not from the stadium. from an actual store, which meant i had to decide in advance, which meant i had to commit to going, which meant i had to want to go enough to spend money i probably shouldn’t have spent on something i would wear exactly once.

i tried it on twice. tied it the way i wanted. checked the mirror from three different angles. the Chanel bag looked insane against it. i brought the Chanel bag anyway.

this is a thing i do. i decide how something is going to feel before it happens and then i dress for that feeling. not for the weather, not for practicality, not for who’s going to be there. for the version of the afternoon i’ve already written in my head.

the Angels beat the Dodgers 13-5.

i want to be clear about what that score means. it means it was not a game that slowly slipped away. it was not a brave fight, a close thing, a nail-biter that went the wrong direction in the final moments. it was a dismantling. a systematic, inning-by-inning, completely unbothered dismantling. by the seventh inning six Angels had scored in a single inning and i had stopped watching the field entirely.

i was eating a hot dog.

it was the best hot dog i’ve ever had. i don’t say that lightly. i’ve had a lot of hot dogs in my life and this one was operating on a different level entirely. the Chanel sat on my lap and said nothing and was correct to say nothing.

here’s the thing i keep thinking about.

i was not upset. i should have been — i’d dressed for a win, i’d committed to an outcome, i’d spent money i didn’t entirely have on a jersey for a team that proceeded to be publicly humiliated in front of 49,000 people. by any reasonable accounting i should have felt foolish.

i didn’t feel foolish.

i felt like myself. which is maybe the same thing and maybe not, depending on the day.

there’s a version of me that wouldn’t have bought the jersey. that would have worn something neutral, something that didn’t announce anything, something that left room to say afterwards — oh i wasn’t really invested. i was just there. it doesn’t matter.

i’ve spent a lot of time being that version of me. not with baseball. with other things.

the version that doesn’t quite commit so she can’t quite lose. the version that keeps things grey and open and undefined so that when they don’t resolve the way she wanted she can say — well it was never really anything anyway. i wasn’t really trying.

i’m so tired of her.

i’ve been thinking about what it means to dress for something that doesn’t deliver.

the outfit was right. the result was not the outfit’s problem. those are two separate things and i think i spend a lot of energy trying to make them the same thing — trying to calibrate how much i show up based on how likely it is to go the way i want. as if showing up is only worth it if it works.

it’s not about baseball. i know it’s not about baseball.

what i know is that i sat in Dodger Stadium in a tied jersey and a bag that cost more than my rent contribution and ate a perfect hot dog and watched something fall apart completely and felt more like myself than i have in weeks.

maybe that’s what full commitment feels like when you’ve been doing the other thing for too long.

maybe the jersey was always going to be right regardless of the score.

i’d buy it again. i think i’d buy it again for everything. 🤍

the frames

full kit, Chanel on my shoulder, Dodger Dogs stand behind me — i looked like i had inside information about the outcome. i did not have inside information about the outcome.

the jersey tied just right, stadium filling up, the game not yet lost — there’s a version of this photo where everything works out. i like this one better.

hot dog in hand, completely at peace, the scoreboard somewhere behind me doing its worst — the most composed i looked all afternoon and possibly all week.

standing in the stands, same outfit, the score fully confirmed — still the right call. still.

frames i kept

the rest of the afternoon is in frames i kept.

the ones i took when i forgot i was supposed to be watching the game. 🤍

frames i kept

the edit

Dodgers jersey (Nike, tied at the front because that’s the only way) — the one financial decision of the month i genuinely don’t regret

LA Dodgers crop top — worn underneath the jersey because of course it was, because if you’re going to do it you might as well do it completely

high waist jeans — said nothing, asked for nothing, held everything together while chaos unfolded

Chanel mini flap — attended a major league baseball game, had zero opinions about the result, correct as always

a note

thank you for reading this one. genuinely.

i started writing it as a thing about an outfit and somewhere in the middle it became a thing about something else. that happens sometimes. i’m not always sure it’s a good sign but i’m learning to let it.

if soft notes means something to you — paid subscribers get the rest of me every week. it’s where i’m most honest, where things go further than i’d put them here. you can find it at

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and if this post found you at the right moment, in the way that sometimes things do — you can always buy me an oat latte. i will think about you warmly while i drink it and i will mean it. 🤍

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my mum called on sunday.

it was fine. it’s always fine. we talked about the usual things — the weather in Greenwich, whether i’m eating properly, a neighbour situation i can’t quite follow but listen to anyway. she said she showed my last post to her book club. she said they liked it. she said “but are you okay?” in the specific way she has that means she’s worried about something she won’t name directly.

i said i was fine.

i got off the phone and sat in my Greenpoint apartment and stared at the east window for a while.

i wasn’t not fine. i just wasn’t fully fine either. the call had left me with that particular flatness that happens sometimes after i speak to her — not because of anything she said, but because of the version of myself i become on those calls. always fine. never struggling with anything that couldn’t be explained in a way that wouldn’t worry her.

and then i did something i haven’t done in a while.

i got in the car and drove two hours back to Greenwich.

i didn’t call ahead. i didn’t tell her i was coming. i just drove up the Merritt Parkway with the windows down and got off at the exit i’ve been getting off at my whole life and found the field i’ve been walking past since i was seven.

grey sky. tall grass. the exact same field it’s always been.

i parked where i always parked and walked in in my white floral dress and my hunter boots and felt immediately, completely like myself.

which is the funny thing about going home. sometimes the place you left is the only place where you remember who you were before you started performing who you’re becoming.

i found a dandelion and picked it up.

and then i just stood there with it for a while.

thinking about the call. thinking about the version of myself i am in Brooklyn versus the version i am here, in this field, in this dress that matches nothing, talking to nobody.

and then i thought: what do i actually want.

not what would reassure her. not what would make sense to explain. not what looks right from the outside.

just — what do i want.

and i blew the dandelion and tried to answer honestly.

here is what i wished for.

i want more days that feel completely mine. not holidays, not days off — just ordinary days where i made the small decisions and they were the right ones and nobody needed me to justify them.

i want to stop being the version of myself that is always fine on the phone.

i want soft notes to work. actually work. not as a nice side project — as the thing.

i want to want less from people who aren’t sure what they want to give me.

that last one came out before i could stop it.

i blew the dandelion and the seeds went into the grey Connecticut sky and i watched them go.

i drove back down the Merritt to Brooklyn and the sunday flatness was mostly gone by the time i got back to Greenpoint.

not because the wish fixed anything.

just because i’d said the things honestly for once.

even if only to a field i’ve known since i was seven.

it is a little embarrassing to want things this specific.

it is more embarrassing to admit them to the internet.

and yet.

the full version of this week — what was actually going on before the phone call, the wish i didn’t include here, and all frames from the field — is in the paid post:

Full version

the frames

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the edit

white floral mini dress — puff sleeves, lace neckline, tiered skirt, wrong for a field hunter dark brown wellington boots — the right call gold chain bracelet silver rings one dandelion clock — gone now

the mood

greenwich field. greenpoint home. lighter after.

a note to you

i debated whether to post this one.

it felt too specific. too honest. the kind of thing you write and then sit with for a day before deciding whether the world needs to know you drove two hours to Connecticut to blow a dandelion and feel things about your life.

apparently it does.

thank you for being the kind of reader that makes that feel okay. genuinely. 🤍

— noa

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if this made you think about something you want but haven’t said out loud yet —

https://buymeacoffee.com/itsnoalinden

i’ll use it responsibly. probably on coffee. possibly on the gas money it took to drive to Greenwich and back for a dandelion.

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if you haven’t read the free version yet

Free Version

it’ll make this one make more sense.

before i get into it — there’s someone you should know about.

his name is jamie. he’s a filmmaker. we’ve been in each other’s orbits for almost a year — never fully together, never fully ended. the specific grey area that looks simple from the outside and feels impossible from inside it.

okay. now you know.

here is what actually happened that sunday.

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i want to be honest about why i actually go to pilates.

not for my posture. not for my core. not because i have become one of those people who talks about their nervous system at dinner and means it.

i go for the walk home after.

specifically: the walk home in the matching set, in a city that looks like milan looks, with good sneakers and white crew socks and a bag i should not have brought to a pilates studio but brought anyway because it matched and i refuse to apologise for that.

the balenciaga le cagole, for the record, is not a gym bag.

it has studs. it has mirrors. it has the kind of hardware that suggests the person carrying it has somewhere considerably better to be than a reformer class.

i brought it to pilates.

i would do it again.

there is a specific type of woman that pilates has created and i am her and i am completely at peace with this.

she has the matching set. always. not just any matching set — the right one, in the right colour, that fits a specific way that took longer to find than she would like to admit.

she goes to the studio with parquet floors and a ceiling installation and flowers on the windowsill because the other studio was fine but the light was wrong.

she takes a photo on the reformer that is genuinely more editorial than athletic.

she has seen the “thanks, it’s pilates.” sign and felt personally represented by it.

she does not always want to go.

she always wants to have gone.

this is the whole thing.

i have been thinking about why we do rituals that are not quite what they appear to be on the surface.

pilates is fitness, technically. but it is also: the matching set, the studio with good light, the reformer as a thinking space, the walk home after, the specific feeling of having done something for your body even if that body spent most of the class quietly wondering what to have for lunch.

and i think that is fine.

i think the ritual has value even when the stated reason is not the whole truth.

i do not go to pilates only for my core.

i go because it is one hour where my phone is on the floor and my brain has to follow my body and something in me that was slightly wound up gets slightly unwound.

and then i pick up the balenciaga and walk out into milan in my matching set and feel, for approximately twenty minutes, like a person who has everything slightly more together than she actually does.

which is honestly worth every second of the footwork series.

the frames

the edit

H&M Sports Bra

H&M Leggings

white crew socks — non-negotiable

the mood

matching everything. walking milan. completely justified.

the full version

the real story of what i was actually thinking about on the reformer today, the full gallery with all five frames, and the personal version of this day — lives in the paid post.

full story

$8/month if you want in. 🤍

a note to you

thank you for being here. genuinely. for reading, for showing up every week. this little corner only works because you’re in it. 🤍

— noa

buy me an oat latte

if this made you feel seen for caring way too much about your pilates outfit — you can buy me an oat latte here:

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i’ll use it responsibly. probably on coffee. possibly on another matching set that is technically for exercise but mostly for walking home after.

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i need to tell you what kind of day it had been first.

not bad. not catastrophic. just the kind of day where everything slightly missed. where you kept almost saying the right thing and then didn’t. where you smiled at the right times and meant it less than usual. where you went through the whole performance of being a person and by the end of it you were exhausted by your own company.

you know that kind of day?

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— full gallery inside. all 8 frames including the ones that didn't make instagram or the free newsletter 🤍

okay so here is what actually happened.

i had been in my head for about three days before this.

not dramatically. not crying-on-the-floor in my head. just the quiet kind, where you’re going through the motions and smiling when you’re supposed to and saying “i’m fine” and meaning it, mostly, but also knowing that something in you has gone slightly offline and you can’t find the setting to turn it back on.

you know that feeling?

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i matched my hair clips to my sandals to my bra to my sunglasses to the heart on my shirt.

then i put a mcdonald’s bag on my head.

same day. same outfit. zero contradiction.

the co-ord took commitment.

cream on cream on cream, which sounds boring until it isn’t. the zip hoodie half on because fully on was too much and fully off was too cold — a decision that took longer than i’d like to admit.

the red clips. the red heels. the red bra sitting slightly above the waistband because apparently i coordinate my underwear now.

the little red heart sunglasses because why not.

i looked, objectively, like i had somewhere to be.

i did not have somewhere to be.

i had mcdonald’s.

i squatted on the pavement outside with my small fries and my large drink and i did not once consider going inside to sit down like a normal person.

the concrete was fine.

the fries were fine.

the outfit was doing the absolute most for a tuesday afternoon on the ground.

and at some point someone handed me the paper bag and i put it on my head and looked directly into the camera with the expression of a woman who has absolutely no explanation to offer.

because i didn’t.

i think there is a specific kind of woman who dresses up with nowhere to go.

not as a statement. not for a reason. not because she is performing anything for anyone.

just because she woke up and felt like cream and red and small hair clips and heels that have no business being on pavement.

and then she goes about her day.

she squats outside with her fries.

she puts the bag on her head.

she takes the photo.

she goes home.

the outfit was not wasted.

the outfit was exactly where it was supposed to be.

some days the most fashionable thing you can do is sit on concrete in a matching set and eat mcdonald’s like it was always the plan.

it was always the plan.

the edit

cream Sports Girls crop top — red heart, very serious about it

cream wide-leg sweatpants — matching, obviously

cream zip hoodie — half on, on purpose

red heeled sandals — for the pavement specifically

red mini hair clips — two, coordinated

round gold glasses

red heart sunglasses — held for impact

red bra — visible, intentional

mcdonald’s small fries — [link unavailable]

mcdonald’s paper bag — worn as a hat, no justification provided

the mood

matching everything. sitting on nothing. completely correct.

buy me an oat latte

if this made you think about the version of you that only comes out somewhere warm — you can buy me an oat latte here:

Buy me an oat latte

i’ll use it responsibly. probably on coffee. possibly on another bag that requires its own seat.

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i bought a coconut bag.

it is shaped like a coconut. it has a blue daisy painted on it. the handle is made of wooden beads. it holds approximately nothing useful.

i carried it like it was the most important bag i own.

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i was already too much for this garden and i had been there four minutes.

the bougainvillea — and i want to be precise here — was not doing a quiet garden. it was doing a chandelier. hot pink, ceiling-level, completely unasked-for, hanging over the gate like it had reserved the space and was waiting to see if anyone would match its energy.

i did not match…

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sexy today.
sexy tomorrow.
sexy forever.

i know.

it sounds like something you would write on a bathroom mirror before making several questionable decisions.

which is exactly why i like it.

because it is unserious.

but also, unfortunately, true.

not true in the obvious way.

not “i will look like this forever.”

please.

the ocean was kind to me.
the dress was doing ch…

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i didn’t feel soft today.

i wish i had a prettier way to say it, but i don’t.

some days i wake up and want to be gentle.

drink coffee slowly.
answer texts like a mature woman.
wear something soft and pretend my nervous system has been renovated.

today was not that day.

today i wanted leather.

which is usually a sign that something inside me is being dramatic an…

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i thought this was going to be a cute day.

wear the viral Zara polka dot dress.
go to the deer park.
take a few photos.
pretend i’m the kind of woman who casually spends time near nature without making it about herself.

simple.

obviously, i was wrong.

first of all, i wore the dress because i had seen it everywhere and convinced myself it would make me look lik…

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i brought bubbles to the park.

which was cute in theory.

in practice, it required me to stand in public and perform joy with a plastic wand.

this is the part nobody tells you about being a girl with an idea.

in your head, it is very soft.

white outfit.
little scarf.
flowers everywhere.
fresh air.
me looking effortless and spring-like and emotionally available to…

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i was supposed to return a dress.

which already annoyed me, because returning clothes is just admitting a fantasy did not work out.

and i hate paperwork with emotional undertones.

i bought it online at 1:13am, which is never a time to make decisions involving fabric.

at 1:13am, i am not myself.

i am taller. calmer. invited to things. somehow always standing …

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i don’t want to be tasteful today.

i know that sounds like a threat.

it kind of is.

some mornings i wake up and simply do not have the emotional range for minimalism.

beige feels judgmental.
quiet luxury feels like it wants me to drink water and answer emails.
capsule wardrobes feel like they would ask me where i see myself in five years.

and i don’t appreciat…

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i trust pink drinks more than advice.

which is not mature.

but neither is standing in the street holding a red velvet latte like it contains a solution, and yet here we are.

i saw the little handwritten sign and immediately believed in it.

red velvet latte.
new year special.
pink foam heart.

it is may.

which means this drink is either very late, very optimistic…

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i ordered an oat latte and acted like it was the reason i left the house.

it wasn’t.

i just needed to get outside before one small thought turned into a full emotional event.

it was one of those mornings where i stood in front of my wardrobe for too long, already annoyed, already tired, already convinced nothing looked right.

so naturally, i overdressed.

den…

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I think women do a lot of invisible work to appear composed.

Not just getting ready.
Not just choosing the outfit.
I mean the quieter work. The work that happens underneath the final version people see.

The mood adjustment.
The expression correction.
The posture.
The small pause before leaving.
The private decision to make it all look lighter than it felt.

I hav…

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I changed my hair today.

And for a few embarrassingly sincere minutes afterward, I really did behave like something larger had shifted.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. No one stopped me in the street. The sky did not open. My life did not suddenly become cleaner, sharper, easier to carry.

But I looked at myself differently.

And that was enough to start th…

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