Copy of What happened in New Zealand?

New Zealand had been on my list of must-visit places ever since I first saw a rugby team perform the haka. It sparked something in me—daydreams of that ritual, so raw and primal yet undeniably masculine. Honestly, it got me going every time I watched it; I must’ve replayed this video over a hundred times in my life.

Beyond that, the country’s otherworldly landscapes—its mountains, beaches, and that perfect blend of nature and modernity—called to me like a siren.

I’d planned to go in November, flying out from Sydney, but then Jes proposed, and I decided to stick around in Australia a bit longer.

By December, though, I was itching to leave—Sydney was starting to bore me—so I booked my flights. My now-husband, however, wasn’t having it. He put his foot down and said, “If you go, you’ll be signing divorce papers first.” That made me feel that he really needs me and the divorce wasn’t part of my plan, so I cancelled the trip to New Zealand, flights and all. That argue ends with holes in the wall of the hotel were I was staying

Then, in January ’25, my husband landed himself in a mess I wanted no part of. I grabbed the first flight out of Australia—to Bangkok. I’d always fancied visiting Thailand, but Bangkok didn’t do it for me. It reminded me too much of Mexico City, just with even more overcrowding, pollution, and chaos—not my cup of tea. I got out as quick as I could, but the most convenient flight to New Zealand was from the US. So, I swung by to see my clients in San Francisco and San Jose, and finally, the day of my flight to New Zealand arrived.

Travelling is my life. I’ve set foot in over 30 countries, had adventures I never dreamed possible, and encountered cultures that shifted how I see the world. But I never imagined my fame would be the reason I’d be barred from entering a country.

The flight went smoothly. Landing in Auckland, I strolled to immigration control with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times. But something felt off this time. The officer took my passport, scanned it, and instead of the usual entry stamp, he furrowed his brow and stared at his screen a bit too long.

“Wait here a moment,” he said, his politeness sounding forced.

I watched him signal another officer, who approached, took my passport, and asked me to follow him. Up to that point, I figured it was just a random check—maybe an extra bit of scrutiny, nothing major. But when they ushered me into a separate room, I knew something was up.

Minutes ticked by, then an hour. Eventually, another official walked in, tablet in hand, and gave me a stern look before speaking.

“Miss, we’ve identified your social media profile, and we have reason to believe your stay in New Zealand doesn’t align with the terms of a tourist visa.”

I blinked, baffled.

“Sorry, what do you mean?”

“Based on your social media history, you earn income from your travels. That’s considered work, and we know you’re involved in the sex industry. A tourist visa isn’t appropriate for entering New Zealand under those circumstances.”

That’s when it clicked. They’d dug into me before I’d even officially set foot on Kiwi soil. My Instagram, my X account, maybe even my LoverFans—everything was out there for anyone with a Google search. And though my plan was genuinely to explore the country (and, alright, the New Zealanders too), and just do some proper sightseeing, to them, I was only there to work.

I tried to explain. I told them I had no business meetings lined up, no plans to make money directly in New Zealand, that I just wanted to enjoy it and share my experience like I’d done everywhere else. But they wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry,” the officer said, his tone final, “but your entry to New Zealand has been denied.”

They kept me there for over 35 hours, stuck in this room…

the room was the best room for being in a kind of arrested. I had ilimited water and a private bathroom and I can take a shower, they gave me clean towels and sheets, and 2 pillows. They were polite all the time, except for a old woman trying to bother me. But she calmed down after I asked her, ‘Does it turn you on to shout at me and wind me up?’

They put up these notices in th wall in every language stating that we are not detained, yet I wasn’t allowed to leave the room without being escorted. Funy.

And I wasn’t allowed to book my next flight either. They put me on the same flight I arrived on. At least I didn’t have to pay for it, but I absolutely hate flying economy.

The inmigration officers escorted me back onto a plane bound for Australia. As we took off, I gazed out the window at the land I’d dreamed of exploring, now slipping out of reach—at least for the time being.

I learned a hard lesson that day: social media fame can open doors, but it can slam them shut too. In this hyper-connected world, you know you’ve gone too far when they stop you at the border.

The moral of the story? God clearly doesn’t want me in New Zealand.

😪