Boundless and Unfiltered

Author: SM

  • Embracing the Suck
 and Quitting (Yes, Really)

    At the start of this year, I decided it was high time to add another “adventurous me” badge to my collection: get a scuba diving license.

    Simple, right? I mean, I’ve run long distances for fun. I’ve trekked to Everest Base Camp. Surely, hanging out underwater, looking at fish, would be a breeze.

    Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

    Step 1: The Online Exam That Would Not End

    First came the RAID certification. Ten-plus hours of e-learning, dense manuals, videos, and quizzes designed to make you question every life decision you’ve ever made. The online exam felt like the final boss of a video game.

    I scored 86.6%. Yes, oddly specific, and yes, I celebrated like I’d just won an Olympic medal. Little did I know, this was only the warm-up.

    Step 2: Four Days in the Pool
 and the Ocean

    Next up: four days of practical training.

    • Day One (Pool): Wow. This is serious.
    • Day Two (Ocean): Okay
 I’m getting the hang of this.
    • Day Three (Ocean): I hate this.
    • Day Four (Ocean): Well
 more on that later.

    Each day brought a new set of skills to master. And by “master,” I mean: perform them perfectly under pressure or face the terrifying possibility of having to do them again. In the pool, I could fake it. In the ocean
 less so.

    The whole experience was supposed to be joyful — a break from the everyday, a chance to explore the underwater world. Instead, it became intense, serious, and, honestly, exhausting. Less “finding Nemo” and more “subaquatic performance review.”

    Step 3: Embrace the Suck
 Navy SEAL Style

    There’s a famous phrase from the Navy SEALs: embrace the suck. The idea is simple: life will suck sometimes, so lean in, grit your teeth, and push through.

    I leaned in
 and promptly realized something important. I wasn’t enjoying this. I wasn’t good at this. And, most importantly, there was no joy in sight.

    And that’s when it hit me: maybe embracing the suck doesn’t always mean push harder. Sometimes it means: admit this isn’t for you.

    Step 4: The Radical Art of Quitting

    On day four, I did something I rarely do: I quit.

    No dramatic exit. No shame. Just a quiet, deliberate, unapologetic nope. I walked away, and do you want to know the best part?

    I felt amazing.

    That weekend, I went back to the things that genuinely bring me joy — running, hiking, CrossFit — and had a renewed appreciation for my own “normal” adventures. I was relieved, happy, and, dare I say, proud.

    Step 5: Lessons From Sucking at Scuba

    This experience taught me several important things:

    1. Courage isn’t always about perseverance. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to walk away.
    2. It’s okay to suck at something. Really. You don’t have to be good at everything you try.
    3. Joy is a compass. If it’s gone, maybe that’s a signal.
    4. Embrace the suck
 but selectively. Navy SEALs have one approach; life has many. Sometimes the bravest move is quitting with grace.

    So here’s my official advice for 2026: try new things. Fail spectacularly. Suck at something. And know that walking away doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human.

    After all, life’s too short to do things that aren’t fun (and, yes, that includes scuba, apparently).

  • Ballarat: The City of Sky (and Why I’m Running My First Marathon There)

    I grew up between London and Bombay – two cities where the sky is more of a rumour than a reality. In London, the clouds hog the limelight. In Bombay, the buildings do. You learn to live under a low ceiling
 literally.

    So imagine me, a fully grown adult, arriving in Ballarat for the first time and being stunned – not by some landmark, not by a bustling street, but by the sky. Just
 endless, unapologetic sky. A sky so big it felt like it had elbowed everything else out of the way. A sky that made me feel tiny, free, alive, and somehow wealthy.

    Honestly, I’ve decided your true wealth is measured not by what’s in your bank account but by how much sky you get to stand under. And Ballarat? Ballarat is loaded.

    I went there because of a boy – now my husband, Don – Ballarat born and bred, who casually introduced me to what he obviously assumed was a normal little town. Meanwhile, I was having a full spiritual awakening.

    Here’s how it happened:
    We’re driving in, and I’m thinking, Well this is quaint. Then the winter flowers start lining the streets like they’re auditioning for some kind of cosy fairytale. Before I know it, I’m feeling like I’ve walked into an Enid Blyton paperback (the wholesome version, not the slightly questionable ones).

    And then it hit me:
    I wasn’t just visiting.
    I belonged.

    Ballarat felt like home in the weirdest, warmest way. Not my “new” home – my original one. The one with cold air, grey skies, and the kind of comforting dreariness that instantly transported me back to my London childhood. But this time, with slow, quiet weekends that make you remember how to breathe.

    It’s funny – so many people talk about Ballarat like it’s the runt of the Victorian litter. The moody cousin. The town you only pass through on the way to somewhere shinier. People love to call it cold, boring, bleak
 basically the Eeyore of Victoria. But to me? It’s magic. Underrated, underestimated, quietly spectacular magic.

    And then there are the lakes.
    Everyone knows Lake Wendouree. She is stunning. She’s also manicured, polished, and flanked by wealth. She’s the kind of lake that went to private school, plays piano, and probably has a trust fund.

    But Lake Burrumbeet?
    Oh, she’s wild. She’s gritty. She’s magnificent in a messy bun with no makeup. On a cold, stormy day, she comes alive like she’s starring in her own dramatic period film. The sky rolls in like theatre curtains. The wind gets ideas. The water doesn’t even pretend to behave. It is perfection.

    There was a day Don took me there, and for at least 20 kilometres, it was just us, the dogs, and nature, completely unbothered by civilisation. No people. No noise. No expectations. Just raw, Australian beauty at full volume. That’s when I decided that every good thing is close to nature – and Ballarat is very, very close.

    We go often now. It’s only an hour from home, but every time we roll in, it feels like the city gives me a giant bear hug. A cold bear hug, but still – love is love.

    And that’s why, in a few months, I’ll be running my first ever marathon there – the Ballarat Marathon. Because what better place to run 42.2 km than in the town that gave me sky, belonging, and a second home?

    Ballarat may not market itself as magical. But it has been for me. And I will forever be grateful to my husband for being from Ballarat – and for inviting me into this enchanted little underdog of a city that somehow became one of the great loves of my life.

  • M-A-M-D-A-N-I, Because This Moment Matters

    It’s Mam-dah-nee.

    M-A-M-D-A-N-I.

    Say it with your chest.

    Now, let’s talk about why this moment has slapped the world – brown people, young people, immigrants, first-gen dreamers, everyone – with a tidal wave of feels.

    1. Because brown kids weren’t told they could be that person

    Growing up brown usually came with three career options, depending on your family:

    Doctor. Engineer. Disappointment.

    No one ever pointed at the biggest stage in American politics or the most chaotic city in the world, and said, “That could be you.”

    So when someone who looks like us, eats the same food, carries the same generational trauma, and has the same overly involved aunties wins the mayoral seat in NYC, it doesn’t just feel like a political shift.

    It feels like a glitch in the simulation.

    A beautiful one.

    2. Because representation isn’t just a buzzword – it’s a mirror

    Young people, especially young brown people, finally get to see someone at the top who wasn’t pre-packaged in political vanilla.

    Mam-dah-nee shows up as actual himself.

    Not a watered-down, consultant-approved, culturally neutral version.

    A real brown man, name and all.

    And when young people see someone like that breaking ceilings, they don’t just clap, they recalibrate their entire sense of what’s possible.

    3. Because names carry history, and mispronouncing them is lazy

    Getting someone’s name right is the baseline of respect.

    Brown people have spent decades shortening, slicing, simplifying, anglicising, or straight-up deleting parts of their identity just to make things “easier” for everyone else.

    So when a brown mayor steps up, with a brown name, with history and meaning baked into every syllable, let’s make sure we say it right.

    We’ve said Schwarzenegger correctly for decades.

    We can handle MamdanĂ­.

    4. Because this win tells young people that the system is bendable

    Let’s not pretend politics hasn’t been a closed club.

    You needed pedigree, connections, and a name that fits comfortably into the Anglo mouth.

    Mamdaní’s victory says,

    “Actually, the club’s doors aren’t locked. They just needed someone brave enough to kick them open.”

    Young people are tired of performative leaders.

    They’re tired of lip service, beige leadership, and systems that pretend to be “for the people” while ignoring the actual people.

    5. Because every mispronounced name is a reminder of old power structures

    When someone says, “Oh, that name is too hard,” what they really mean is:

    “I haven’t had to try before.”

    And that’s exactly why it’s important to say Mamdaní right.

    Because saying someone’s name correctly means you acknowledge their identity, their lineage, and the space they now occupy.

    A brown man in the highest office of the most iconic city on the planet?

    Yeah, we’re saying his name properly.

    Final Word

    It’s emotional.

    It’s generational.

    It’s history dropping the mic.

    It’s a reminder that if you’re going to show up, show up fully, and honour everyone who refused to shrink to fit the world.

  • Hotpot: The delicious illusion where you pay to cook your own food – and love it

    Hotpot. That bubbling cauldron of boiling broth that somehow manages to hypnotize you into dropping raw stuff into it, waiting patiently (or not so patiently), and then devouring it like a culinary champion. What is it about hotpot that’s so addictive? Why do we happily pay a restaurant to do the cooking ourselves? Spoiler alert: It’s a delicious scam, and we’re all here for it.

    Step One: Choose your broth – and your fate

    Picking your broth is like choosing your Hogwarts house. It sets the tone for your entire hotpot experience. Are you feeling spicy and bold? Go for the volcanic Sichuan broth that’s basically a lava pit of flavour and sweat. Want something mild and comforting? There’s always the clear, nourishing chicken broth that makes you feel virtuous but still just as full.

    Your broth will determine if you leave dripping with sweat and triumph or blissfully content, patting your belly like a Zen master. Choose wisely. This is your fate bubbling right before your eyes.

    Step Two: Veggies, meat, and the fear factor

    Here’s where things get fun. You get to pick what goes into this boiling cauldron. The usual suspects – bok choy, mushrooms, tofu are safe bets. But hotpot demands that you live a little. That’s right, dip your toes into the adventurous side: Chicken feet, quail eggs, or even mysterious jellyfish (yes, jellyfish).

    If you’re not a little scared, you’re not doing it right. It’s like a culinary rite of passage. And don’t even think about skipping this part. This is where tradition meets bravery, and you’ll be talking about that daring bite for weeks.

    Step Three: Sauces – because sauce makes the meal

    If you’ve read any of my previous musings on life’s essentials, you know this: Sauces maketh the meal. They can make or break your hotpot glory.

    The best part? There are literally hundreds of ways to mix and match your dipping sauces. Sesame, garlic, chili, mushroom, hoisin – throw in some fresh coriander and a splash of vinegar, and suddenly you’re a sauce wizard crafting liquid gold.

    The sky’s the limit. Go wild. Create a concoction so good it should be bottled and sold worldwide. (Hint: It won’t last past your meal.)

    The Real Secret: It’s not about the food, it’s about the experience

    Hotpot is a slow dance with flavour. You don’t rush it. You savour each bite, each slurp of noodles, each tender morsel from your bubbling pot of magic. It’s an exotic tradition wrapped in a modern social experience – perfect for a couple looking to flirt over broth, a crew of friends who want to laugh and gossip while dipping, or a family of 25 who just want an excuse to gather around a giant pot and pretend they’re not just all hungry.

    For a few glorious hours, you escape the mundane and enter a fantasyland where you are the chef, the diner, and the happy victim of a boiling pot of deliciousness.

    So next time you’re wondering why you pay someone to cook your own food but keep going back for more, now you know: Hotpot is pure magic disguised as communal chaos – and honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

  • “Child-free, drama-free, Golden Retriever-filled bliss”

    By a happy, child-free, dog-loving 40-year-old woman

    There’s a curious thing that happens when you hit 40 and you’re a woman without children. You become
 a bit of a mystery. Or, depending on who you’re talking to, a tragic figure in need of sympathy, spiritual guidance, or possibly a casserole.

    I can’t tell you how often this plays out: I meet someone new — life does its thing — we exchange the usual pleasantries, they clock my husband and me floating along in our bubble of genuine harmony and happiness, and then — boom — “Do you have kids?”

    As if that’s the only logical next step in the fairytale.

    I say, “No.”

    That’s it. No explanations. No awkward chuckle. No scrambling to soften the blow with a chirpy “
but we’re trying!” or “We’ve got nieces!” Just a calm, unapologetic no.

    And then — I wait.

    The reactions are quite something. A squirm. A sympathetic head tilt. A confused blink. Sometimes even a gentle pat on the arm, like I’ve just shared news of a tragic loss. It’s as if I casually mentioned I was once in a cult that banned fun.

    Occasionally, I toss in a cheerful follow-up: “But I do have two dogs!” hoping to steer the conversation toward my happy place — golden retrievers. Fluffy, loyal, slightly dopey, perfect. I am ready — ready — to discuss their personalities, grooming routines, snack preferences, and how one of them sleeps like a drunken starfish.

    But instead of joy, I usually get, “Ohhh, they’re your fur babies.”

    No. They’re just
 my dogs. I love them. I didn’t get dogs instead of kids. I got dogs because I love dogs. I always have.

    I got them because I’ve always wanted big, fluffy, affectionate shadows who follow me everywhere and love me unconditionally. Frankly, I trust them more than most people.

    Now, this might be controversial — brace yourselves — but I’ve never felt maternal. I’ve never cooed over a baby in a pram. I’ve never picked up a tiny onesie and felt my ovaries squeal. That maternal yearning? That biological clock everyone talks about? Mine never started ticking. If anything, it took one look around and said, “Hard pass.”

    Maybe it was my upbringing. I had a mother who made parenting sound like a never-ending endurance challenge with no medals. She spoke candidly about how hard it was — the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the mental load. Nothing about it sounded appealing to me. It stuck. Possibly permanently.

    But, maybe I was just born this way. While other little girls were dreaming about weddings and babies, I was dreaming of mountains, forests, and giant dogs with hearts of gold. I didn’t want a perfect white wedding — I didn’t want the white dress and the baby carriage — I wanted a partner who I luckily found in my husband, along with hiking boots and a canine sidekick to follow me to the ends of the earth.

    And guess what? That’s exactly what I have. Two glorious golden retrievers, an extraordinary husband who is my best mate, and a life that feels full, joyful, and entirely mine.

    I don’t feel like something’s missing. I don’t wake up wondering what my baby would’ve looked like. My life’s purpose was never to be a mum — not because I failed, but because I chose differently.

    My purpose? To live kindly. To love deeply. To work hard, show up, keep growing, and enjoy the ride. That’s enough for me. More than enough.

    So to all the well-meaning folks who respond to my child-free status with confusion, concern, or a look that says “you poor thing”, as if I’ve said that I have lost a limb please know — I’m good. I’m more than good. I like my freedom, my sleep, my savings, and my ability to leave the house without packing snacks and wet wipes.

    My life may not fit the usual mould, but it fits me perfectly. I have love, loyalty, laughter, and dog hair on every piece of clothing I own — and honestly, that’s more than enough.

    And in case you’re wondering — yes, my dogs do have their own Instagram. Curious about my “fur babies”? Just say the word. I’ll pull out 73 photos, a treat pouch, and possibly a slideshow. You’ve been warned.

  • Living with no reservations, thanks Tony

    Every year, like clockwork, 8 June sneaks up and smacks me in the face like a dodgy oyster from a Bangkok street vendor. It’s the day I remember that Anthony Bourdain–Tony – left this world, and somehow, even now, I still can’t quite believe it.

    Tony wasn’t just a TV host or a celebrity chef. He was the guy – the salty, no-nonsense, noodle-slurping travel philosopher who made you want to eat soup on a plastic stool in the middle of a chaotic market in some sweaty corner of Southeast Asia. And dammit, I did.

    He taught me everything:

    – How to travel with curiosity, not arrogance

    – How to eat with reverence, not snobbery

    – How to tell a story with bite, not fluff

    – And how to weaponise dry humour with surgical precision

    I still remember the day I read the news about his death. My first reaction? “Nah, fake news. No way.” Tony was indestructible. He waded through jungles, dodged angry chefs, and drank suspicious local booze with grace and guts. But then came that sinking feeling in the stomach. You know the one – the oh-no-this-is-actually-real kind.

    And that was it. The man who, through a flickering TV screen, gave me the courage to pack up my life at 20 move to a random dot on the map
 was gone. My idol, my invisible mentor, the curmudgeonly uncle I never had –but always wanted – was no more.

    I still watch reruns of A Cook’s Tour and No Reservations like they’re gospel. It’s like clinging to the voice of an old friend – someone you never actually knew but knew you, somehow. It’s not quite enough, but it’s all we’ve got.

    And yet, even now, he’s part of my DNA. He lives in the way I travel, the way I eat, the way I seek out chaos and charm in the same breath. He changed the way I think. He made me move. He made me feel. He made me want more from life than boring cruises and beige conversations.

    So today, I grab a bowl of something unpronounceable, find the most uncomfortable seat I can, and remember the guy who made it all make sense.

    Here’s to the man who said:

    “If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”

    You changed everything. Thank you, Tony.

  • Confessions of a street food addict (stranded in the west)

    Having lived in various white-washed Western countries for most of my life, there is one thing my soul constantly yearns for. No, it’s not snow at Christmas or overpriced coffee from a hipster cafĂ© with exposed brick walls. It’s street food.

    Glorious, unapologetic, spice-laden, oil-dripping, joy-inducing street food.

    Let me tell you, I think about street food more than I’d like to admit. It’s basically my Roman Empire. Every. Single. Day. I reluctantly accept – sometimes multiple times a day – that it just won’t be the same here in Australia as it is back in India or really, anywhere in Asia.

    Because here’s the thing: Asia doesn’t just serve street food. Asia is street food. It’s alive. It has a pulse, a heartbeat. It dances in the chaos of the streets, it sings from a sizzling wok, and it hugs your soul in a crinkly paper plate dripping with chutney.

    As a kid, some of my happiest memories involve eating copious amounts of pani puris and bhel puris on Juhu Beach with my grandfather.

    It was a whole evening of messy, magical perfection: Eat a pani puri, play in the sand, hop on a horse that may or may not have been retired from racing, and finish the night off with fresh coconut water straight from the coconut.

    The coconut guy would expertly hack it open with a machete (with the swagger of a Michelin chef), and then use the top to carve out that soft, sweet tender coconut flesh. Pure heaven. Gordon Ramsay could never.

    And how can I not mention gola – that iconic tower of crushed ice drenched in syrup, the king of childhood cravings. Specifically, kalakhatta. That sour, sweet, pungent flavour that I haven’t tasted since I left India decades ago. It’s a memory etched in my taste buds. I mean, come on – that’s the original umami, at its absolute dramatic, tongue-staining best. On a hot summer evening at Chowpatty, nothing calmed your soul (or sweat) like a kalakhatta gola. Sticky fingers, purple tongue, and total bliss.

    As an adult, every trip back to Asia reminds me just how intrinsic street food is to the culture. You could be drenched in sweat, dodging scooters, and possibly being eyed by a stray dog—but one bite of that snack and it’s all forgiven. Your taste buds are doing a Bollywood dance sequence, and honestly, who needs aircon when you’ve got that kind of joy?

    I blame (and thank) Anthony Bourdain for keeping this love alive during my early adulthood. I devoured his shows like I devour a good banh mi. I’m talking reruns, quotes, emotional breakdowns—the whole fan club kit. I still remember the pure serotonin hit watching lanky Tony awkwardly perch on a bright red stool in Vietnam, slurping a local soup handed to him by a woman with a bubbling pot and zero time for nonsense. I felt that moment. His commitment to eating everything, everywhere, all the time? Iconic. Relatable. Deeply validating.

    I, too, would sit curbside in the most chaotic of places just for a bite of samosa chaat in Bombay, or noodles in Singapore, or fried things on sticks in Thailand that I can’t even name but will dream about for years. Tony got it. Tony was us.

    But now, back in Australia – the land of brunch and politely portioned tacos – I find myself dreaming of a different foodscape. Sure, we have “street food festivals” and “hawker-style events,” but if I need to sell a kidney to buy a $20 bao bun, we’re not really talking street food anymore, are we?

    I’m craving the real deal. The grit. The flavour. The auntie yelling “next!” without looking up. The faint hum of Bollywood music in the distance. The unapologetically spicy chutney that makes your eyes water but you go back for more anyway. THAT is the street food dream.

    So here’s to hoping that one day, we embrace a little more of that glorious chaos. Not a neatly plated, avocado-smeared version – but the real stuff. The soul food. The kind that doesn’t need a PR campaign because it’s too busy making you fall in love with life again.

    Until then, I’ll keep watching Bourdain reruns, dreaming of Juhu Beach, and maybe – just maybe – trying to recreate that coconut-carving technique in my suburban backyard (results pending, finger count may vary).

    Thanks for everything, Tony. And to street food – my forever love story.

  • The Little Bagel Shop That Saved Me

    Years ago, life threw me a curveball. Not just any curveball – one of those gut-wrenching, soul-shattering events that most people don’t fully come back from. Some grow bitter. Others become a hollowed-out version of who they used to be.

    Me? I found solace in a bagel.

    Not just any bagel, though. A vego bagel from a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cafĂ© called Jungle Juice Bar, tucked away in Degraves Street, Melbourne.

    I didn’t go looking for a safe haven, but I stumbled into one. And for almost 15 years now, this place has been my constant – one of the few places in the world where they know my order before I even say a word. I walk in, and like magic, my drink is ready, and my bagel appears. It’s like an unspoken ritual, a quiet understanding between me and this little cafĂ© that unknowingly helped piece me back together.

    The Best Bagel in the World (And I’m Not Even a Vegetarian)

    I’ve eaten an obscene number of bagels in my life. All over the world, from London to Paris to random street vendors who swore they had the best. But nothing – not one single bagel – has kept me coming back like this one.

    It’s deceptively simple: tomatoes, avocado, rocket, and the sauce – a sauce so good it could make angels weep. The owner makes it himself, and no, you cannot buy it. If you could, I’d have a stockpile at home, dunking everything I eat into it.

    The bagel itself? Pure perfection. It arrives soft and warm, and the first bite sends you into a state of bliss where nothing else matters. Your hands get messy, but you don’t care. The only mission is to savor every last morsel.

    The Service: Five-Star Hospitality, Zero Small Talk

    There’s a tall guy – who I assume is the owner –and a lovely lady who always greets me with a warm smile. They remember my order, they acknowledge me, and then – most importantly – they leave me alone.

    For someone who despises small talk and cherishes their solitude, this is chef’s kiss perfection. A brief exchange, a bit of recognition, and then the glorious freedom to sit quietly, uninterrupted. No forced chit-chat, no unnecessary pleasantries – just good food, good vibes, and the kind of service that respects personal space.

    A Sanctuary in the Chaos

    During the hardest time in my life, Jungle Juice Bar became more than a café. It was my escape hatch.

    Degraves Street is a whirlwind – bustling, loud, filled with tourists. But this tiny corner of the world let me hide away when I needed it most. It gave me consistency when everything else felt like it was crumbling. It let me sit, sip, and breathe when breathing felt impossible.

    I doubt the owners know how much their little café meant to me back then. But I do.

    And as I look back, I see the ashes of who I was and the person I became. Rising from the wreckage, piece by piece. And somewhere in that journey, there was a bagel, a smile, and a quiet place to think.

    So, to Jungle Juice Bar – thank you. For never judging, for always welcoming, for making the best damn bagel in the world, and for being exactly what I needed when I needed it most.

    If you ever need a place that feels like a warm hug (or just a life-changing bagel), don’t wait. Go to Jungle Juice. It’s quintessentially Melbourne – but more than that, it’s the kind of place that stays with you long after you’ve left.

    JUNGLE JUICE BAR: https://www.instagram.com/junglejuicebar?igsh=ZTQ0NTJtcHZlZW1k

  • Embla: Melbourne’s very own Diagon Alley hidden bar(but with great cocktails)

    If Melbourne had its own version of Diagon Alley, Embla would be the tucked-away little bar you’d only find if you knew exactly where to look.

    No big sign. No fanfare. Just a nondescript shopfront that looks like it could be abandoned – or worse, one of those places that sells “antiques” but really just hoards broken typewriters and existential dread. Blink, and you’ll miss it. But if you do notice it, you’ll pause, squint, and think, Is this a secret club? A front for something? Am I about to make a terrible life choice?

    Luckily, we decided to roll the dice and open the giant, slightly intimidating door. And thank Merlin we did. Because behind that door is pure, unfiltered, culinary magic.

    First up: the bar. The glorious, spacious bar where bartenders aren’t just slinging drinks – they’re conducting alchemy. Negronis shimmer like liquid amber, margaritas shimmy across your taste buds, and the wine list? Generous. Thoughtful. The kind that makes you pretend you know more about tannins than you actually do.

    And then there’s the food. My goodness, the food.

    The beef? Magnificent. Like, “forget everything you thought you knew about beef” magnificent.
    The chicken crisps? Impossible to stop at two. I’m not even sure stopping at ten is realistic.
    The peppers in sesame and macadamia sauce? I’d trade a family heirloom for another plate.
    The pasta? Exactly how pasta should always taste but rarely does. Fresh, silky, perfect.

    Every time I leave Embla, I’m already plotting my return before I even hit the footpath. When are we coming back? I ask my husband, like a kid who just discovered theme parks exist.

    So, if you haven’t been, do yourself a favour: find that hidden door, step inside, order a Negroni, and let the magic unfold.

    EMBLA: https://embla.com.au

  • Confessions of a reluctant runner: How I went from gasping at 1K to loving my 10k runs every morning

    My relationship with running is like a dramatic love story—full of resistance, obsession, and a touch of madness. Some mornings, when my alarm blares at 4:30 am, I lie there thinking, “Absolutely not. This is ridiculous. Who even does this?” But somehow, I drag myself up, lace up my shoes, and start moving. And without fail, every single time, I finish my run feeling invincible.

    The thing is, I never regret a run. Not once. Not ever. In fact, after every run, I morph into this annoyingly enthusiastic person who’s already obsessing about the next one. It’s like running has some sneaky psychological grip on me—one minute I’m groaning, the next I’m plotting my next run like it’s the heist of the century.

    Now, let me make one thing clear: I was never “a runner.” Actually, I spent a solid decade of my life (ages 14 to 24) being a dedicated smoker. Yep. Full-time. My poor lungs deserved an apology letter, a bouquet of flowers, and possibly some therapy. When I finally quit cold turkey at 24, I thought, “Great, now I’ll be healthy!” But the universe laughed. I couldn’t run a single kilometer without feeling like I was auditioning for the role of “person dramatically dying of lung failure” in some B-grade movie.

    Fast forward to today—40 years old, running 10 kilometers, 3-4 times a week, like it’s my part-time job. And here’s the plot twist: I bloody love it.

    Running is like a mental exorcism. All the cobwebs of self-doubt, imposter syndrome, random overthinking (like, “Did I really need to say ‘you too’ when the barista said ‘enjoy your matcha’?”), work stress, life stress—all gone. Cleared. Poof. It’s as if each step is stomping on negativity.

    After every run, I feel like I’ve been handed the reins to my own life again. Like I’m wearing an invisible superhero cape that says, “Come at me, world.” It’s not just exercise; it’s a full-on mental reset button.

    And yet—I’ll say it again—I am not a runner. I just love running.

    It’s wild how something I used to hate (and I mean deep, soul-level hatred) has become one of my favorite ways to start the day. At 4:30 am, no less. Whether it’s pounding the pavement or sweating it out on the treadmill, before I know it, my 10K is done, and my mind feels clearer, my mood lighter, my life
 better.

    If you’ve ever thought about running but immediately followed that thought with, “Nah, I’d rather wrestle a cactus,” hear me out: running is magic. Seriously. If I can go from “feels like death after 1K” to “obsessed with running everyday”—literally anyone can.

    So, lace up, give it a shot. Worst case? You’ll hate it. Best case? You’ll fall in love with it—and with how it makes you feel.

    And if you do? Welcome to the complicated, glorious, life-changing world of running. You’ll never look back.