Jayne Whyte's Portfolio

There’s always a first time. For my 43rd birthday, I did something completely sweet but reckless.

I chose Jayne. Not in the “light a candle and journal” way. I mean, I wanted something that belonged only to me. I travelled alone to Albania.

A solo birthday trip. At 43. As an African woman, this felt mildly criminal.

So I booked the ticket. The whole journey felt surreal. Sitting alone at the airport with my passport, I felt both powerful and terrified. I kept waiting for somebody to stop me and say, “Excuse me, madam, women who have spent decades prioritising everyone else are not allowed to have spontaneous joy.”

But nobody came.

When I arrived in Tirana, something inside me immediately softened. Maybe it was the mountains. Maybe it was the warm air. Maybe it was the strange freedom of being somewhere nobody knew me as “mum,” or “sis”.

Now let me tell you what the real drama was.

The massage.

I had never had one before. Not once.

Where I come from, massages are not part of normal life. African women do not casually book massages. We carry stress in our necks until it becomes a cultural heritage.

But this trip was about trying things I had denied myself for years. So, standing in the hotel spa reception, confused, I booked my very first massage.

The spa was quiet. There was soft music. Dim lighting. Bowls of water with flowers floating inside for absolutely no reason, lots of fresh flowers and the smell of luxurious scents filled the air.

Then they handed me a robe.

A robe.

Suddenly, I felt deeply vulnerable, and somehow, walking around in a fluffy white robe made me feel cute and carefree.

I lay on the massage table stiff with suspicion.

Then the masseuse placed warm oil on my shoulders.

And I nearly cried.

Not because of pain. Because my body finally realised how exhausted it had been. The tension sitting inside me was ancient. Years of overworking. Overgiving. Overcopensating. Years of being “strong.” Years of carrying pressure, so naturally I stopped recognising it as pain.

As her hands slowly worked through my shoulders and back, something cracked open emotionally.

Relief arrived first.

Then grief.

Then joy.

Deep, overwhelming joy.

I realised nobody had touched me gently in years without needing something from me afterwards.

That thought broke my heart a little.

At one point, the therapist quietly asked, “How are you feeling?”

And I wanted to answer honestly.

“Tired.”

Not physically tired. Soul tired.

But underneath that exhaustion was something beautiful. For the first time in a very long time, I felt cared for. Not because I earned it. Not because I sacrificed enough. Not because I had solved everybody’s problems first.

When the massage ended, I sat there emotional and moisturised, staring at the wall like a woman who had just attended therapy.

My birthday solo trip was never really about Albania.

It was about permission.

Permission to rest.
Permission to receive.
Permission to stop performing strength every minute of the day.

In Albania, I found pieces of myself I had not seen in years.

To 43! Cheers.