Escape to Barbados











United States is a hot mess.
I am in the 11th hour of an extensive project..unfinished.
I haven't slept.
I haven't prepared for NYFW.
I've barely seen anyone I cared about.

So the only reasonable thing to do in this moment is to run away. To escape.

I know, I know. Maybe "reasonable" isn't exactly the right word. Maybe it's "I-wanna-fucking-leave-so-I'm-going-to-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want." It's a stretch. I do like that word better. Okay, maybe it's not a word. It's a feeling. Yes, it's a feeling. And maybe that's a scapegoat, but in efforts of my practice of being kinder to myself, why should I make up an explanation at all?

First off, who the hell goes to Barbados. Now, I know more people that went to Bermuda, to Nepal, and even to Alaska than those who went to Barbados. I know one thing about Barbados—Rihanna. Let Barbados be the place to set the standard in badassness. But my hopes are high. So let me do this for you, for me, and more importantly, for my mom (who is on her first trip outside of her two home countries—United States and Vietnam). I will give you Barbados through my eyes. Let’s start with Dover Beach and my new favorite swimwear rn.