Two young women standing outdoors near a body of water, one wearing sunglasses and a white t-shirt, the other with long blonde hair and a tan coat draped over her arm, engaging in conversation on a cloudy day.

Colorful 3D text spelling 'ABOUT' with each letter layered with purple, orange, and beige colors.

A purple badge with black outline, featuring a hand making a peace sign, and the phrase 'Make It Happen' written in black at the top and bottom.

Welcome to the Social Sisterhood!

Where the women gather who don’t fit and no longer want to. The wild ones who want the choice – over their time, their work, their rhythm, their life!

This is where you’ll find all the learnings I learned the unromantic way, how you can use technology to your advantage and make your female cycle your superpower. Plus the occasional funny story from somewhere off a highway.

Let’s build your wild life, sis! 🌼

Count me in!

Whoops…
Turns out you can build a life that fits you.

Orange smiley face with eyes replaced by flowers and smiling mouth.

Hey, I’m Jasmin Elliott.

And I broke out of every system to build my own.
Same vision since I was 19. The route? Flexible.

Okay, full disclosure: I never had a plan.

I had a vision – stubborn, ridiculous, carrying it since I was nineteen. The route? Adjusted along the way. Every single time.

I was five, staring at the horizon from the balcony in the Bavarian village I grew up in, when my mum first thought to herself she’d lost me to the world. She was right. Neither of us expected how many things I’d have to break on the way out, though.

First in my family at university, on a student loan. Handing out newspapers at fourteen, factory floor at sixteen, counted potatoes later so rent would add up. No entrepreneurial blood, no connections, just an internal voice insisting there has to be something else.

Halfway through uni, I went looking. New York first (bedbugs, cockroaches as roommates – peak twenty-one, ten out of ten, would do again). Then Buenos Aires, where I cried on the plane back because nobody had told me life could feel that wide.

After uni, I applied everywhere on the planet. Berlin took me. I left so fast I almost forgot to pack.

Built a career in copywriting and strategy over ten years, from Jägermeister to VW. I was good. And I was also slowly being eaten alive.

Then 2020. My “safe” job in the festival industry collapsed in a week. And so I jumped: fully self-employed, mid-pandemic, with zero net.

It worked. Embarrassingly well. I wrote my first 17k invoice and stared at the number like it was a typo.

Until it stopped. Two laptops, two meetings at once, the camper I’d just built parked outside. Free, technically. Chained, actually.

So I broke that too. Again.

Fast forward through many detours and learnings and now I work three days a week. Sometimes not for months. Drove a camper through Morocco and up to the North Cape. Crashed my way through learning to ride a motorcycle in Georgia (passed on the second try — pure rage at toxic masculinity is, turns out, an excellent driving instructor). Right now, somewhere across Australia on that motorcycle, solo, because waiting for somebody to come with me would have meant never going. And when my family needed me, I went back for months and took care of them while the business… kept running. Two hearts, beating at once. Roots and wings, not roots or wings.

That’s what I call Rooted Freedom.

Here’s what I’ve learned, the hard and unromantic way: you don’t need an entrepreneurial family, a six-figure savings account, or anybody’s permission to build a life that fits you.

You need a vision you’re not willing to negotiate on and a route you’re willing to rewrite as often as it takes. That’s it. That’s the whole secret. Everybody who told me otherwise was either scared themselves or selling something.

I was the woman nobody listened to for a very long time. I had to become my own role model because there wasn’t one in the room.

So now I’m the one in the room. For the women coming up behind me, around me, alongside me. The ones who feel that same stubborn voice that I felt at nineteen. The ones who know something has to give but aren’t sure what or how. The ones who don’t want to live in a backpack forever, but also don’t want to keep performing a life that’s slowly killing them. The ones who want the choice — to work afternoons instead of mornings, to be home when their kid is home, to live six months in one place and six months on the road, or to do something nobody’s yet invented a word for.

That’s who I’m here for. That’s what I built the Social Sisterhood for.

If something in this story made your spine sit up a little straighter, start here.