The Plight of the Lifestyle Blogger

Come New Year's Day, I will have run this blog for 3 years.

 Since it's conception in the early hours of 2013, this blog has seen endless changes - from being an online diary to be read by none, to becoming an advice blog, to sharing fashion and beauty tips, reviewing restaurants and cafes, serving critical commentaries of the blogging world, and as of lately becoming a travel blog and adventure chronicle.

Through all of this, I've always found myself under the title of 'Lifestyle Blog'. And that in itself presents a unique challenge for the diverse range of creators whose content just kinda ends up under that label for want of a better description. The line between being a personal lifestyle blogger, and a commercial lifestyle blogger.

Aren't We All Just Trying To Make Great Telly?

I've unavoidably been spending a lot of time reflecting back over my time in New York.

I had the singular most incredible, enlightening and life-changing experience of my life, and I feel incredibly lucky to have experienced what I did, comfortable in the knowledge that I made the most out of every last second.

Now back in the UK, my mind is still so attuned to NYC that I seem to notice it everywhere - Tumblr pics of outfit shots taken on Broadway reblogged onto my dash, people on Instagram sipping Cosmopolitans in Brooklyn, every blogger under the sun jetting over for NYFW. At first I was joyous; I know that coffee shop! I walked down that street! I took a picture there too!

But the more I see, I've begun to notice small trickles of fresh regret seeping into my mind and contaminating my memories.

Regret which never once appeared while I was there.

A Little Bit More Than Just A New 'Do

"Since the disintegration of her parent's marriage she'd only loved two things. The first was her long dark hair. The second was how easily she could cut it off and not feel a thing" 

- 500 Days of Summer

I Can't Quiet My Fears, But Maybe I Can Shout Them Into Silence

Here are some things I can't get out of my head.

A Piece Of Shit That Just Won't Quit

Today, all my friends are dressed in beautiful, billowing ballgowns and immaculately tailored suits, as they wait patiently inside the ancient, cavernous cathedral to receive a scroll and a handshake from the Dean of students. 

Today, I sit in my pants and a long T-shirt, cup of tea in hand, the only scroll for me being my thumb down my Twitter timeline. 

A Certain Kinda Sunday

There's something about a Sunday, isn't there?

Perhaps it's leftover anxiety from childhood schooldays, the perpetual post-weekend hangover of adulthood or the even the dreary lacklustre rain which always seem to dog the final day of the week -there's just a vibe about that day. It always seems so serious.

Since landing back in the Kingdom I'm lucky enough to have been whisked into an instant whirlwind of activity, partying with my closest friends just a few hours after I left the airport and venture into the depths of a bizarrely amazing underground cocktail bar in London the day after.

But today is... well. It's Sunday. 

The End of the Beginning

As it was always going to be, the turn of September meant two things. A handful of the most frustrating days of my life, and the beginning of the end. 

After leaving our beautiful home in Bushwick and one hell of a subway journey with an accumulation of 6 months worth of stuff, for the past few days we have been up in our last American refuge - an air b'n'b in Far Rockaway, the lovely little beachside neighbourhood right by JFK airport.