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 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.

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.

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.