28 articles

I want to tell you about two things that happened to me recently. By any objective measure, neither of them is remarkable. One involved a car. The other involved chewing gum.

It stretches as far as you can see in every direction. And in it, flowers. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Each one is a different colour, a different height, a different shape. Some of them face the sun. Some of them are bent slightly from the weather they have lived through. Some are in full bloom. Some are past their peak.

There is a particular kind of company that a podcast can offer. You are driving somewhere, or walking somewhere, or doing the necessary but not particularly fulfilling task of existing in the world, and there are two voices in your ears. You don't know these people, not really. But you've grown fond of them in the way you grow fond of anyone who is consistently honest with you about the things that matter. We wanted to build that.

Lately, I have been thinking about the ways we outsource our wellness. We seek advice. We ask for reassurance. We hand our experiences over to others to interpret. And sometimes that is necessary. Reflection and projection are powerful tools; being witnessed in our struggles can soften their edges. Community matters. Guidance matters.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak that does not come from loss. It comes from watching someone you love remain in a life that is slowly dimming them. You see it in the way they speak about themselves. In the exhaustion that never lifts. In the habits they defend but quietly resent.

Words & Contemplations starts her podcast journey, bringing you blogs in audio format as well as meditations, gentle practices and talks. Come along for the journey; we'd love to have you tune in.

What happens when the dust settles after eleven months of wandering? After living out of a single suitcase and a "long list of hell yes's" alongside an even longer list of "no’s," you eventually find yourself standing in the quiet of what used to be your life.

When we left our work/life roles, I thought the hardest part would be the logistics. I quickly learned that the true challenge is the unravelling of the "doing" mind. Here are ten practices I’ve gathered from the road that you can do anywhere.

There are times when self-understanding doesn’t come from doing more, fixing more, or striving harder - but from seeing yourself clearly for the first time. Recently, I explored both my astrological birth chart and Human Design, not to predict the future, but to understand myself more deeply during a period of transition. What unfolded wasn’t instruction or certainty, but recognition. This reflection explores what these systems are, why so many are drawn to them right now, and how they can offer permission to embrace the parts of ourselves we’ve often tried to override.

As this year comes to a close, I’ve been reflecting on what “slowing down” really ended up being for me. When I imagined it, I pictured beaches, sunrise yoga sessions, sunsets with salty hair, and the kind of inner peace that glossy wellness posts make look effortless. And yes, there were moments that felt like that. But most of the time, slowing down wasn’t glamorous. It was messy, humbling, grounding and honest. It looked like a compromise. It asked me to make choices I didn’t always expect. It made me meet myself in ways I had never truly allowed before.

In a world where wellness is often sold as “buy this product,” “subscribe to this service,” “follow this influencer,” it can feel like well-being is something external that you purchase. But what if true wellness was the opposite? Lived, found, built from the inside out, free and accessible. What if it wasn’t about what you buy, but what you do, what you think, what you become?

Beyond fad diets and marketing trends, both science and ancient Ayurvedic wisdom tell us the same truth: real, whole food can heal. Studies now show that balanced, minimally processed diets improve longevity, brain health, and emotional stability. Ayurveda has been teaching this for millennia: food is medicine, and the way we eat is a mirror of how we live.

A reflection on wellness, wholeness, and the quiet lessons that keep arriving. Your thirties are a middle ground, old enough to know better, young enough to still test the edges. Somewhere between who you thought you’d be and who you’re becoming, life starts to whisper its truths. This is the decade when awareness deepens, priorities shift, and the surface begins to crack in the best possible way.

We often speak of love as something we either have or don’t, something we fall into or out of. Yet few of us pause long enough to consider its deeper purpose. What if love is not the destination, but the lesson itself?

When I set out on what I half-jokingly called my adult gap year, I had a very clear picture of what I was chasing. I wanted adventure. Something new every day. A change of scenery. Access to incredible things for my photography.

There are people in our lives who remind us to play; the ones who make you want to cartwheel on the beach, run along the sand, or balance, laughing, in a rock pool in warrior three. On my Koh Samui retreat, there was one such person: Bronte.

There are moments in life when we meet people who feel like mirrors. All the qualities we long to recognise in ourselves appear so effortlessly in them. And then, as you spend time together, you realise something extraordinary: what you see in them is what they see in you. The connection becomes something rare and beautiful — a space where you bring out the best in one another, even though just days before you were strangers.

Yes, I’ve been to some incredible places over the last few months. But what I’ve realised is that when you don’t have a “home” to go back to, or more importantly, no clear end date, even the most remarkable experiences begin to feel… normal. And normal, when stretched too long, loses its magic.

Four months ago, I packed up my perfectly curated Melbourne life, placed it neatly into a 3x3 storage cage, and boarded a one-way flight. Since then, I’ve travelled through Bali, Vietnam, Cambodia, Kuala Lumpur, and Sri Lanka, with Thailand just around the corner.

There are places in the world that don’t just ask you to visit—they invite you to feel. Cambodia is one of those places. Thick with memory, gilded with devotion, and humming with life, it offers a kind of travel that moves beneath the surface. This isn’t a country for rushing through. It’s a country for pausing, listening, and letting the stories rise from the land itself.

I used to believe I was a good traveller. Curious. Kind. Conscious. But as I moved through the villages of Vietnam, past rice paddies, crumbling temples, food stalls, and families, I was forced to reckon with a quieter truth. I have always been a privileged traveller. And with that privilege comes a responsibility.

With grand plans of spending three months in Vietnam, we secured a 90-day visa, packed our lives into suitcases, and left the bliss of Bali for the cultural mosaic of Vietnam.

In a world that often feels rushed and disconnected, what if the simplest gesture, a smile, could shift not only your day but someone else’s? In this reflection from Bali, I explore the quiet power of going first, of offering joy without expecting anything in return… and what happens when that joy circles back.

Or, what happened when I threw out the itinerary and finally listened to that quiet inner voice. This isn’t an anti-blog. It’s not a rebellion against to-do lists, or a rejection of all the amazing things Bali has to offer. It’s simply an invitation to do things your own way.

We’ve been in Vietnam for 12 days, and I’d be lying if I said it’s been plain sailing. After the peace we found in Bali, this rhythm of packing up and moving every 4–5 days feels tedious. There was something grounding about our daily yoga practice there, something magical in the stillness that gave our time structure and soul. Now, without that anchor, we find ourselves drifting, disoriented and restless.

I wrote this piece back in April 2022, and it feels poetic that it still holds relevance now, three years later, in April 2025. I’ve left most of it unchanged. It speaks to something tender about the way time carries us—sometimes with a gust, other times with the softest nudge from one place to the next.

A Return to Self, Through Movement and Community. It’s been six wonderful weeks of daily practice at Alchemy Yoga & Meditation Centre in Ubud. Six weeks of breath, sweat, stillness, and subtle transformation. We chose this space instinctively, drawn back by the magic of the Alchemy café, which we first fell in love with eight years ago. The yoga studio felt like a natural extension of that same energy: nourishing, grounded, and open-hearted.

We left Bali today after two wonderful months of getting to know ourselves again. That might sound odd, but when you’ve lived in survival mode for so long, it’s impossible to know who you are beneath the armour—armour that’s protected you from chaos, but also from truth. Truth like: you were ticking boxes, going through motions, cohabiting with someone who was quietly slipping into sadness. And truthfully, the silence about that sadness made it hard to distinguish what was "normal" from what was drowning.