Flat Whites & Fresh Starts: A Kiwi Girl in London

So here we are. After a fairly disastrous break-up, I’ve decided to start an online blog. It's quite possibly an utterly terrible idea (cheers Mum for planting the seed), but also—just maybe—a little bit cathartic. I'm thinking of it as half therapy, half diary, and maybe a way of giving my friends and family a peek into my London life.

I should also add that in a fit of heartbreak-fuelled madness several weeks ago, I deleted my entire social media footprint. Every trace of my relationship, gone. And so now, here we are: a blank slate, a digital fresh start. Honestly, it feels strange to be writing everything so publically, but it’s also a little freeing. Writing feels more personal than Instagram ever did. There’s no filter here to hide behind—just words and honesty. It’s me, without the smoke and mirrors.

A Bit About Me

My name’s Jess. I’m 27, a New Zealander, and I work in real estate as a Project Manager. I grew up in middle-class Auckland with Mum, Dad, and two sisters. Like most Kiwis, I’m happiest with the sun on my skin, a flat white in hand, and the ocean nearby—whether it’s the beach, the harbour, or even just a lazy morning at the farmers’ market. Back home, weekends meant jandals, denim cut-offs, and brunch in cafés that didn’t require a booking two weeks in advance. (Londoners, why do you queue for eggs and coffee?!)

In my early twenties, I honestly thought I didn’t need to see the world because New Zealand’s backyard is endlessly, heartbreakingly beautiful. We’d escape to the Coromandel or Waiheke with just a chilly bin and a few bottles of sauv blanc, convinced life didn’t get better than fresh oysters, golden sand, and sticky sunscreen. You can’t beat that barefoot ease. London brunch, with its hour-long waits and overpriced smashed avo, still makes me laugh—it’s brunch, not an Olympic sport.

But then life happened. In 2013, I met a charming British man in New Zealand—the kind of man you convince yourself is it. Two years later, we packed up and moved to London, landing just in time for a glorious summer and to smugly watch the All Blacks win our third World Cup (ah, Richie McCaw—forever our darling hunk of a captain). I remember the mix of excitement and fear stepping off the plane, feeling both tiny and limitless at once. For a while, it felt like domestic bliss—or at least the Instagram version of it. In hindsight? Probably more one long public argument disguised as coupledom. Eventually, the cracks widened, and we broke up.

The Fallout

Cue panic. Cue a sharp intake of breath when I realised just how expensive it is to live in London solo. Cue more panic. And the gut-punch realisation that when your ex is deeply woven into your Kiwi friendship group, a breakup can feel like a double loss—you lose him and some of the friends you thought were permanent. A pro tip: if you have a group holiday to Croatia booked with your ex and your fractured circle of couple-friends, cancel it. Seriously.

Because otherwise it will be awkward.

Painfully awkward.

You’ll find yourself questioning your life choices while trapped on a sailboat.

You’ll drink too much (guilty).

You’ll cry (also guilty).

It will hurt.

But here’s the thing: the sun will still rise. The Mediterranean light will seep into your bones. You’ll laugh, even if it’s through a hangover haze. You’ll discover that resilience isn’t something you chase; it’s something that quietly emerges when you need it most. It’s in the moment you dive off the back of the boat into impossibly blue water. It’s in the random friendships you strike up with strangers at beach bars, who know nothing of your heartbreak and treat you like the version of yourself you’d forgotten existed. It’s in the little moments of clarity when you realise, against all odds, that you’re still standing—and maybe even thriving.

And honestly, that’s where I started noticing things differently. Back in Auckland, you heal with beach walks, a fish and chip dinner, and the sound of cicadas at night. Here in London, healing looks like crying into your overpriced latte at Monmouth Coffee and buying skincare you probably don’t need at Liberty. Different worlds, same heart trying to mend.

Little Luxuries

This is where I found the smaller joys that stitch life back together. Buying a new serum at Boots (even though the price made me wince) felt like control. Throwing on my favourite camel coat to strut down Regent Street felt like armour. Finding a Kiwi-style café in Shoreditch that served flat whites without burnt milk felt like home. Back in Auckland, skincare was coconut oil and sunscreen; here, it’s serums, hyaluronic acid, and trying to decode a 12-step routine you’ve seen on Instagram.

Fashion back home was jandals and shorts; here, it’s black skinnies, ankle boots, and a coat big enough to double as a duvet. I’ve gone from sundresses and bare feet to layering like a Michelin man just to survive the Tube in winter. Hair, too—back home it’s salty, messy, air-dried. Here? Blow-dries, dry shampoo, and the endless battle with London’s damp, frizz-inducing drizzle. It’s a whole aesthetic adjustment, and sometimes I feel like I’m failing spectacularly, but I remind myself it’s part of the fun.

Evenings are where the differences show most. In Auckland, it’s BBQs with mates, someone inevitably burning the sausages. Here, it’s pints at the pub, mascara smudged from the rain, and conversations shouted over music. And yet, somehow, both feel like home in their own way.

A Fresh Start

So, welcome to my little corner of the internet. A fresh start. A space for musings, rambles, and maybe even a touch of joy. I’m not promising polished perfection—just honesty, humour, Kiwi observations, and the odd fashion tangent. This is me figuring it all out—messy break-ups, expensive serums, camel coats, and the stubborn hope that maybe London has something magic for me too.

If you’re reading, thank you for being here—it means more than you know.

Jess x