Trigger warning: This story contains themes of death and influencers.

This is an essay reflecting on a dark year. 2024 was supposed to be my special year. It’s the Year of the Dragon (my year!), and I had so many plans I wanted to achieve. I started the year full of high hopes and dreams, with clear goals and intentions. But early on, those plans were shattered, and I haven’t been able to piece them back together.

An event occurred that completely derailed my plans, forcing me to rethink my life, my purpose, and how I see the world—unfortunately, not in a positive way.

I don’t expect you to find joy in the words that follow, as this post isn’t designed to spark happiness. However, I also don’t wish to dwell too deeply in negativity.

A woman I knew was murdered by her husband this year.

I remember when I first heard the news. I was sitting in an Australian restaurant in Zurich, about to eat a delicious, meaty burger (I wasn’t yet vegan). I had just had a productive meeting with a potential business partner and was feeling really good.

Just after ordering, I checked my phone and read the words, “xxx ist tot.” (xxx is dead)

My blood ran cold, and I fell silent.

The potential business partner sensed the shift in my energy and asked if I was okay. I told him I needed to make a phone call.

I called the person who had sent me the message and asked what had happened.

A woman I used to do burlesque with, whose “Walking with Confidence” class I had taken, and a woman I truly admired for her beauty… was dead while still in her 30’s.

I admit, we weren’t exactly close friends. We had gone out socially once, and I was always somewhat envious of her lifestyle. Online, she appeared to have the perfect life— a gorgeous home, amazing shoes (she was a high-heel coach), stunning hair, and a beautiful family, including two young girls full of personality. Her husband was a respected Swiss businessman, and they seemed to have it all.

When we went out to a burlesque show in Zurich, she picked us up in her beautiful white Tesla with luxurious leather seats. She wore a stunning black coat and gorgeous high-heeled boots. Everyone in the club was looking at her, yet I had the feeling she wasn’t enjoying the night as much as she could have been. She wanted to leave quite early.

She taught a high heels class, which I eagerly joined. She shared techniques on how to walk elegantly and confidently in high heels. She told us we were beautiful women who should always walk with pride— to strut our stuff and own the road we walked on.

It was a class about empowerment, and wow, it worked. Every time I walk in high heels, I think of her and smile. Smile as I remember the song “Lady Marmalade,” which was our marching anthem.

When I found out her husband had killed her, a deep anger settled inside me— an anger that slowly began to poison me. I started looking at all men with distrust and suspicion. I grew hateful toward men, hateful toward many things, and it started to eat me up inside.

I lost interest in my hobbies— comedy and burlesque— and slowly became a shell. I let work consume me, trying to keep my mind occupied at all times. I burnt out and retreated into solitude.

I lost my sparkle.

As the months went on, I started to process my feelings. The anger remained, and I became increasingly sensitive to men’s behaviour.

Unfortunately, I also experienced horrible incidents— a man following me on an empty tram, standing right behind me; another man sitting beside me, whispering how beautiful I was and refusing to move as I tried to get off the tram, forcing me to climb over him. Luckily, I found my voice and shouted “EXCUSE ME” very loudly.

Sometimes I wonder why I let people get away with such behavior.

At work, we had a company meeting with an Oktoberfest theme. One guy asked me, “Why aren’t you wearing a Dirndl? I was really looking forward to seeing you in one!”

I had no reply other than a stupid giggle and, “Oh yeah, I have one, but I left it at home.”

Or the other day, while walking through the streets of Basel at around 2 PM, a group of men sitting outside a bar and one of the guys (who I didn’t know) started shouting at me: “Hey! Hey! HEY!”

I looked at him, then walked on. On the outside, I appeared calm, but inside I was shaking with fear and rage.

Why did that man think he had the right to shout at me in public? How dare he make me feel scared?

My mind kept telling me to turn around and confront him. Ask him why he shouted. But I couldn’t.

As I continued to process my anger over her death, these moments of disrespect from men only added to my sense of disillusionment

—

About a month ago, more details about the woman’s death came to light. Her husband had not only killed her (during an argument) but had mutilated her body in horrific ways. He was even trying to get released from prison.

As these gruesome details emerged, they became the perfect tool for influencers to grab the attention they craved.

I opened Instagram and was immediately confronted by a picture of her, alongside quotes from a news article detailing the mutilation (which I won’t repeat here). I was shocked and hurt. It was only later that I noticed the tiny “trigger warning” written at the top of the image in a barely readable font.

I commented on the post, suggesting that in the future they use one slide for the trigger warning and save the details for the next picture. I explained that I knew the woman and was affected by seeing the image.

Was I naive to think I’d receive sympathy online?

Very.

Instead, I was flooded with messages saying, “There is a trigger warning! What’s wrong with you people? Do we really have to cater to you?”

I was deeply saddened by the response. Reading other comments about the victim made me sick.

• It was her fault.
• She was a bimbo.
• Just look at her— she was asking for trouble.
• Why are we focusing on her when there are bigger problems in the world?

It’s so easy to type hateful words when you’re hidden behind a screen.

I asked one of the women to meet me and say her words to my face. Could she stand behind what she had typed? Was she proud of herself?

It was then that I completely lost faith in the modern world and the modern person. Unfortunately, the hate keeps growing.

When I see influencers posing in the street, I just want to throw something at them.

When someone tries to sell me the “secret to a fabulous life” online, I want to scream at them to shut up.

Even here on Substack, I’m constantly told I have so much potential that I’m not living up to— and if I want to unlock it, it only costs about $100. I’m told I need to post every day to make a difference on this platform. That I’m not good enough.

After the incident, I deactivated Instagram for a while, trying to detox from social media. But its pull is powerful, and now I’m back— though I’m trying to limit myself. I’m trying to post positive things. Postcards I’ve made. Pictures of flowers.

It’s a hard journey, and I haven’t really been equipped with the tools to process this kind of trauma. Every day, I feel a deep sadness like a lead balloon in my chest. I try to be hopeful and think of positive things, but it’s so damn hard. I try to find joy in small, beautiful things and block out the negativity I can’t control. I try to ignore the toxic voices that keep telling me I’m not enough.

Yes, I am enough.

The effort I put in is enough for what I wish to achieve.

I don’t owe you anything— and I especially don’t owe you my attention, energy, or time. These are precious, non-refundable resources.

I guess what I really want to say right now is:

SHUT UP!

Thank you for reading.

Laura xoxoxoxo