HeyJaredINDIA HICKS. An Unexpected Journey.
British designer, humanitarian, mum of 5, India writes about her own particular pattern of living and creative rhythm. A diarist, documenting an unexpected life with a dash of history, a touch of humor, and the occasional royal reflection.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 14
- Latest publication
- Sep 24, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 13, 2026
Latest issues
Love is the thing death cannot level (opens the original)
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Four months have passed since my mother died, and only now am I beginning to see beyond the sadness: oh, don’t get me wrong, I feel the ache of missing her every morning and every evening, but now I can look back and smile, especially at some of what happened on the day we said goodbye.<div class="image2-
A warthog, that is actually a skunk. I need to catch up on some sleep. (opens the original)
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The contrast could hardly have been more complete. A week earlier, Amory had been filming out of the window of a mission truck as we sped through eastern Ukraine. Now he was filming from a car inching slowly over the cobblestones of Paris. Same camera. A world away.INDIA HICKS. An Unexpected Journey. is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.<form class="subscription-w
Do not leave with a heavy stone on your heart (opens the original)
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Not much sleep in Zaporizhia, followed by an eight-hour drive back to Kyiv. Not much sleep there either — bombs going off somewhere in the city centre during the night.Then the night train west, across Ukraine and over the Polish border. I’ve done this journey many times. You share a tiny sleeping cabin with strangers, and there is no choosing who those strangers might be.INDIA HICKS. An Unexpected Journey. is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work
The Sky Is Now the Battlefield. (opens the original)
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The First Birthday Without the Song (opens the original)
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This is the first birthday in 59 years that I have not heard my mother’s voice.Every year, without fail, she would sing Happy Birthday to me. The whole thing. There was no hurrying her along and absolutely no skipping to the end. I could be breastfeeding a baby, boarding an airplane, reversing out of a driveway, but once she had started, we were going all the way through to “Happy Birthday to you.” In person or on the phone.And today, for the first time, there is no song.Feeling just a tiny bit
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