This week, I watched Romane Bohringer’s interview on Mesdames.
Ariane Massenet on a couch, asking her questions.
Like in the old Fogiel days.
But not quite the same anymore.

I don’t know about you, but I often get that feeling.
A little pinch.
When I see people again after a while.
Realizing
Time.

The Cool Girls

Romane.
Charlotte (Gainsbourg).
Vanessa (Paradis) — definitely not Elsa.
Ophélie (Winter).
These women, their aura,
everything they had
that I didn’t.

Their strength.
Long hair.
Confidence.
Seduction.
A distance — and a resemblance.

I didn’t necessarily follow them closely,
but we walked together, somehow,
through the years.

Still there.

In the interview, Romane admits the period isn’t easy.
That the shovel blow knocks you out a bit.
Even when you’re in a beautiful moment of your life.
And that fifty is the new forty.

Ariane’s “we’re all there”
made me smile.
You’re not alone, Sister.
Taking hits like that is discouraging.
Okay, okay — I exaggerate. Still.

For me, it’s a flash.

A bit like finding yourself
at a finish line
and wondering how you got there.

Peace

I don’t know about you, but for me it often goes like this:
I like myself better years later.
I adore myself too late.
I look at old photos and wonder what didn’t suit me
back then.

Let’s not exaggerate.
I don’t hate myself.
Let’s say being on my own side remains complicated.
Making peace with your reflection,
when you start to loosen and soften,
you need a strong heart for that!

Where am I?

It’s fine, it’s fine — I don’t jump yet
when I catch myself in the mirror.
But I pause and question myself.
Eye to eye.
Searching for me.
Where did I go?

I remember my mother crying
during the first week of her forties.

For me, the tank moment is fifty.

Of course, I am grateful.
To still be alive.
I’m indulgent
and impressive.

Oh yes — and intelligent!

Honestly, damn it.
I want to be beautiful.
The shovel blow is real.
And pretending nothing is happening
is not going to regenerate me.

Truth is, the cool girls are still here. Like me.
And Romane and Ariane put a smile back on my face.
Hearing both the strength and fragility
of women like them.

Seeing yourself in the other. And vice versa.
The mirror effect.
Our softened, time-shaped reflections.
And our humanity.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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Hear ye, hear ye!
A quick announcement to the community:
This Sunday’s going to shake things up.

A few weeks ago,
Not far from Billa,
Don’t ask me why…
I pictured myself showing up to breakfast
With a cucumber and a box of condoms.
My best friend horrified.

Homeschooling is all well and good,
But at some point you have to tackle
The famous topic
Of sexuality.

Crazy Little Swimmers

Cutesy nicknames? Not my thing.
With my boys, I decided early on to call a cat a cat.
No wee-wees, no pee-pees.
It’s just anatomy.
And when nicknames did pop up,
They were never used to hide embarrassment.

And during my yoga teacher training,
As I studied the body and its systems,
I started sharing what I was learning.

I still remember my favorite teacher’s hilarious sketch—
Acting out an enraged uterus, furious it hadn’t had a “private visit,”
Clawing at its own lining in anger,
Bleeding—red with fury—
Before hoping for a new baby the following month.

Weeks followed with whiteboard markers,
Sperm-race drawings,
And fully embodied mime sessions
Of those crazy little swimmers.

Open the same way.

I don’t have a brother close to me and the boys’ father is no longer here.
So when they hit me with tricky questions,
I call for backup and go back to school myself.

“Mum, why do I have this line going from the bottom of my penis to my anus?”
“Hello, Watson (part-time boyfriend, full-time friend)… Why do you have a line going from the bottom of your penis to your anus?”
“ …”

“I don’t know either, but I know you’ve got one!”

That was before ChatGPT. I looked it up.
Turns out that until the 7th week, we’re all open the same way.
It’s called the cloaca.
It closes. Or doesn’t.

Thanks to Charline’s book and the account @orgasmeetmoi,
We discovered that there are “flesh penises” and “blood penises.”
Did you know that?
I sure didn’t.

Mayday! Mayday!

Buckle up.
We’re entering turbulence.

Morning Instagram scroll.
A story from Charly, beloved makeup artist.
A top-tier loser comment on his post—
Something like, from memory:
“Why bother with cream? My wife loves a fac-ejac.”

Seriously.
How do we deal with idiots like that?

Next story and—
Heat wave.
Flash.
Ubald follows this account. For the makeup. Not for the vile comments.
Freaking haters.

I cross my fingers he didn’t see it.
And of course I mentally review every type of content he has access to.
Rambo Mode: ON.

10 p.m. Everyone in bed.
“So… Charly today… Did you see the story?”
Shit.
Mayday! Mayday!

I started gently, talking about inappropriate comments.
Then I took a sharp turn,
Because I really wanted to check whether we all knew what it was about.

“Well yeah, of course we know…”
Good thing I was lying down—
My arms would have dropped off.

Thank you, summer-camp sex-ed minute!

Once everyone was updated—without going into specifics—
I took the exit toward consent. A value worth sharing.

“Cause otherwise it’s like walking down the street
And getting a seagull turd right in the face.”

We cracked up.
And I felt saved.

Note to self: never chicken out.

My Younger Years

This whole episode took me back
To my younger years,
To the rare times I tried to gather
Information, explanations,
At home.

My mother asking me—guest or no guest—
At exactly 8 p.m.: “Did you take your pill-pil?”
Peak teenage cringe.

A box of o.b. tampons in the bathroom cabinet.

“Disgusting! Maybe with Nutella at best!”
Talking about blowjobs—over two glasses of Coteaux-du-Layon.
What on earth.
My twenties.
Then she goes further and asks me:
“And you?”

Get me out of here.

The Only One

I’m 18.
The two of us go see The Lover.

Tiny local movie theater.
Your mother—magnificent—
Commenting loudly on the actor’s butt.
Only your eyes peeking out of your turtleneck.

Back home, parked in front of the house.
Maybe the only real conversation we ever had.
The only one.

A shared moment.
In the dark.

The ultimate romantic fantasy.
The virgin and the God of sensuality.
The advice: find an experienced guy first—
Someone who knows what he’s doing.

Years passed.
I think back to that film I adored.
Blinded.
The poster I used to have.
I’m chilled to the bone.

Adolescence.
Finding the right distance.
Explaining without running away.
Telling without intruding.

When your own intimacy has been blown open.
Saying yes.
Saying no.
Making choices.
Finding your path.

Being present.
But not too much.
Being vigilant.
Coming back to center.

Walking on eggshells.
Standing tall.
Learning. Unlearning. Relearning.

And never letting a seagull dropping hit you on the nose
Unless you personally invited it.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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The Shift

Tuesday. Facebook (which I rarely open).
Kareen, my Mauritian friend, in close-up.
The clip of her single: Je m’évade (I escape).

She did it.
The shift.
Her passage from shadow to light.
Her (re)birth into the world.

I’ve always known her with a guitar and that crystal-clear voice.
Her missing accent whenever she sings.
And her long hair in the wind.

A month, at mine

In 2001, I’m 27 and I go back to school.
ESMOD. Bordeaux. Fashion design. Pattern-making.
Finally studying something that makes me vibrate.
Meeting this tall sun-kissed blonde.
Dancing on top of a bar counter.
Our clumsy impressions on the runway of the end-of-year show.

2004, we’re in Paris.
Kareen is designing menswear collections.
I’m in the Haute Couture section. Turning 30.
The friends of that time and Beauty’s confidential guitar.
I leave for the countryside once the year is over.
She returns to her beloved island.

2018, Shanghai. I need air.
I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.
Stay. Leave.
A month between Mauritius and La Réunion.
Sun in the heart of winter for Chinese New Year.
Kareen tells me: “Why go to La Réunion? Stay a month with me!”
A weight lifts.
And so do we.
Emirates.

Nature life

Her lovely house two steps from the beach.
Our three boys — she has one.
Sea urchins bigger than our hands.
The giant water lilies of the Jardin de Pamplemousses.
Maria’s unforgettable dishes.
My early-morning yoga sessions.
“Expect the unexpected” scribbled in a bus after the storm.
Us laughing ourselves breathless in the fog facing the ghost-like panorama of Roches Noires.
Photographing the procession carts of the Indians on their pilgrimage to Grand Bassin.
A forgotten baby turtle who gets named Ubald, discovered in the Île aux Aigrettes reserve.
Counting stars and sea cucumbers.
Living the nature life.

Widows and orphans

Kareen’s husband died while she was pregnant.
Mine, a little over a year earlier.
Two lives cut short.
Two women stunned.

One day as we’re chatting in the car, a vehicle passes us.
Backseat conversation:
“A Porsche!”
“You can recognize them?”
“Yes. A Porsche killed my father. And yours?”
“His heart stopped. After a party.”

A surreal exchange.
Two mothers in the front, staring at each other, wide-eyed.
And then…
A crazy, unforgettable laugh. Tears in our eyes.

I cherish that spontaneous sharing, that spoken link.
A piece of sorrow flew away.

The Indian Our Lady

In Mauritius you come across temples, churches and mosques.
That makes for a lot of public holidays!

One morning we stop in a village.
The one with Our Lady of Velankanni.
Where Kareen came
To ask for a baby.

I immediately recognized her faith
In her soft singing voice.
To be honest, I hardly listen to French songs. And I’m more music than lyrics. Yet this sound carries me.
It soothes me.

When I spoke with her this week about her big leap, here’s what Kareen told me:

“Talking about exposure, it’s really complicated…
First you have to love yourself, yada yada…
…
And now I’ve ended up with a music video…
…
So you see, I decided not to listen to myself too much.
Actually, I have faith. You know that.
I’m doing this for God first.
That’s what keeps me moving forward.
Because I tell myself I don’t have the right not to love myself.
Because I’m a wonder. God created me.
That’s my belief, I’m explaining how I process.
I was created with a love I can’t even understand.
It’s not good to question what God created — and what He created is a wonder.
I realized that at some point.
I have no right to diminish myself.
Yes, I’ve always had this inferiority complex even though deep down I know I have many talents.
When you talk to me about organization and all that, it’s hard — I know what it’s like. You can be all over the place and end up finishing nothing. It’s exhausting.
In the end you just want to do something simple and not think.
That’s it.
I try not to focus too much on myself and the image I project and all that…
Basically, I shift my gaze away from me.”

I don’t know what these lines will evoke for you.
For me, her perspective sent a vibration through me.

Finally seeing yourself as a unique, fearless creation.
Stopping the self-sabotage.
Turning your gaze away from yourself and looking further.
Aiming for the moon.

Since Tuesday, I wake up in the morning and listen to Kareen making my heart smile.
Just like Nathan, from my first newsletter.
Seeing myself differently.
As the wonder I am.
And you are too.

Remember.
Remember that you are wonders.
Thank you for this sound of hope.
Thank you Kareen.

The track is called Je m’évade and the album Fly. On Spotify, Apple Music, Deezer and YouTube.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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I love impulsive decisions.
I’m the girl who jumps in her car in the middle of the night to rescue her boyfriend the day before his vocational exam. The girl who goes, “Dare me?” and then takes an 11-hour bus ride to fall in love with M’Hamid El Ghizlane in Morocco—because some guy said it looked like a Paulo Coelho novel.
You get the idea.

But this week, I tapped out.

The itchy passport

A few months ago, my friend Maria—a solo American mom—asked me to join her in Rishikesh, India. Fed up with Paris, a city she once thought was magical, she was packing up her life and wanted one last trip to India before her kids left for Germany to stay with their dad and their life became neatly structured again.

I had just decided on Bulgaria and the whole residency process. People who know me in real life are well aware that decisions like this cost me months—and about a third of my brain cells.

But everything was clear.
Aligned.
I told her as much and moved on.

Then, last Sunday, Maria sent me a picture.
From there.

My heart tightened.
The emotional hives flared.
My passport started itching.

I crack

That photo—her son sitting on a rock in the middle of the Ganges—brought everything back.
Those winters spent freezing and laughing.
The boys sitting bare-bottomed in the bucket we used as their bathtub.
The kilos of apples we peeled while our four kids ran wild.
The monkey that launched itself at me to steal my still-warm jalebis.
The thalis at Parmarth Niketan—the most publicized ashram.
Swimming in the sacred river, fully dressed.
The waiter who secretly slipped Ubald a sugary gulab jamun.
The farmer lady who served me tea.
Our favorite cow.
Varun, my beloved dance teacher.
Rohit, the snack seller.
And of course, Pankaj.

Seeing our kids there one last time.
I break.
And I throw myself onto my keyboard.
Let the ticket hunting begin.

The start of a story

The first time I landed in Rishikesh was in December 2018. The early days of my nomad life weren’t easy—I was emotionally all over the place. So I decided to fly back to Shanghai for two weeks, a city we missed deeply and had left that June.

My favorite yoga teacher told me he was taking a group of students to India. I jumped at the opportunity. A few days later, we were in Amritsar. The Golden Temple. The elegant Sikhs.

Next stop: Rishikesh.
The Kesh, if you’re in the club.
Yogaland, if you’re a cynic.

Everything felt good there. The climate, the yoga, the Chinese girlfriends from the group who adored playing with Ubald and Félix. I remember one night dancing my heart out in the mountains. A release of all the old bruises.

On our last day, walking along the Ganges, a stunning woman dressed Indian-style stopped me and asked in English:

“Do you live here? Do you homeschool?”

Maria.
Knows the city like the back of her hand.
Spends her winters there with her family.
Has two kids the same age as mine.

Annoyed to meet her at the very end of my stay, I told her we were leaving the next day.
Took her number.

For two months afterward, I thought about her.
Texted her. No answer.
I must have written the number wrong.
And then I thought, “What if we just… went back?”

I booked our tickets.
And the day we arrived, crossing the Ram Jhula bridge, I saw a woman.
Maria.
It was fate.
We were back to finish the winter with them.

The Bliss years

Weeks that felt like a blessing. Winters shared.
Hard times too. Typhoid. Covid.
A lover.
The Bliss years.

That’s everything flooding my heart as I type like a woman possessed.
But what about the six months per year I’m required to stay on Bulgarian soil?
We can do that next year!
The boys’ classes?
There are replays!
Remember the cold? No heating?
We’ll survive!

And honestly, that rush of doing something totally insane at the last minute and throwing overly structured plans in the trash feels fantastic!

Yes, but…

By Wednesday night, the decision was made.
We were going.
Yet I went to bed feeling… uneasy.
I should have been buzzing.
I woke up. Re-checked every ticket, every transfer, every airline.
Didn’t sleep.
In the morning, Félix told me, “If you’re hesitating, it means it’s not a yes…”

Consent—and its false yeses.

Exhausted, I came back down to earth.
And I regrouped.
My thoughts. My senses.
I almost fell back in.
Into my universe—and my old patterns.

I know I’m tired of moving.
My vata is fried.
I’m here for a new chapter.
In Bulgaria.

The pull of running away.
Of the past.
Of nostalgia.
That sneaky, sugary nostalgia.
And I’ve often been disappointed when I returned to places I once loved—
because everything changes.
Not just me.

So even if I complain about no longer wanting to chain together two sleeper trains, three flights, or 40 hours on a bus, I try to remind myself that it doesn’t make me boring.

It’s okay.

Before trying to outrun what scares me most.
Before choosing which backpack to take.
Before fearing—and embracing—getting older.
I’m going to give this choice a chance.
And find the courage to tell Maria.
We won’t be coming this time.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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First, credit where credit’s due: thanks, Maxime, for this subtitle.
If you don’t know his CUPH – Center of the Universe Complaints Hotline, go check it out — it’s often hilarious and always spot on! In French though ;)
Bonus: his book just came out.
Anyway, this morning I was listening to his latest Reel and that line just hit me.

The “Just in Case”

Flashback. Lille. Clinique du Bois.
Two weeks ago.
Finally.
Three months waiting for a new mammogram.
I’m finally going to know if there’s a “to be continued” or not.

Basically, three months of trying not to think about it, while thinking about it anyway.
Three months feeling a lump in my breast when there wasn’t one before.
Thank you, crappy healing abilities.
And three months of putting off our Bulgarian residency application — just in case I had to rush back to France to start some kind of (medical or obstacle) course.

It’s pouring rain. A proper storm.
I can barely hear my name over the roar of raindrops on the glass roof.
I hand my file to the radiologist and hold my breath.

“Oh no, it’s way too soon — I’m not doing another mammogram now! Come back in three months…”

WTF – What The Fuck (or BDM – Bordel de Merde for the less bilingual among you).

Why on earth did I put my life on hold just in case?

You’ve got to be caught to be taught.
I fill out the forms, and basta la Margaret!
No way am I pausing my life for another three months.
Once again, I realize fear froze my plans.
So here we go — apostille adventure, round one.
No matter the administrative chaos or ever-changing procedures, I’m staying the course.

Ça ira! We’ll get those damn apostilles!

We Have to Leave

Bansko, a few days later. Happy to be back in our little nest — the big change of recent months.
Wednesday, I’m back to my usual routine with my Billa tote bag (the local supermarket).
As I step through the gate, fresh bread in hand, I spot our landlady tapping on her reception window.

I raise an eyebrow. I smile. I walk into her office.
Three lighthearted words, then: “Nathalie, I need to talk to you.”

With that Bulgarian accent, the “I need to talk to you” instantly sends you straight into From Russia with Love.
And when Petia tells me she’s been trying to find a way to talk to me for days, I’d kill for Sean Connery by my side.

Crawl mode activated: we have to move out.
Translation — the property’s been sold, and we can’t stay.

I keep my composure (unless she’s a double agent, she’s not to blame), but honestly, I want to cry.
I’ve got our old Shanghai Christmas decorations in my suitcase and was so looking forward to putting them up in our little dollhouse home.

Small detail: we’re not talking about a month’s notice.
We’re talking days — maybe a week.
Luckily, China trained me for this kind of plot twist.
I’d just gotten lazy. Thought I could rest on my laurels.

Petia’s kind. She offers another apartment — next door, same layout, just one bedroom less.
Not exactly jumping for joy.
Just when everything was finally lining up!

Heavy-hearted, I head upstairs to break the news to the boys.
Félix shoots back that instead of complaining, I should enjoy the ride.
And that nothing’s set in stone yet.

Sophie

December 2024.
I presented my book at a Christmas event at the French Consulate residence.
The next day, I sent a thank-you message to the association who’d made it happen, ending with:

“If anyone happens to have Sophie Marceau’s number, she’d make a perfect Alex in the Baobei movie!”

For the record, I wasn’t just saying that randomly.
I’ve always loved this actress — I even found her photo on a 2021 moodboard next to a typewriter —
and she’s very well-known in China.
I found out she was actually in Shanghai a week before my event, thanks to that message.

Fast forward two days: someone writes to me,

“Nathalie, I don’t have Sophie’s number, but a very good friend of mine is a film producer here — give her your book!”

Wild, right?
Meeting arranged. Canceled (the producer couldn’t make it).
Rescheduled (she called me back).
Long story short: she read my book. Loved the rhythm.
Told me there’s no way we’d ever get filming permission in China.
And nudged me toward writing a TV series instead.

For two or three weeks, I was floating on a cloud.
I sent her a synopsis.
And then… the fog rolled back in.

As for Sophie, I really wanted her to get my book.
I tried to hand it to her during her shows with François Berléand,
thanks to my team of super special agents (Sean looks lazy next to them).
The performances were sold out.

And then, one day, a message from a friend:
she’s got strong ties with a celebrity agent (think Arlette from Call My Agent!),
and she wants to help the boys and me by getting the book into the right hands.

My heart does a little shuffle.
Happy dance.
It’s February 2025, and here I am in Bulgaria, writing a letter to Sophie Marceau.
Life’s dramas and detours.
Did the book ever reach her?

The Let Them Theory

Back to the present. Not so long ago — a month or two, maybe.
I’m taking Félix to his improv class.
For once, I’m alone, so I decide to listen to Mel Robbins’ latest audiobook: The Let Them Theory.
Basically, “Let people do what they do.”

I love the way she talks (it’s her own voice on Audible).
She cracks me up. I burst out laughing when she gives the example of her husband farting in bed every morning to illustrate that we don’t love everything about the people we love — so why lose sleep over people not always loving us?

She tells the story of her beginnings as a motivational speaker.
My body reacts. Wakes up.
I rewind. Listen again.
Something lights up inside me.
That’s it. I’ve got it.
That’s what I’m meant to do.
I want to write and speak.
A kind of Maud Ankaoua — but less corporate and funnier.

I’m buzzing at 12,000 volts.
In my head (then on ChatGPT), I list what I’ve done in the past, what I already have in the pipeline — and it ALL makes sense.
I tell a few friends that evening.
I feel alive again.
That spark, that en-vie, is back, and it feels incredible.

Over the next few days, I dig deeper.
What’s the first step? I need an angle. Maybe join Toastmasters.
And then — the first doubt creeps in.
Motivational speakers… in France? Meh.
Tony Robbins? No, thanks.

I fight back. I remember a coach once telling me to write a short comedy sketch between sessions:

“Your mission: to heal through humor. You write and make people feel good.”

And a friend once said, smiling :

“Basically, you need to find something where you get paid to talk!”

I try.
And yet, I sink. Swallowed by fear.
But I keep going — because deep down, I know it’s not madness.
It’s almost a rite of passage.

Having faith.
In uncertainty.
Letting go — without giving up.
Feeling the fear — and moving anyway.
Steady steps forward.

Last minute post-newsletter update : the book was given ! Thank you Arlette and her finest secret agent :).

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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November 2nd.
I woke up at 5 a.m.
A quick scroll on Instagram.
A knot in my stomach.

I don’t know what to tell you this morning.
No urge to fill the space—not even to go back to bed.
Just to think.

It’s always strange, those fleeting visits to your home country.
Never enough time to get used to it again.

The hairdresser.
Friends.
Old ones.
A raclette dinner.
The miles.
The medical check-up waiting room.
The suitcases.
Hair products.
Vanilla beans.
A minister’s schedule.
Bookstores.
Sauerkraut.
The postponed exam.
Your favorite dishes.
The stop at the pharmacy.
A quince pastry from the bakery.
The All Saints’ holidays.

All of it like an enchanted parenthesis.
Or a date gone slightly wrong.

The stress of forgetting nothing.
Of not having done enough.
The duties we invent for ourselves.

Procrastinating.
Wanting to hide again.
Thinking about the next visit.
Already planning it.

What if I just let it go?

Afraid of bringing you down.
Of not making you smile.

The truth.
Stopping the hiding.
Feeling everything shift.
Getting scared.
Running away.
Turning back.
Coming home.
Understanding, but not all of it.
Writing.
Healing, but not completely.
Hurting.
Smiling.
Telling yourself you’ll do better next time.
Fearing there won’t be one.

That’s what The Quest really is.
The steps forward, the sideways ones.
The epiphanies and the messy attempts.
Everything that makes a life.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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Last June, during my final coaching session with the wonderful Alexandra, I burst into tears.
Nothing unusual about that.
Except this time, the topic.

After whining about how I hadn’t done enough during our three months of work together, I blurted out something like:

“I’m so tired of my brain being all over the place. Too many tabs open, too many ideas colliding, too many half-finished urges. I’m exhausted.
I wonder if I should just take that ADHD test… and at the same time, ugh. I’m scared.”

Get My Act Together

Alexandra jumped right in:
— “And if the answer is yes?”
— “Then I’ll feel relieved. Like it’s not all my fault.”
— “And if it’s no?”
— “Then I’ll just have to get my act together. It’ll mean it’s up to me, and I can change things.”
— “So, either way, you think it’s better to know or not?”
— “In a way, yes. But it freaks me out.”

In an ideal world

I hate boxes.
The ones people put me in.
The ones I put myself in.
Unbearable.

Since we started living nomadically, we’ve met so many kids (and parents) labeled as “atypical,” as it’s fashionable to say.
Some pretend it’s nothing.
Others won’t stop talking about it every other sentence.

For me, it wasn’t a thing. For the boys either.
I remember a conversation about a friend who’s on the spectrum. Ubald and Félix chimed in together:

“So-and-so is just so-and-so. That’s who he is, period.”

Translation: of course he’s different — everyone is, because no one else is him.
Capiche?
I’ll admit, I was proud of that answer.

Years passed.
That boy went back to school.
And his mother changed her mind about diagnoses.

She wrote something on Facebook that stopped me in my tracks. I’m quoting from memory:

“In an ideal world, where everyone is welcomed as they are, no one would need a label.
But since we don’t live in that world, labels help you be recognized and supported in your difference.”

For the first time, reading her words, I wondered if labels might actually protect more than they confine.

You’re not Sharon Stone

That June morning, I decided to go for it — to cross to the other side of the mirror.
To stop being afraid of what I might find there.

I wasn’t starting from scratch. While clearing out my late parents’ house, I’d found a certificate from a WISC test — the one used to measure children’s IQs — from when I’d skipped a grade.
I’d tucked it away quickly, but not before checking the result and admitting to myself:

“Bottom range of gifted. Calm down, you’re not Sharon Stone.”

Nothing to make a fuss about.

At the time, I hadn’t even wondered how that diagnosis might affect my everyday life.

Ten years later, I asked ChatGPT.
And I was stunned by what I read.
Wait — not everyone works like this?

I got motivated and didn’t stop there.
I found a psychologist who works with adults, in an office on a street with my maternal family’s last name.
If that’s not a sign, what is?

She agreed to see me the following week and even promised to squeeze in the tests before my trip to Bulgaria.

This was it — I could feel it

I wasn’t exactly relaxed when I walked into that teenager’s office.
God, it’s weird how often you end up sitting across from someone young enough to be your kid when you’re in your fifties.

A little tense, I told her about my life — the highs, the lows, the 180-degree turns.
I answered her questions.
I even explained that “gifted people” usually hated school, were terrible students, etc. Totally the opposite of me. And blah blah blah.

Then she looked up and said she wasn’t going to do anything else that day (WHAT?) — and that I should see a psychiatrist (WTF).
Because sometimes it’s tricky to make a diagnosis, and she first wanted to rule out whether I might be… cyclothymic.

Holy shit.

For most families who pop antidepressants like I eat chocolate, this wouldn’t even be a scoop.
Pretty ordinary.

For me, it was a grenade.
Not because it came out of nowhere.
Because it didn’t.

More than once, reading Lise’s posts about her bipolar life, I’d felt a resonance.
And yes, a bonus layer: I thought of my mother — the life of the party in public, collapsing in private.

A psychiatrist in the family

I’ve seen a lot of therapists in my life.
I’ve searched for so long — inside and out — trying to understand why I malfunctioned, why I couldn’t just be content, why, why, why.
The one type of professional I’d never consulted was now being recommended to me.

Luckily, I happen to have a psychiatrist in the family — a second cousin, and a nice one at that.
We don’t know each other well, but I know we share a few things.

I called him and confessed the sentence that had been looping in my head for days:

“I feel like someone who’s spent years — decades — digging everywhere… except where she should have. And now it’s shaking everything up.”

He reassured me with humor, saying that if you’re gifted and have ADHD, that’s actually the easier combo to live with.
That yes, all of this ties back to your lineage.
And that if I wanted to dig deeper, I could — but it would take time.

Keeping it together

A few days later, the whole mammotome episode landed.
So my psych questions quickly went back into hiding.

Still, I’d made progress — starting with a bit less self-blame, a tiny bit more self-kindness.
And the effort to keep it together through all these challenges.

In the following months, I met (thank you, life) people who really knew their stuff on the topic, and I learned a few things I’ll share here:

The average age for diagnosing boys is 7.
For girls? 37.

Why?
Because boys fidget, act out — adults notice.
Girls adapt, overcompensate, and disappear.

Often, motherhood triggers awareness. Too many things to juggle, and even a brain used to running on “all directions” mode eventually implodes.

Back then, I was lucky: living in China with a nanny helping me, nothing unraveled.

In the world of homeschooling and/or traveling families, there are so many so-called “atypical” parents and kids (God, that word annoys me).
Because they build a world where life feels gentler, their brains more understood.
That’s what I did too — a survival instinct, in its own way.

The treasure hunt has only just begun.
It is, then isn’t, then is again a priority.

I’m writing this down today — for myself.
For my friends who wonder about themselves, and about me.
And for you, reading this.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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Posh VS Mel B.

This week, I loved diving—with Ubald—into the Netflix miniseries about Victoria Beckham.

I’m not alone: Charlotte Moreau even dedicated an editorial to it on ELLE’s website.

Out of superstition, or perhaps from fear of finding my words too pale, I swore not to read it until after finishing this newsletter.

While Ubald was discovering the Spice Girls years, I was diving back into my own history.

I revisited the Spice Girls and the years that passed so quickly.

My Posh dreams and my Mel B reality, with my tomboy look.

My hair attempts, my foundation abuse to feminize eyebrows that were too thick.

The heavy artillery.

In July 1996, when Wannabe came out, I was 22.

I was in my final year of engineering school and had just met the man who would become (too?) quickly my first husband.

I bought Aubade or Lejaby lingerie, which I find so overdone today.

As if back then, I had no choice but to bring out the heavy artillery.

These clothes that marked me.

Facing Victoria’s life, what she lets us glimpse in this meticulously crafted documentary, I see again the uniforms of my life.

These clothes that marked me.

From my Poivre Blanc polo in sixth grade, to my short hair and my Benetton/Burlington/black patent Paraboots combo.

To that Claudie Pierlot skirt for La Redoute, worn to a wedding with a polka dot bustier from Pimkie that looked so girly, but in which I ultimately felt so uncomfortable.

Married in turn, I joined the heels and super fancy tights team.

I remember a fiery pair of Wolford and a leopard-print Falke.

I would blow my paycheck in a shop in Dieppe that I loved.

I wore Gaultier Jeans ponte pants and felt most beautiful in my big Sonia Rykiel sweater.

Luxury bubble in my struggling years.

In the rest of the story, I go back to school.

Fashion school.

I make clothes and drown in them.

I try the artist’s life with a matching boyfriend and welfare.

I feed off the atmosphere of the studios and everything created there.

Anne-Valérie Hash thanks me at the end of my internship with one of her sublime pants with the reversed waistband.

The beauty of feminized masculinity.

A gift I will cherish with love.

Luxury bubble in my struggling years.

Zero psychology.

In 2007, I’m 33 and fed up with hiding in my Charente countryside under my layers of tired clothes.

I feel ugly, bad, and my guy kind of tells me not to have complexes,

which—of course—is the best way to send them through the roof.

Zero psychology.

I leave for a new life and I invest.

I remember his disgusted look seeing me stuff huge heels into my green Samsonite.

I smile realizing today that they too were black patent.

My Posh years.

In China, I lose my kilos and my old clogs.

I create a wardrobe that fits me and in which I feel good.

In hindsight, a double-effect armor.

My clothes hide my private life and its frightened nights from the world.

They’re a shield I wear to work.

Like a giant mask in front of my lack of confidence and its gaping hole.

In one episode, Victoria says she creates clothes that make you feel strong,

feel like the best version of yourself.

At that period of my life, that’s exactly what my closet was.

When I get ready for Leo’s cremation, I think of Beckham. I quote her in this passage of my book Baobei.

And on my couch, of course, I thought about it again.

Strong image of the outside over the broken inside.

My Posh years.

I see again my famous Diesel firefighter boots, my multiple pieces from Uniqlo collabs with Inès de la Fressange,my pink Marc Jacobs pumps and my Maje leather.

My yoga classes after work in a tank top and black cotton leggings from Decathlon, and my high-heeled boots that I’d put on as soon as I finished.

My own version of Catwoman.

I thought I could forget.

But the clothes weren’t enough.

To keep me sane.

So I left again.

And those stylish memories, I didn’t want to take them.

I kept nothing.

Except the famous firefighter boots, the leather, and a long cream dress from Zara. In which I felt so beautiful at a party, when Leo and I were separated and my heart was beating again.

I thought I could forget.

And then one day, Felix borrowed my jacket for a Halloween costume. It was neatly folded, ready to be mended.

He was running, it caught on a stake and tore. I saw my son arrive, looking dismayed.

In the van, I collapsed. Heart torn out.

He was sorry. I cried.

The jacket and everything it carried. That life in China disappearing.

I explained...

Only the essentials.

My path continued with increasingly empty bags. Yet clothing is present.

I think I told myself I should stop hiding. Manage to be full, confident, beautiful—and all that without artifice.

No more right to anything.

No more makeup, no more frivolity.

Only the essentials.

Well, almost.

I see us again, Maria and me, in the tuk-tuk taking us to the tailor to have printed culottes made. And my heart fills with that Indian period.

A bright pink dress transports me to Playa Del Carmen, where I rediscovered that pleasure of being “dressed.” Mexican period.

The pleasure in the fitting room.

Last year, I bought myself a red dress.

Very Beckham in cut.

The pleasure in the fitting room.

I tried it on and showed the guys.

“You’re beautiful! You look like you in Shanghai.”

Writing this, my eyes are still wet.

That me was still there.

What if that was okay?

Thank you, Victoria.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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I’m losing my footing.

This week has been a whirlwind.
And keeping both feet on the ground? A full-time job in itself.
So, writing a newsletter in the middle of that? Not exactly simple. Never mind — we improvise.

I’ve already mentioned it (back in A First Back-to-School): there’s been a change of pace for us.
Not just in terms of learning.
In terms of nomad life too — on pause for now.
And in terms of work. The kind of job I swore I’d never take again.

And I can feel it. Lately, I’ve been losing my footing.

Test anxiety.

For the first time in my life, I find myself helping my sons in a terribly ordinary way.
Test prep.
And somehow, stupidly, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.
I have to give them tools to fit into the mold, to proudly tick all the boxes of the national education system —
while being deeply convinced we’re getting it all wrong, guys.

My neurons are throwing mosh pits in my temporal lobes.

To be honest, I first remembered that as a teenager, I used to handle this stuff easily. Piece of cake.
And then, when I saw Félix panic before his first timed test, I started hyperventilating.
The test anxiety — round two.

I went back to my own copy.

Me, the eternal good student. The one for whom everything came easily, in every subject.
I couldn’t understand why I was reacting so strongly inside over a test that might, or might not, go wrong.
When it really doesn’t matter.

I dug a little deeper.
I remembered my first failure. In Maths Spé. First grade of the year.
And that’s when it hit me — all those years, I’d been scared.

I remembered the stomach cramps before big exams,
the breakfasts I couldn’t swallow.
So I was anxious?
Oh yes — and not just a little.

I decided there was no way I was passing that on to my boys. Time to deal with it.

Easier said than done.

You believe I did it right away?
Yeah, me neither.

Looks like this new project is going to take a bit longer than I thought.
Especially with this week’s little bonus pack: welcome calls for training programs, prepping our lightning trip to France, and deciding whether or not to join a co-living space across town.

The equation.

For a few weeks — and a few euros (cause and effect) — I’ve been spending my days welcoming clients of online training companies.
As usual, I’m torn.
I roll my eyes when the workflow is messy and everything was “due yesterday,”
but my brain, that traitor, secretly loves the adrenaline — that electric charge in the air before a launch or a fashion show.

And right in the middle of that buzz, a gift.
A breath.

A client, a conversation.
We talk about expansion, contraction, guidance, and transmission.
Then Olivier (that’s his name) says:
“Take time out of your equation.”

Fear of falling back in.

That’s when I understood what had been eating away at me.
Coming back into a timed world.
Losing myself in it.
Forgetting which way to dance.

I told Olivier it’s the same for me with yoga — or chocolate.

It’s always easier for me to stop eating chocolate altogether than to have just one square.
Just like it’s simpler to do yoga in some perfect retreat, far away from everything that might shake me.

I’m in a phase of reconnecting with a world I’d stepped away from these past few years.
Fumbling my way back in.
Like with an ex — I’m scared of falling back.

And yet, I know I get to choose how I move forward.
Maybe this return to the world is just another step toward where I’m meant to go.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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A breath of city air.

The title of this newsletter could be a book. The topic will never fit into so few words. I feel like I’ve already written about it. I searched, found nothing. Must have dreamed it. The only trace: a post about my love for high heels — you can find it here if you feel like it.

Anyway. Last week we went to breathe some capital-city air — Sofia this time. Officially, to cheer up Ubald, 13. He dreams of Paris and Ferrandi, but also of catwalks and the high life. Our mission: a cool clothing store, and at least, “there’s always Zara.”

If we were leaving Bansko for a few days, we might as well make it count. I found us a beautiful apartment, the kind that makes you forget the harshness of Bulgarian mountain rentals. God, it felt good to be surrounded by beauty again.

Plans were set: a few hours of mall therapy with friends. The old town would have to wait — I have my priorities straight. After years in Asia, a shopping mall shouldn’t impress us anymore, and yet… after months without a single thoughtfully designed shop window, it hit just right.

Here we are. Inside Zara.

I may condemn fast fashion and overconsumption, get high on minimalism with L’Arrangeuse, and dream these days of a perfect Katia Sanchez sweater — but in Zara, I feel at home.

Why? Because that’s where I almost exclusively dressed when I lived in Shanghai, for eleven years. Where I could find size-40 shoes with heels that didn’t scream “retired German teacher.” Where Leo and I often had those fun, carefree moments of style and complicity. When I saw several stores closed on our last visit to China, I felt strangely sad.

Clean slate.

When we left China in 2018, heartbroken, I left everything behind. Gave away my clothes, my shoes. I kept one black leather Maje jacket and a long cream Zara dress. Then we started traveling, and my wardrobe did a 180. The Indian phase followed the Quechua-only phase. I spent time with people for whom fashion was pure emptiness.

I often laugh at how the people I meet now can’t imagine me in 12-centimeter heels — which I wore until the eve of both my pregnancies — and how old friends ask, half-bewildered, what happened to me stylistically. I think I needed that journey. Some things haven’t changed, except maybe my priorities.

Luxury, undercover.

Still, through all those years of cramming life into as few liters as possible, I kept little bubbles of vanity. Guilty pleasures, luxury on the sly. I once had a massive Leon & Harper cardigan shipped to a friend’s address, just so I wouldn’t have to own up to its price or origin. I got myself a Cotopaxi backpack and the Rolls-Royce of hiking shoes from Vivobarefoot — a brand sanctified by the world’s alternative crowd. Technically, I hadn’t sinned.

What if I deserved it?

A few months ago, I visualized my idea of a “successful” life — the kind where I wake up fulfilled and grounded. Shock: I was groomed, dressed, put together. The image floored me. Could it be that my wardrobe diet of recent years wasn’t entirely in my best interest?
Had I been punishing myself for not being enough?

When I was offered the chance to open a fashion school in India, my first thought was, finally, I’ll get to dress again.Same recently, when touching the edge of a new project. Damn. Why?

Our relationship with clothing remains a fascinating, confusing laboratory.

I can roll my eyes like a proper mom when, during Fashion Week, my older son is glued to the runway shows, but truth is, my eyes light up too. Because unless I’m sitting in a dark cinema with Brad or Javier on screen, I’d rather dissect the latest Valentino collection than the Monaco Grand Prix.

Check, please.

So, this so-called meltdown? Real or imagined? You decide.
A perfectly cut barrel jean, a pink T-shirt printed with La Lotería on the back — a nod to Mexico — wide wool trousers in taupe, and a sleeveless Burlington-style sweater.
I’m still unsure about the last two. Very Parisienne in a hurry.

And maybe true luxury is simply not judging yourself anymore.

I knew it — I haven’t said enough. The Nathalie wardrobe might just turn into a mini-series.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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Unbelievable but true.

I’m crossing France by overnight train in just two days for an appointment with a breast surgeon. I don’t even have my test results yet, and I’m smiling in my sleeper because I met Jesus in Lourdes (see my first newsletter). In five days, summer camp ends. In a week, I’m supposed to be on a Ryanair flight from Charleroi to Sofia. I’ll have 48 hours to pack our bags for five months—or file a health-related refund claim with VISA International.

The past two weeks have been madness. Time slipped away, and I’m spinning my wheels, trying not to get truly left behind. Let me recap.

The no woman’s land of uncertain diagnosis.

“Your last mammogram was a year and a half ago. Shall we do another?”

“I live abroad, I get check-ups when I’m in France. Too soon?”

“A little. Usually it’s every two years.”

For once I’m not behind on my medical follow-up. I congratulate myself. I was turned away from my brain MRI last week—I’d accidentally checked cervical spine on the website. I made the technician laugh when I said if men had to get their balls squeezed like this, the exam would’ve been improved long ago.

“We need to take a closer look at one area.”

“Meaning?”

“Additional tests.”

“Now?”

“I’ll write you a referral.”

“…”

“Don’t panic. Just because it’s at the regional cancer center doesn’t mean the results will be bad.”

“Of course.”

I head to the changing room, floating a bit. In that no-woman’s-land of uncertain diagnosis. I think about Martine and tell myself this is the beginning of a new story. I snap a topless selfie, just in case, and head to reception.

Black hole or medical desert?

The receptionist calls the hospital in front of me. A month’s wait? At the biggest center in northern France? No way. I need something faster. I’ll already be in Bulgaria by then.

I go home and explain to my friend that I’m switching to detective mode. I learn that a mammotome isn’t just a biopsy, and not every radiology office has the proper equipment.

Racing the hospital clock.

I chain phone calls, endless hold music followed by fucking busy signals. One number sends me to another, which circles me back to the first. I’ll never get through.

Finally, a super nice woman at a private clinic takes the time to explain. You send or drop off your file, then wait three weeks for it to go to committee. Only then do they decide when you can come in, and at best, fifteen days later, you get the exam. I don’t understand, I already have a doctor’s letter? OK, so a month? Oh no no no—after that you still wait for results and then an appointment with a surgeon.

Thank you, my angels.

One week left before I drive the boys to camp near Toulouse and go hiking there. Toulouse rejected me, Bulgaria doesn’t have the technology. It’s my mess. So I tell myself: Go for it—post a story!

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Girls (and others), do you have a plan to get a mammotome before August 6? Appointment, procedure, and debrief?”

Heart power or breast solidarity? Both, sergeant! I drown in recommendation messages. My beloved dentist activates her network. A friend shows up at Hôtel-Dieu. My Parisian cousin shares her lab. Marie—a colleague from my kundalini days—gives me her contact in the 16th arrondissement, and she’s already confirmed it’s feasible. Bingo. The lab takes me two days later. Thank you, my French-speaking angels.

You just get treated.

In the middle of this whirlwind of calls, I wonder: Why me? Why not? Life is funny. One potential disaster and you instantly quit sugar and coffee, things you’ve been putting off for months. You finally move your body. And then you feel pathetic. You act tough but secretly wonder if it’s real—if it’ll be okay or if everything will just stop. You tell yourself you did the right thing, enjoying these last years. You tell yourself you thought too much. But now it’s done. You look for excuses for your jitters. And then my boys bring me back to reality.

“If you have cancer, you have cancer, that’s it. Look at Régine, look at Godfather.”

“Well, exactly, guys. Godfather died.”

“Not right away. If you’re sick, you just get treated.”

What do you even say to that?

The mammothon.

5 a.m., waiting for the high-speed to Paris. To clear my head and kill time before the appointment, I walk across the city. At the desk, I ask them to send me the results. Impossible—you need a doctor. Luckily I had one lined up. But she’s not a gynecologist? No. Inquisitive eyebrow. I explain my case. I’ve been doing nothing but that for days.

“But you’re going to pay? 850 euros?”

“Yes. Because my breast is worth it (and I have golden friends).”

Isabelle—a brilliant technician—takes me in hand. I ask if she’s on amphetamines. I see the insane pace, understaffing, burnout, and 70-year-old retirees brought back to help keep the days running.

I lie face down on the exam table, breast in the hole, and I gain perspective—in every sense. I feel like a Chevrolet up for an oil change. The doctor will come under me to vacuum my glands. I promise Isabelle I’ll sing France Gall to her. “And here comes the man...” We giggle.

Twenty minutes later, I’m laughing less. Still waiting, forbidden to move.

An hour later, my chest is strapped in a Velpo bandage worthy of Verdun. What is R&D even doing? Copy Skims or hire Kardashian!

Fast forward in verbatim.

“No way, hiking! Go buy a sports bra at Decathlon.”
“Eight days left before your flight to Sofia...”
“Have you made arrangements for the boys?”
“I’m leaving you my number—call me when you get the results.”
“Did you check the dictionary of ailments and diseases?”
“When’s your flight again?”
“Fuck, it’s negative! Happy dance!”
“You met Jesus, are you surprised?”
“But what’s that fold on your breast?”
“I knew it!”
“The results were in the mailbox for two days!”
“It’s good, it’s certain. Nevertheless...”
“Another check-up?”
“So it’s good but not enough?”
“In the fall.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
“Since the procedure, I’ve been in pain.”

Episode summary.

Put a finger in the gears. Got lucky. Feel calmer. Breathe, but a little less well. Not see the end of it.

Today, I’m just waiting for one more exam, and I think about all these humans: caregivers, patients, and those in the foggy middle. Those who want to understand but get no explanation. Those who get told too much when they’d rather not know. I think of Isabelle, of those elderly women who still come back to help, and the breathtaking beauty of humanity.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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Shaken up.

That's the word that comes to my mind about this back-to-school season.

The second one is: going against the current.

A bit violent? Not really.

Félix and Ubald are 11 and 13 years old and it's our first back-to-school. A real one? Yes and no. It's outside of school. Online courses, organized. Homework, tests and quizzes, scheduled. And bento boxes, devoured.

A balance to find. A new dance to choreograph.

Actually, that's for Instagram. This month feels more like a washing machine drum to me. Or dancing with a guy who can't lead.

The monster that kills.

So naturally, I put on a good face but I feel like shit.

Seriously? All the parents in the world manage their job, school, activities and their house, right?

No: in our home, daily life means backpacks, plane tickets, train tickets or colectivos. And everything that goes with it. Not this year. This year, we chose to transition. And me, I'm relearning to live with Routine, the monster that kills.

This week, I cracked. When I saw the boys with their noses glued to their screens after dinner. I went ballistic. Monologued about disappearing neurons and burst into tears. Each of us knew it was excessive. I quickly came back to confess: in this whirlwind of courses, equipment, schedules, homework and new organization, I couldn't see our time together anymore. The time shared together, without pressure, without planning. The time that carried us all these years.

I often think about all those who don't have or don't choose that luxury. Those who juggle their ten thousand constraints and dream of a shared breath. Those who sense it but don't dare. And those who don't see it and are fine as they are.

So I measure the luck I have, even when I stumble. And I try not to forget. That ten years ago, I decided otherwise. And all of this, thanks to an orange.

An orange is not pink.

2014. Ubald is three years old. He's been attending a Taiwanese kindergarten for a few weeks, Montessori pedagogy. It's right nearby and pretty nice. Cooking, games, tidying up, he seems to go there with pleasure. Except one thing is starting to seriously tick me off: homework. I raised my hand at the parent meeting and my peers (compatriots included) turned their backs on me, claiming that practicing in the evening to absorb was a good thing.

Our. Kids. Are. Three. Years. Old.

I ruminate. I put things in perspective. They're not calculating integrals yet, Marie-Chantal!

And then, one evening, Ubald puts his little correspondence book and his annotated coloring pages on the table. Smiling, I look at them one by one and there, in front of me, a beautiful pink orange and a red pen remark: "An orange is not pink!".

Good Lord! I still feel the fire that takes over my entire body. My brain screams in two beats:

1. But Robert, do you really think my son doesn't know the color of a damn orange? (Yes, back then, I punctuated every other sentence with the D-word)

2. It took me forty years to dare draw a pink orange (and I still struggle...), to color outside the lines and be proud of it, so if he has the spontaneity to express himself, leave him the hell alone!

That was it.

Mama goes to war.

That orange sounded the death knell. Of my trust. Me who loved spending years in class, I have no memory of encountering my creativity there.

So I started searching, digging, listening, looking. Daring to clear our own path. I discovered the wonderful and hilarious Sir Ken Robinson, wrote to Ramin Faranghi, was called by Sophie Rabhi.

Our first non-school friends, as we call them, were Dutch, living in Shanghai. And little by little, our path took shape. Ten years of discoveries, encounters, learning off the beaten track. A world. Dazzling and exhausting.

The passport that itches.

We grew up, our desires too. In 2027, Ubald wants to enter Ferrandi, Paris. To prepare well, we decided to transition. And accepted that getting back in line with a goal in mind doesn't necessarily mean trampling on your values.

A new project has begun. Wonders to come. The pleasure of not wondering where to sleep next month. A beloved kitchen and bakery. The passport that itches. Friends who give you rendezvous at the end of the world. Those you make here. Trial and error and frustrations.

Maybe even by June, Routine and I will have become friends.

In short, this year, we had our first back-to-school. In Bansko City, Bulgaria.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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My name, my place.

My place, my name.

A headache that's been going on for ages.

I must have been around ten when I finally dared ask my mother why on my health record, it looked like a name had been erased to put mine in.

Uncompromising answer:

The record had already been started, so the nurse just scraped off the surface layer to put my surname. Anti-waste before its time.

Damn. Here I was, having spent weeks imagining (with pleasure) discovering an adoption story more dramatic than my dull, uneventful life.

Blown to smithereens.

Fast-forward. 1997. I'm preparing to get married for the first time, in secret. My future husband doesn't want any big fuss. We planned to tell our respective parents on Sunday that we'd gotten married the day before. Small hitch: my half-sister (my witness) fears our father's reaction. So we reconsider. When I announce it, I'm caught in my own game. They already know. But how? The city hall clerk couldn't find my birth certificate and so – the sneak – called my parents. I'm 27 and I realize I lived more than two years under my mother's name, my father having only recognized me after his divorce was finalized.

I was stunned. Even more so seeing my mother roll her eyes Charlie Chaplin-style and ridicule my drama. My therapy sessions about legitimacy blown to smithereens.

I took my first husband's name, only to throw it in the trash two years later. I promised myself never to change my family name again, nor to remarry. Mantra: I would belong to no one other than myself (subtitle: even that is hard for me). I held firm on the first, not the second. Honor was saved since in China, my second husband's country, everyone keeps their own name.

I thought that would be enough to free me. Wrong.

The name of a generation.

Enough about surnames. Let's move to first names.

Nathalie. The name of a generation.

Along with the Isabelles and Valeries. Charlotte, you came a bit later.

Three in every class. For life. What a pain.

With my niece, I'm Théroigne. Like De Méricourt, the revolutionary. She prefers Marie-Antoinette. And why shouldn't those two have gotten along after all? We crack up to the sound of "Whip it, Coachman!"

I don't remember doing in-depth research on this character – apart from the madness and her Amazon side. Today, when I reread her biography while writing this letter, I smile. She made sense, somehow.

Caught between two stools.

I love the countryside and the city. Minimalism and fashion. Bossa nova and techno. Decorating a home and nomadism. I often feel between two worlds, lost much of the time. And I wonder why. All the time. I'll never give myself peace. I experiment, I test, and one day I find myself at a friend's place doing a hypnosis session supposedly meant to help us find past lives.

An H in my skull

I didn't dare go first. I regret it as soon as the brave one gives us his debrief. With my hyperactive brain, I would have been better off knowing nothing. Too bad. The guy is delighted and I'm already wondering if it'll work on me.

The session begins, my head feels like the engine of an old Volkswagen Beetle trying to start on a hill. Calm down. Listen, girl. Here it comes, I relax. But I see nothing. Shit. Should I tell her or not? Stop it! Feel.

Damn. I have a terrible pain in the back of my skull. If that's not overthinking... I dive in, as if I were in a toilet bowl and someone flushed. I freak out. I even panic. My brain vetoes it and immediately, I find myself floating on the surface.

I know it's over. I won't learn more.

She explains that maybe a deep trauma is blocking me. I accept, disappointed but not very surprised. Two days later she calls me back:

“Do you remember when you told me about that head pain? Like an axe splitting your skull?”
“Yes?”
“Well, in French, axe is hache — the same sound as the letter H. And that H sits right in the middle of your name, cutting it in two.”

Revelation. I dropped the H. And in 2007, I arrived in China for a new life — and I found myself there. A little more.

Mexico. 2021.

Interview with an Isabelle (hello #team70s) via video who does my birth chart like “Girl, you've got gold in your hands, as long as you get your act together!” Just before hanging up, she calls out to me: “Are you a Nathalie without an h?” I tell her the anecdote. She responds: "Put your h back, find yourself again and see what it changes in your life." I comply.

Pen name!

Years go by. I've put my h back, but everything isn't quite so simple yet. There's still this book I want to write. My story. The one I've been carrying for years but haven't yet released onto paper.

In March 2024, BAOBEI comes out. Finally. After hours and maybe even years wondering if I'd have the courage to publish it under my name. If I wouldn't face backlash. I wanted to tell my story, I was afraid of the consequences. And then I made the call. Split the difference. Published under my name, but written like a novel. As if I could hide behind this little trick. Speak without being seen.

I was left wanting more. A year later I added that final chapter where I take back the microphone and speak in my own name. No more smoke and mirrors, no more literary device. Just me and this crazy story.

The name that says it all.

My quest has been and still goes through my name. The one I reject, I judge, I touch tentatively, I grab, I crumple, I swallow, I spit out, I cuddle, I embrace and I choose to embody. Like today on Instagram, putting away my beautiful @thewildnfreetribe and stepping into @nathaliebrunaux. Because it's ultimately this name that says it all. All my past self, today's self and the one that will be my tomorrow's world. I'm taking back the reins. Is it a bit “Love me, follow me!”? Pretentious? Am I giving up the idea of tribe, freedom and embracing the wild side of life? Am I abandoning our trio? No. They're in me. And now I know it.

My Gayno-revolution.

Last night, I was listening to Gloria Gaynor's hit “I Am What I Am” and letting it penetrate me. And there, Félix says:

“It’s like your computer, isn’t it ?”

“What are you talking about ?”

“I am what I am.”

Bingo. That password (iamwhoiam) I'd chosen years ago.

It was there, all along.

Vibrating with Gloria, I told myself that this latest revolution was just the logical continuation of my own Gaynor-evolution...

It may be a detail to you, but for me it means a lot...

Being free to be here, with you.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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The Boys’ Camp – Third Edition

This year I’m doing something just for me.
I thought of a monastery retreat.
Sacred business, or business sacred?

Something held me back.

In the middle of insomnia, almost by chance, I stumbled on the movie The Miracle Club.
Hallelujah! I’ll walk from Toulouse to Lourdes!
I can already hear the minions’ jingle: “Illumination!”

Unexpected events.
The mammogram. The macro-biopsy. The appointment with the surgeon.

I wouldn’t be able to walk at the required pace. Not enough time left.

I gave up—almost.
Still, I had promised myself. For me, for my grandmother, for my mother.
Like a reconciliation.
To return to the traces of that pilgrimage I won back in elementary school.

So I decide.
Bus to Toulouse, then train. One night there.
I book the first hostel I find.

Lourdes express.

I get on the bus—free because “the machine is broken.”
I enjoy the ride. A mini solo trip; it’s been so long!

I see myself again at 9, weighed down by all those pilgrims, the sick, the wheelchairs.
One disabled man in particular, his face marked by a huge birthmark or skin condition.

Fear. Of everything.
Desire. For nothing.

What will I find there forty years later?
Will I dare the Lourdes baths, where desperate believers, full of hope, are immersed one after another?

We arrive.
I get off.

A strange ballet of hikers and sick people.
Striking.

A few more steps outside the station and I notice the mountains all around us.
It’s liberating. And beautiful.
Like being on holiday in an old spa town.

I walk and I see:
under my feet, brass discs stamped “Bernadette’s Path,”
before my eyes, movie posters for Miracle and Nefarious.

I smile.
Nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed.

My heart feels light.

The hostel is fabulous. Its owner, delightful.
I meet Rebecca, my Berlin roommate.

We share tattoos and stories of a past life in fashion.
I take her to the torchlight procession, she who didn’t even know why so many people stop in this Pyrenean town.

We raise our candles at each Ave Maria, surrounded by Christians from around the world.
United.

In silence, we discover the basilica, touch the grotto’s walls, drink from the fountains…
and fall asleep on bedding fit for royalty.

Thank you, life.

5:20 AM.

I open one eye before the alarm.

Religiously, I leave my room.
Fucking automatic lock, noisy as hell.
Blessed be the earplugs!

I wander into sleeping Lourdes.
I’ve always loved cities at daybreak.

Trucks unloading.
I spot someone heading the same way I am.
Then two.
Then seven.

Oh? Not already?

I’d been told: be there before six at the baths, because only 40 places per session.
Shit. They’re already here. Too many.

Like me, waiting at the closed gate.
Without it, people would camp there overnight.

A priest turns the key and the crowd rushes in.
Several even run!

I’m about to judge human nature when I stop myself: for some, this is the trip of a lifetime—or the very last hope.

If I get in, fine.
If not, I’ll let it go. They need it more than me.

I’m in.

More than three hours in the morning cold, surrounded by Scots on pilgrimage.
We talk, a little.
We’re silent, a lot.

Why didn’t I bring a sweater?

8:30 AM.
The gate opens.

A cohort of wheelchairs and rolling beds arrives.
They open the dance of the dipped.

My turn.

The room is the same as last century.
Two chairs. A curtain.

You undress, hidden by a volunteer in her little apron.
She drapes a Virgin Mary–blue cape on your shoulders after making sure you’ve rubbed your hands with sanitizer.

I smirk: I’m about to get naked in the same water as twenty people before me… but God forbid I skip the hydroalcoholic gel.

On the other side of the curtain, cold water poured on my feet.
13 degrees. Brrr.

Arms up.
One woman takes the cape, the other wraps my body in a white cloth… already wet!
Holy Virgin! It knocks the breath out of me.

The decor? Nothing.
A granite cube. A mini-statue of Mary.

Three seconds for an intention or a prayer.
“Step forward, sit down like on a chair.”

I go down the two steps into a bathtub-sized pool, bend forward, and before I expect it—my arms are seized and I’m tipped backwards into the icy water.

Splash.

No time to say phew.

I resurface, in every sense of the word.
Behind the curtain again, I dress—still soaking.
No time, no towel.

How do I feel?
Hard to say.

I expected more… and at the same time, nothing.

I thought of my mother, my grandmother—the church lady—for whom this place held such weight and value.

I wander silently around the basilica.
I admire the young people pushing wheelchairs that look like Hergé’s rickshaws.

Everything frozen in time—yet now you buy a candle with a QR code.

I treat myself to a break at Amma, a restaurant surely opened for Indian pilgrims.

Feast on a dosa.
I feel good—somewhere between here and my memories of there.

Nathan.

Satisfied, I head back to the hostel to grab my bag and catch my train.

JP, the owner, is outside with Cécile, another tourist I’d been chatting with.
Rebecca joins us.

And then a young man with very long tied hair appears.

JP teases him: why doesn’t he cut it?
The guy answers,
“The Lord asked me to grow my hair, so I’m growing my hair.”

Okayyyy.

We look at each other, eyebrows raised.

Nathan, since that’s his name (of course I note Nathan, Nathalie—funny), approaches JP, thanks him, and offers to pray for him.

What do you say to that when you’re not a Lourdes grotto aficionado?

“If you want.”
“Are you suffering physically? Any pain, any injury?”
“Oh yes! My shoulder! A hell of a pain. I can’t even shift gears anymore. I need to see a doctor.”

Without hesitation, Nathan places his hand on JP’s painful shoulder, closes his eyes, and prays.
Right there, in the middle of the street.
Cool as a cucumber.

A few minutes later:
“There.”
“Uh, thanks. (What else can you say?)”
“Move your arm.”

JP starts rotating his arm and there—THERE—he freezes.

I see it.
Stunned. Flabbergasted. Incredulous, as Félix would say.

He waves his arm around in disbelief, as if to check he isn’t losing his mind.

“But?... I don’t feel anything anymore! I mean… the pain is gone! What did you do to me? This is crazy!”
“No. It’s God.”

Wham.

I believe in spontaneous healings.
I’ve met plenty of people who do energy work.

I’m amazed it happens right in front of me, in the street—but only half surprised.

JP is floored.
We’ll still be talking about our first miracle hours later, on WhatsApp.

Back to Toulouse.

Nathan and I are on the same train.

I suggest we travel together.

“Let’s meet in fifteen minutes, once I grab my stuff.”

Fifteen minutes. Twenty.
Does Jesus stand people up?

A bit disappointed, I head toward the station, not wanting to sprint up a 20% incline.

I turn back several times, scanning for Nathan.
A few minutes before the regional train departs, I see him arrive—
running, hair flying in the wind.

We sit face to face and I go straight in:
“Are you used to doing this kind of thing?”
“It happens. I think I’ve prayed for about a hundred people.”
“WHAAAT?”
“I’ve traveled a lot the past three, four years. Wherever I am, I help.
A woman born deaf in one ear heard for the first time.
Another had scoliosis that almost instantly disappeared.”
“But were you born like this? I mean, have you always had this gift?”

I learn he was this close to becoming CEO, with the perfect life: house, car, sharp suit.

Nothing like his current rebellious hair and tattoos.

His latest, fresh from Lourdes: Joan of Arc’s coat of arms with a Sainte Thérèse twist, a rose replacing the sword.

Raised in the faith, but without much fervor—until a film, The Insanity of God.

One week before signing the papers for his company, he fell sick.

Then one night, the epiphany: he collapses, on his knees, cries for two hours, feels lava in his arms and hands… and HEARS GOD.

Two years ago, the Lord whispered: go back home and study theology.
Which he did, without understanding, but without resisting.

Why not let him work to help others?

I suggest maybe God is simply giving him time to sharpen his tool.

I tell him about my shepherd friend in Auvergne, who sees childhood traumas in people’s souls.

I’d asked if it wasn’t too hard to live with.
He admitted he used to drown it in alcohol and weed when he went out.

Nathan’s eyes fill with tears.

Shit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, no, don’t worry. It’s just… that’s exactly what was happening to me.”
“So maybe these years of theology will help you regulate it, channel it.”

Nathan keeps answering my questions, and I feel good—so good. He tells me about his disappointment at seeing pilgrims refuse his help and fill gallons of miraculous water to take back home.
Our neighbors hang on every word.

Suddenly, heads turn.

A guy in his twenties staggers into our carriage, beer in hand.

He asks if I’ve got a cigarette.
I grin: “Nope. And neither does my friend here.”

The dude keeps wandering.

It’s with a smile that we pull into Matabiau station.

“Do you have plans after this?”
“Not really, I’m waiting for my sleeper train to Paris. And you?”
“I’m going to the hotel. If you want, I can pray for you before I leave.”

You bet that gets me, Betty!

Half-stressed, half-feverish.

I follow him into the station hall.

We drop our bags.
I wait for instructions.
Feeling small.

“Apart from your biopsy results, anything else?”
“My heart. Help to open it wider.”

He smiles.
“That works.”
“Can you include my sons in your prayer?”
“Sure.”

Here we go.

He stands facing me, hand on my left shoulder.

A passionate kiss?
Easy, Daisy! You’ve got Jesus in front of you—you’re not going to french-kiss him!

A little restraint, for heaven’s sake!
He sees your soul—you’re screwed!

I breathe in.
What should I do? Close my eyes? Look at him?

He reassures me.
Everything is perfect.

I let my eyelids drop.
Right hand on my heart.

My brain is bubbling.

Do I feel something?
Hot? No.
Shaking? Not really.
Vibrating? A little.

I sneak open one eye.

Nathan’s arm is trembling like crazy, as if charged with electricity.

I’m here, in the middle of the station, being prayed over.

He mumbles something incomprehensible, then speaks clearly, several times.
As if receiving—and broadcasting.

I don’t know how long it lasts.
Long and short, all at once.

He stops just as calmly as he began.

He smiles.
I smile back.

Thank you.

We pick up our bags and I offer to help him find cream for his brand new tattoo.

We end up buying cling wrap at Carrefour Market.

I bandage Joan of Arc.

We part with a hug, saying maybe we’ll meet again someday on the Camino.

THE END.

My heart has grown.

That night in my sleeper berth, my heart is smiling.

I think back on those 24 hours of pure Lourdes madness.
The bus, the mountains, the hostel, the torches, the baths, JP, Rebecca, Cécile, Nathan.
The flavor of my dosa at Amma’s.

How right I was.

I don’t really know anymore what I’d come looking for, or even what I found.

One certainty, clear and undeniable: my heart has grown.
It has filled up.

I find myself raw, emotions at the surface.

I cry listening to a gorgeous stranger playing piano at Lille station.

I savor everything more intensely.

Camp is over.
Goodbyes said, until next year.

And I still wonder if I dreamed it.

For now, my mammogram results are reassuring.

What if…?

No time to linger—Bulgaria awaits.

Often, my mind drifts back to those suspended hours.

I think of Nathan, and his reflection on pilgrims who ignored him, preferring to fill bottles of water to hope for healing at home.

Of what is right in front of us that we don’t see, convinced we’re making the right choices.

Of my own reaction on the train.

Me—always on edge the instant a drunk man enters my space—yet that day, I responded to one joyfully, at ease.

He left as he came.

Why?

Because I was with a man and felt protected?
No.

Because our conversation was so filled with love, my heart so open and swollen with light, that I welcomed this stranger with that same energy.

No fear.
Just life.

Since then, of course, I’ve wondered:
How to stay there?
How to remain in that vibration?

How not to be shaken?
How to always keep swimming?

I watched the film Nathan spoke of—those who remain inexhaustible in the face of horror, compasses in the storm.

My answer hasn’t arrived yet.
But I know that in twenty-four hours, I came closer.

Thank you for traveling with me this far.
See you next week—same day, same time, same quest.

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