Flings, Flights & Finding My Feet Again

Let’s just say… it’s been a weird one on the dating front, hun. And not in the cute, rom-com way. More in the “is this really my life?” kind of way.

I started off the fortnight with what can only be described as a soul-sucking evening in Moorgate. I decided to go on a date with a surveyor—yes, the kind who wears a suit by day and probably owns three rugby shirts with popped collars. He had seemed sharp over messages, witty even. But the moment we sat down at Flight Club, it became very clear that this man had all the personality of a wet napkin. And not even the cheeky chaos of darts, neon cocktails, and vaguely competitive banter could save us. I ended the night tipsy, politely bored, and questioning every life decision that led me there—including downloading Hinge in the first place.

But then, in true “mistakes make stories” fashion, I did what no self-respecting 37-year-old woman should probably do: I texted the young Australian. You remember him—the tall, tattooed, slightly chaotic 26-year-old from Clapham with the sticky floors, surfer boy charm, and a house share that looks like it hasn’t seen a Dettol wipe since 2019. Well, 30 minutes later I found myself at Bounce in Shoreditch, ping pong paddle in hand, laughing harder than I had in weeks.

And that little impulsive moment? It’s turned into four. Four nights. Four sleepovers in that utterly unsanitary house share that looks like a Fresher's Week hangover in physical form. His name is Bodhi—I know, of course it is—and yes, he surfs, he plays Australian Rules football, and yes, the shorts are very short. He’s already invited me to watch his first match of the season in April. I’m one bad decision away from being the grandmother WAG on the sideline in fake tan and Ray-Bans. God help me.

He calls me “Miss London” and insists on carrying my coat, which almost makes up for the fact that the bathroom shelf in his flat is held up by Blu Tack. I know this can’t last—but also? I'm kind of here for it. The unpredictability, the flirt, the total detour from my usual type—it’s wildly refreshing.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to cling to some form of normality by burying myself in my usual comforts: throwing myself into the gym (I’ve become a 1Rebel girly now, and Jessica’s my ride-or-die gym buddy—we do legs and then debrief over iced lattes like it's therapy), catching up on brunches with the girl squad (still too much oat milk, still never enough gossip), and having a few very wholesome playdates with Other-Sophie, baby in tow. It’s the yin to Bodhi’s yang—and frankly, it’s saving my sanity.

I’ve also been diving deep into Brené Brown’s “Dare to Lead”. And I mean deep. Highlighter out, dog-eared pages, post-it tabs like I’m studying for an emotional resilience exam. It's got me rethinking how I approach leadership in my business, how I show up for clients, and how I set boundaries—not just with my time, but with my energy. I’m planning to bring more vulnerability and clarity into the way I coach. Less noise, more intention. Fewer filters, more fire.

Mindset: Embracing the Duality

I’ve stopped trying to make sense of everything. Maybe life is about contradiction. Maybe it’s about reading Brené Brown in the morning and waking up in a house share that smells like Lynx Africa the next day. Maybe we can be both—soft and strong, wise and ridiculous, grounded and completely unhinged on a Friday night.

There’s something beautifully freeing about dropping the narrative and just living. Messy, bold, ridiculous living. I’m letting the “shoulds” take a backseat this month and choosing curiosity instead. What happens if I follow the fun? What happens if I stop judging myself mid-adventure?

Style: Tomboy Romance & Sidewalk Sass

It’s still that weird in-between weather, so I’m pairing soft oversized knits with leather trousers, and throwing in a bold lip for balance. Comfort meets chaos. I wore my Adidas Sambas to brunch the other day with a structured trench and felt like a walking Pinterest board.

Also—not to be dramatic—but I’m kind of leaning into teenage dirtbag chic when I’m with Bodhi. Think low ponytail, his oversized hoodie, gold hoops, and a vague air of mystery. It’s giving “girl who doesn’t care (but secretly does),” and I’m not mad about it.

And yes, I did wear a satin midi skirt with New Balance the other day, and yes, a stranger complimented it, and yes, I felt smug about it all afternoon. Fashion is a love language—and I’m in full flirt mode.

Beauty & Wellness: Flirting with Consistency

Still keeping up the pilates and magnesium and all the usual glow-girl bits. I’ve started using a gua sha tool more religiously, and I’m pretty sure my cheekbones are starting to write thank you notes. Body brushing is back in rotation too—lymphatic drainage but make it luxurious.

I’ve also been switching to matcha in the mornings instead of coffee, which feels like a personality shift. I still drink coffee. But now it’s aesthetic. And I may or may not have bought a frother just for my almond milk. I contain multitudes.

Skin-wise, I’ve become obsessed with barrier repair. Ceramides, peptides, misting like I’m in a Vogue backstage video. If I don’t look borderline laminated by bedtime, I’ve failed.

Pop Culture & Trends

• Saltburn is still living rent-free in my head (and wardrobe)

• Everyone’s talking about mushroom coffee again (I tried it… still tastes like regret)

• Ballet flats are allegedly back. I’m resisting. For now.

• There’s a viral candle on TikTok that’s supposed to make you fall in love. I might light it before Bodhi’s next visit, just for science

• Ethel Cain is my current soundtrack. Melancholy meets power. Obsessed.

• Quiet luxury is out. Maximalist chaos is back. Sequins at brunch? Why not.

The Month Ahead: Soft Launching Chaos

So March is here and I’m soft launching this chaotic, contradictory, kind-of-wonderful version of myself. I’m not overthinking it. There may be one more night in that god-awful share house. There may be a silent moment in yoga where I suddenly question everything. But for now? I’m laughing, lifting, reading, loving. It’s messy. It’s human. It’s mine.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll end up pitch-side in Clapham, sipping a protein shake, cheering on a man ten years younger in very short shorts, wearing lipstick that costs more than his monthly rent. Stranger things have happened.

Sophie x