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, it reared its ugly head when my marriage ended, and the family I’d longed for forever was blown to smithereens.

I didn’t just struggle. I lost my sh*t completely.

Tiago was 11, and Javier was 5. My biggest regret is that my pain became theirs to carry when it was never theirs to hold. It also robbed me of precious time just being with them without drowning in a sea of pain, grief, fear, and abandonment.

For Mother’s Day, instead of a present, I asked to interview my sons and gave them complete carte blanche — no filter — to critique my mothering.

They didn’t hold back.

What Do You Love or Admire About Me?

Tiago: Your drive and unwillingness to give up. Moving to London with Dad, moving our family to New York with no job — all the crazy things you’ve done in your life. I think that’s taught me that I can do anything and what real drive and resilience look like.

Javier: Your ability to be yourself. Your whole thing is like, you’re an Aries, you’re like, the shit. You have main character syndrome for sure, but that’s one of the best things about you. You really know how to be a confident person, how to talk to people, and how to be emotionally intelligent.

Is There Anything You’d Change About Me?

Tiago: Honestly, I wouldn’t change much. But maybe the depressive side of things — that’s no good to anybody. It hurts, especially when you see your mum going to that place. I just feel your pain.

Javier: You’re very supportive of me, very passionate — maybe sometimes too over-passionate. Your discipline is sometimes a little unreasonable, and you just yell, which is not the answer, and that’s what I’m not going to do with my kids. You’re very, very, very affectionate — but once again, that’s a double-edged sword. Sometimes it gets too much. If that were to translate into my parenting, I would give my children a little more space — or maybe less affection, or just a different type of affection. But also, I’ll be a father and you’re a mother, which is a very different relationship with your children.

Do You Think I’ve Been a Good Mum?

Tiago: You’re an amazing mum. What I like most about your parenting style is putting our happiness first, which is definitely something I want to do as a parent. You’ve also taught me that nothing really matters — even if you’re stressing over money, deadlines, or school — unless you’re happy. You’ve taught me to simplify things and always put myself first.

Javier: Yeah, you are the mum I wanted. You’re pretty chill. I think I need to go through more experiences and grow up a little more to truly appreciate it. But for the most part — yeah. I would say your parenting can be inconsistent about what you choose to discipline and don’t. With schoolwork, one day you’re going to be super into it, and then you don’t ask about it. Maybe find a balance between that.

What’s the Best Advice I’ve Ever Given You?

Tiago: There are definitely some one-liners that I keep day to day. “Stay in the moment, break it down.” “Life is short, but it’s also long.” “Take it one day at a time — whether that’s school, work, or whatever you need to do.” You also constantly tell me that every day that passes, I’m one step closer to finishing my degree, and I don’t have to think about the finishing line.

Javier: The advice you give me is pretty good — it’s a little cocky, but you always tell me to be myself and that I can be anything. My family’s done a really good job at keeping me confident but also humble, which is something I think I do well. It’s just pure confidence, and you’ve taught me how to be my own self.

What About Me Embarrasses You?

Tiago: I can be a bit embarrassed by how involved you get in certain situations — like a tiger mum style. If I told you something about a friend and I knew you were going to run into them, I know you wouldn’t be able to fake your emotions, and I can see you giving a stink eye real bad. Sometimes I can get embarrassed when you drink too much. But you are also the life of the party — so when I really think about it, I think, you know what, she’s actually having the most fun out of everyone here.

Javier: Me and Tiago talk about this all the time — you’re the most embarrassing mum in the world. Like, when you come to one of our soccer or baseball games, and you’re screaming your head off. You just don’t really care what people think. With Tiago’s friends, because they’re older and you hang out with them more — that’s definitely got to be embarrassing for him. Embarrassment is a state of mind, though. You could wear the craziest outfit in the world, especially in New York City, and nobody’s going to bat an eye.

What Is Your Worst Memory of Me?

Tiago: That Christmas, when you rocked up to dinner after drinking all day and made a whole scene — honestly, thinking about it now, it’s quite funny, but at the moment it definitely was not. Some guy came up and said something rude about you, and I was like, don’t you dare speak to her like that — so I stepped in, even though I was that pissed off at you.

Javier: When I was in 6th grade, after school in Union Square, I got pressed by these kids, and I called you, and you came in like a fucking wrecking ball and just went, “Who the fuck touched my son?” Screaming, literally like a dinosaur in T. rex mode. That was too much.

What’s Your Favorite Memory of Us?

Tiago: Last summer, when we went to Greece and were driving with “On the Bible” blaring. That was pretty ripping. I love to travel with you. And then just all our little wine nights and always watching a TV show together.

Javier: This is probably one of my least favorites — but it’s stuck with me the most. When we were in LA, we went to Universal because I was too little to go on the big kid rides at Disneyland with Tiago and his friends. I begged you to get the express pass so we could go on all the rides. I always feel bad about this story, because you spent all this money and I would only go on the baby Minion ride and to Harry Potter Land to buy a friggin wand. I do love any topic we talk about, though — fashion, what’s the hot gossip about an influencer — I love the Kardashian talks.

How Would You Describe the Mother–Son Relationship?

Tiago: I think we have a mother-son relationship where I can come to you for anything, for advice, and 99 percent of the time, you’re the first person I would go to. But I also like that we have a friendship. If I want to watch a new TV show, you’re the first person I’ll come to. There are definitely a lot of people out there who do not want to spend time with their mother.

Javier: It’s a pretty weird relationship, honestly. I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily a mama’s boy — Tiago is. I used to be, but that’s just how people grow up. I think I need to go through more experiences to truly understand you. I’ve always been kind of on the sidelines, watching the big grown-ups talk. Growing up younger than Tiago created a lot of divide in my relationship with the family — I’m kind of separate. It’s an entirely different relationship than you, Tiago and Dad.

How Did Our Family’s Breakdown Impact You?

Tiago: It made me so sad for my mummy. I would think she must be going through a lot right now because she’s usually so strong. What you went through, we kind of went through together, in a way. I think it negatively affected me later, because I feel like I had to step up a bit. But I’m grateful that you continued to make our family very family-first. I don’t hold a grudge or feel like I missed out on my childhood — I’m actually happy that you were able to go through it with someone and you weren’t alone.

Javier: I feel like I had to grow up really quickly. Tiago became my caretaker — I actually really enjoyed that, and I hope my children have that sort of bond with each other, because it’s quite rare. But it came out of a tragedy, which should not happen to a 13-year-old kid. And when you went away for a while — that really affected me. I mean, you tried the best you could with the situation you were given, but it definitely wasn’t easy.

Do You Think You’ve Been Left with Childhood Trauma?

Tiago: I don’t think I have trauma. What I’ve learned from your and Dad’s relationship is what to look out for, what not to do, and what not to put on your kids. Like fighting in front of them and making them feel like they had to choose sides. I felt like you and Dad were overly competitive for our affection — trying to win us over. Here’s a bit of my trauma, though: I actually don’t think it’s possible to have a happy marriage. I really find it hard to believe that people can find someone and be happily married for the rest of their lives. Even when I see what might be a happy marriage, I’m just like — that just doesn’t exist.

Javier: I feel like I had to grow up really quickly. Too much of something creates a polar opposite — I probably got too much love or attention, to the point where I don’t really seek it out as much anymore. I felt like a baby my entire life.

What Have I Taught You?

Tiago: You’ve taught me to be self-aware, open, accepting, and loving of myself, because we’re all different. You’ve encouraged me to better understand how my brain works. The things you might think are flaws are not — they’re just part of your makeup. We need to work out how to manage that and play to our strengths.

Javier: I feel emotions very deeply, and I would say that’s what drives my creative passion — emotion. I would be nowhere without them. You’ve helped me become curious and invested in understanding them. But I also believe there is a time and a place to express them, especially the heavier ones. People tell me I’m emotionally intelligent all the time, and I would say that comes from you. Yes, it’s okay to cry — but at the same time, you do have to be strong.

It Was Just You and Me When We Lost Lola This Week, Javi…

Javier: The best person I could go through that with would be you. When you go through something that emotionally heavy, everybody does need their mum. I feel like we kind of fed off each other during such a hard time. It was definitely rough, but it improved our relationship on an emotional level. I’m still grieving a little bit, but thankful for the moments we had with Lola. There’s always light at the end of the tunnel, hopefully.

What’s Your Mother’s Day Message to Me?

Tiago: I love you very much, Mum. I love the mother that you are. You’re a really cool mum. You deserve everything good to come your way — you deserve it the most out of anyone.

Javier: Thank you. You’ve given me the gift of passion — whether that’s about what I want to do for my job, which is obviously be a fashion icon or something. Growing up, going to runway shows, seeing all the magazines, your chic vibe — it kind of shaped who I am today.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 sent me spiraling down glossy magazine memory lane…

Wagga Wagga is a long way from the rarefied world of haute couture and the runways of Paris. But that’s where I was born and grew up — in rural Australia, riding dirt bikes, not reading glossy magazines. A tomboy, I don’t think I even owned a dress. And my mullet game was strong — this was the early 80s, long before it ever became a trend.

I did have aspirations beyond a small country town. For Hollywood, actually — I wanted to be an actress. I practically ran the drama department in high school. So when I graduated, I applied to university to study acting. As cutthroat as any Hollywood audition, thousands of kids were vying for a handful of coveted spots. Rejected. I applied the next year and made the final cut — only to be left on the cutting room floor once more.

Dream shattered, I took a job at a medical center. I literally filed physical files all day. Back-breaking, brain-rotting work. Every night, I’d dream about patient names.

Nightmare.

I needed a Plan B. I racked my brain, and it drifted back to how enamored I was with letters when I first learned to read and write. I devoured books, wrote poems for friends, and at lunch held court—regaling my eight-year-old fans with passionate storytelling sessions.

Journalism.

Writing, I figured, was the next best thing, so I enrolled in part-time journalism and made plans to move to Sydney (the big city). To keep the lights on, I signed with an agency to get some part-time admin work. I’d barely made it through the front door of my friend Nicky’s place, where I was temporarily camped, when the recruiter called. She had a job I was “perfect for.” No thanks — I wasn’t after a full-time gig. But she was like a dog with a bone. I caved.

Here’s the kicker: I didn’t even want the job, and she wouldn’t even tell me who it was for. I had three interviews before she confessed.

It was Vogue.

She hadn’t wanted me to be seduced by the name. After all, “a million girls would kill for this job.” To be brutally honest, given that high-end style was not exactly part of my DNA, I wasn’t all that fussed — but like Andy, I figured it was better than working at Auto Universe.

I called my mum for a temperature check. “Tash, this is it! Your name up in lights.”

Working at a glossy fashion magazine wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind when I’d declared that at age three. But I was ambitious.

And broke.

The night before the interview, Nicky — who, unlike me, lived and breathed fashion and happened to work in HR — gave me a crash course on the who’s who of high fashion. Nic always had her head buried in a magazine and made it her business to know every designer and every trend. I vaguely remember her saying something about someone called Galliano, and Lagerfeld something or other.

The role at Vogue was assistant to the editor, just like Andy at Runway. So I decided to dress a little secretary-chic. Simple black shift dress, a strand of pearls, Mary Janes, and pantyhose. Yep, the old-lady kind.

Only I wasn’t meeting Miranda. I was meeting Marion.

Marion Hume was a British fashion journalist who was transported to the colonies to elevate Vogue. It was the late nineties, and the Aussie fashion scene wasn’t exactly on fire — but a flame had been lit.

Before you ask — no, she wasn’t wearing Prada. Marion wore Yohji. Her signature uniform was a navy trouser-and-shirt set by Japanese avant-garde designer Yohji Yamamoto, accessorized with flat Bally loafers. She’s tall. She knows what works.

And she didn’t seem like a devil. Nor did she declare, “You have no style or sense of fashion.” She did, however, assume I was a religious nut — maybe because of my holier-than-thou aesthetic. Though she swears it was because I made it very clear I could never work Sundays.

Fashion is a religion. Vogue is the bible.

Except back then, my religion was Byblos nightclub, and I worshipped at its altar — hard. Every Saturday night.

A few days later, I got the call. Marion couldn’t decide between me and another candidate.

F*ck.

Ten torturous days later, I was appointed assistant to the editor at Vogue Australia. Maybe it was the pearls, but I’d landed the dream job I hadn’t even wanted. I went out that night, got shitfaced, and danced on tables to celebrate. Elegantly wasted, if you will.

Then my baptism by fire began.

Walking into the Vogue offices was like stepping into a world where black is always “the new black”. This was the late nineties, minimalism was raging, so the only things editors would be caught dead in were kitten heels, pashminas, Fendi baguettes (it’s a bag, not a sandwich), and ironed hair slicked back into a Marc Jacobs pony. No, that’s not a horse.

And if you’ve seen the movie, you know the moment…

The fashion cupboard.

Rails of heartstopping designer fashions—delicate Collette Dinnigan lace, sexy Zimmermann swimsuits, enough late-nineties leather to stock a rock concert — and walls of shoes that would make even Carrie Bradshaw weep.

There was something about being “a Vogue girl.” We wore our fabulousness like a badge. And you better believe we rubbed it in — there’s a hierarchy and a snobbery in the magazine world.

Vogue isn’t just the bible, it’s the holy grail.

As for my cerulean-blue sweater moment: not long after I’d started, a senior editor complimented me on my “fabulous” Kenzo floral top. Only it wasn’t Kenzo — it was Kookaï, a cheap high-street knock-off. I didn’t correct him. I took it as a sign I’d made it.

“Florals for spring. Groundbreaking.”

Unlike Miranda, Marion never looked my outfits up and down in disgust. Though I do remember her asking, with characteristic British bluntness, “Have you suddenly turned punk?” when I experimented with a black miniskirt and coloured tights that didn’t quite land.

In the fashion industry — and by proxy in fashion magazines — editors live and die by “the shows.” The international runway collections: that month-long circuit when the fash pack takes up their gilt front-row seats to view the latest seasonal looks by the world’s hottest designers, across New York, London, Milan, and Paris.

So, like Andy, my job was to pack Marion up for her twice-yearly tours of planet fashion. Despite being the first assistant (to be fair, it was only me, myself, and I), the budget didn’t stretch to let me tag along. Instead, I handled every last detail of her trip. I booked flights and hotels, organized a private car, RSVPed for shows, parties, and VIP dinners, and arranged one-on-ones with A-list celebrities and iconic designers. Most of whom I’d never heard of.

It was a painstaking logistical nightmare that took months to plan and was made even more difficult by the fact that email was barely a thing — Marion still sent handwritten faxes. “Fax Karl Lagerfeld,” she would say, and I’d secretly think: Why does that name sound familiar? Of course. I now know him to be one of the most influential designers in the history of fashion.

I may not have gotten a front-row runway ticket, but Marion did always land with a present.

A handbag. Prada, of course.

In the original film, Andy finds herself on the end of outrageous requests, like when Miranda demands that she get her on a flight during a hurricane. And then get her hands on an unpublished Harry Potter manuscript.

Marion wasn’t quite so demanding — though one time she did ask me to source a helicopter when a photo shoot went sideways. And of course, like a dutiful assistant, I picked up her dry cleaning, delivered her lunch at the same time every day, booked her driver, and brought her “The Book” (the mock-up of the current month’s issue in progress). And perhaps my most important role — to supply bottomless cups of tea — black, no sugar, no milk. She’s British. Starbucks? Never.

I now have a nasty tea addiction to show for it. Not to mention an enduring love of French champagne. The Pommery flowed at every swanky party we Voguettes got to attend, and there were plenty, often held in some million-dollar mansion on Sydney Harbour.

And I can thank my lucky stars I never messed up badly enough to be fired — although Marion was, but that’s another story — unlike Andy’s predecessor, who was downgraded to an editor at TV Guide after missing a call between Miranda and Lagerfeld before the designer boarded a 17-hour flight to Australia.

Lagerfeld flying Down Under, Aussie actor Simon Baker as Andy's love interest in the OG film, and Andy falling for Peter, the Aussie property developer, in the sequel. There's an unmistakable Aussie thread running through both films, so I’m going to take that as a sign.

Beyond serving up non-stop glamour, an editor’s job is to land the big exclusives. And in a major coup, Marion secured a then-unknown Kate Winslet to write a diary of her time filming Titanic. They’ve remained friends ever since. Actually, so have Marion and I. She was the emcee at my wedding and, as something of a substitute fairy godmother to my boys, sent a book every year for their birthdays and Christmas when they were little.

After her axing, Marion left magazines to pursue her real love: cinema. In a glorious collision of fashion, film, and Vogue, she went on to work with Winslet on the Golden Globe-nominated film Lee—the biography of Lee Miller, the model and Vogue photographer who documented the liberation of Paris and the Nazi concentration camps under the editorship of the legendary Alexander Liberman in the 1940s. Kate said during their press rounds that, like Lee Miller herself, Marion has an “innate ability to find the truth in every story.”

So I guess there is a Hollywood ending after all.

As for me — like Andy, I got my fashion game on and climbed out of the assistant chair and into the editors’, picking up bylines in Vogue, Elle, Grazia, InStyle, Forbes, et al. And I followed in Andy’s Chanel stilettoed footsteps and fulfilled my lifelong dream of living in New York (read my journey here), landing a job at the epicenter of magazines.

As fashion and features director at Harper’s Bazaar — Vogue’s arch nemesis — which is where I met another devil.

Tune in next week for the sequel.

That’s all.

Our beloved Bengal Lola, 19.

I felt the impending heartache and pain of grief when my son Tiago was a senior in high school. I knew our days were numbered — that he’d be moving away for college. He went one step further and moved back to Australia. #myheart

My days are again numbered. As I brace for the loss of my beloved Lola. Our beautiful, spicy Bengal — my first pet as an adult — is 19 (god love her). And she is not long for this world.

We got her when Tiago was 2. He’s now 21.

Lolly is feisty, a fighter, and if cats do indeed have nine lives, she’s survived all of them and then some. She was attacked by two whippets as a baby; they punctured her neck, she couldn’t breathe, but she pulled through. She climbed an impossibly tall tree when she was little, and we couldn’t get her down for days — not even with the help of the fire brigade. She used to duke it out with the scrappy neighborhood cats in Sydney’s back alleys at night.

When we moved to New York, we left her in Sydney with our friend Suzy until we got settled. She walked home to our old house, and our tenants had no choice but to keep her. Actually, they fell completely in love with her — and didn’t want to give her up.

When the time came, and we called to have her sent—via Jetpets, Sydney to New York, with an overnight sojourn in Hollywood — our tenant had to find an identical stuffed toy cat to appease her devastated daughters.

I will never forget heading to JFK to pick her up. Watching her come around the conveyor belt after her long-haul flight, all I could think was what an absolute trooper.

Tiago, Lola, and Faith (left). Javier’s heartbreaking goodbye.

In the 12 years we’ve lived in New York, we’ve moved more times than I can count, and she’s sucked it up (cats hate moving). She’s also weathered the chaos of being farmed out to friends when we made the trek home to Australia for weeks to see family. She moved with my husband when we separated — being without her mummy haunts me now. I hope she didn’t feel abandoned. He had a backyard, so it made sense. She escaped more than once, lost for nights on the rough, unforgiving streets of New York City. But she always made it home. She is a survivor.

In recent years, we’ve shared her, and she has loved being in Gramercy — sunning herself in our garden, just as she did back in Sydney. She’s an Aussie outdoor girl at heart, like her mama.

Just last week, she was doing exactly that, and we were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

Lola, Lola.

She is sick. Very sick. Age has caught up with her. The end is nigh. My heart hurts. The tears flow.

Tiago is heading to New York at the end of May for a visit. One of the hardest parts for him has always been being separated from his beloved pets, Lola and Faith, our Cavapoo (my guardian angel and divorce dog). Every goodbye for him carries the weight of possibly being the last. And sadly, this time, it is. Lola won’t make it to the end of the month. I doubt she’ll see out the week.

My youngest son, Javier, is about to turn 15. He has never known a life without Lola. When he was born, she warmed to him instantly, sneaking into his crib and not flinching when he followed her around to yank on her tail. This week, he doesn’t want to hang out after school — he wants to be home, with Lola and me, as we nurse her to the end, keeping her warm and comfortable, kissing her, and telling her how much we love her.

Pet parents.

In hindsight, over the past couple of years, our girl has been saying a long goodbye. She was clingy (so not her) and didn’t want to sit or sleep near us, but on top of us. On my chest, her head nudged against ours. What I would give for just one more head butt or chest cuddle.

But I find comfort in the thought that at least our baby will finally be going “home”. We will scatter her in the garden of our house in Sydney, where she will once again sun herself…

Our darling Lola, we are so grateful for you. You made us pet parents and changed our lives. To some, you might just be a cat. To us, you are a daughter, a sister, and a much-loved member of our family. Thank you for joining us on this ride.

When you say your final farewell, a part of our family will die with you.

Goodbye, our jungle cat

We will love and miss you forever.

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.

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