Female friendships in your 20s are like a high-stakes game of perception, where fake positivity masks calculated envy and sweet words hide sharp knives. You think you’re meeting potential soul sisters, but you’re actually navigating a minefield of girls who include you only to exclude you later. Protecting your energy becomes everything—because the right people will make you feel alive, but the wrong ones will drain you dry. So trust your gut, read the room like it’s a script, and remember: some friendships are bombs disguised as hugs—and the fallout isn’t worth it.

Waking up sad in Paris is still waking up in Paris. I’m learning that fairytales aren’t perfect—they’re messy, loud, beautiful, and brave. I’m growing, falling, getting back up. Fighting fire with fire, fear with hunger. And maybe, just maybe, I’m one step closer to my happily ever after.

One minute I was in Paris. The next, I was on a flight to Sydney, then elbow-deep in a storage unit filled with old lore, dust and decisions I hadn’t made yet. Everything moved fast—too fast. I blinked and found myself in three different time zones, three versions of myself, and no real landing. Nothing felt linear. Nothing made sense. But in the middle of jet lag and cluttered thoughts, I realized: maybe change isn’t meant to be graceful. Maybe it’s meant to flip you upside down, shake the loose pieces and reveal what truly is meant to be.

I’ve written this 15 times—in transit, in chaos, half-dressed, half-awake, half-sure of anything. On a boat that isn’t in the water. After sex. After silence. With a one-way ticket to Paris. I’m 22, not 35, and I’m tired of pretending I’ve got it all figured out. This isn’t a LinkedIn newsletter. It’s a blog for the girls crying in airport bathrooms, for the startup kids with unfiled trademarks, for anyone who writes their truths in the Notes app and prays no one ever sees them. Welcome to 411. It's chaos. It's catharsis. It’s mine.