Christmas, Chaos & Second Chances.

So, I’m not going to lie — it’s been a few months since my last post, and things haven’t exactly gone smoothly. Two things in particular have been incredibly shitty, and while this might seem a bit ranty or venty, that’s because it is. Sometimes life just doesn’t go to plan, and honestly, I’m allowed to feel pretty not-okay about it all.

Office Parties & Poor Decisions.

The lead-up to Christmas in London always hits peak chaos: endless work drinks, too many late nights, and a constant balancing act between “I deserve this” and “I need a nap.” Our work function this year was at the Mayfair Conference & Events Centre (on a Wednesday, because of course). I’d had one of those days where lunch never happened, the inbox was feral, and stress levels were peaking — so naturally, I drank like I was still at uni.

No, that’s a lie — I got raucously drunk. The sort of drunk where your heels start to feel optional and your judgment vanishes into thin air. And, because I apparently enjoy emotional self-sabotage, I threw myself at Sam. There’s something about the British — when Kiwis cross that invisible line from “fun tipsy” to “too much,” they quietly retreat, clutching their gin and tonics like emotional life rafts. New Zealand even had that “It’s not what we’re drinking, it’s how we’re drinking” campaign years ago, and honestly, I was basically the poster girl for it that night.

I hadn’t realised Sam was going to be in his distant, detached mood either, which made the whole thing worse. Cue me being bundled into a taxi just after midnight, throwing up out the window (still proud of the aim, to be fair), then being slapped with a soiling fee because apparently my precision wasn’t as flawless as I thought. I called Sam three times when I got home — all ignored. Classic.

The next morning brought a severe case of beer fear, the kind that sits heavy in your chest and makes you want to delete yourself from the group chat. Eventually, Sam texted: “Hey. Are you ok? Looked like you had a bit of a wild night.”

My rule is to never let men see when I’ve read their messages. But Sam’s different — or maybe I just wanted him to think I was. I waited half an hour, then called him. The apology spilled out: missed meals, deadlines, “personal stuff.” He told me, “You shouldn’t drink like that. It’s not a good look. None of the other girls at work drink like that.” That one stung. I half-joked, half-pleaded: “Yes, yes, I know. Can we just be friends?” And somehow, we were. Friends again — at least on the surface.

The Christmas That Wasn’t.

And sorry, but this is where things get properly awful. Every year I’ve been in London, I’ve celebrated Christmas with my Kiwi crew — a group that’s become my makeshift whānau. But this year, everything felt off. All through December, I kept asking, “So what’s the plan? Who’s hosting?” and getting vague replies — “Not sure yet,” “We’ll let you know,” that kind of thing. Eventually, I confronted my friend Sacha, and she came clean.

Turns out it was all to do with my ex. The usual organiser, Cam, had arranged a big group trip to Poland on Boxing Day — complete with a sleepover at his house on Christmas night so everyone could head to the airport together in the morning. But Cam’s best mates with my ex. So, naturally, I wasn’t invited. The group had decided not to tell me because they were scared they’d get uninvited too if they defended me.

Honestly, I was gutted. Properly heartbroken. Some of those people I’ve known for almost twenty years — from school days and teenage summers — and suddenly I was on the outside looking in. I cried more than I’d like to admit. There’s a particular sting to being left out not because of who you are, but because it’s easier for everyone else.

A Second Chance.

But sometimes, even in the mess, small mercies appear. One of my oldest friends, Nicola, reached out. The irony? I’d been the one to cut her off years ago — she’d fallen out with my ex on a group trip, and I’d sided with him. I’d recently started reconnecting with her, and it turned out to be fate.

She wasn’t going to Poland either — she was heading home to New Zealand at the end of December. But before she left, she invited me to join her for a proper, family-style Christmas dinner in Putney. There were her netball mates, their parents, a few kids running around, roast potatoes, terrible Christmas crackers — the lot. It was simple, warm, and real. I can’t even explain how much that day meant to me. It wasn’t fancy or wild, but it reminded me what aroha — love and community — actually feels like.

Nicola probably won’t read this, but if she does: thank you. You made a broken Christmas whole again.

A New Year, A Little Hope.

The rest of December was quieter. I took myself on little adventures — a self-guided graffiti tour around Shoreditch (highly recommend) and slow mornings at coffee shops where I finally felt like myself again. Then, just before New Year’s, Nicola, another Kiwi friend called Michelle, and I decided to go out in Chelsea. The bars were empty — London completely empties out during the holidays — but we had the best night regardless. We danced, laughed, swapped lip gloss, and I may have met someone.

An ex-rugby player. From Surrey. Good-looking, younger (four years, don’t judge). Nothing serious yet — but it was the first spark I’d felt in ages. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. Either way, it was exactly the kind of soft landing I needed to close out a messy, emotional year.

So yes — it was a heart-warming and soul-destroying Christmas, all at once. But maybe that’s life. Maybe heartbreak and healing just show up at the same dinner table sometimes.

Roll on 2019 — new chapters, new boundaries, and hopefully, fewer taxis with soiling fees.

Jess x