• The Commodification of Breakfast and the Rigid Compartmentalisation of Life (At Its Very Worst)

    The Commodification of Breakfast and the Rigid Compartmentalisation of Life (At Its Very Worst)

    It’s said that the word breakfast entered the English language during the Middle Ages, derived from the literal act of breaking the fast after a night’s sleep. These days, most people are typically eating between seven and nine in the morning. An assigned slot in your day: wake up—eat—work—eat—sleep—repeat.

    But it’s 2025, and we’re now carving our routines down to the minute. I’ve endured enough Get Ready With Me’s and fallen hostage to too many morning rituals to know how deranged these expectations have become.

    How many lunges can I realistically squeeze in without delaying my forty-second everything shower, followed by the lymphatic dry brushing of my lower abdomen because TikTok told me I have “PCOS belly”?

    Don’t get me wrong—I frothed these videos at first. Truthfully? I even took notes. I had an entire album saved. A shrine to these tyrannical, step-by-step guidelines on how to spend the first 72 minutes post-slumber—efficiently, and aesthetically, of course.

    But somewhere along the line I lost my mind.

    Because you know what the most deranged thing about a morning routine is?

    The fact that you could always be doing more.

    God forbid I forget to spend 5 mindful minutes alone with my thoughts. Or throw my hair back to massage a home-brewed blend of essential oils into my scalp. Or worse—forget to pat my ultra-rare Labubu on the forehead before disappearing out the door.

    Realistically, how much are we all doing here? I need all eight hours of the working day just to complete my morning routine. And then what? Do I unlock the lunch routine? Graduate to the evening unwind ritual? Someone hold me back.

    I’m not the first person to be outwardly repulsed by the performative psychomania of these viral videos. It’s the commodification of time that truly grates, though.

    This pressure to constantly optimize and schedule every waking moment. Existing as a human without the incessant need to curate your life, both on and offline, isn’t enough anymore.

    Most of us, at some point or another, have audibly cursed the man who invented the eight-hour workday (his name escapes me, and respectfully, I don’t care to look it up).

    And sure, if you’re a woman like me, you’ve probably heard the discourse that our bodies run on monthly cycles, not daily ones. Which is true. But that’s not the point.

    I’m not talking about gendered disconnects or the systemic biases that framework our society.

    Take Greece, for example.

    Relatives and friends still ask me what an authentic Greek breakfast entails. To this day, I still can’t say.

    Some Greeks tell me they sleep in late enough that their first meal isn’t until midday. Others swear that the jet-black, sketo elliniko kafe and the blazing sun are enough to propel them into the evening—where true living begins.

    Free from regimes, or routines. Or the neurotic need to curate every moment.

  • Beginner’s Modesty: Bathing Like No One’s Watching

    Beginner’s Modesty: Bathing Like No One’s Watching

    It’s uncharacteristically chilly for the first few days of Japan’s green season. Enduring downpours feed the canopy around us and a low-hanging cloud hovers over our mountain abode.

    So much for my summer vacation.

    Quickly, our days fall into a rhythm: drip-brewed coffee from a hole-in-the-wall cafe, a scenic drive to a lookout, a variation of conbini onirigi or cold soba. If the weather permits, an icy plunge into the Matsukawa River.

    And always—a visit to an onsen to close the day.

    Despite the tenacity of the rain and a very drawn-out spring, I get to enjoy the sacred baths outside of winter.

    The Japanese Alps boast some of the most idyllic hot springs I’ve ever seen—nestled into moss-covered valleys or perched on cliffside ridges with panoramic views. With full credit to my partner’s digital sleuthing and his commitment to doing things that no one else does, I’ve found myself knee-deep in some of the most beautiful, natural pools, rich in minerals of the Earth. Soaking beneath rustling leaves, with nothing but nature as company.

    We do have a local onsen we return to often. Not quite as remote, but charming nonetheless—tucked into the heart of a quaint little town in Nagano. We time our visits just before the last entry. Not entirely to avoid other humans, but mostly for the quiet luxury of having it to ourselves.

    Annoyingly, I’ve yet to fully shake what onsen regulars have come to call “beginner’s modesty.” So I’ve mastered the art of stealth—timing my entrances when the bamboo-lined change rooms are unoccupied.

    I like to think that my apprehensiveness towards nakedness is sourced from my more orthodox upbringing. But here, those inherited boundaries feel obsolete. Almost as if I’m the one out of place for clinging onto them.

    There is a desire to bask in eternal forty-degree bliss, at odds with the pervasive fear of getting my rack out in front of petite strangers. Around me, delicate silhouettes slip quietly into the space. Mine barrels in with curvaceous vengeance.

    When all is said and done, it’s foolish to assume I can get away with enjoying the baths by myself one hundred percent of the time. At some point, it starts to feel like I’m cheating the whole experience—like when gaijin wear their bathers in the water.

    Eight hundred yen is a steep price to loiter by the changeroom Asahi machine, waiting sheepishly under the neon flashing lights, anyways.

    When I do share the space though, it’s almost always with older Japanese women—composed, unbothered. After the first bare-bum barrier dissolves, it feels like no one is watching at all—or even cares to watch. It is a realisation that is uniquely humbling and freeing.

  • Dead Sea Dreaming

    Dead Sea Dreaming

    If you visit the Dead Sea during the summer, when the days are long and sticky, it’s best to dip into the water just before sunset or just after sunrise. It’s only an hour’s drive from Amman, a trip marked by a long highway lined with resorts and sun-bleached shops–each one conjuring memories of childhoods spent in the sun, the scent of plastic inflatables and sunscreen thick in the air.

    I’m used to visiting the water at dusk, just before dinner. In recent years, the make-shift beach reserved for our favourite hotel, the Kempinski Ishtar, has been enlarged, decorated with a drink stand and two brand-new outdoor showers.

    Standing at the shoreline is a meditative experience. You’ll find that the water tends to blend into the sky, creating the illusion that the sea stretches on forever. That couldn’t be further from the truth: the Dead Sea is evaporating at a rapid rate. Its exclusive salinity will soon be a thing of the past–a chapter closed forever, along with Egyptian mummification and centuries of conflict.

    If you ask, staff will source you some souvenir salt crystals, and if you’re fortunate, you’ll get a pretty one. However, there is a kind of guilt that comes with taking away from something as ephemeral as the Dead Sea.

    If you look like a tourist, someone will inevitably explain the “right” way to enjoy the sea.

    1. First, you should float in the water for five minutes. It’s no secret that the exceptionally high concentration of salt and minerals nourishes the skin.
    2. Then, dry off and apply mud to every visible inch of skin (avoiding swimwear, which the mud will permanently stain).
    3. You’ll be ready to go back into the water once the mud dries under the sun in ten minutes–pass the time by taking photos of your muddy limbs, or conversing with the medical tourist sitting next to you.

    It’s best not to spend too much time in the sea, because the salt is almost too potent, and can cause swollen legs. The water has a way of finding every vulnerability and making it sting: a paper cut you didn’t know you had, a tiny scrape barely exposing flesh.

    Anecdotally, spending time in the sea heals superficial skin issues like psoriasis and acne. I recall a woman who was often by the water, sitting on the edge of a sun lounger, with dried mud on her arthritic knees. The supposed benefits of the Dead Sea range from miraculous to modest–fifteen minutes of stillness, if nothing else.

  • Clean, non-toxic fragrances that will keep you smelling amazing—without the harmful chemicals.

    Clean, non-toxic fragrances that will keep you smelling amazing—without the harmful chemicals.

    Fragrance sits at the heart of my beauty ritual.

    My morning routine is not complete without a generous misting of my favourite scent. But what if the perfumes we’ve come to love are laced with ingredients our bodies don’t?

    As someone who’s long romanticised perfume—the realisation that many mainstream fragrances are made with synthetic fillers and hormone disruptors was a sobering one. Parabens. Phthalates. Sulfates. Words that are not made for consumption. And as the BeautyTok saying goes—your skin is your largest organ. A canvas. Why douse it in toxins when cleaner alternatives exist?

    So after years of curating what goes into my body, it felt only natural (lol) to redefine what goes on it too.

    After sleuthing through my socials and the wider web, I sat back and let the algorithm do its thing. In no time at all, I found myself blissfully scrolling through a quiet corner of the internet—a micro-community of perfumiers bound by a shared ethos: transparency, thoughtfulness, and the art of balanced composition. Here are three of my favourite clean fragrance brands that are redefining what it means to smell luxurious, without the toxic footprint.

    Recreation Beauty
    Australia’s answer to a conscious cult classic. Recreation Beauty offers luxury in a bottle, without compromising on quality. Vegan, cruelty free and ethically sourced— their scents are formulated without synthetic fillers, hormone disruptors, or questionable chemicals. Redefining decadence with integrity.

    Try: At Night We Dance
    Notes: Musk, magnolia, orange, vanilla, wood.

    Orb Oils
    Orb is a sensorial deep-dive—a blend of notes that conjure mood and memory. Their formulas are free from parabens, silicones, and all the usual harmful suspects. Think archival deity—rich, earthy layers blended with the finest essential oils for a scent that feels both grounded and divine.

    Try: Bobby  Fragrance Oil
    Notes: Sandalwood, spice, fresh, unisex.

    Tulita Fragrance

    Founded with the intention of setting a new benchmark for luxury, Tulita commits to formulations completely free from chemical compounds known to be carcinogenic or hormone disruptors. Their elixirs are 100% naturally derived, with over 55% organic ingredients. No parabens, no phthalates, no petroleum derivatives. Tulita Fragrance are the first of their kind—merging both fragrance and wellness into a natural elixir of vitality.

    Try: Agati
    Notes: Woody, earthy, green.