spring on a winters day

The last few weeks have been so stressful with the first lot of my spring design samples coming from my manufacturer all wrong. It has thrown my timeline and launch of website, but given me the opportunity to refine the collection and assert myself with the people I employ. It has not been easy surrendering my work the strangers to be replicated, but it had to happen one day. The recent turmoil has revealed an unforeseen reconciliation with my twin sister. We have always had an extremely close connection, but our sisterly bickering had hindered the business relationship. We are 25 now and we worry less about our egos, and this showed in a recent peaceful confrontation that has resulted into this sincere respect and love that I have only received out my closest of closet friendships. And as if her already unconditional love and support of me was enough, it has further confirmed my sense of self and worth. The feeling you get from inside your soul that speaks to your body through your stomach, you know, the gut feeling, that your on the right path... insurmountable, as if it is this path, the path that leads you to the source

And through this, our Mum arrived unexpectedly. The last time the 3 of us were together was on our 21st birthday, so it was special - made only more by the fact that Saci works at the Peninsular Hot Springs where we spent 2 glorious days bathing, while the freezing temperatures dropped blissfully unaware around us...

First labels from manufacturer - and sewing the first one into a cardigan I made for Mum

When Mum saw this she reminisced of us as babies and insisted we roll it around woolies while we picked out dessert

talking to her baby twins - they didnt have twin seats in our day

relaxation room before our bathing

Saci - the ever professional

our private pool

it was 6 degrees on this night - warmer than the bathe the night before

Thank you Saci

-xox-

The Man I Was Taught to Fear

There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...

Versions, and “Versions”

I’ve already written about The Wiiyaan as a journalist. That piece lives in the Tweed Weekly . It’s careful, respectful, measured. It honours Bundjalung origin story, place, and the quiet authority of listening. It was written for a broad audience, many of whom - like me - come from settler families, carrying our own histories alongside the land we now call home. But after filing that story, I knew I wasn’t done. Some stories ask something back from you. This one did. So this is the version that doesn’t fit in a newspaper column. This is the version that explains why that exhibition cracked something open in me - why listening to Kyle Slabb speak about holding one version of Country, with care and restraint, felt like a mirror I wasn’t expecting. Kyle spoke about perspective. About how this telling is not the story, but a story - shaped by lineage, responsibility and law. He was clear, careful, and deeply respectful of other versions held...

The Story Behind the Front Page

When I walked into the Tweed Weekly office to meet Jonathan, the editor, I was mostly just hoping I’d find the right door. I’d been asked by my friend (and journalist) Madeline Murray to fill in for her while she recovers from surgery - my first little step into local journalism. Jonathan looked up, smiled, and said: “I recognise you, you’ll be in the paper tomorrow.” The week before, Madeline and I had worked on a story about a local collaboration - I had no idea it would end up splashed across the front page. Full circle moments have a funny way of sneaking up on you. I first met Dean three years ago at TAFE - I was studying photography, and he was in graphic design. We used to talk about how incredible it would be if students from different creative disciplines actually worked together , like we would in the real world. Fast forward to now: I’m wrapping up my Diploma of Fashion Design, and Dean has just completed the same Certificate IV Photography course I once did. Afte...

Rada Priya

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