Upper East Side Writer Halima Haider Recaps 2022 Milestones (& Misadventures)
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New York, New York — If you told me 2022 was going to somehow make the cut for my top 5 most epic years as it kicked off, I would’ve probably scoffed in your face. Granted coquettishly. (I’ve always had a knack for hiding behind the shield of “cool girl mystique” as a decoy to oversharing. Or worse, virtue signaling. …As if!). And then immediately reverted to the brooding state that was customary with all the unthinkable moving parts.
Yet, to my delighted surprise, through a great many trials by fire, 2022 in sum presented itself as precisely that: an unforgettable 8,760-hour voyage bittersweetly laden with life-affirming highs and lows that ushered in a new dawn in both my womanhood and career.
In a nutshell: At the tail end of 2021, I was in bad, bad shape.
After ringing in the year being tethered to the bath like velcro on the Bowery between back-to-back-to-back calls with defamation lawyers trying to decide if it would be worth bringing the various stalker groups that attempted to render me suicidal via heinous cyberbullying campaigns under fire (I opted out letting God handle), I’d become bereaved. We had lost our dear Bradley.
I was in the simultaneous process of mending a shattered heart following my breakup with Etienne (on-again/off-again boyfriend of 5 years with an acute Oppositional Defiant Disorder diagnosis). When all of a sudden with what felt like the rattle of a magnitude 9.1 earthquake, not long into the audacious leap I took in moving 5,834 km East of the Atlantic to call the posh enclaves of the 16ème arrondissement home, my glitzy new escapist life in Paris was rocked by a bureaucratic disaster no one saw coming.
It seemed as if almost overnight I went from enkindling cute celebrity treatment wherever my presence hovered in the City of Light as the token American girl (think “Emily in Paris” but “Halima à Lutèce”). To suddenly assume the role of quote-unquote persona non grata, finding myself stuck in a foreign country without valid papers to work-slash-secure a livelihood.
Didn’t help matters much that I began to drain my cash reserves like pandemic-era moths to the flame billowing into the dumpster fire that became my crisis just days after touching down at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Before getting the abysmal 15:02 call from the embassy that ~despotically~ relayed the message that due to a string of “backend errors” my work permit was rescinded. That my visa was slated to end soon. (Meaning I had to go back home to the states). I lived lavishly in Paris in 2021. I visited every crème de la crème of cultural venues, dined at the fanciest restaurants, frequented Cire de Trudon and the Dior spa at Hôtel Athénée, spent quality time with mates, received the plum offer by a team who exalted and loved me (!) to join the luxury resale outfit Vestiaire Collective as their in-house Copywriter, and was represented by Metropolitan Models Group thanks to my gorgeous agent (aka Parisian mum Zanna).
By the onset of autumn, it had been settled that I was to hop on that dreaded one-way business flight heading North West into the hustle and bustle of the concrete jungle. And ditch my beloved Ville d’Amour (and thus all impending plans of adventuring through Europe…) in a manner not too dissimilar to how Etienne had abandoned me: abruptly and inhumanely.
“By the onset of autumn, it had been settled that I was to hop on that dreaded one-way business flight heading North West into the hustle and bustle of the concrete jungle. And ditch my beloved Ville d’Amour (and thus all impending plans of adventuring through Europe…) in a manner not too dissimilar to how Etienne had abandoned me: abruptly and inhumanely.”
At that time, it was impossible convincing me that a worse-off scenario than my prematurely returning to New York, with my proverbial tail between my legs no less, existed. That, perhaps, “home” had my best interest at heart and was beckoning me to step into a higher calling.
Can’t blame me. Who in their right mind would want to go back to any place they’d bid a final farewell? Where the traumas provoked by stalkers loom large? Especially when the greener pasture they set out to is none other than the chicest city in the world devoid of said loser stalkers.
Only, in my instance, the plot thickens. Tenfold mind you. Because I wasn’t just shipping out to the gritty, pizza-rat-addled Big Apple I had left behind. But would be resettled in the very motherland that was still being occupied by the ex-factor. Whose très poétique nom tooootally! did! not! inspire ~55% of my urge to move to the cradle of its origin in the first place. (Like, no way!). And I, tooootally, wasn’t, on a twisted trauma-bonding level, still in love with him. I mean, I still hadn’t kissed anyone since him. Still hadn’t dated anyone since him. Or slept with anyone since him. That settles that!
Oh, wait…
For humour’s sake let’s take a moment to honour Etienne’s namesake. Shall we? It after all not only decimated formative years of my life. But, too, pays tribute to the finest echelon of men in my adopted fatherland of Lutèce.
Indulge me here: Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, philosopher/economist, 1715–1780, Étienne Maurice Falconet, rococo sculptor, 1716–1791, Étienne François, Duc de Choiseul, politician/diplomat, 1719–1785, Étienne Pernet, priest, 1824–1899, Étienne Léopold Trouvelot, astronomer, 1827–1895, Etienne Girardot, actor, 1856–1939, Étienne Gilson, scholar/philosopher, 1884–1978, and the list goes on and on.
I’m not chortling, you’re chortling.
Make no mistake- my trip back to the sleepless city and the bid to get my bearings (still at it!) was nothing short of a peripatetic fever dream.
After hopping from one costly hotel after the next (won’t name names) for months on end, I, by the skin of my teeth, find a sublet in Greenpoint that was being rented out by a hipster couple working for the Department of Education. It, of course, is next door to Kieran Culkin (yes — brother of Hollywood prodigy Macaulay Culkin and the venerated Succession star himself) and I am back to dodging North Brooklyn’s most cringe film industry micro-celebs on Nassau en route to Equinox like playing a mind game of Wach-A-Mole where I mentally stomp out each familiar face with my death stare to vanquish them out of sight.
“After hopping from one costly hotel after the next (won’t name names) for months on end, I, by the skin of my teeth, find a sublet in Greenpoint that was being rented out by a hipster couple working for the Department of Education. It, of course, is next door to Kieran Culkin (yes — brother of Hollywood prodigy Macaulay Culkin and the venerated Succession star himself) and I am back to dodging North Brooklyn’s most cringe film industry micro-celebs on Nassau en route to Equinox like playing a mind game of Wach-A-Mole where I mentally stomp out each familiar face with my death stare to vanquish them out of sight.”
It would take an entirely separate and uniquely horrid heartbreak (I will recall later) and dogged attempts to rescue a Russian diplomat-slash-investment banker friend from the shackles of her abusive marriage to an academic spouse who had plunged into abject psychosis to (fatefully?) land back on the Upper East Side: my home, my serenity, my all. I have since taken out a lease on a charming 1 BR along a serene block in Lenox Hill.
It is during the precarity of these synchronous turning points that entailed closing the chapter on being neighbors with a Culkin, and hosting dinner parties for Gen Z influencers, that the jigsaw pieces of my life started to pull closer together, falling blissfully into place. Opening a brand new chapter of boundless possibilities. Like the rush that you feel during those final minutes, and seconds leading to finishing a 1000pc Matisse puzzle.
“It is during the precarity of these synchronous turning points that entailed closing the chapter on being neighbors with a Culkin, and hosting dinner parties for Gen Z influencers, that the jigsaw pieces of my life started to pull closer together, falling blissfully into place. Opening a brand new chapter of boundless possibilities. Like the rush that you feel during those final minutes, and seconds leading to finishing a 1000pc Matisse puzzle.”
Not to brag, but in hindsight, it is beyond me that amidst these arduous high-endorphin months pelting down, I managed to score a six-figure position in fashion as a Senior Copywriter to replace my Paris dream job.
To boot, even while struggling to heal a freshly broken heart (scenario: moneyed shopper (him) abandons cart (our situationship) after 8th-generation Rolls Royce (me) topped wishlist for 6-plus months (length of suffering), I seized every opportunity to build my sustainable luxury candle LLC, Darling Anaïs, designing/launching our e-commerce store.
There were too many nights of burning the midnight oil for me to have adequately kept track. The better half of the year, in fact, was spent forgoing sleep for 72-hour stretches at a time. It’s a typical early-stage entrepreneur rite of passage save I was at the same time holding down a full-time corporate career, setting out to build my book as a nascent journalist, (still processing the onslaught of 2021 misadventures) and launching a startup without the required capital.
“There were too many nights of burning the midnight oil for me to have adequately kept track. The better half of the year, in fact, was spent forgoing sleep for 72-hour stretches at a time. It’s a typical early-stage entrepreneur rite of passage save I was at the same time holding down a full-time corporate career, setting out to build my book as a nascent journalist, (still processing the onslaught of 2021 misadventures) and launching a startup without the required capital.”
Through concentration and fierce outreach, I won a good handful of angel investments, gradually moving the business needle forward from the R&D stage to pre-seed in which we now await product launch.
It may not be much, but under these extenuating circumstances flanked by harsh financial challenges, I got to publish two high-art-focused articles on Flaunt that support my friends. I made no money for my contributions.
But was nonetheless overjoyed by the opportunity to simply publish a reported piece since jumping ship (and give love where it's due most!).
In a perfect world — I would be penning ~500 news stories every year. But alas, when survival in the most expensive city in the world takes center stage, and one has too, too many irons in the fire, the likelihood of this wish coming to pass is slim to none. Sure, as a staff writer at NYT, I might be able to contribute a lot more ideas to a newspaper. But then…would I get to keep my Park Avenue apartment? Or book the biweekly spa mani-pedi appointments off of Columbus Circle? Or shop Hermès? I digress.
“In a perfect world — I would be penning ~500 news stories every year. But alas, when survival in the most expensive city in the world takes center stage, and one has too, too many irons in the fire, the likelihood of this wish coming to pass is slim to none. Sure, as a staff writer at NYT, I might be able to contribute a lot more ideas to a newspaper. But then…would I get to keep my Park Avenue apartment? Or book the biweekly spa mani-pedi appointments off of Columbus Circle? Or shop Hermès? I digress.”
I will further buttress my claim when I say that the real world is far from quote-unquote perfect with an astute lyric by Mick Jagger, “You can’t always get what you want.” And might I add, especially not ~when~ you want it. This is a vital law of nature with which I made complete peace in 2022. I may have made paltry progress as a journalist and foolishly gave myself the carte blanche hall pass to fall in love with a man long distance who, in turn, disgraced my affection and closed the chapter on me as I did on Greenpoint. But, having said that, my Scorpionic resolve to go after my longstanding dreams of becoming a serious journalist and CEO remain undeterred. Still out here making Tina Brown and Anna Wintour proud!
(My two main Scorpio ladies. Duh.)
As alluded to, this aforementioned situationship (ironically with an investor…) threw the heaviest monkey wrench into my ambitious 2022 recovery plan. And ultimately, to put it very, very lightly, did not end well. As a messy post-Etienne rebound fling, our passion evolved rather desperately. While on my side of the street, I was just a frazzled model newly sapped of a fabulous contract in Paris, silently balancing an avalanche of duties just to stay alive in New York City. Responsibilities that required the dexterity of juggling 10 flaming swords. ******, from my vantage, was everything that Etienne was not. Where Etienne was unabashedly living off of his royalties and embodied the walking-talking poster child for a canceled-celebrity-turned-polyamorous-wingnut with no moral compass. This man seemed the polar opposite.
He had class (or so I thought), worked hard, came from a good family, and represented the glowing qualities of a safe capitalist lad with traditional values. Which, coupled with his love bombing over time, I learned to value tremendously and consider marriage material. The proof is in the pudding:
[Diary entry from Feb. 18, 2022 – 2 days into falling in love]
02/18/2022
12:50 AM: *****. Where do I begin with *****? *****embodies the three P’s that every great Russian lover must: Passionate, Possessive, Powerful.
I like to fantasize about a cute (and sexy) future where ***** and I are blithely happy together.
I imagine sultry days and nights locked away inside a fancy suite at the Plaza on 5th Ave. Being silly with each other, full-belly laughs, losing track of the outside world in our moment of discovery (of love and one another).
We make sure to trace every fibre of each other’s limbs with our romantic fingertips so that the topography of our flesh will be seared into memory for those sullen months when we will be apart again.
I meditate on the impromptu trips I will make us take just because: to Saint-Tropez, Porto Cervo, Ha Long Bay, French Polynesia, Torres del Paine, Hvar, Caymans, the Maldives, Gstaad to name a few. We will bake under the Mediterranean sun like shiny lobsters throwing caution to the wind as it blows through our post-coital hair. Swim on horseback along many turquoise shores. Ski down the prettiest slopes and take selfies in the powder wearing our bathing suits and moonboots. We will enjoy exquisite dinners with the finest company, filling our bellies and souls. The adventures will never end with us! I foresee a twee scene in which we are splaid on lazy weekends holding each other closely. We host movie marathons for two and the tannic whites flow to the slow burn of Cire Trudon and Darling Anaïs candles.
Alas, this equal-part-cinématique-and-tragique saga collapsed in on me (maybe us?) like a death star.
It left a wound the size of the Lambert glacier that I spent the last quarter of 2022 learning to pull off as a beauty mark of sorts.
Perhaps, the only silver lining to forever losing a man who never belonged to you is that it teaches you the meaning of radically letting go. And enables you the strength necessary to sit with your shame and trauma while actively propelling you to love yourself, another-shopping-spree more.
“Perhaps, the only silver lining to forever losing a man who never belonged to you is that it teaches you the meaning of radically letting go.”
In 2022, I correspondingly stayed resolute in prioritizing healing. I kept my nose-to-grindstone — and plotted innovative ways to expand my career. I resumed ballet classes, barre, and yoga. Made good use of Columbia Journalism’s scholastic resources. And opted to put the kibosh on my decade-spanning social media persona that slanted on flippant, inaccurately depicting me as this sardonic, “post-society” New York Instagram model archetype. Rather than demonstrating the full spectrum of my being as the complex and multifaceted woman I am. (An easy trapping to fall into when you grew up in the most culturally-evolved metropolis there is, and are “hyper-exposed” to the intelligentsia; it’s a thing, folks!).
Be as it may, it is still not a representation of myself I will condone. I have since publicized my deeply-held traditional values, redacting adolescent posts, without agonizing over if it’ll offend my liberal friends.
As an early-stage business owner building from zilch in one of the most expensive zip codes, I made the executive decision to forgo all travel in 2022 and funneled any extra money I had lying around into my startup.
“As an early-stage business owner building from zilch in one of the most expensive zip codes, I made the executive decision to forgo all travel in 2022 and funneled any extra money I had lying around into my startup.”
Besides a short work-adjacent Labour Weekend trip out on the sandy hamlets of the Hamptons, I did not leave city parameters in 2022.
Whatsoever. The willpower proved more rewarding than any vacation.
Instead of squandering money on expensive getaways, I spent more time at Darling Anaïs headquarters and soaked up local amenities that made me fall head-over-heels in love with my home city like never before! I was reminded of how spectacular New York truly is (particularly during the holidays). But also when I made it to the US Open after a 6-plus-year hiatus. And propitiously caught an exhilarating Men's & Women’s Third Round! I got to see Serena Williams in all her MVP glory during the penultimate match of her formidable tennis reign (26 years active and 23 Grand Slam titles!). While Rafa quite literally stole the show — in flesh.
Only in New York! Or London…but who cares about London? ;)
I swam leisure laps in every aesthetic rooftop pool to erect from New York City grounds >50 feet in length. And feasted on gargantuan amounts of the world’s best Osetra, branzino, and gluten-free pasta, and attended champagne-strewn press previews.
“I swam leisure laps in every aesthetic rooftop pool to erect from New York City grounds >50 feet in length. And feasted on gargantuan amounts of the world’s best Osetra, branzino, and gluten-free pasta, and attended champagne-strewn press previews.”
I enjoyed a multiplicity of lovely afternoon teas at the Plaza and Dowling’s at the Carlyle. Had breakfast at Bergdorf’s. Channeling Kay Thompson’s Eloise meets Holly Golightly energy perched to a photogenic Central Park view. I journaled a lot. And as often as time permitted, I read pages of the same book I’ve been leafing through since phase three of quar’, between magazine issues about the Royal family, business journals, and news stories. I even had the privilege of adding to my archival closet new heirloom-worthy garments (proof that a girl can fantasize AND have!).
2022 also marks the year when I prayed the most. Religiously tuned into the B-school-certified podcast This Week in Startups. Went to my catholic church sporting red bottoms. (Um, it’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral, or bust — hello!!!!). And caroused with Jacquemus-bedazzled models with a distinct foot-plus height disparity to me at Guest of a Guest-approved VIP rooms.
Only! In! New York!
Moreover, I am humbled to have had my most balletic (hehe!) portrait featured in Flaunt in the second quarter. In it, I wear my favourite (!) knife-pleated midi skirt by Dame Vivienne Westwood at one of my dearest-to-heart Lower Manhattan outposts EERDMANS. I was fortunate to have been in standing to properly commemorate the late fashion icon on the day of her death, Dec. 29.
All things considered, it is with the highest gratitude, I celebrate the 2022 milestones that gifted me with this utmost renewed sense of radical self-love, radical discipline, and radical grace, against all odds.
I absolutely couldn’t have made these strides without the unwavering love and support of my friends, family, and mentors.
“All things considered, it is with the highest gratitude, I celebrate the 2022 milestones that gifted me with this utmost renewed sense of radical self-love, radical discipline, and radical grace, against all odds.”
If the only fair comparison is to our former self (as the hackneyed saying goes) then I am beyond humbled by where the serendipitous path paved by the gales of my misadventures has led me in 2022 — home; where I am safe, where I am whole, where I prosper extraordinarily.
Thanks for the beautiful memories and eye-opening lessons- 2022! Here’s to more prosperity, magic, and tenderness in 2023!
