I feel like I need to start this piece off with a bit of a disclaimer: I am very grateful to be able to do what I do as an influencer and be able to make a living from it.
I’m acutely aware I’m not out here saving lives (or risking mine).
I’m aware of how lucky I am to be given the opportunities I’ve been given, to be able to travel and call it work. I’m thankful for the friends I’ve made and experiences I’ve shared with my 211,000+ followers on Instagram.
But believe me when I say, it really isn’t all bikini shots, red carpet events and annual trips to the Maldives.
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I’m human and I have shitty days, just like everyone else. I’ve been very open and honest about my mental health and sometimes my anxiety makes me feel so heavy, so overwhelmed and nauseous that I simply can’t get out of bed.
But who wants to see a selfie of me, in bed, my eyes swollen from crying?
Who is going to “like” a photo of me with stringy hair and tracksuit pants because I haven’t left the house in days?
On these days? I post photos of me smiling, eating avocado on toast at a new cafe. Or a throwback photo of a holiday where I felt calm, happy.
I play make believe. I go to “work”. I put on my clown mask and you all believe I’m living the high life.
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About a year ago now I decided to endeavour to be more honest with my followers. I wanted to be vulnerable. Authentic. Real. It’s not always easy. But I think it’s important.
So, off the back of that, I decided to take a little trip down memory lane to tell you the story – the real story – behind the post.