May Musings: Family, Futures, & French Getaways.

So it’s the end of May, and life has been busy — like, super busy. Watching my sister get married in March was surreal in the best way. She looked absolutely stunning on her big day, her husband scrubbed up surprisingly well, and it was a totes emosh family affair all round. There’s something about watching your big sister — the one who has always been half mother, half best mate — walk down the aisle that hits different. I was a puddle. It filled my heart right up. It was the kind of day that made all the family chaos worth it. I spent most of the evening flitting between the dance floor and the bar, clutching a glass of bubbles, hugging everyone I could, and at one point, having a long cry with Mum in the bathroom — happy tears, obviously.

It was also a reunion of sorts. Aunts, uncles, cousins — all the familiar chaos that comes with being back home. The best moment? Catching up with my uncle and aunty from Australia, who I hadn’t seen in years. We grew up almost as siblings with their kids back in their Titirangi days, running around barefoot and covered in grass stains. When I told my uncle about the Kensington project, he paused, smiled, and said, “Good for you, Jess. You’re really doing it.” It was such a small comment, but it floored me. Sometimes it’s not the loud praise but the quiet validation from people who’ve known you forever that leaves the biggest mark. Later that night, as the speeches wound down and the fairy lights glowed over the vineyard, I caught myself thinking — maybe I really am doing okay.

Home Comforts & Kiwi Nostalgia.

The rest of my trip home was one long exhale. Family dinners, hugs that lasted a bit too long, brunches with old friends, and that familiar Kiwi sunshine that seems to seep right into your bones. I got horrendously sunburnt at Tawharanui (because obviously I did), ate my weight in Whittaker’s, and caught up on all the local gossip. Some things had changed — Cardrona is now called The Good Home, and Mt Eden’s Cloak Room has become Lucky Burger — but thankfully Frasers and Circus Circus are still standing strong. There’s something so comforting about a place that never changes, even when you have.

I squeezed in a visit to my childhood bestie, Maddie, who now has two kids and a house out in Kumeu that looks like it’s straight out of Pinterest. We drank iced coffees on her deck while her toddler smeared yoghurt on my jeans, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Our lives look so different now, but the connection’s still there — easy, unspoken, solid. That’s the thing about home — it holds you even when you don’t quite fit back into it. I also popped by my old local for a cheeky rosé with Liv, who’s just opened a boutique in Ponsonby. She joked that I’ve gone “full London girlie” now — always in neutrals, never without SPF, and apparently pronouncing “yoghurt” differently. I’ll take it.

Leaving, as always, was brutal. I like to think I’ve mastered the art of the airport goodbye, but every time I end up in a soggy group hug with my parents, pretending to be fine as I walk through security. Dad always cries first. I pretend not to, and fail miserably. But as soon as I’m back on that plane, there’s a switch — the familiar hum of the engines, the anticipation of what’s next. A little ache mixed with excitement. London was calling again.

Back to Business.

Work life kicked straight into high gear. I’ve finally wrapped up at Beaulieu (thank God, no more 6am alarms and marathon commutes) and moved onto a new project in Brentford in March with an Irish developer. It’s a big one — a whole riverside regeneration, complete with a new retail precinct, apartments, and even a restored church. The only snag? The client rep. He’s… frosty. Think human iceberg with a clipboard. I can’t figure out if I’ve said something wrong or if this is just his resting energy. The irony is, his Irish colleagues are all absolute sweethearts. They’ve already nicknamed me “Kiwi Jess” and bring me biscuits in meetings, so I’m holding out hope that he’ll thaw eventually.

Sadly though, I’ve also lost my Kensington project. I’m being moved onto something next month that’s apparently far more complex and “good for my career development” — a huge ultra-luxury development in St Johns Wood. It’s a massive project that involves converting an old military barracks, including adapting a historic riding school into a health club. The Developer represents a Malaysian billionaire, and no expense is being spared — high-end architects, Michelin-level catering for site meetings, even a landscaping designer whose portfolio includes literal royal gardens. The level of detail is borderline obscene, but it’s fascinating. Still, I’ll miss the familiarity of the Kensington crew and my post-work pad thai at the Churchill Arms — if you’ve not been, it’s a must. The entire front facade is covered in flowers and looks like a garden exploded in the best possible way.

Outside of work, I’ve been buried in study for my Assessment of Professional Competence (APC) through RICS — basically the UK’s holy grail for real estate professionals. It’s been surprisingly satisfying filling in the gaps, having those lightbulb “ah-ha” moments that make you realise you’re actually pretty good at your job. Sam — yes, that Sam — has been mentoring me, sending notes and mock questions. We’ve settled into this strange, functional friendship now. He’s my running buddy, gym motivator, and occasional study saviour. People assume there’s still something between us, but there’s not. It’s genuinely nice having someone who just gets it. Sometimes we’ll go for a run along the Thames and end up sitting on a bench for half an hour, moaning about life, sipping takeaway coffees from Pret, and somehow it all feels simpler after.

Trouble in Paradise.

Which brings me to Charlie. I decided not to bring him to New Zealand — gut instinct. It was the right call. When I got back, I invited him to a Kiwi night out in Shoreditch so he could finally meet my London crew. He charmed everyone. The drinks were flowing, the music was loud, and the vibe was perfect… until it wasn’t.

Some guy at the bar started chatting to me — nothing flirty, just small talk — and I shut it down immediately. “No thanks, I have a boyfriend, and he’s getting me a drink.” But when I turned back, Charlie’s face had completely changed. He went cold. Within minutes, he’d grabbed his coat, politely said goodbye to my friends, and left. I followed him out, confused, and we argued all the way home. Turns out his ex used to play mind games — flirting with guys to make him jealous — and that moment triggered every bad memory. I tried explaining, but it was like talking to a wall. By the time we got back, we’d made up, sort of, but something had shifted. I saw the younger side of him that night, the insecurity. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure we were on the same page.

The following weeks were a blur of awkward silences, half-hearted texts, and that weird tension that sits just under the surface. We’re still trying to work it out, but I can’t shake the feeling that the trust gap between us might be too wide to close. I’m not sure if it’s distance, timing, or just the simple truth that we’re two people moving in slightly different directions. Either way, I’ve been trying to focus on the small things — yoga in the mornings, longer walks home, and remembering what makes me feel calm. I’ve also rediscovered the joy of solo Friday nights — skincare, takeaway sushi, candles, and Love Island reruns. Sometimes it’s not loneliness; it’s peace.

French Escapes & Fresh Air.

So — like any sensible girl nursing relationship doubts — I booked a spontaneous long weekend in the south of France with my Kiwi girls. We rented a restored farmhouse in Monsegur, complete with a tennis court, a pool, and a view straight out of a Provence postcard. Days were spent between vineyards and long lunches, nights by the fire with cheap wine and deep chats. It was bliss. We spent hours reading by the pool, drinking rosé out of tumblers, and debating which of us would end up married first (spoiler: none of us are remotely close). I even attempted to play tennis, which ended in me tripping over my own feet and dropping my Aperol. Graceful as ever.

Our final night was at a tiny restaurant called Le Patio Monsegur. They only served three dishes — beef, chicken, or vegetable — but I swear it was the best meal I’ve had in Europe. We stayed for hours, laughing, talking, plotting our next trips. It reminded me that joy doesn’t always have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just good food, good wine, and the right people. Before we left, we scribbled our names in the guestbook and promised we’d come back — maybe next time with boyfriends, maybe not. It didn’t matter. It was the first time in months I’d felt entirely at peace. The air smelled like lavender and lemon trees; I remember thinking, this is what contentment feels like.

Looking Ahead.

So here we are — another whirlwind month gone. Work’s crazy, my personal life’s a soap opera, and my tan’s already fading. But summer’s coming, and Michelle’s wedding is around the corner (I’m a bridesmaid!). There’s champagne in my future and hopefully fewer arguments. I’m also toying with the idea of cutting my hair shorter — maybe shoulder-length with soft layers. Everyone seems to be doing the “French-girl bob” thing and honestly, I’m tempted. I’ve also been living in linen lately — wide-leg trousers, oversized shirts, gold hoops — very effortless, very that girl who reads by the window with coffee. It’s probably my favourite version of myself.

If I’ve learned anything this month, it’s that growing up doesn’t mean having it all figured out — it just means handling the mess with a bit more grace (and maybe better SPF). Life’s still gloriously imperfect, and that’s the beauty of it. For now, I’m choosing to lean into the chaos — the heartbreak, the deadlines, the little wins — because they’re all part of the story I’m still writing.

Jess x