With over a decade spent navigating in person interactions and witnessing online interactions, there seems to be a new mantra making its way into my vocabulary. “If people want to misunderstand you, they will.”

No matter how well-constructed your sentences are, or how well-phrased your intentions are, people will misunderstand you before you’ve even spoken. We see it in the shift of celebrities and influencers being cancelled more for what they say than what they do.

Actions have become quieter than words. Actual crimes less discusses than the “crime” of being mean - or quite frankly - honest.

“I don’t want to be working in ballet, or opera, or things where it’s like, ‘Hey, keep this thing alive, even though like no one cares about this anymore.’ All respect to all the ballet and opera people out there.”

It took only a few sentences for hundreds of thousands of people to cancel Timothee Chalamet for allegedly disparaging the arts. The sound on TikTok has generated a million likes and almost six thousand comments from a single video. Some of the comments: “How to destroy your career in less then 10 seconds!”, “Are we witnessing the downfall of Chalamet?”, “don’t feel any respect for him anymore” and “I miss when he was French and quiet” with 382 THOUSAND likes!!

Now granted, his thought was terribly phrased. So badly phrased that outside of its context it does seem that he is disparaging ballet and opera. Rather, he seems to be admitting to the difficulty of working in a seemingly dying industry. Whether you agree with the current state of interest of opera and ballet, you cannot disagree that it takes a strong willpower, and an even stronger passion, to work in a dying industry. To do it for the love of it, more than the benefit of it.

Chalamet was entirely right to mention how demanding it takes to work in the creative industry. Entirely right to admit that he does not have the strength to do so. To admit his fault, even when speaker in such a light hearted tone.And yet, we hesitate. We hesitate to admit, to mention.

As a writer, I sometimes fear the full page more than the blank page. I fear of being intentionally misunderstood, misinterpreted. I rush to self-censor before anyone does it on my behalf. I question whether my humour will translate, whether I may poke fun at things without being met with restraints.

Now, public figures engaging in human rights discourse are labelled as “brave”. They must question whether or not they are willing to put their careers on the line before doing something as simply as denouncing genocide.

In a 2024 Teen Vogue interview, actress Nicola Coughlan spoke on the backlash of speaking against the genocide in Palestine by stating:

“You do get told, ‘You won’t get work,’ ‘You won’t do this.’ But I also think, deep down, if you know that you’re coming from a place of ‘I don’t want any innocent people to suffer,’ then I’m not worried about people’s reactions.”

People’s reactions. That is what it boils down to for many. Having to frame and re-frame our words for a more palatable version of our thoughts and opinions. Having to carefully read each sentence and place yourselves in the shoes of someone who so wishes to devalue your opinion, to contest your intentions.

In her most recent article, Ayan Artan writes of Nabokov’s Lolita:

i don’t know if i’m as brave a writer as nabokov was. i care still about being misunderstood. i must explain and quantify, but that has to stop. he did what all great artists do. he risked being labelled the worst thing imaginable because he refused to dumb his work down.

Our words and our art need to be honest. Need to be uncensored. They need to risk. Risk being misunderstood, taken out of context, misinterpreted. Risk being torn apart and mocked. Risk being renounced and shunned and cancelled.

Without that risk, our art cannot risk being adored. Risk being applauded. Risk being repeated and studied and taught. Risk being copied and reformulated and regurgitated. Risk being written in diaries and walls. Risk being posted and shared. Risk being understood.

Love,

Anastasia

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In 1912, Sigmund Freud defines the Madonna-whore complex in his essay, “On the Universal Tendency to Debasement in the Sphere of Love,” writing of men:

“Where they love they do not desire and where they desire they cannot love. They seek objects which they do not need to love, in order to keep their sensuality away from the objects they love (…)”

And in 2026, Caro Claire Burke introduces Christian wife/ influencer Natalie in her debut novel Yesteryear, who in returning to the past admits:

“I remind myself, with more than a little bit of unease, that nothing is accidental. Nothing in this world happens that is not part of His plan. (Visions of martyrs dance in my mind: women burning alive, children losing their heads, so some man’s faith might be restored. My hand drifts back to my stomach, and another wave of light headedness passes through me. I’m not some sacrifice, am I, Lord?)”

While Freud theorised that women were to put on a pedestal or in bed, Burke adds another possibility: that of the stake.

the death of the Virgin

Truth be told, the Virgin seems an outdated distinction in pop culture. When is the last time we were presented with an ideal version of femininity men were eager to respect and love in favour of desire? What women do all men put on pedestal? I think back to the distinction of Sinners and Saints in the first season of “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives” - a distinction which falls flat almost immediately as the chosen villain of the season is meant to be a Saint.

Time and time again, we are given an ideal version of femininity so we can tear it down. And that’s where the Martyr comes in.

Womanhood exists within the frames of socialisation. When becoming a woman, we are given the choice to remain within the structure of patriarchy or set ourselves apart from it. Both conscious political choices - to comply or defy - knowing that neither choice will easily empower us.

In the case of Yesteryear, the author seems to present a brief figure of the Virgin. Rather than the perfect wife who her husband respects and loves, it is the daughters, specifically Mary, who replaces her mother as the head of the house while having no husband of her own (the perfect Virgin). The figure is brief, and falls from grace as none of the daughters can remain the Virgin once they emerge into adulthood. Within their new agency they must decide to be a Whore or a Martyr: two choices of how to be reduced, how to be punished for their autonomy.

The nauseating realisation that the Virgin is not the wife but the daughter is a deliberate choice from the author: one that shows how a young girl’s evolution must be followed by a regression. The threat of the woman has to be contained within the traditional realms they exist in.

The modern world is quite similar: there are no Virgins, just women navigating the unsolvable enigma of patriarchy. This is why Natalie’s image of the Whore as a predator falls flat. While Natalie envisions herself a Martyr, i.e. the sacrifice to restore her husband’s faith, she depicts her college roommate Reena and assistant Shannon as Whores, as she does largely with all modern women.

In one incident, a few months after Natalie laid in her bed while her college roommate had a man over, she accuses Reena of being a predator for telling the rest of her friends that the man made her feel uncomfortable and had pressured her into sex. She flips the situation entirely and reframes the incident through her lens: that of an unreliable narrator, one who has been taught of sex as a duty. In flipping back to the incident, it is more than obvious that Reena was pressured, and simply tried to appease the man.

But it is so easy to blame the woman. To read compliance and agreement. We see this in all aspects of pop culture. The urge society has to point the finger at the woman: the Whore as a predator, the Martyr as a sacrifice.

“Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.”

Excerpt from A thousand splendid suns, Khaled Hosseini

Love, Anastasia

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Admittedly, I do not have thousands of dollars, nor am I a Justin Bieber fan. I do have a dust allergy and an Iphone, so my knowledge of the performance is mostly the result of scrolling through dozens of clips posted online. None of this matters of course, as I do not need to see the twenty minutes of him singing along to his old music videos and sing along’s on YouTube (part of a ninety minute performance mind you) to determine that we now have a new poster child for the “lazy artist” society insists on stamping on every other month.

Art, muddled with entertainment, has always been subjective. While some may value the high production of a performance like Sabrina Carpenter’s, others may value the intimacy and self-reference of a performance like Justin Bieber’s. Both, no matter how different, figure as artistic expressions. The issue lies when the fact of entertainment, the reality of purpose becomes more valuable than the art, the expression.

All comments I’ve seen of women not being able to get away with performing as he did seem irrelevant, as he did not get away with anything. MANY seem to believe that Justin Bieber “owed” the audience a performance closer to Sabrina’s. But did he?

When has art been ever valued on the standard of it being universally palatable? Of it being pleasing to all members of the public? An artist should not question whether or not what they do is of value. Their impact is not in their hands, therefore not part of their job. Similarly, if history has taught us anything it is that the world is an extremely unreliable critic.

Think about it. Has every piece of art you’ve learnt about not been met with some push back? Has every great artist that pushed boundaries not been deemed as lazy? Now I’m not suggesting we equal Justin Bieber to Dadaism artist Marcel Duchamp, whose art includes a reproduction of the Mona Lisa with a moustache and goatee, but I am suggesting that an artist is a poet and a poet is a fool. Let artists play the fool.

So much of art is met with “Even I could do that!” by individuals who will never pick up a brush other to paint their living room walls white. Art is not meant to please everyone. It is not meant for a larger audience. Art should be met with skepticism, with confusion, with laughter and even with disappointment. No art should be universally palatable.

The day art becomes universally palatable is the day freedom ceases to exist. The day propaganda and art are not distinguishable. Art should not have a blueprint, for we all know who would be in control of said blueprint…

As loss for those who paid thousands of dollars for the glitz and glam that comes with camping in the dust for three days - a win for art.

Love,

Anastasia

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Like many things, taste has developped into a kind of commodity. The less one’s taste is noticed, the rarer it is. This has developped into creators themselves marketing themselves through appealing to a niche community. It seems everything has become more and more tailored to a specific, niche community. An “you either get it or you don’t” mindset has taken over the digital world, where every aspect of creativity is hyper aware of its specific target.

Even on Substack, essays and thinkpieces market themselves as hitting a specific brand of intellectualism. Many essays go even so far as appealing to a specific range of female intllectual. Understandable, as more than 60% of female users on Substack are women. This platfom seems to offer a unique community, under the illusion of being open and accepting. Yet a number of its users remain cling to an idea of Substack being more elevated than other social media platforms. Of being a community for some kind of literate elite, advertised through the lens of various trends, such as the “thought daughter”.

Yet this marketing of being part of an understated circle is not entirely new. Women are much more online because much like being a woman, being online is a performance. Our understanding of how to adapt our appearance is led entirely by our long understanding of other’s perception of us. We understand that our aesthetic communicates much before we do. Why else would so many of us have over a dozen Pinterest boards?

Women know how to play it up or how to suppress it, in a way many men fail to do, all because it hasn’t impacted their lives in the same way.

If taste is at present the darling idol of the polite world, as Professor Ruby Justice Thélot argues, then it is no wonder women are so conscious of how they choose to communicate it. As a point of social discourse, we all seem to be under the impression that our social media presence is a constant answer to the question “What is Taste?” In our most self-conscious moments, it seems like a simple “like” is at risk of being disected.

In ending his essay on taste with,

When uncreased white sneakers question polished penny loafers, begging “What’s Taste?”, the real question asked is, “What’s Good?”

I wonder whether the question draws curiosity on the interior or the exterior: is it a question of what is good in the world or what is good according to me? While both may have drawn the same answers in a society where taste was a matter of virtue, our digital capitalist age deploys taste as a symbol of class, a symbol of proper consumerism.

In a way, being hesitant towards having likes be made public is less about the realisation that other people can see what I consume, but rather the hyper-awareness that the algorithm and every unknown machine can see what I consume. How can we be sold intimacy and community on platforms that track every second of our online activity?

Privacy is dead, sure, but don’t rub it in my face.

Because that is precisely what we are expected to forget. In the discourse of “I don’t want my high school friends to see the dozen memes me and my brother send each other”, we seem to forget the machine we truly do not wish to track our consumption. Because if we aren’t at the table, we are surely on the menu.

Now there is no need to be entirely pessimistic, but it is important to be aware. I have found myself resisting by refusing to like anything, yet have slowly come to the conclusion that it only harms creatives - creatives I so wish to support. So fuck it, let’s make sure we are loud when we like something. Let us leave a like, leave a comment, post it on our stories. Let us make sure that everyone around us knows exactly where we stand.

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Love,

Anastasia

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Now, rather than claiming that in Heahtcliff was a character of colour in Emily Bronte’s 1847 novel Wuthering Heights, I will be claiming that Heathcliff is a person of colour in 2026. Taking place in 1801 and going back and forth in between thirty years, Bronte’s novel depicts the antonym of a love story between Catherine and Heathcliff.

In the novel, there are half a dozen sentences referring to Heathcliff with the g slur, another dozen describing his features as dark, sometimes black. The first description goes as:

But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose.

Many of these quotes have been split open and dissected, as if the truth of what Bronte intended would make their way into a digital comment section. Perhaps Heathcliff was Romani, perhaps Heathcliff was white. I will never know that, but I do know two things.

One: People need to stop thinking that nuanced depictions and/or views on race, gender, sexuality emerged in literature of the twentieth century.

Black chracters, gay characters, trans characters, and every other kind of characters, have existed in literature and story-telling as a whole for centuries. It is very likely that Bronte wrote about characters of colour. As the daughter of an abolitionist, and perhaps an abolitionist herself, she would have very likely had a broader world view then what people give her credit for not writing race in a way contemporary writers would.

As a reader or a critic, you cannot apply your world view onto classic literature. Feminist classic literature and feminist modern literature are vastly different, and for good reasons. In expecting what modern writers would write, you will fail to understand just how subversive some novels were at the time they were published.

In my view, some of the most subversive sentences regarding gender in literature exist in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” and Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, “Reader, I married him.”

Simple sentences that one could read through without a second thought, if expecting a subversiveness closer to Hollywood’s. Yet, 1801 would have been only a decade or two after two of the most known Western revolutions. How could we have had revolutions without revolutionaries?

Two: Race depicted in the eighteenth century cannot be depicted the same way in the twenty-first.

Even if some critics were right and Heathcliff was simply French or Spanish, it would not change the necessity of him having to be represented as a man of colour in any modern depiction for viewers to understand the particular otherness he is made to feel in Wuthering Heights. Bear with me here.

Heathcliff emerges in Catherine’s life as both a child and orphan, and is made to be verbally and physically treated as an other throughout his entire upbringing. His otherness plays a crucial role in making him into the adult he comes to be.

As the concept of race and particularly non-whiteness has evolved throughout centuries, it is important to note that for a time, being white was synonymous with being WASP (white Anglo-Saxon Protestant).

In my first literary thesis, I wrote about white passing and included the novel Ask the Dust, which depicts an Italian man struggling to pass as white. An Italian man not being classified as white in 2026 would be laughable, but definitions of race in the eighteenth century were largely based on Carl Lineau’s Systema Naturea, published in 1735, which classified the races as such:

Africanus: black, phlegmatic, relaxed; hair black, frizzled; skin silky; nose flat; lips tumid; women without shame, they lactate profusely; crafty, indolent, negligent; anoints himself with grease; governed by caprice.

Europeaeus: white, sanguine, muscular; hair long, flowing; eyes blue; gentle, acute, inventive; covers himself with close vestments; governed by laws.

While these racist classifications heightened the belief that blackness could be determined by physical appearance, in practice race was more often determined by how one presented themselves: meaning that a man with an olive-skin complexion would pass for Italian or Portuguese if he spoke and dressed well, but would be considered black if he spoke in a rural dialect and dressed poorly. This matter worsened in America in 1840 when anti-immigrant attitudes began to include racist attitudes and behaviors. At the time, South Europeans were referred by politicians and immigration reports as “olive or swarthy” – and none of them belonged to the “desired” Anglo White stock.

The struggle of passing as white in Ask The Dust could not be depicted in 2026 with an Italian character. It would require an even denser depiction of America’s history of migration and race that the one I have just tried to shortened. An Italian actor would not be able to show the impact of the otherness that takes place in the novel. The actor would need to be visibly non-white, visibly marginalised.

In the matter of Heathcliff, for those who do not wish for the “villain” of the story to be a man of colour, it is important to understand that the story is meant to portray the ways in which he becomes the villains others have already determined him to be. Accurate representation for this matters. The characerters’ view of Heathcliff matter, not Fennell’s. The stereotypes and disdain of the other characters loose momentum with a visibly white Heathcliff. The nuances need to exist to understand the story. Otherwise we might as well do-away with story-telling as a whole.

What do you think?

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Love,

Anastasia

In prioritising sons over daughters, sons no longer have the upper hand in selecting wives. Many people observed that Chinese men have now had to offer more when entering the marriage market. They are more involved in childrearing and home care activities, like cooking and cleaning. Chinese women can be more selecting, as they have more choices.

But can we really applaud choice? I mean, can we ever consider choice as singular? In the West, the idea that a woman makes a choice is inherently feminist. It shows individual agency and autonomy. But does it really?

Choice feminism would argue that a woman undertaking dangerous cosmetic procedures, putting her whole life at risk, is entirely her choice, and is what feminism fights for. Of course, it is her choice. It is also the choice of industries to advertise how women should look. Her understanding — her appreciation — of that advertisement is her choice.

Over a year ago, I wrote about my self-consciousness about my own side profile, specifically of my nose. I’ve since reconciled with it by looking towards classical art and family pictures rather than models and modern series. I can choose what I consume of course, and I can choose how I feel about myself, but I’d be lying if I said I can choose to undo the insecurity I had towards my profile in a split second. Were I to choose to change my appearance, it would be difficult for me to state that it was unanimously my choice.

Lack of singular choices aren’t entirely negative. Had I not grown up around parents that took me to bookstores almost every weekend, I might not have studied literature. Had I not grown up around parents that could afford higher education, I might not have studied at all.

So I wear makeup because I like it, and want to look healthy according to current beauty standards. So I read books because I love the calmness of it, and am interested in the newest recomendations. So I make every decision on my own, each influenced by the society I live in.

Most advancements on women’s rights are credited to women fighting for their rights. As much as that’s true, as much as choice was awarded by women, it was also awarded by the particular tides of society at the time. Most women in Europe were granted the right to vote from 1918, the year the first World War ended. It seems entirely natural that women in almost a dozen European countries were granted the right the vote after having replaced most of the workforce during the war. A choice out of empowerment, or necessity?

Can we truly assume that women joined munition factories out of their own convictions, or out of enforced patriotism? Was their right to chose truly their own?

Now that women make a higher percentage of the modern-day workforce and of higher education, we are meant to believe that we have higher agency, more decisions, and greater accountability in a system with no safety net. But is that true?

As much as I’m greatful for the choices awarded to me, would I be cinical to state that I might have too many choices? I mean sure, I possess so many opportunities, but is that too many opportunities to fail? Too opportunities to be trapped? Should I be grateful that I now have over a dozen tea options at the supermarket, a number of them with de-bloating and thinning effects? Should I be grateful that I now have thousands of ads everytime I open my phone, my computer, my car door?

The world is filled with so many opportunities that I feel more crushed by them than elevated. The more opportunities I see, the more opportunities I could fail, or falter. Because I know that nothing is ever truly my choice the way society wants me to think it is. I know that I can never decide on something without being able to connect it to something. An ad, an online suggestion, something. So what choice do I truly have? What choice do any of us have?

Love,

Anastasia

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According to Chinese horoscopes, february of this year will mark the beginning of the year of the Horse. Now what does that exaclty mean, and how might we apply it to ourselves?

Well, acording to Theodora Lau, the year of the Horse is defines as,

A lively and high-spirited year for all. Life will be hectic and punctuated with adventures. People will find themselves reckless, romantic and carefree. A definite time for advancement.

In The Handbook of Chinese Horoscopes, she goes on to note:

It is a good time for letting off steam and doing all the whimsical things you ever dreamed about. Listen to your senses. The wind may be changing constantly, but once you have picked up the scent, follow your intuitions.

Regardless of spirituality or culture, horses have often symbolised freedom. That of a grounded yet impulsive burst. Fields upon fields of wild territory at their disposal. For myself, the year of the Horse may be the perfect time to embrace horsing around, or as Lau writes, of doing all the whimsical things you ever dreamed about.

Now, as someone who believes that a fun night consists of a nice dinner with close friends til 10pm, I may not be the poster child for horsing around. I am always almost more than happy to rein myself in. An energy that cannot be upheld during this new year. The energy brought by the year of the Horse is not one of limits and contraints. The wind will change constantly, and we will need to embrace its movements.

In doing so, I will be mimicking the same energy as the man, the myth, the legend, who I believe is the poster child of horsing around, of embracing whimsical things and spontaneous side quests: Snoop Dog. I present my case through a trio of side quests:

• Snoop Dog serving as a correspondance for the US Team during the Paris 2024 Olympics

• Snoop Dog narrating Animal Planet and Jimmy KImmel late-night show titled Plizzanet Earth

• Snoop Dog entering the Guinness Book of World Records for making the largest gin and juice at a music festival

Now while most of these instances have had the internet wondering what on earth he’s doing there, the internet also remains entirelly charmed by him. Who doesn’t wish to endeavour themselves with the same spirit as America’s true sweetheart. In my view, Snoop Dog embodies the spirit that comes with the year of the Horse.

More than just horsing around in humorous ways, he also uses the privileges afforded to him for good, such as launching a youth football team league in California: an afterschool program to help kids stay on the right path.

The thrill of engaging in reckless, romantic and carefree behaviour is not entirely a novelty, but the online discourse from the past few months does seem to lean towards a new light. Influencer Gabrielle Carr in TikTok has announced her new year’s resolution to be getting rejected 1000 times. In doing so, she’s gotten her Duth citizenship, become a national pageant title holder and performed in a multitude of shows, simply from reaching out and applying for different opportunities. Her conclusion: “Chase rejection. You never know what’s waiting for you”.

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Now isn’t that exactly what we should be channelling this year? The last, I had declared that I hoped to be a terrible person throughout the year. Hoped to allow myself to show what a male gaze would consider unappealing, erratic, self-centred behaviour. This year, I’d like to push it even further, by shocking all.

So I will definitely be doing all the whimsical things I’ve ever dreamed about. Reaching for anything that might aliven my senses. This year, I will not be sacrificing my ambition. I will not be sacrificing my passions. I will not be sacrificing my spontaneity, my thirst for knowledge and experiences that go beyond the world I know now.

I hope to challenge what others consider my realm of interests, and challenge what I consider my own realm of comfort.

What will you be doing this year?

Love,

Anastasia

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As someone whose writing background consists of literary essay, my craft has been influenced by the principle that my own perspective should never take precedence over deeply rooted and recognised academics and writers. In academia, my thoughts could never truly be my own as they were consistently followed by cited works. Without my footnotes and bibliography, none of my words would’ve gotten me to graduate.

That is what drew me to writing my own newsletter at twenty-tree. At the time, I lived in Oslo, studied English and American literature, and considered my greatest writing task to be my a hundred page thesis in black masculinity in prison autobiographies. Now, at the age of twenty-five, I live in near Copenhagen and have an internship in a film festival. While it seems like much has changed, story telling is still a great part of my focus.

But how is story telling and authenticity connected? According to Merriam-Webster, what is authentic is what is true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character. Which suggests that authenticity is almost entirely centred around the self. But how can one focus on the self in a space that is constantly asking them to change, to reinvent themselves? How can one remain authentic, remain self, in a digital sphere that strives for profit?

In my view, being true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character is attached to one’s knowledge of self. To know your characters is to be aware of your ethical traits, your morals, your views. A bit of an issue online, as nowadays it seems that moral values have become consumable as marks of distinction.

In The disappearance of rituals, Byung-Chul Han notes warns that the existence of vegan shoes and clothes is simply one step away from vegan smartphones. Capitalism uses morality for its own service, making us relate values not to our community, but rather to our own egos. And under captalism, our digital communication is one that establishes connection, not relationship. We approve of those we follow and subscribe to, whether it be based on a human, political or personal affiliation, but does that automatically render our connections as authentic?

And more than that, the digital world we exchange in formats authenticity (and creativity) through a necessary or expected amount of information and renewal. Digital platforms are constantly pressuring artists and creators to give more and more of themselves and their art. We are met with a rhythm they can’t keep up with, and the question of: “If I don’t share enough, does that mean I am not authentic?”

As someone who keeps most of my personal life personal and my opinions public, who borders to line between revealing and protecting, I am always conscious of how I am perceived, both by what I give and what I don’t. I am not as authentic as a creator who shares all aspects of their lives? Is that how authenticity is determined?

As a consequence of the compulsion to constantly seek more, digital platforms end up producing variations of the same content. Sure, on might argue that artists before us produced the same exact patterns over and over again. But the old ways allowed for fulfilling, meaningful repetition. More than that, it allowed for completion. An artist knew when they were done with a project, as they walked away; moved on to the next. In being apart of the digital space, artists and creators have now lost fulfilment. The authenticy lies in themselves, not their art. The project is them, and they’ll never be done until they disable or delete their accounts.

The life of the grind that the digital sphere offers us is a life of constant consumption and communication. We must consider that there is a possibility beyond that, that authenticity does not lead to everything being communicated, everything being consumable. If we do not, I fear that we will become accustomed to the constant: the idea that a creative isn’t exploited during working hours, but rather their whole being is exploited.

For Byung-Chul Han:

Today’s crisis of community is a crisis of resonance. Digital communication channels are filled with echo chambers in which the voices we hear are mainly our own. Likes, friends and followers do not provide us with resonance; they only strengthen the echoes of the self.

Social media is becoming a place where everybody produces themselves over and over again to garner more likes and followers. It garners a community from consumerism, not connection. It lacks any possibility of bringing people together. Byung-Chul Han goes further in noting that those that produce themselves come to pay homage to the cult of the self, the worship of self. Everyone is their own priest.

So what’s the solution? Perhaps we must pull away from the question of authenticity. Cease to wonder whether we are authentic.

If authenticity destroys the concept of a social identity to favour a singular identity, then authenticity is just a question of ego. Yuck. And this is only heightened in the digital world. In digital communication, the cult of authenticity destroys the public space in favour of creating its own private space. Creatives do not seek to connect, to seek to posess a private space on their platforms. The social, the cultural, the community looses its presence.

In being so focused on cultivating and strengthening the self, authenticity makes everything subjective. We lose the ability to communicate outside our sense of self. We seek to relate everything to our self. The objective ceases the exist. The bridge, the olive branch, are mere ghosts of the past.

Through this context, creativity becomes a matter of personal discourse rather than culture. So perhaps the question isn’t whether we are ever truly authentic online, but rather if we should be? Should every single piece of your online presence reek of your scent? Or should you value and push the thoughts of others, strive to exchange thoughts and let yourself be guided. Should everything you do be clearly yours, or should you continuously play around.

Perhaps our digital identities should not be rooted in a clear-cut sense of self. I mean, do any of us truly have an unchangable, irreversable self? I don’t.

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Love,

Anastasia

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Had I not stumbled on the main actors of the new HBO Max Series Heated Rivalry answering the question, “Are you surprised by how much women love the show and do you have theories as to why?”, I might’ve written something entirely different. While actors Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams offer a number of theories - some worthy of interest and some worthy of suspicion and criticism - I would wager that the creator of the show offers perhaps one of the worst reasonings for female audiences being interested in stories centring male love interests.

Could it truly come down to the fear of sexual violence?

There is no denying that romance is both the most popular and least respected literary genre, perhaps (definitely) because the genre is largely written by women and consumed by women. As that is the case, the concept of removing women out of romance to solve a fear of sexual violence, rather than writing non-violent female centred stories, seems entirely illogical.

Is it more accurate to consider it a matter of respect?

For creator Tierney, as romance “just doesn’t get treated with a lot of respect”, female audiences are that much more responsive to the series as the genre is whole-heartedly embraced and honoured. Now, the concept of the genre being disrespected isn’t entirely new. In Rereading the Romance, critic Eric Murphy Selinger writes that many scholars give “skittish, partial, condescending, and profoundly dated accounts of the genre” due to the popular belief that disdain for the genre remains a way “to demonstrate one’s intelligence, political bona fides, and demanding aesthetic sensibility, even in circles where resistance to such orthodoxies is the norm”.

Are female audiences so used to seeing romance be met with disdain and disrespect that they become more interested in the portrayal of romance in stories centring male love interests? Or are female audiences so used to seeing female leads be met with disdain and disrespect that they become more interested in the portrayal of romance in stories centring male love interests? Which one is it? Perhaps both, or neither?

Selinger notes that the student who introduced him to romance fiction “did not justify her love on either therapeutic or feminist grounds. For her, the books were “merely” a source of pleasure”. But is there ever something “mere” about pleasure?

Some of the comments from Heated Rivalry’s female audience respond that the interest in pleasure and romance centred around two male characters has less to do with fears of violence or disrespect, and more to do with equality. In their view, these romances feature two (male) individuals whose dynamic exists on an equal footing. Simply put, both love interests share the same amount of power, and the power can shift without unsettling the other partner.

Heated Rivalry depicts two of the biggest stars in Major League Hockey that are bound by ambition, rivalry, and a magnetic pull neither of them fully understands (Good Reads summary). Shane and Ilya, the two love interests, come from vastly differing cultural and familiar backgrounds. Yet, at every step of the story both characters are entirely equal in terms of age, professional status, and gender. Even through the fear of exposure, both characters are subjected to an equal threat, an equal consequence. A dynamic both half missing and poorly depicted in many heterosexual romance series.

How could it not be, when the fear of sexual violence women are endlessly exposed to, in real life and culture, is an entirely gendered construct? Feminist scholar Gqola herself reveals that in the conceptualisation of rape is “the communication of patriarchal power”, and “an extreme act of aggression and of power, always gendered and enacted against the feminine”. Thus, sexual violence cannot be separated from the realities of patriarchy and misogyny.

In terms of depictions of sexual violence in the romance genre, Salinger proves that it is not entirely uncommon. For some authors, while they do not “endorse” the hero’s brutality, “the heroines eventually discover sexual pleasure with those very heroes”, and the novels “insist that this comes after the relationship, and frequently the hero himself, has been transformed”. In this case that we find both in traditional romance and contemporary romance, the heroines triumph over their violation, with the heroes responsible for the violation might I add. How heart warming…

So perhaps there is something “mere” about pleasure. Perhaps female audiences find pleasure in romance removed from sexual violence, and in love interests no longer engaging with those responsible for said sexual violence.

But would we truly be honest in believing in the removal of all threats of violence in homosexual love stories? Are we to turn a blind eye to the scene of Ilya pleading for Shane to understand that if he were to come out, he would no longer be able to return home to Russia? Are we to turn a bling eye at the extremely male-dominant nature of the sport, which surely offers its share of both misogyny and homophobia?

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In regard to self-respect, we might refer to Joan Didion’s 1961 Vogue article of the same title, in which she concludes that without self-respect, “one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.” But could we not say the same on self-love? Or self-worth? Do all terms of the “self “wind up meaning the same thing?

Perhaps our adversary to these terms are that they pertain in some ways to one’s character, and that character doesn’t seem to be an area of interest in our modern world. These days, most cultural discourse berates young women for reading the same four romance authors, and young men for listening to the same two male podcasters. As a result, character is seen as a needle in a haystack – in a way individuals amongst eight billion others do not.

In my own corner of the world, Scandinavians complain about the popularity of teenagers abiding by janteloven ( ie. the law of Jante) which states that:

1. You’re not to think you are anything special.

2. You’re not to think you are as good as we are.

3. You’re not to think you are smarter than we are.

4. You’re not to imagine yourself better than we are.

5. You’re not to think you know more than we do.

6. You’re not to think you are more important than we are.

7. You’re not to think you are good at anything.

8. You’re not to laugh at us.

9. You’re not to think anyone cares about you.

10. You’re not to think you can teach us anything.

While the laws found themselves written down in Aksel Sandemose’s 1933 novel A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks, they have steepened into Scandinavia as a form of cultural code. Already in the 1990s, critics claimed that these laws were a reaction to those that sought to step out of their community and claim more for themselves.

Buying the same products for their homes, driving the same cars, reading the same novels, listening to the same radio, became a way to set themselves as part of their community. So why is it that we bare such criticism to these laws? Are we all attempting to find a sense self-respect?

First, we must aknowledge that upwards mobility – that claming more on an individual basis – has existed well before the creation of the United States. Never once has humanity not been driven by individuals seeking out more. The self has always placed at the top of the podium. So where must we draw the distinction between “self-respect” and “selfish”?

Didion notes that, “character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life—is the source from which self-respect springs. (…) They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.”

Two ideas spring to my mind when reading those words. The first, is that the modern individual fails to accept responsibility for one’s own life. Rather than embracing their community through janteloven, people hide behind the numbers to designate blame onto anyone but themselves. Failures are applied to the formula rather than the individual. The second, is that we never play, and therefore know almost nothing of the odds stacked against us.

We cling to doubtful amulets by which our self-respect has been pinned. We abide by the convictions that the rather passive virtues which wins social approval automatically guarantee us happiness, honour, and the love of a good spouse. Not simply due to a misplaced self-respect, but also to the placement one one’s life into outside factors fostered for our convenience.

Who needs to search for self-respect our their own when they can simply watch a ten minute compressed step-by-step tutorial and advice video? Who needs to go out and seize the day when we can scour the internet for reviews, opinions and advice to carefully map each hour.

We glorify modern terms as if they are the keys to unlock ourselves. We seek to learn about “self-care” and “self-love” more than we seek to care and love ourselves. Rather than playing, we wait for others to play, for them to know the odds. We invest time in others to determine what is best for ourselves.

It does not matter than we consume the same content in equal measure, it matters that we do not consume from others and live for ourselves in equal measure. We have failed to draw the line – to invest in ourselves.

And if Didion believes that, “To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect,” then we might need to play more often if we ever hope to claim a sense of self-respect.

Love,

Anastasia

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In the article, Chanté Joseph writes that “Sophie Milner, a content creator, also experienced people unfollowing her when she shared a romantic relationship. “This summer, a boy took me to Sicily. I posted about it on my subscribers section, and people replied saying things like, ‘please don’t get a boyfriend!’””

“Please don’t get a boyfriend”? And here I thought being marketable for men sucked enough, now we need to be marketable for women? Accessible enough for them to like us? Single enough for them to find us interesting? Aren’t people tired of dissecting women’s worth based on their relationship to others? Aren’t we tired of contributing to a discourse of what women should and should not do?Are we truly going to police women for… being in love?

Our cultural landscape over the years has been hit by cycles of hating mothers, then children, then girlfriends, and back to mothers. As if the worst thing a woman could do is subject herself to the presence of men. Being associated with men isn’t conservative, it’s realistic. It’s how you came to exist in the first place.

According to an interviewee in the Vogue article, “having a boyfriend typically takes hits on a woman’s aura”. Another fears that sharing her man could be perceived as “boastful”. What kind of society do we live in where sharing your joy is considered boastful? Where women have to hide the love they receive for fear of upsetting other women? Since when do we not celebrate each other’s happiness?

You know what I think when I see an influencer I like get a boyfriend? I think, “good for her, I hope they’re both very happy.” I don’t feel whatever form of disgust and dismay this article mentions, as if being of value to a man devalues you to women. Notice the “I hope they’re both very happy”? That so called apprehension the original article refers to? Yeah, that’s not a fear of a woman become boring, or shallow, or obsessive with her man. I so wish that even half of my apprehension was connected to that.

Having a boyfriend in this day and age does not represent a loss of aura. We do not analyse the abusive heterosexual partners displayed in the media and in our lives to criticise the loss of our favourite characters or friends’ auras. The only real reason people are wary about a woman’s male partner is for fear that the man is an abuser. The only real reason a woman will put her two cents in is because they see these abusive patterns (which you know I have a history of doing if you’ve been here a while). And even while doing that, most women prioritise remaining a safe space for the other woman so that she can feel comfortable opening up her eyes and criticising her partner too.

Situations such as these have been throwing themselves into our lives constantly. Whether it be through the drama of a tv show or a friend who loves to have a story to tell, we hear about bad boyfriends often enough that we think all boyfriends mush be bad. That the world must be filled with only bad boyfriends. And how are we to think differently, when all those with good boyfriends are made to feel embarrassed? Ashamed for having a partner?

Representation matters until it’s not the one you want. Women and young girls may be more aware than ever of all flavours of awful when it comes to relationships, but shouldn’t they be just as aware of all flavours of love and devotion? Shouldn’t all women, regardless of how young or old, have hope that they will find their perfect partner one day?

The article sells itself as a celebration that women are now decentering men. That is its conclusion - one I whole heartedly agree with. Yet, nowhere does Sophie Milner’s subscriber focus on that when she warns her “Please don’t get a boyfriend”. Nowhere does the comment “having a boyfriend typically takes hits on a woman’s aura” focus on the subliminal misogynist undertone that comes with making a man the centre of one’s existence. Nowhere does appearing “boastful” when one is in a relationship dissect the cultural shift of no longer having a relationship as a focal point of a woman’s personality.

Chanté Joseph may be discussing one thing, but the online discourse she looks into is discussing a whole other. There is a fine line between celebrating a woman’s identity being built on her own and disparaging a woman’s life being built alongside another. And over the years, it seems to have become a blur. The modern hate train on heterosexual relationships doesn’t empower women, it tears them down.

Independence is power. But what power comes from ultimate isolation? What power comes from shame? What power comes from solitude? From fear and caution? Why does power only mean one thing. There is power in a woman finding a fulfilling romantic relationship. There is power in a woman building a marriage, a family. Power means many things, but the current narrative around women doesn’t seem to represent that.

So if you are a girlfriend, or a wife, or a mother, and you have build a beautiful life with a man that loves and respects you and others, know that you are powerful. And brilliant. And admired. Do not let anyone tell you any different.

Love,

Anastasia

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I had wanted to express the toxicity surrounding the trend of developing new hobbies and/or reconnecting with childhood hobbies. The toxicity of having to reach a specific height, or a specific length, to be “allowed” to connect to a hobby, and connect it to yourself.

Truth is: Nothing is ever that easy nowadays, precisely because we make it hard for ourselves.

Would you like to know the difference between a writer and someone who writes? A writer calls themselves a writer, and someone who writes doesn’t. A writer establishes themselves in their own interest, and someone who writes waits for the recognition. This argument can be made for almost anything.

We are fed the urge to be recognised by others rather than by ourselves at an early stage in our lives. Our youth places us at the bottom of a ladder, and we feel we must climb it to gain a nod from ours predecessors. We feel that we much reach new heights so we go higher. In doing so, we fail to go further.

No matter how fulfilled you feel, you’ll long for more if you seek recognition at every turn. Don’t go longing your whole life.

There is no right amount of books read that differenciates a reader and someone who reads. No amount of art produced that differenciates an artist and someone who makes art. If there were, we’d already have been drowned with an incessant amount of how-to tutorials online.

You need to take your dreams off a pedestal. Take your interests and hobbies off a pedestal. Take yourself and everyone else off a pedestal. Experiment. Try things. Change them. Crush that voice in your head that regurgitates online insecurity. Crush any other voice in your head or around it that diminishes curiosity.

Some of the best writing of our generation lies in a diary entry that will never be discovered, or phrased in a TikTok rant that has amassed just five views. Success should not be measured by the scale of its impact. Recognition does not make the value of one’s words, of one’s existence.

You’re not one viral moment away from value. You have value even when the curtains are closed and you’re all alone. Some of your best singing is done in the shower is it not?

The best dish you will try will most likely be made by your mother. Not by a Michellin star chef. The most beautiful hum you will hear will come from your lover. Not from a Grammy recognised preformer. Because the experience – the witnessing – will always trump the acclaim.

Love,

Anastasia

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The connection between younger generations and the digital age is constantly scrutinised. Even on Substack, you will find an array of articles concerning alternatives to being on your phone. The constant touch the grass essays promote an array of solutions that does away with your screen time, but not your shame.

A shame that shouldn’t be there in the first place! Sure, we should all be mindful of how we consume, and for how long. But why should we feel a constant sense of shame each time we glance at our phones, as if we were being caught with our hand down our pants?

For many of us, our phones are more than just our social media apps. They are our way of communicating with friends and family abroad, of keeping track of the time, of remembering important birthdays and anniversaries, of knowing how to head to a new location. Some of us need it for our studies or for our work. And some of us need our phones to be entertained - no shame about it. And yet there is.

I for one remember the days without having a phone. As a middle schooler, I remember rushing home and turning the TV on, jumping from one episode to the next. I remember spending hours on the living room couch skipping through channels to find the perfect thing to watch. To some extent, I could remember what was on at what time and on what day. I lived in a time we villainised television, and now live in a time we villainise phones. Different screen, same complaint.

There always seems to be a focus on the newest technology being the root to all evil. I could not name you a single article I’ve read in the last few years villainising the amount of time people spend watching TV. I can however recall the Substack articles romanticising life by watching a classic movie or an older series. The series of creators listing all they’ve consumed that week, with their favourite autumn/halloween watches having recently made the list.

Having an intentional moment to wind down should be encouraged, no matter how it’s done. No shame should be attached to finding a source of comfort, entertainment and calm.

I myself have deleted TikTok off my phone, yet I reward myself by downloading the app again for a day each month. I spend as much time on it catching up on the creators I like, without any sense of dread when I see that my screen time has shot through the roof that day. Sometimes I barely look on my phone, and sometimes I’m always on it. Days on it do not make me feel worse, just as days off it do not make me feel better.

The one thing that does make me feel worse is shame. Shame from others. Shame from myself. Shame from my app trackers and limits. So perhaps it is time to let go. To allow ourselves to feel indifferent about our consumption, as we feel about so many other things. To feel comforted and entertained for as long as we need to. Because no one knows what we need more than ourselves.

Love,

Anastasia

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They will watch videos of women making six recipes from scratch for their friend who has just given birth and comment “I wish I had a friend like this” without ever wondering whether or not they’re a friend like this. Community is not built by the few, it is built by the many. Built, not found. Because community is not a “one person’s trash is another person’s treasure” predicament. It is not a hand-me-down, it is a continuous effort.

Even in close-knit, familial communities, there is a part of effort necessary for its functioning. Often, that labour falls onto an older woman. One that reaches out, that plans, cooks, and hosts. Without that effort, the get-togethers get rarer and eventually cease to occur. Why would non-familial communities be any different? Why would one require effort and not the other?

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To openly yearn for community without putting in effort is astounding. To complain about the clutch social media has on people without putting your phone down and getting out there is astounding. To wish that your favourite New York influencer would host a reading event in your city without ever having stepped foot in your local library or independent bookstore is astounding. To purposely blind yourself to the existing threads of community around you is astounding.

Finding or creating those threads does not have to be done through grand gestures. There is no need to start anything from scratch. All you need is curiosity and courage. The curiosity to find out, and courage to reach out.

A simple google search can have a domino effect. Find an indie bookstore with an author’s event. Find a community centre with activity hours. Find out what the names of the employees at your favourite spots are. Greet them using said names. When people ask for directions or information, take the time to answer them. Confirm they need no further clarification.

Feel self-conscious? Feel awkward? The small businesses around you need you to survive. This year alone, more than 400 pubs shut down in England and Wales - that’s more than since the pandemic. Your community needs you to survive. The people around you need you to go on about their day, just as you need them.

Those small daily interactions you look back on. The time someone offered to help you carry a moving-in box, the time someone complimented your hair, the time someone let you go ahead of them because you were in a rush and really needed your caffeine intake. You think about those moments. We all do.

So be that person. Ask questions you might already know the answer to. Compliment the person waiting in line with you. Look at the flyers around you, note down what interests you. Attend a free event every other week. Thrive on small interactions, until you work your way up to lager ones. See what works. Stick to what works.

A community is made. Forged by those willing to put in the time and effort. Be that person.

We romanticise a time that never changed. You are still able to get to know some of your neighbours. You are still able to hold a conversation with the taxi driver taking you to the airport. To become a regular at a place. That time hasn’t magically disappeared, you just stoped making it happen.

Offer feedback. Offer a hand. Does your town’s library only offer book club events for people older than you? Does that not work for you? Offer to help set up an event for people around your age. Invite a few friends. Force them to invite a few of their own friends. Stop complaining about a situation you can change. About a situation others would be happy for you to change.

Build your community.

PS. If you’ve done something to strengthen your sense of community, comment it down bellow to inspire others <3<3

Love,

Anastasia

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I am reminded that I am quite the sensitive girl, as I sobbed in the middle of the central train station for twenty minutes as my friend A departed for the U.S. In trying to make me feel better, her and our other friend S kept holding my hand, as if I was the one leaving Europe for America… What I do remember, is when she told me and S that we had healed something in her pertaining to friendships.

Tonight, as me and S were enjoying my last evening in Oslo, eating Vietnamese takeaway in a park, we shared how we felt similar. In truth, both S and A were some of the easiest friendships I’ve had. Always hesitant about the warnings I’ve been given about trios, I never thought about its possible success, until I was part of it.

The media doesn’t exactly make a single convincing argument towards the strength of trios, as most are related to chaotic and disloyal romantic bonds, and my middle school friendship didn’t exactly prove the media wrong, so I’d always stored the possibility of a positive and healthy bond between three friends aside.

Trios represented to me an area of tension and jealousy. A risk of being left out or leaving someone out unintentionally. Of having others measure myself to me, or try to compete with me without my knowledge or consent. All things I would avoid.

Yet, what started as two beautiful friendships and some mingling ended in exactly that. And rather than being proven right, I was offered an entire factory reset on my view on friendships. Simply put: trios do work, I just needed the right friends to prove it me.

With no sense of jealousy or comparison from any side, I’ve been able to give a chance and be given a chance to be part of a triangle of support, kindness, love and appreciation.

Perhaps middle school trios didn’t necessarily work for me because as the new girl, I always inadvertently felt left out. Presumed that the trio between me, who had known my two friends for a few months, and them, who had known each other for several years, would at some point play against me. Perhaps I hadn’t yet shed my moments of insecurities of being a good friend, or pressure of being a good friend - one that shared an equal amount of moments, hobbies and jokes with each - an impossible task.

Now, I celebrate S and A’s friendship, smile when they share their moments together. But most importantly, I know I can do the same with them. Know that I won’t feel apprehensive when spending time with one, for fear of upsetting the other. Know that each of us want the rest to spend as much time together as possible.

Without the jealousy, the insecurity and the expectations, such friendships are just as good, if not better than singular ones. To be given more than one perspective, more than one hand, more than one shoulder to cry on, without anyone keeping score, keeping count.

In this moment I think of an earlier article I wrote, about how we owe people something. I think about how friendships aren’t a tap to close and open for convenience, but a river, flowing with an endless supply of water to share with all those that made the trek to it.

How wrong of us to think that the more one does for another, the less they do for us. On the contrary! Abundance creates abundance!

If anything, we should want our friends to nurture their friendships with others. The habits they will create, the experiences they will gain, will be just as fruitful for us as for them. We should want our friends to be surrounded by as many people as possible. To laugh with others, share with others, love others, so that they may laugh with us, share with us and love us.

To more we are given and receive, the more we give and receive. Friendships are a virtuous cycle we must all plunge in. So make the trek, get to the river, and flow with it.

Love,

Anastasia

Instead, my professor shared his screen with us and used the site himself. He asked it to come up with a song that blended both reggae and opera music, which it failed miserably to do. No surprise there, he said, as he wished to emphasise that chat GPT is only capable of throwing up the patched-up words of others. While it may not be as noticeable when it comes to formatting emails, it could not be more obvious when it comes to creating from scratch.

As a creator or a lover of creation yourself, I doubt I need to regurgitate my professor’s lesson onto you - you get the message. But what I do wish to do, is highlight the lazy-to-stupid pipeline so many people are leaping into. No, I am not saying people who use chat GPT are stupid. But I am saying that people who use chat GPT to sign off an email are.

As there are many things we all do that contributes to the detriment of the environment, I am definitely not one to school anyone on that matter. All of us direct some energy to this - by eating meat, by buying books, by going on several flights, by using chat GPT… I do however think there are steps we can all take to minimise such energy. Taking a flight instead of a fourteen-hour bus rise somewhere? Fair. Using chat GBT for it to plan your ideal holiday? Stupid.

In pouring one’s energy into this one tool, people are loosing their abilities to use and excel in using every other tool. In continuing to use a short cut, people are unable to take the longer road successfully.

What begins as assistance builds into reliance. Necessity. People are becoming unable to write their own emails, find their own secondary sources, write their own essays, prep for their own interviews and plan their own holidays. And what hurts the most, is that they could find the answer to each of these by talking to their parents, friends, partners, acquaintances, coworkers, and so on. With the use of AI, people loose their sense of surroundings and their sense of self.

We see this with every generation. As someone who didn’t grow up with AI but who grew up with computers, I hold myself accountable for loosing my ability to write by hand for more than a few minutes and find my next book to read by dropping by the library.

Small habits that were once obvious are ruptured by convenience.

Convenience. It almost always comes down to the reality that we exist in a culture of convenience. In a culture where we “don’t bother” and we “don’t go out of our way” misinterpreted as we “don’t make it hard for ourselves”. We cease to maintain habits, to built on them and expand them.

Instead, we reduce. In cutting our time, we cut our thought process, our creativity, our critical thinking skills, our vocabulary, and so much more.

It’s come to the point where people will ask chat GPT to create a plan for their ideal lives. As if a computer knows more about your ideal life than you. People swear off creators for always selling them a lifetime, but are willing to buy into AI’s. People look down on wikipedia for the risk of it containing misinformation, but are willing to take AI’s word for it.

The belief that humans are flawed in a way technology isn’t has harmed social relationships beyond recognisance. And as a generation who so desperately wishes to gain a sense of community back, we must be willing to put in the work. To “bother” and “go out of our way”. Because the information shared and created by humans matter.

It is the reason for our literature, for our laws, for our music, for our art, for our philosophy, for our science. Humans saw the answers. And if that analogy doesn’t work for you, then think about this: humanity could create technology, technology could not create humanity. Not matter how developed the AI.

Love,

Anastasia

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While Love Island USA peaked last year, with an all-stars casting showcasing strong connections — between friends, lovers and enemies — Love Island began a long time ago, airing in the UK in 2015. What many might not know, was that the show based itself of a series with the same name, compromised of an exclusive celebrity cast. Yet, in 2015, it was “members of the public” that graced our TV screens.

Secondary school teachers, nurses, bartenders, sprinkled in with one or two islanders that had once formed liaisons with fame, such as Marcel, a former member of a UK hip hop group who appeared on season three, or Zara, former Miss Great Britain who appeared on season two.

The show’s premise focused on “normal” people finding love without outside deterrents pit up against them. Instead, the “islanders” were faced with recouplings and games to determine whether their bonds might make it til the end. Other than the occasional arguments and odd pairings, I and many other viewers rushed to see the next episodes where islanders were challenged at raising a baby doll together, or issuing pranks on each other. While the dramatics were there, laughter always made its way into each episode.

Yet, the Love Island US season we have in front of our screens shows a sharp contrast. With only two recouplings in four weeks, the islanders have been made to focus on dumping others from the island over growing connections with one another. Recently, five islanders left the same night, breaking off more than one couple.

Attached to the anxiety of loosing a number of cast mates in one night, more than one islander has been privately dumped from the island over online controversy. And while I have no sympathy for anyone using racist slurs, I do have sympathy for the environment it has entrapped those still there.

More than this, the encouragement for viewers to engage in the dumping has encouraged many to sever existing connections for the sake of drama and conflict. With all this, it’s comes to no surprise that most islanders look pale every time they receive a text or see their favourite host, Ariana Madix, who has herself spoken out about sending hate to the islanders before they themselves has the chance to resolve their issues. So has the love island experiment gone too far?

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While the series has always had its fair share of unceremonious dumping and strained dynamics, the presence of online discourse has taken things to a whole other dimension. I can’t help but ask myself: Am I watching people try to find love in the midst of cameras and mandatory makeup sessions or am I watching people being torn apart online, with only a few games and decisions from America to provide a snippet of the backlash they are to expect once leaving the island?

While I’m sure there’s much to say about how this season feels different for the lack of genuine couples, I’m just as sure that the decisions to break off connections by public votes (whether purposeful or not) has ruptured any chance for genuine couples. Day after day, islanders are faced with a nauseating amount of uncertainty, as they are to gage their decisions based on not only those around them, but those watching them.

With no possibility of responding or defending themselves, they can only hope that their scenes of reconciliation and mending will be entertaining enough to be showcased to the public. The cameras that surround them offering their only possibility to free themselves from the online hate being spread on every platform.

Although this season has proved the power of the public, in having removed two contestants for acts of racism on their social media, I can’t help but wonder if this season has also proved the danger of the public.

No longer a contribution, voters have become the game makers, overseeing every connection and targeting every islander. So, with IMDb describing Black Mirror as “a series that examines our society's relationship with the media and how it allows us to both shape our own identity and imprison us in a space”, I can’t help but ask myself: Am I watching Love Island or Black Mirror?

What would you say?

Love,

Anastasia

To which I responded, “Why not? Let’s go!”

In the dozen of minutes after that, we talked about where we were from, where we had travelled, where we were currently travelling, and with whom. I learnt that he was there with his wife and her two friends, or his “three wives” as he joked, and that he had worked on a military base in Marseille, and in a dozen of other countries.

He found out that I had a fear of heights, and therefore would need a bit more encouragement to jump from a bridge, that I was there with my two university friends from Norway, and that we were here to enjoy the few quiet days we had before our final exam and graduation.

At the end of our conversation, he told me the country he had loved the most, New Zealand, and politely bid me goodbye and a nice holiday, while I did the same. My two friends then approached me and asked, “That was alright right? We weren’t sure if he was bothering you but you seemed like you were happy so we didn’t step in.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. That Marseille, the second biggest city of France, wasn’t considered a small village to everyone. That older southern French men and women, weren’t considered “bla-bla-teur”, i.e. talkers, to all.

It had seemed like the transition between the plane from Oslo to the plane to Marseille hadn’t been understood as a dip into another realm for all. Perhaps they had not paid attention to the steward on our second flight hearing parents complain about their kid in a cast, who wouldn’t be able to go swimming like the rest of his family, jumping in the let the parents know that they could buy this plastic suction thing at the pharmacy. But not any pharmacy of course, the specific pharmacy he told them of near to this popular street and this known restaurant.

Over the three days, I was again in the midst of conversations with strangers: at the beach, over the counter, and so on. Their words stayed with me, that we could be so weary of interactions to cut them outright. That the older man approaching me didn’t see in me his daughter, who also went to study far in the North (Paris…).

There is of course a danger in interacting with strangers. Many have experienced that fear, I myself have experienced that fear. But I also know that my favourite places in the city are also due to those interactions. Due to me sitting in a restaurant for lunch and asking the waiter what he would recommend next.

I have found some of my loveliest friends in embracing that fear. In talking to someone in a supermarket in Poland who had also moved for their Erasmus, and in learning I had just moved, invited me to their birthday that same weekend, where I met some of my closest friends I’d have in the country.

Now, the same friend has just sent me a list of recommendations of where to go in Italy and I sent them a list of recommendations of where to go in South Africa. Information, crucial information, is reaped from talking to strangers.

You will never expand your knowledge and understanding of others and your world without talking to strangers. You will never find the knowledge you seek without talking to strangers.

If it takes a village, then seek another’s village. Seek to share your village with each other.

When one friend is moving to Germany for an internship, contact all your German friends with recommendations. When one friend is travelling to London, contact your sister-in-law and ask her about her last visit.

Build your village. Built in from every interaction, every kind word, every moment. But don’t keep it to yourself. Nurture it with others. Share it. Share your village with others, so that they may join it. They may know it. They may care for it.

Love,

Anastasia

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As some of you might have noticed, the social media dating agenda has taken quite the hit recently with the Wizard Liz getting cheated on while pregnant. Many have said that she should’ve known better for getting married so quickly. Others have said that they could tell it wouldn’t work out as she had dyed her hair blonde during the relationship - a clear sign that her husband was not the one for her.

Overall, many seem to think that she didn’t follow her own blue print, or that her blue print was faulty to begin with. Truth is? There’s really no successful blue print when it comes to dating.

You aren’t going to be in a perfect relationship because you’ve read the right book, or watched the right video. You aren’t going to keep the “right one” by completing the femme fatale dos and don’ts or mirroring the model wife. Or because you listened to every advice given to you by your friends and family.

Whether you are viewed as an independent woman who doesn’t need a man such as the Wizard Liz, or a serial dater who always has a man like Taylor Swift, no identity or steps are going to protect you from unsuccessful, faulty relationships. You might end up having to pursue motherhood on your own or purchase your music back rather than recording an album about your ex.

The only thing outsourcing your character will do is offer you the illusion of control. A dangerous illusion as it suggests that anyone who has had an unsuccessful, faulty relationship was just as much to blame in their behaviour as their partner or other exterior factors. As if your behaviour is directly linked to a full-proof way of preventing your heart from getting broken.

Have I ever been cheated on? No.

Have I never been cheated on because I have “better taste” in partners or a “better radar” in finding good partners? No.

Have I never been cheated on because I am someone who could never be cheated on? Also no.

Because when it comes down to it, love is about luck. Now that is not to say that all those in happy and healthy relationships are only lucky. Not at all. These people have surely put in the work, made necessary sacrifices and shown up for their partners. But that shows that others who have made the same efforts only to arrive at different results aren’t unworthy. They were just unlucky.

Finding solace in the illusion that there’s an already carved out path that guarantees positive results might seem comforting at first, but it can’t be sustained. No illusion ever is.

Telling yourself that the outcome is determined by your behaviour and your behaviour only, that somehow you can turn somebody into what they’re not, or that who they are, who they clearly are, is not as important as their so-called “potential”, will make you miserable. Just as telling yourself that you pick them wrong, or that the options are terrible nowadays (as if they were applaudable at any point in history) will make you miserable.

The illusion of control will make you miserable.

So let go of all the narratives of blame. Let go of all the carefully worded success stories to model yourself after. Let go of anything that makes you bear responsibility for other people’s behaviours, or outside factors. Let go or be dragged.

Find peace with the inability to control. In never being able to reach the hundreds of possibility floating around you. In being afforded the ones you weren’t eyeing. Those you were dreading. And those you were praying for.

Find comfort in your character. Find comfort that other’s behaviour have nothing to do with your character, or your heart, or your actions.

Do not let yourself reject the entire experience because you are not in control.

Remember Trump’s 2016 election poster, in which he states “If I had a bowl of skittles and I told you three would kill you. Would you take a handful? That’s our Syrian refugee crisis,” only to be met with thousands of responses by people saying they would gorge themselves of skittles. That they would eat every single skittle in the bowl, if it meant saving even just one.

Gorge yourself of love. Whether it be weird dates that turn into funny stories for friends. Whether it be a summer fling doomed to fail. Whether it be old memories of a series of terrible choices, or reminiscing a really good one, good enough to make yourself wonder if right person wrong time truly is a thing.

Gorge yourself of the idea of love, and spit it out when the time is right.

Because when love fails, your character remains. And that’s what your true people love most about you anyway.

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Love,

Anastasia

This weekend, I had the honour of hosting my little brother in my city so that he may witness the awe that is Norway’s National Day: May 17th. Although he is quick to impress, I meticulously planned a series of events that I thought he’d enjoy so that he would leave the city knowing the reasons for why it is so close to my heart.

And yet, I believe that he was conquered not by my love for the city and its people, but more so my people’s love for me. After spending two hours in the heat watching every school of the Oslo districts parade with their flags and trumpets, we eventually made our way to my friend’s rooftop for a celebratory lunch.

There, we spent the next seven hours eating, drinking, talking, laughing and sharing. As the evening approached, we left both beaming at the reality that I am “bien entourée” - a French saying that somewhat translates to “well surrounded”.

He beamed at the reality that even without my family in my city, he knew with certitude that I had people that I could count on the way I would with him. I left beaming at the reality that even without me at certain times, I knew with certitude that I had people he could count on the way he would with me.

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It is one thing to have friends that I can call in case of an emergency. It is a whole other to have friends that ask me if my brother can have certain ice creams with his milk intolerance.

To be loved is to be known. We all know this. We all hear this. We all take it for granted. But like a gentle spring sunrise, the truth behind the saying will slowly creep up on us when we aren’t looking.

Again, as much as I relish in any opportunity to praise my friends, this is not, and should not be, abnormal. I myself am guilty of not listening to every word my friends express. I can get overwhelmed in group conversations or disassociate after a long day. But I know your sister’s passion. I know your father’s odd habit. I know that your family doesn’t celebrate certain things. Or that you always wear that one piece of jewellery because it reminds you of something, or someone.

I know not to mention a certain name, a certain someone. I know you aren’t allergic to a certain food but you hate it enough for me to ensure it’s never added in something I make for you. I know your hyper fixation of the month, and will let you go on and on about it for the seventeenth time this week. I know you. And you know me.

That is how I measure my success. Because even when I’m at the top, I’ll have a moment where I falter, where I stumble, and I know I can call you. Because you know me. You know me well enough to understand that whatever I’m upset about may be entirely illogical and irrational for someone else, but it isn’t for me. You know me well enough to know that I don’t mean half of my words, but back them up regardless. You know me well enough to know that I need an ear to listen to one day. That I need someone to speak for me on another day.

Success is not measured by achievements, it is measured by people.

So you can sit at the top and stare at the world happening bellow you, or you can walk down and join it. I prefer to walk.

Love,

Anastasia

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