2016

I remember writing this note on my phone a year ago today

One of my favourite writers, Mary Oliver, had once wrote "I ran for it. I relaxed in it. I stood willingly and gladly in the characters of everything—other people, trees, clouds. And this is what I learned: that the world’s otherness is antidote to confusion, that standing within this otherness—the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books—can re-dignify the worst-stung heart."

At the end of 2015, I stood on a hotel balcony in southern Thailand, I watched hundreds of lanterns float into the sky and heard fireworks crackling in the distance. The air was thick with warmth, the kind that settles on your skin like a second layer. Every day, I had been drifting on a lilo in the Indian Ocean, my hair now streaked blonde from the sun. I had finished university. And there was that butterfly feeling in my stomach—the quiet wondering of what 2016 would bring, as so many people do at the turn of a new year, reflecting on all that had unfolded in the last twelve months.

When I think of it, I don’t just see a single moment. I see an entire series—some fleeting, slipping through my fingers before I could hold onto them, and others so vivid, so deeply felt, that I wish I could relive them in slow motion, stretching them out, lingering just a little longer.

March,

 I woke up in the Maldives and had never seen water that blue or swam in water so warm. The buffet dinners of fresh vegetables and seafood in the evening with bowls of pineapples in the morning. I woke up to stingray circling my bungalow, and in the evenings watching the sun set over the horizon I danced in my underwear around the villa to Justin Timberlake. No cell reception except for one spot under one specific coconut tree (no, I’m not kidding). The island took exactly 7 minutes of a power walk to circle and I still think it was a dream. 

Returning home was a whirlwind of boxes, packing, and the stress of moving. My parents had sold the apartment and bought a house by the sea. It was hard saying goodbye to a chapter of life that was so vibrant and fleeting. I still miss the city lights and Lavender Bay sparkling softly in the mornings.

In under three years, so many memories filled that apartment, yet it was undeniably time for new beginnings. And still, the island lingers in my mind—sunbathing under endless blue skies, the warm sand beneath my feet, the bluest water stretching out endlessly. I honestly still wonder if it was just a dream.

April,

I had my graduation, and the night before Phillipa and I had a sleepover. We made chocolate pancakes in the morning and wore our full robe and mortarboard outfits on the train, even though no one else changed until they arrived at the hall—we were simply too excited. I vividly remember an old man in a business suit yelling “congratulations!” as we stepped off the train.

Waiting around the corner of the stage, heart racing with nerves, I scanned the crowd until I found my parents' faces above, stretching my neck and standing on tiptoes. It suddenly took me back to my first day of school; I felt so young, nostalgic, grown-up, clueless, and excited all at once.

I heard cheers from friends as I walked across the stage, and when the chancellor shook my hand asking what my favourite learning experience had been, all I could think of were late nights lying on the media lab floor after ten hours of editing, spontaneous ice cream runs when we ditched the library, or blasting music in our cars after our final exam. I realized then that the most valuable lessons came from the people I met.

Three years of university suddenly seemed small in the grand scheme, and now, a year after graduation, I've realized that the company you keep is what truly matters. The real adventures begin once you leave—though that, ultimately, is up to you.

A month or two after that, I had short candy floss pink hair and farewelled my sky blue Fiat 500 which looked like a little spaceship, or maybe a cloud, or even a little blue mint you’d keep in your pocket. I drove it to uni every day, took country road trips, and once even navigated through a dried-up lake in 38-degree weather in the countryside—something it wasn't at all equipped for (it survived, though the back license plate didn't). I cried in that little car, sang at the top of my lungs, and then traded it in for a ridiculously bright, big, yellow Jeep.

My favourite thing about the Jeep is that Ziva, my Doberman, can actually fit comfortably in the back. On our first long road trip together, she rested her head gently on my shoulder while I drove, occasionally sticking her head out the window, enjoying the wind. I never missed the Fiat again. That change of car, amidst many other shifts happening at the time, felt like the best kind of materialistic change.

Driving with Ziva reminds me of childhood days in South Africa when my uncle would whistle for the dogs to hop into the back of his Toyota. It would be me, two German Shepherds, a Corgi, and a Border Collie, all heading to the beach. There's something about driving with your dog in the back—it feels invincible, like an adventure waiting to unfold.

August,

I joined my parents again, this time to help move into the beach house on the Sapphire coast. Not only were we living in this dreamy coastal town, but we were also right around the corner from Phillipa. We went to the beach nearly every day, our dogs swimming through the waves, joking about getting walkie-talkies to communicate since we were so close.

I first visited this little beach village with Phillipa back when we still lived in the city. “I wish your parents would move here too!” she’d said, knowing how well our families got along. I told her about a painting my mum had created years ago of her dream house by the sea—falling asleep to the sound of waves, the kitchen filled with ocean breezes.

One house visit and an accepted offer later, the painting became our reality, and Phillipa’s wish was granted.

I missed my city room but nothing compares to the sound of the waves at night. 

Ziva turned one, and as everyone who knows me knows, I love that dog more than I’ve ever loved anything.

Amidst all the change and graduation excitement, I decided to get a work visa for France and experience life in Europe for a year or so, traveling solo. Originally, my plan had been New York, but I felt the States could wait for another era of my life.

The night before my flight to France, I fought back tears all day—I was scared. Phillipa stayed with me, repeatedly asking jokingly if I was really going, trying to keep it light-hearted though we both felt the heaviness. When we hugged goodbye, we both inevitably cried. With unwavering confidence, Phillipa reminded me to walk tall, be brave, and embrace this exciting adventure ahead.

The morning of departure, I kissed Ziva's long nose as she slept, quietly said goodbye to my parents, and cried not-so-secretly behind tinted shuttle windows. Seated on the plane beside a rain-speckled window, watching grey skies fade beneath me, I finally took a deep breath, realizing that above the clouds, fears always felt smaller, less chaotic, and more manageable.

I arrived in warm-toned Paris just as it began transitioning to autumn. Nostalgia sweeped the city, the leaves slowly shifting colours, and the temperature gradually cooling from warm to crisp provided a comforting reassurance that my adjustment would follow suit—effortless and steady.

And it has been.

A whole new chapter of life, with a new language, new room, new everything. Slowly, I've fallen in love with this city and discovered a version of myself who is independent, brave, calm, and honest as ever. I've learned discipline, patience, and resilience—and continue to do so. I can't express the lightness I feel. Whenever I feel overwhelmed or doubt myself, I recall how I felt when I first arrived: moving to a new country for the third time, and this time alone at 21, I have such a different perspective. I'm continuously aware of my growth, embracing every step of this journey.

I imagine myself being three or four years old again running through the sprinklers in the backyard in Cape Town and being proud of how I’ve grown. I think of her and remind myself to take care of her—to take care of myself when I’m homesick or confused.

I also try to imagine myself in ten or fifteen years from now, telling the story of this whole venture and saying “It was hard but, it was so much fun! I don’t know what the stress was even for—I figured it all out in the end”

I’ve learnt so much about hope, and in so much uncertainty, how invincible it can make you feel. And to just trust in it. To trust in uncertainty. To not take life too seriously.

Change is the end result of all true learning, and I know if I turned my back on anything that scared me, I'd be stuck in the same spot my whole life. 

My family sent me this photo of the sea on Christmas day, while I was in a world blanketed in snow.

 People around me here speak French and other beautifully poetic languages. What I couldn't imagine understanding four months ago, I now do.

Learning a new language can be discouraging and challenging, yet incredibly rewarding. Communication in a foreign country is an intriguing, sometimes humorous challenge—but once you embrace it, the desire to learn becomes unstoppable.

Growing out my hair from a short pixie cut has become a comforting measure of time passing and a lesson in patience.

Eight more months hardly seem sufficient to explore and savor this beautiful part of the world before my visa expires. Yet, I sense there's so much more ahead.

I'm yet to turn 22, and whatever my life's plans may be—I trust I'll figure it out when the time comes.

2017, be good to me.