Spend everyday shining your light my way

It was particularly cold today, so like a thousand other Florentines, we flocked to Ikea! Heating, hot lattes and make believe living rooms, the day passed easily.

I'm loving these clear lensed glasses I picked up in Thailand. They are especially useful riding around on motorbikes - no more squinting and hair whipping into my eyes. That, plus I'm hanging out with a bunch of guys that think they are 'too cool for school' and are consistently making fun of me - so the glasses help accentuate the 'part' - if you can't beat it, join it!

H&M was a little disappointing for winter clothes - alot of my size had sold out, but I found this knit for under $40. My satchel is by Colourful in Thailand. I bought a turquoise wallet from them also and later realised it matches the bag stripe perfectly. I'm heading back to Thailand in 10 days and am excited to pick up some more hand luggage in bright colours

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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