Moving Madness, Milestones & Meltdowns.

Wow, okay — where do I even start? These past few months have been next level. Easily the busiest, most chaotic, most London period I’ve had since moving over. There’s been a bit of everything — joy, stress, tears, unexpected wins, and a few too many flat whites. So grab a coffee, because this one’s a long one.

Weddings, What-Ifs & Wobbles.

Let’s start with June — my girl Michelle finally got married out in Essex, and I was lucky enough to be one of her bridesmaids. She and her partner have the cutest story — they met travelling through Africa and have been doing long-distance ever since, bouncing between Glasgow, Bristol, Cardiff, and Penzance before finally nesting down in London. The wedding itself was at Danbury Country Park in Essex, all rolling hills, fairy lights, and pastel roses — very English countryside chic. The weather held (thankfully), and there were Kiwis everywhere. I think I heard more “bro” and “sweet as” that weekend than I had in months.

It was one of those weddings that makes you rethink everything — your relationships, your friendships, even your skincare routine. (Don’t judge; humidity and emotional tears are not a good combo.) Standing beside Michelle, watching her walk down the aisle, was honestly so emotional. She looked like something out of a Grace Loves Lace campaign — effortless, glowy, completely in her element. Obviously, I cried.

Flatshare Chaos & Housing Roulette.

And because the universe loves a challenge, June was also the month my living situation imploded. My flatmate — lovely, sweet, accountant-type girl — had been getting serious with her boyfriend, who’d practically moved in. Then came the plot twist: she was pregnant. Which meant the spare room (mine) was suddenly becoming a nursery. Cue: panic.

It stung more than I expected. I’d been paying an under-the-table rent of £500 a month — absolute daylight robbery in my favour. She was part of a Help to Buy scheme, so technically wasn’t meant to have a tenant. It was all very hush-hush, and I’d lucked out. Losing that setup meant stepping back into the wild west of London renting — and if you’ve ever scrolled SpareRoom at 11 p.m. while eating cereal straight from the box, you’ll understand the despair.

Career Curveballs & Little Victories.

Just to add to the madness, it also happened to be when I started quietly interviewing for new jobs. I’d been with my consultancy for a while, working on big-name projects — Brentford, St John’s Wood Square — but couldn’t ignore that niggling feeling that I was being overlooked. The Partners seemed far more invested in my British colleagues. Part of me understands why (I never shut up about missing home and “one day moving back”), but still — it hurts.

By mid-July, things shifted. I somehow landed the most perfect flat in Brixton — modern, airy, new-build with actual sunlight (a rarity). I moved in with a guy named Ben, a friend-of-a-friend who worked for Goldman Sachs. On paper, he was ideal: chilled, into surfing, clearly earning enough to afford the nice olive oil. In reality… well, that’ll come later.

Around the same time, I landed my dream job — finally going client-side with a top-tier developer in King’s Cross. They’ve delivered some seriously gorgeous schemes across the UK, and I still can’t believe I got the call. My new boss — an Aussie — and I clicked instantly. Within ten minutes, we were talking less about project phasing and more about Vegemite versus Marmite and missing “proper beaches.” She’s sharp, funny, and completely gets what it’s like being an antipodean woman in construction. It’s been a breath of fresh air.

The Big Win (and a Big Mess).

Within two weeks of starting, two major things happened: I passed my APC (hello, career milestone!), and my new flatshare completely blew up. The APC process was chaos — interviews, case studies, competency questions — and mine ended up being rescheduled after a total admin disaster at the Holiday Inn Heathrow (because of course). But I passed! Cue ugly crying and champagne.

The flat, however, went downhill fast. Remember Ben, my “super chilled” housemate? Yeah, no. Within a month of returning to work post-stress leave, he completely unravelled. He started coming home drunk, slamming doors, blasting The Killers at 2 a.m., and generally being a walking red flag. The final straw came when he smashed one of the kitchen pot plants, tracked soil everywhere, and refused to clean it up. When I asked nicely, he replied — and I quote — “Why don’t you stop being a bitch and just clean it up?”

I’d love to say I handled it gracefully, but in reality, it turned into a full-blown row. He was in his boxers, yelling, trying to loom over me like some frat boy gone rogue. It was scary, honestly. I called a friend, packed a bag, and spent the night at Sam’s (who conveniently has also moved house, two minutes away). I told my new boss everything the next day, and bless her, she was beyond supportive — even offered me flexible hours so I could flat hunt. I started viewing places around Herne Hill and Tulse Hill. Both cute, leafy, and reasonably well-connected. I’m praying something works out soon because right now, the idea of “home” feels like a luxury.

Little Joys & London Life.

In the middle of all this chaos, I’ve been clinging to the small things — long walks through Battersea Park, overpriced lattes from Blank Street, Sunday facials at home with my go-to Kiehl’s mask, and trying to remember to breathe. I’ve swapped my usual gym grind for yoga (trying to lengthen rather than tighten — I sound like an influencer, I know), and I’ve fallen head over heels for Glossier’s Futuredew because London’s grey skies are merciless.

It’s also festival season, which helps. I went to SW4 with a few girlfriends from work — glitter, sunburn, and all. We danced ourselves silly to Martin Garrix and Craig David, survived on Aperol Spritz and fries, and talked about everything from toxic exes to the impending horror of turning 30 without owning property. London summer might be fleeting, but it’s magic — that golden haze where everyone’s happy for no reason and pubs spill onto the pavement.

What’s Next.

So here I am, at the end of August, typing this from a coffee shop in Clapham with my oat flat white going cold beside me. I’m equal parts exhausted and proud. This year’s been relentless — house drama, job stress, career highs — but somehow, I’m still standing (in cute loafers, no less). I don’t know what’s next, but I’m starting to believe that the messiest seasons are often the ones that teach us the most.

For now, I’m taking it one day at a time. I’m saving for a solo trip to Paris in October or November — I haven’t decided yet — and promising myself a September reset: early nights, more skincare, fewer negronis.

Because if 2019 has taught me anything, it’s this — life doesn’t slow down for anyone, so you might as well make it beautiful while you can.

Jess x