I posted this on my Instagram Stories a while back while sitting in an airport lounge on my way to London. At the time I assumed it was just one particularly noisy afternoon. Since then, I’ve flown enough to realize it wasn’t an isolated incident. It’s a pattern. And now I can’t unsee—or more accurately, unhear—it. The more I travel, the more I notice it everywhere. Public pools. Playgrounds. Hotel lobbies. Cocktail parties. Anywhere a man has the opportunity to be on speakerphone, conduct a business call, or explain something with unwavering confidence, he somehow manages to make it everyone else’s business too.

I’m currently writing this from yet another airport lounge, surrounded by what can only be described as a live-action LinkedIn feed. I can hear at least five different conference calls happening simultaneously, despite none of the participants being remotely close to me. The conversations all blur into one giant corporate smoothie. “Our markets are widening in really great directions.” “AI is taking us to the next level.” “We’re not quite there yet, but we’re making incredible progress.” “We’re totally friends… we just can’t share everything.” And my personal favorite: “Frank… oh my God… you drive a hard bargain.” Holy boomer.

Here’s the fascinating part. There are plenty of women in this lounge too. They’re working. They’re taking meetings. They’re on calls. Yet somehow they’ve mastered the revolutionary concept of speaking at a volume intended only for the person on the other end of the conversation. Not once have I felt involuntarily recruited into a quarterly earnings update from a woman sitting three tables away.

So what exactly is happening here? They can’t all be hard of hearing, which leaves me with only one conclusion: they want to be heard. Not by the person on the call—by us. It’s performance. A tiny corporate stage where everyone within a fifty-foot radius gets to witness just how important, strategic, and indispensable they are. The buzzwords fly. The confidence is unwavering. Every sentence sounds like it belongs on a PowerPoint with an upward-trending arrow.

And maybe that’s why I find it so funny. Because from the outside, it doesn’t sound impressive. It sounds like every other guy saying every other business cliché in exactly the same voice. I wish I could lean over and tell them that, from where I’m sitting, they don’t sound powerful. They sound like nerds. Loud nerds.

The funniest part is that I actually love men. I’m married to one and birthed another. I enjoy their company. I find them straightforward, funny, loyal, and wonderfully uncomplicated compared with the endless psychological gymnastics women sometimes put ourselves through. But the airport lounge performances need to go. Take the call. Close the deal. Revolutionize AI if you must. Just don’t make the rest of us your unwilling board of directors.

One of the biggest style mistakes people make has absolutely nothing to do with proportions, trends, color palettes or whether silver is replacing gold. It has to do with the label. Not because labels are bad—I love beautiful design and appreciate exceptional craftsmanship. There are designers whose work genuinely deserves every accolade. The problem begins when the label starts shaping our opinion before we’ve even had a chance to form one ourselves.

I have a little game I like to play when I’m shopping online. I intentionally avoid looking at the brand first. Instead, I scan everything as though it has all been tossed onto one enormous rack. No designer boutiques. No luxury websites. No discount retailers. Just clothes. Then I ask myself one question: Would I still love this if it were hanging at Marshall’s?

It’s a surprisingly revealing exercise because our brains are incredibly easy to persuade. The moment we discover something costs $2,700, we begin noticing all the reasons it must be brilliant. Suddenly the drape is exquisite, the tailoring is impeccable and the sleeve is somehow architectural. We become fashion critics searching for evidence that justifies the price.

Now flip the scenario. Take that exact same sweater—same fabric, same silhouette, same color—and hang it on a clearance rack with a generic label stitched inside. Would you even stop? Maybe. Maybe not. But if your answer changes simply because of the tag, then the label spoke before your own taste had a chance to.

I’ve noticed that the women with the most interesting style aren’t particularly loyal to brands. They’re loyal to what catches their eye. They notice an incredible stripe, a perfectly faded cotton, an unusual button or a collar that feels just a little different. They aren’t asking, Who made this? They’re asking, Why do I love this? Those are two completely different ways of shopping.

It’s also why the wardrobes I admire most are never built from one price point. They’re a mix of vintage, designer, high/low street and the occasional unbelievable thrift-store find. A beautifully tailored blazer might be paired with inexpensive trousers. An heirloom handbag gets carried with a $40 men’s button-down. The goal isn’t to communicate what something cost. It’s to communicate a point of view.

We’ve become so accustomed to equating expensive with better that we’ve almost forgotten how to trust our own eyes. It’s not entirely our fault. Branding is incredibly powerful. Luxury stores are designed to make us feel a certain way. Marketing tells us what the next “must-have” piece is before we’ve even seen it. By the time we lay eyes on the garment, we’ve already been influenced.

Fashion isn’t all that different from wine. Most people can’t consistently identify an expensive bottle in a blind tasting (or so I’ve been told, I hate wine, personally) because the label influences the experience before the first sip. Clothing works the same way. Tell us a handbag is iconic and we’ll suddenly notice how iconic it is. Tell us it’s from a discount retailer and we’ll start looking for reasons it’s not good enough.

So now, whenever I find myself immediately drawn to something because of the designer, I pause. I picture it hanging on a dusty rack in the back corner of a discount store. Do I still want it? Conversely, if I discover an inexpensive piece I love, I imagine it displayed in a chic Paris boutique with an eye-watering price tag. Would I suddenly think it was genius?

If the answer changes depending on the imaginary store it’s hanging in, then I’m probably not buying the garment. I’m buying the story. And stories have a funny way of costing us more than they’re worth.

The best wardrobes aren’t built on labels. They’re built on instinct—on the pieces that make you stop scrolling, the fabrics you can’t stop touching, the colors you keep thinking about days later. That’s what I’m after. The label is simply the introduction. The real love story should happen long before you read it.

Your children are not your friends. At least not while you’re raising them.

If you’re lucky, one day you’ll become their friend. But while they’re still living under your roof, your job isn’t to make sure they like you. It’s to make sure they become decent, capable, respectful adults.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve started confusing good parenting with popularity. We negotiate everything. We over-explain. We worry incessantly about hurting their feelings or disappointing them, as though saying “no” is somehow a parenting failure. It isn’t. In fact, it’s one of the most loving things you can do.

I genuinely don’t understand the desperation some parents have to be liked by their own children. Why are we seeking approval from people whose frontal lobes aren’t even fully developed? Kids can smell uncertainty a mile away. The moment they realize you’re making decisions based on whether they’ll approve of you, the balance shifts. You’re no longer leading—you’re campaigning.

My kids heard the word “no” all the time. They had curfews, rules, chores (actually not enough.. I should have given them more), and boundaries. They survived. Better yet, they thrived. Because “no” wasn’t punishment. It was consistency. It was safety. It was knowing exactly where the guardrails were. They were the river, I was the riverbank.

Here’s the irony I’ve noticed over the years. Some of the parents who were the most permissive about the big things were often the most reserved with the little ones. They’d let their fourteen-year-old throw parties, stay out until all hours, or pretend not to notice what was happening in the basement. But when those same kids were little, affection seemed almost rationed. There was a fear that too much cuddling would make them clingy, too much comforting would spoil them, too much closeness would somehow create weakness.

I’ve never understood that.

My babies practically lived on me. I held them until my arms were numb. Bedtime wasn’t a battle to prove a point; it was one more chance to make them feel safe. I wasn’t counting hugs or worrying that they were manipulating me at three weeks old. Babies don’t need to earn affection. They need to be immersed in it.

What they don’t need is unlimited freedom masquerading as trust. Those are two completely different things.

To me, the formula has always been simple: be extravagantly generous with love and remarkably consistent with boundaries. Hold them close when they’re little. Read the extra story. Cuddle them before bed. Let them know, without question, that home is the safest place they’ll ever know. Then, as they grow, become unapologetically clear about the rules. Love should feel limitless. Curfews, consequences, and expectations should not. And when you lay that foundation early—when your children know what you’ll tolerate and what you absolutely won’t—parenting actually becomes easier. The grocery store tantrum over candy? Hard no. A midnight curfew at thirteen? Absolutely not. Trust is earned over time, and it goes both ways. They trust me to be consistent, and I trust them to earn more freedom as they show they’re ready for it.

I recently heard Liz Joy talking about modern parenting on Instagram, and it echoed something I’ve been thinking for years. Whether we call it gentle parenting, helicopter parenting, or snowplow parenting, we’ve become so focused on eliminating discomfort that we’ve forgotten discomfort is often where growth begins. You can pacify a child in the moment, but still set them up for disappointment later.

I’ve always believed when it comes to rules and boundaries, you start firm and soften over time as your child proves they can handle more responsibility. Not soft first and hard later. By then, you’re often trying to install guardrails on a road they’ve already learned they can drive however they please. You don’t suddenly tell an 18 year old they can’t have the freedom that you’ve doled out aimlessly since they were 12.

Love them endlessly. Hug them constantly. Tell them you’re proud of them.

But don’t be afraid to disappoint them. “Mean mom” over “cool mom”, any day of the week.

Somewhere between your fifth striped sweater and your tenth pink lip gloss, you have to ask yourself whether you’ve developed a signature… or a problem.

I’m 54, so I feel like I’ve earned a slight pass. After decades of buying things that looked fabulous on someone else, trying trends that never quite felt like me, and generally conducting extensive field research in my own closet, I’ve finally arrived at a place where I know exactly what I like. That doesn’t mean I only own one of it.

Take my Fendi Baguettes. To my husband, they’re all the same bag. To me—and thankfully to all of you, dear readers—they’re entirely different. The leather, the hardware, the year, the color, the amount of wear… these are meaningful distinctions.

Unfortunately, I can’t make quite the same argument for my lip gloss drawer.

I own what can only be described as an unreasonable number of nearly identical pink glosses. Every purchase comes with the same internal monologue: This one’s slightly peachier. This one has more shine. This one is the perfect one. It’s never dramatically different from the last, but somehow I’m always convinced it is.

The stripes are another story. Sweaters, button-downs, T-shirts, trousers, skirts. If it comes in navy and cream stripes, there’s a very good chance I’ve already talked myself into needing it. Could I get rid of half of them? Probably. Would I quietly replace them over the next year? Without question.

I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering what exactly is happening here. Is it muscle memory? Nostalgia? Some irrational fear that the perfect striped sweater is about to be discontinued forever? Once you’ve found something that truly works, buying backups starts to feel less like shopping and more like insurance.

The older I get, the less interested I am in finding new favorites and the more committed I become to collecting the ones I already know I love.

That realization feels strangely freeing.

For years we’re told that good style means constantly evolving, constantly surprising people, constantly chasing what’s next. But maybe personal style isn’t about endless reinvention. Maybe it’s about recognizing the things you’ve returned to over and over, despite every trend that tried to convince you otherwise.

I’ve had different hairstyles. I’ve experimented with trends. I’ve bought colors that looked incredible on other women and entirely wrong on me. I’ve done the homework. This isn’t a lack of imagination; it’s the reward for having one. I’ve edited my wardrobe down to the things that consistently make me feel like myself.

So no, I don’t think it’s boring anymore.

I’m calling it a collection.

A collection of striped sweaters. A collection of Fendi Baguettes. A collection of pink lip glosses that any reasonable person would swear are exactly the same.

After all, if you’ve spent decades figuring out what you love, why wouldn’t you want a little more of it?

I’ve said this before, but I’ll happily say it again: the quickest way to make any aesthetic feel dated is to commit to it too completely. French girl. Coastal grandmother. Quiet luxury. Western. Tomato girl. Old money. Nantucket.

The moment an outfit starts checking every single box, it stops looking like style and starts looking like a costume.

The foundation of almost everything I wear has roots in prep. Crisp cotton. Stripes. Cable knits. Loafers. Faded denim. Cashmere tied around the shoulders. It’s in my DNA, growing up in New England. But that doesn’t mean I want to dress like I just stepped out of a Lilly Pulitzer catalog circa 1987.

Because the best nautical stripe in the world can quickly become Muffy-Buffy territory if it’s surrounded by all the expected supporting cast: the headband, the proper little flats, the discreet handbag, barely-there makeup and an overall sense that you were born clutching a tennis racquet.

No.

Let’s spice it up—but only a little. We don’t want to get kicked out of the lobster bake. We just want people to do a subtle double take.

My daughter Ella and I were recently in Nantucket with Marea, a brand that feels quintessentially Northeast, but with enough unexpected details in the colors, prints and silhouettes that it never feels overly precious. It was actually fun walking around and spotting other women wearing Marea because no two looked alike. The clothes allowed for personality.

There we were, surrounded by impossibly blue hydrangeas, weathered cedar shingles and lobster rolls dripping with butter—the absolute peak of New England summer—and yet everyone managed to interpret the aesthetic differently.

That’s where style lives. Not in the clothes themselves. In the styling.

Ella absolutely nailed it.

She wore a red-and-white striped Marea dress. On paper, she could have finished it exactly how you’d expect: Hermès leather sandals, a stack of Cartier Love bracelets, a straw hat and maybe a basket bag. Beautiful? Sure. Predictable? Also yes.

Instead she wore simple black flip-flops, tied a vintage Chanel scarf over her hair and added a soft red lip. Suddenly the dress wasn’t saying Cape Cod. It was saying Saint-Tropez. Nothing dramatic changed. The dress stayed the same. The feeling changed entirely. That’s what I mean when I talk about adding tension to an outfit.

The same thing happened with the girls from omgyouneedthat. They understood that the magic isn’t in abandoning the classics—it’s in mixing them with something unexpected.

A crochet skirt with an oversized cream fisherman sweater instead of a fitted tank. Long denim shorts with a cropped patterned cotton blouse instead of the predictable Breton stripe. A striped dress with a printed silk scarf tied around the waist.

Every look had one element that interrupted the story just enough.

I found myself doing the same thing.

Sporty taffeta shorts paired with a soft grey Pointelle top and my favorite mustard cashmere sweater. Long white denim shorts with a silk scarf worn as a belt instead of an actual belt. Flip-flops instead of leather sandals. Always just one thing slightly off-script.

Then came lobster night. This was probably my favorite look of the trip because it perfectly illustrated what I mean.

A wide blue-and-white striped skirt. A simple white T-shirt gathered with a gold brooch instead of tied in a knot. A chunky cotton patterned cardigan casually draped over the shoulders. Flip-flops. A beaded gold evening bag that had absolutely no business being at a lobster dinner—which is exactly why it worked.

The trick with this look isn’t mixing random things together. It’s keeping one color story. Blues with blues. Creams with creams. Reds that speak to each other. Once the palette makes sense, you can play with texture, pattern and proportion all day long without the outfit feeling chaotic. That’s really the secret.

People often think getting dressed is about finding one aesthetic and committing to it. I think it’s about interrupting the aesthetic just enough. Prep needs something sporty. Romance needs something masculine. Tailoring needs something soft.

New England needs just a tiny whisper of the Riviera.

Because one-note dressing, no matter how beautiful the note, eventually becomes background music. The outfits you remember always have a little bit of tension. Just enough to keep everyone guessing.

I spent the last ten days in the UK, moving between Scotland and the Cotswolds, and somewhere between winding country roads, old stone cottages, and a conversation with the team at SheerLuxe (more on this later!), I was asked a question that should have had a more definitive answer than the one I gave.

“Who inspires your style?”

I wish I had a neat list of names. A chic French woman (I mean I do love chic French women, to be exact). An obscure editor (not so obscure, actually, but I love her so much, Marta Oldrini.) A Danish architect (This one I do not have a name for). Okay, so maybe I do have somewhat of a list, but in reality, and for the most part, I don’t really collect inspiration from people. I collect it from culture.

I find it in interiors. In gardens. In paintings. In markets. In food.

When I designed my ring collection with Starling, my inspiration board wasn’t made up of jewelry at all. It was crushed berries folded into cream. Tangerines sitting beside lemon sorbet. The combination of lilacs and blueberries at a farm stand. Color stories nature had already perfected long before fashion decided to call them trends.

That’s how my brain works. And perhaps that’s why I’ve never fully connected with the idea of quiet luxury. I understand the appeal. I love beautiful materials. I appreciate craftsmanship. I own investment pieces and probably always will. But somewhere along the way, quiet luxury stopped meaning quality and started meaning conformity.

A sea of oatmeal sweaters. Another beige sofa. Another perfectly curated room where nobody appears to have ever spilled a glass of wine, owned a dog, or lived an actual life. Everything is tasteful. Everything is expensive. Everything is… fine.

But I find myself increasingly bored by fine.

What inspired me most in the UK wasn’t luxury in the traditional sense. It was the homes we stayed in, the pubs we ate in, the history all around us. Centuries-old places, filled with layers accumulated over decades. Maybe generations. An antique chest beneath contemporary art. A worn Persian rug under a modern table. Books stacked where they naturally landed instead of where a stylist placed them. Nothing matched, yet somehow everything belonged. The rooms felt collected rather than purchased. That distinction matters.

A collected life tells a story. A purchased aesthetic tells everyone you’ve been shopping.

The same applies to getting dressed. My favorite wardrobes have never been the ones that look perfectly coordinated. They’re the ones that feel discovered. A striped shirt inherited from one phase of life. A vintage jacket found in another. Jewelry picked up while traveling or handed-down. A pair of shoes that have been repaired more times than replaced. The magic happens in the mixing and the layering. The willingness to put unexpected things together and trust yourself enough to leave them there.

That’s why I reject the idea that the alternative to quiet luxury is loud luxury, or even maximalism, which can sometimes be so over the top it gets silly.

It’s not.

The opposite of quiet luxury isn’t wearing logos from head to toe or dressing like a human disco ball. The opposite is character and allowing for imperfections. It’s knowing how to mix old with new, precious with practical, expensive with inexpensive. It’s understanding that beauty often comes from tension rather than perfection. A room needs something slightly crooked. An outfit needs something slightly unexpected. A life needs evidence that it has actually been lived.

I love luxury. I always will. But the luxury I’m interested in today isn’t pristine. It’s layered. It’s worn-in. It’s personal. It’s a house filled with objects collected over decades rather than a single shopping trip.

It’s a wardrobe that reflects curiosity instead of compliance. It’s treasure hunting and then somehow finding a way for all those treasures to coexist. Because the things we love most rarely arrive as a matching set. They arrive one at a time, from different places, in different years, carrying different stories. And that’s exactly what makes them beautiful.

You know those dogs that lose a leg but then run down the street with all the other four-legged creatures without seeming to notice? Yeah, it’s like that. It’s this weird space where you think you really need the leg, and then realize you’re perfectly okay without it. You even forget you once had four of them. This sounds dramatic, which is funny when I think about it, because I was actually one of the mothers in complete denial the summer before my daughter left for college. All around me, moms were crying at every milestone. Sports banquets. Semi-formals. Prom. Graduation. I would internally roll my eyes every time mothers brought up the topic, which was literally all fcking year long. “I can’t believe they’re graduating,” they’d all say, with sad puppy eyes. Um, I can. They’ve been home long enough. Move along!

I assumed, because I had healthy boundaries with my kids, them leaving wouldn’t be an issue even though I’m so close to them. My daughter and I were—and still are—ridiculously close. A shocking amount of my daily life involved conversations around friends, clothes, classes, boys (well, one boy), travel plans, and whatever random thought had entered her head that day. We spoke constantly. She tells me almost everything. It doesn’t entirely go both ways because, well, I’m the parent, but that’s another discussion altogether.

The point is, I wasn’t dreading college. I was excited. Excited to see who she would become, who she would meet, and what stories she’d come home with at Thanksgiving. I couldn’t wait for her next chapter to begin. Never in a million years did I think I would react the way I did when it was finally time to drop her off.

I can still picture it. She got out of my rental car, grabbed her things, and started walking toward her dorm, away from me. She didn’t know anyone yet. She was in a city far from home. She looked completely fine. I, on the other hand, was suddenly not fine at all.

The tears hit. Fast, furious, and entirely unexpected. It didn’t help that I wasn’t flying home until the following day and had to return to an empty hotel room afterward. I spent the evening feeling vaguely ill and wondering if perhaps I’d made a terrible mistake by raising a child capable of functioning independently. For anyone preparing for this moment, I don’t recommend the extra hotel night. Rip the Band-Aid off and get yourself home.

When I did return home I kept wandering from room to room thinking I had forgotten something. My purse? My phone? Some errand I hadn’t finished? Then it would hit all over again. It wasn’t something I was missing. It was someone.

I’d walk past her bedroom and feel tears well up. The house felt strangely off-balance, as though a piece had been removed and everyone was pretending otherwise. The silence was louder than I expected. And that’s when I realized those mothers I had judged all summer weren’t crying over banquets and prom dresses. They were mourning the end of a version of life. The finality is real. The change is real. The silence is very real.

But—and this is the part I wish someone had emphasized more—it doesn’t last very long.

A few weeks later, you visit for Parent’s Weekend. You start seeing photos of new friends. You hear stories about professors, classes, parties, roommates, and an entirely new cast of characters that somehow become part of your life too. You begin to see them building a world that belongs solely to them, and instead of feeling sad, you find yourself genuinely excited.

You get excited for their visits home like a special guest is coming. You wash their sheets. You stock the refrigerator with their favorite snacks. You make sure their room feels cozy because they inevitably arrive home exhausted, slightly under the weather, and in desperate need of a few days where someone else is in charge.

Then something even stranger happens.

You start to enjoy parts of your own life again. The quiet. The routines. The ability to watch whatever obscure historical drama you want without complaints. The fact that nobody is stealing your spot on the couch, eating the leftovers you were saving, or arguing with their sibling in the next room. It’s very satisfying. You miss them, of course you do, but you also begin building a life that no longer revolves around every detail of theirs.

Which, if we’re being honest, was always the goal.

The more independent they become, the prouder you feel. The more capable they become, the less you worry. And before long, what felt like losing an arm starts to feel more like gaining wings.

I am about to embark on another child leaving for college. My son. Which brings me to the nuts and bolts of the summer before they leave. Forget the emotion—what do they need to pack? I hate to enable, because I firmly believe children should take the lead on this process, but there are limits. If your child genuinely thinks a pillowcase, three T-shirts, and positive thinking constitute a complete packing strategy, you may want to keep the following list handy.

P.s. Even for a girl, we did not go nuts decorating or outfitting a dorm room. This is college, not a country club. Spending thousands of dollars on a tricked out dorm room wasn’t our thing, but it might be yours. This list is more of the basics, with a few fun decor things sprinkled in.

The Mother Says College Packing List

Getting it all there

Order items and have them shipped directly to the school prior to arrival. For everything else, use this. Best college travel bags EVER.

Bedding

Mattress topper

Sheets (2 sets)

Down Comforter

Duvet

Pillow

Throw blanket

Dorm slippers

Melatonin

Bathroom and Laundry

Shower caddy

Shower shoes

Towels

Toiletries, laundry, first-aid, medications and many more extras you may not have thought about, all on Amazon

Comfiest robe

Room Essentials

Desk lamp

Power strip, Extension cord, Command hooks, Small fan, Storage bins, Hangers, Trash can, Charger

Headphones

Room Decor

Ottoman with storage

Wall prints

Area Rug

Cozy sheepskin rug

The Things That Make It Feel Like Home

Photos

Favorite mug

Stuffed animal

Room Spray

If I were a betting woman, I’d wager that a significant percentage of women didn’t start getting botox because of wrinkles.

They started because they were tired of being asked if they were angry.

It usually goes something like this:

“Why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You definitely look mad.”

And then, inevitably:

“Okay, now I’m mad.”

The irony is exquisite.

A perfectly content woman can spend her entire afternoon minding her own business only to have someone inform her that she appears furious. A husband. A child. A coworker. A cashier. Sometimes complete strangers seem oddly invested in determining the emotional state of your face.

When did it become customary for women to look permanently agreeable?

You’ve raised children. Managed households. Worked jobs. Sat through meetings that should have been emails. You’ve spent decades listening to people explain things you already knew. Your face finally reflects what your brain is thinking and doing, which is evaluating information and deciding whether it’s worth your time.

Unfortunately, this expression is often interpreted as rage.

Personally, I think we’ve confused concentration with hostility. Men can stare silently into the distance while contemplating absolutely nothing and nobody asks if they’re okay. Women pause for three seconds to think about dinner and suddenly there’s concern. “What’s wrong?” Nothing is wrong. I’m literally deciding whether we have enough parmesan.

But perhaps this is why Botox became so popular. Not because women were horrified by eleven lines but because those eleven lines were causing public concern. The little crease between your brows somehow became evidence that you were deeply unhappy.

Enter Botox. A tiny reset button. A brief sabbatical for the forehead.

Suddenly you’re no longer communicating irritation when you’re simply trying to see something. People stop asking if you’re upset. For a few glorious months, everyone assumes you’re calm, relaxed, and emotionally regulated.

There is a downside, however. The forehead serves a purpose. It’s a warning system. A flare gun. A weather report. Before Botox, loved ones had a visual indicator that they were approaching dangerous territory. A look that said, “I would rethink your next sentence.” Without those signals, they wander forward blissfully unaware. Then, when you’ve finally reached your limit, the explosion appears completely unprovoked. To them, you’ve gone from zero to sixty. To you, you’ve been at fifty-eight for three days. They simply missed all the dashboard lights.

Of course, Botox isn’t the only way to soften the signs of time. Nor should it be.

I’ve always viewed it as one tool among many, not a requirement and certainly not a moral obligation. Some years I’ve done it. Some years I’ve stretched appointments. Some women love it. Others never touch it. Both seem perfectly reasonable to me.

What I care about more these days is how my skin feels.

Healthy skin simply looks happier, whether you’ve had Botox or not.

A good skincare routine won’t freeze a forehead, but it can absolutely improve texture, hydration, brightness, and that rested quality we’re all chasing.

Lately I’ve been leaning heavily on my iS Clinical routine for exactly that reason. The Cream Cleanser, Pro-Heal Serum Advance+, Reparative Moisture Emulsion, and Youth Intensive Cream have become staples because they make my skin look like I slept eight hours even when I absolutely have not. I also swear by the Eighth Day Resurfacing Pads that help reduce pore size and fade dark spots.

The goal is to look like yourself on a very good day—preferably one where nobody asks if you’re mad. xo

There has always been a cultural obsession with sorting women into categories. Marilyn or Jackie. Ginger or Mary Ann. Carrie or Charlotte. The cool girl or the bombshell. The mystery or the overshare. We love to pretend these are opposites, as though women can only exist in one lane at a time, but the truth is far less tidy. Most of us are a little bit of both depending on the year, the outfit, the heartbreak, the lighting, or whether we’ve had two martinis.

Still, the archetypes persist because we instantly know what they mean.

And lately, I’ve realized the modern version might just be: are you a Hailey Bieber or an Alix Earle?

Now before everyone loses their minds, obviously these are real women with real personalities and probably far more layered than internet culture allows. But culturally speaking? We all understand the assignment immediately.

Alix Earle is today’s Ginger. She is sexy in an obvious way and not remotely apologetic about it. Loud laughter. Tiny tops. “Get ready with me” while discussing emotional devastation and lip liner. She tells you everything—sometimes perhaps too much—and somehow that’s exactly why people adore her. There is no such thing as “too much” in her world. More glam, more stories, more honesty, more chaos, more accessibility. She’s the hot girl at the party who ends up sitting on the bathroom counter giving you life advice at midnight. Men want her. Women weirdly trust her. She lets you all the way in.

Hailey Bieber, meanwhile, belongs to the Jackie Onassis school of allure. Sunglasses on. Jawline and attitude—sharp. She doesn’t chase trends so much as quietly issue them to the rest of us. Everything is curated but never looks labored. Even her “messy” appears storyboarded. You never fully know what she’s thinking and that’s part of the appeal. She withholds. She edits. She disappears a little. There’s a strong sense that access to her is earned, not freely given.

And interestingly, both women are equally captivating.

One commands attention. The other absorbs it.

One says, “Here I am.” The other makes you lean in closer.

I see this dynamic constantly in real life too. In friendships. In fashion. In work. There’s always the woman who walks into the room already mid-story, magnetic because of her openness. And then there’s the quieter one in the corner wearing perfect sunglasses indoors somehow saying almost nothing and yet everyone is still watching her.

The funny part is that women are often punished for whichever category they naturally fall into. The Alix types get accused of being too loud, too sexy, too revealing, too unserious. The Hailey types get called cold, calculated, aloof, impossible to read. Yet both are simply performing different versions of feminine power.

And perhaps that’s why these comparisons never die.

They aren’t really about beauty at all.

They’re about how women negotiate visibility.

Do you pull people toward you with warmth, disclosure, humor, and volume? Or do you create allure through restraint, mystery, and distance? Are you the sparkler or the slow burn? The call out or the whisper?

Personally, I think the chicest women know how to do both. They know when to reveal and when to retreat. They understand that mystery without personality becomes boring, but oversharing without boundaries can leave nothing sacred. The real magic is in the calibration.

Some days you’re Jackie in enormous sunglasses pretending not to notice the attention.

Other days you’re Marilyn ordering another martini and telling the entire table exactly what happened.

Ideally? You become a woman capable of both.

I’ve realized something slightly ridiculous about myself lately: despite making a living online, I don’t actually enjoy being online very much.

Which feels vaguely inappropriate to admit considering the circumstances.

But the internet increasingly feels like one long, fluorescent airport terminal to me. Endless noise, repetition, advertisements, urgency, and people trying to sell you something while speaking in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice.

I scroll for about two seconds and I’m out. It’s either an ad, someone yelling about something, or that clicky little sound effect that everyone’s using right now. I never seem to see the creators I actually like and follow—and I’m bored.

I never go on Tik Tok, except to post something, and recently I tried making an actual Tik Tok in the app itself and somehow accidentally deleted half the footage I filmed. God? It’s me, Larissa, are you trying to tell me something?

When people ask me if I’ve seen the latest “it” bag or what some enormous creator said or did this week, I haven’t a clue. At times it makes me feel out of the loop but then I discover what they’re asking about and realize, nothing is that precious to be in-the-know about, exactly the minute it hits.

Everything feels loud. Fast. Repetitive. Performative. I could blame my age for this except I won’t, because first, I don’t blame my age for much, and second, I’ve always been this way. I even see it playing out in my own kids and they are far from old. Online fatigue is real.

So naturally, all I want to do is disappear into the woods with my dog.

Which I do. Frequently.

I also spend a lot of time reading about ancient worlds like in the book, Kristin Lavransdatter, one of my all time favorites, set in 14th-century Norway. It’s probably why I also watch almost exclusively old dramas and period pieces, preferably in other languages (for added modern escapism). Give me corsets, longing, complicated family dynamics, and subtitles. I devoured The Empress and The Leopard with the intensity of someone preparing for college finals (and then rewatched them like three times).

I also get genuinely excited about embroidery projects now. It makes me think I’m back in some old castle with no electricity and a dramatically shorter life span. My latest obsession has been recreating Amy Smilovic’s Tibi sketches from her book, Creative Pragmatist. Apparently my nervous system requires tactile hobbies in order to survive modern life.

And I recently renewed all my old loves: print subscriptions. Actual magazines. Vogue, ELLE, Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar. Delivered monthly. Physical copies. I want pages that wrinkle and perfume samples that fall out onto the floor. I want to dog-ear things again. I want fashion that exists somewhere other than a glowing rectangle beside my bed at midnight (which it doesn’t because I leave that shit downstairs).

I’ve always preferred inspiration from street style, too, which is why I mostly hang out on Pinterest when I’m not traveling. There isn’t much true street style in my own backyard so when I am out in the world, I absolutely soak it in. The color of building trims. The interior of the local bar. The woman ordering coffee with a sweater tied in an unexpected way. It feels alive. Unmanufactured. Human.

And perhaps that’s the strange contradiction of all this: I may work online, but almost all of my inspiration comes from offline life.

From texture. Observation. Slowness. Books. Film. Conversation. Nature.

It’s okay to not be the most online person in the room. Or even the most in-the-know person in fashion. For me, the key is, protect enough of your real inner world so you still have something interesting left to say once you log back on. xo

I’ve known a lot of women over the years. Some are beautiful, some are hilarious, many are fabulous—but only a handful are truly chic. Chic belongs to a rare few, the ones with that elusive je ne sais quoi—you can’t define it exactly, but in their presence, you feel it immediately.

If I had to describe it, I’d say this: chic isn’t easily copied. I’ve read all the lists, agreed with most of them even, and yet they never quite capture it. There are chic items and then there is just being chic. There’s a difference. Everyone has their own version, which only proves the point—chic has an essence. It’s a way of living, yes, and of dressing, but it goes beyond both.

And to be clear, I’m not sure chic is always the goal. There is something about chic that can be extremely understated, reserved, untouchable and almost austere at times. (where’s the fun in that?) And yet, it is precisely because of that, that we seek it out. I don’t know, I have a weird relationship with chic, let’s put it that way. For instance, no makeup is considered chic. Soooo, I’m out! lol

In the end, it’s deeply personal—what we each recognize as chic in others.

Here is mine.

1. Messy Hair. If there’s one thing CBK really mastered, and what I was constantly drawn to her about, was her lack of desire for perfect hair. Nothing kills a cool outfit like a perfect blowout.

2. Cushion Cut Diamonds. I swear I don’t just like old things because I am, in fact, old. I was fascinated with this cut of diamond as a kid because to me, it looked like a found treasure rather than an easily replicated shiny trinket.

3. Hand-written Thank You Notes. Yes, I do this, but only because I was taught at an early age to do so. But as I grew up, the most chic women did the same.

4. Men’s Barbour Coats. I love Barbour. I grew up in New England so it was just a staple in our closets. But it has to be the men’s cut, not the women’s. Straight. Boxy and slightly oversized.

5. Tattoo-free. I think what is chic about not having tattoos is that it shows you weathered the trend. Because tattoos are most definitely trendy. In my 20’s it was about the cute ones on your lower back or pelvic area. Then it was a cute one on your ankle. I guess now they’re everywhere. The permanence around something fleeting just doesn’t feel chic to me.

6. Vintage Designer. A 40-year old Birkin your grandmother gave you is so chic. A brand new one you bought at Bergdorf’s. Not so chic. Nothing swings to such extremes for me like new vs old designer or logo’d items.

7. Multiple Languages. You travel and actually speak the languages you travel to? Ugh. So good.

8. Food Flexible. Women who can eat anything on the menu. They may not, but they can, and that makes all the difference.

9. Perfect Chaos. You know the homes that are a mess yet soooo intriguing and have that lived-in amazing quality? I had a friend who’s kitchen was like this. Herbs everywhere. Flour on the floor. Something always baking or being roasted and it was divine. The opposite of contrived or propped. This is real.

10. Recycling. Furniture, that is. Grandma’s couch does not need to be thrown away, she just needs recovering.

11. Personal Gifting. Giving a gift that is deeply personal trumps all. I recently took up embroidery and my good friend got me embroidery scissors and a sewing magnet and they’re two of my most memorable and appreciated gifts. (She also makes me homemade granola which I’m also very appreciative of)

12. Saying No. Being around women who are always saying yes to everyone and everything, including their kids, is a major turnoff. One woman I know just doesn’t bring her phone with her. That solves that!

13. Signature Look. There is something to this—keeping something permanent and consistent in your look. Whether it’s red lips and nothing else, a bob haircut, or even just wearing the same perfect tank watch. Having that one thing that never changes makes a statement that, you are so confident, it never needs updating.

Something has gone a bit… sideways. I could try to blame millennials (I swear I’m not picking on you like Gen Z does) and their “be kind” bios, but the truth is, this predates insta bios and curated empathy. It’s older. It’s more ingrained. It’s what happens when being a woman quietly becomes synonymous with being endlessly agreeable—and it needs to stop.

We over reward niceness. There, I said it. The gold medal always seems to go to the woman who accommodates the most, bends the furthest, smooths all the edges. And the moment she doesn’t? She’s “difficult.” Or worse—mean. We only seem to be “bad bitches” when it comes to men, and even then it’s a half effort. And men aren’t the only ones we need to say no to or be “mean” to. I saw it constantly in the non-profit world, almost all comprised of women. A simple, factual sentence—“This report doesn’t accurately reflect our growth”—could unravel the room. Tears. Crazy tension. Side-eyes. The social penalty of having said something true and saying it directly.

I see it when I travel, too. You’re standing in my way, and yet I’m the one saying “sorry” just to pass through. It’s almost muscle memory at this point. Apologizing for existing. For needing space. For not wanting to inconvenience someone who is, in fact, inconveniencing me.

And I’m over it.

Ironically, I was far more direct when I was younger. Less polished, maybe, but clearer. I remember being asked to be a bridesmaid during a particularly chaotic chapter—new city, new job, a life mid-transition—and I said no. Calmly, honestly, respectfully. I thought I was honoring the role by not half-doing it. I’m sure it read as cold. Maybe even mean. So be it. When I did attend the wedding as a guest, I was genuinely happy for the bride, had a wonderful time, and hopefully added good energy. If I had said yes to being a bridesmaid, I guarantee good energy would not have been what I would have brought.

Because here’s where this obsession with niceness starts to fracture: it doesn’t protect us. Sometimes, it puts us in harm’s way.

My daughter recently had a stranger approach her at school. He was complimentary, conversational—just off enough to register. But she didn’t want to be “mean,” so she kept engaging. He touched her (specifically her feet…ew). Followed her. Weeks later, he was arrested for kidnapping a young girl in another town. Unchecked niceness can go awry—and did.

We see it play out in relationships, too. Years of quiet accommodation. Swallowing small irritations, then larger ones. Until one day, it detonates. A life upended not by a single moment, but by the accumulation of a thousand polite silences and putting up with things one shouldn’t really put up with. At some point we have to take responsibility for how “being nice” all the time, isn’t all that nice at all.

And we’re taught this early. Be nice. Play nice. Be a good sport or be a good loser. (My husband, when told to be a “good loser” as a child, famously asked, “Why would I want to be good at losing?” A fair question and it still makes me laugh to this day.) Boys are often permitted resistance. Girls are applauded for restraint.

I wasn’t entirely raised that way, which may explain my early clarity. My mother came of age during the Equal Rights Amendment or ERA, navigating finance in the 70s—a world that didn’t reward softness. If anything, she leaned sharp. Decisive. Unapologetic. Not always warm, but undeniably effective. If anything, she was trying to be mean—just like the boys, since that was the only way she thought she could get ahead. I remember thinking she was harsh at times, or argumentative, simply for insisting a job be done right. Ugh.. niceness.

The thing is, we really don’t need more niceness. We need precision. Boundaries. The ability to say no without cushioning it in apology. What we’ve been calling “mean” is often just clarity with a backbone.

There is no award for being endlessly accommodating, no prize for the woman who mastered the art of making herself smaller—especially if she was never meant to be small in the first place. For those who naturally shine, the pressure to dim can feel almost noble, a gesture of grace, of emotional intelligence. Even my grandmother echoed this sentiment—you could be great but you couldn’t know or show that you’re great. Why are we so quick to shrink the person who shines, instead of strengthening the room to deal with the light?

And perhaps the greatest irony of all: we’re told, on one hand, to consider everyone else’s feelings at all times—and on the other, to carve out hours for self-care just to recover from it.

Maybe we wouldn’t need quite so much recovery… if we stopped overextending in the first place. No more Mrs. Nice Girl. xo

Skincare is everywhere—and yet somehow, still impossible to fully understand. Every brand has a message, a miracle, a promise. But what does any of it actually mean? And more importantly, is there any real science behind it?

Instead of guessing, I went straight to the source. I spoke with Dr. Antony Nakhla, founder of Eighth Day, and asked the questions we’re all dying to know—like what “clinical results” actually mean, whether skincare needs to tingle to work, and how you get real results without completely wrecking your skin barrier.

His answers not only reassured me—they made me rethink what I expect from skincare entirely.

Larissa: I feel like skincare has never been more complicated and everyone is chasing the same thing. Good skin. You sit at this intersection of science and beauty—did you set out to create a brand, or were you trying to solve something you weren’t seeing in your patients?

Dr. Nakhla: I was trying to solve something that my patients and their luxury sensibility were missing. I was accustomed to seeing clinical skincare that performed. What I wasn’t seeing were clinical skincare products that were a pleasure to use. On the contrary, some of the most effective skincare products smelled like formaldehyde, others like omega fish oil, while others pilled and irritated the skin. In the luxury market were products built around fantastical storytelling. Diamonds, caviar, or 18K gold in your skincare. Nothing related to science. The products looked and felt beautiful but didn’t deliver. My patients had to choose between clinical results or a luxurious experience. Never both, until now. I believe that in skincare, science is the new luxury. I wanted to build something that didn’t ask you to choose between the two. That’s what Eighth Day is.

L: There are so many brands claiming ‘clinical results’ that it’s beginning to sound a bit like ‘natural foods’ did in the early 00’s. What does that actually mean to you, Eighth Day skincare, and where do you think most brands get it wrong? Also, how would you explain bioidentical innovation and regenerative science to your best friend who failed chemistry?

DN: Working on over 10,000 surgical patients I kept observing the same thing, the skin’s innate ability to heal and regenerate when given the right signals. Treating aging skin is in many ways like treating wounded skin, wounded by the sun, the environment and the passage of time. The biology is the same. This understanding of skin biology and healing is the foundation of the brand. Clinical results should mean tapping into that innate ability for the skin to do what it does best—heal itself. This includes rigorous testing with measurable outcomes and real participants. For us it means instrumental skin measurements with statistically significant results. Most brands get it wrong by treating it as a marketing label rather than a standard to be held to. As for bioidentical science, our formulas are built from ingredients that are biologically identical to what your skin already makes. We’re not introducing foreign substances and hoping the skin responds. We’re speaking the skin’s own language. It already knows how to repair and renew itself. We’re just helping to supercharge that process.

L: If you had to simplify your technology into one sentence a woman could repeat to her friend over dinner (as I plan on doing), what would you say?

DN: We stimulate renewal by using ingredients that are already present in skin, so it can heal and repair itself.

L: What’s one ingredient the industry is overhyping right now and maybe one we aren’t paying enough attention to?

DN: The more important conversation isn’t really about individual ingredients at all, it’s about formulation and delivery. Hyped ingredients in the zeitgeist likely have excellent data and the hype is real. The problem is that any skincare ingredient will be unable to produce results if the customer cannot tolerate it. Retinal is a good example. It’s one of the most powerful retinoids available without a prescription but most people can’t use it because of irritation. Our RetinalXR™ in The Night Cream Treatment uses a microencapsulated extended-release system that introduces it gradually, which is what makes the potency accessible. The ingredient alone isn’t always the answer. How it’s delivered and what it’s paired with is what determines whether it actually works.

L: Resurfacing pads are everywhere right now and tbh they make someone with slightly sensitive skin a little nervous. What makes The Resurfacing Tonic Pads fundamentally different from the ones we’ve all seen/used before? (btw I have these and they smell so good in the most natural way possible, not synthetic or fragranced, just clean)

DN: Most resurfacing pads rely on a single acid at a concentration that’s either too low to do much or high enough to cause irritation. I formulated ours with a multi-acid system, glycolic and lactic acids alongside gluconolactone, a next-generation PHA that resurfaces while actively supporting the barrier. The goal was meaningful exfoliation that doesn’t leave skin compromised. The bamboo pad itself matters too. The texture is designed to amplify the chemical exfoliation rather than just deliver it.

L: When you say ‘resurfacing’ what is actually happening in the skin? I come from the old-school thought of, ‘if it’s not tingling it’s not working’. Is that totally false?

DN: Not totally false but mostly misleading. What’s actually happening is accelerated cell turnover; the outer layer of dead skin cells is being cleared to reveal newer skin underneath while signaling the deeper layers to produce more collagen. Tingling can indicate an active ingredient is working but it can also indicate irritation and those are two very different things. The absence of tingling doesn’t mean nothing is happening. A well-formulated product can deliver real results without any sensation at all.

L: There’s this tension between results and irritation—how did you formulate these to actually respect the skin barrier? I feel like we are in this space where we are either using actives and getting results or we aren’t using them, but we’re protecting the skin barrier. How do we do both?

DN: The tension you’re describing is real and it comes from treating exfoliation as purely corrective. The barrier isn’t an obstacle to results, it’s part of the result. A compromised barrier leads to inflammation and inflammation accelerates aging. The PHA in our formula, gluconolactone, is doing double duty. It exfoliates and supports barrier integrity simultaneously. That’s the combination that makes it possible to resurface consistently without the skin paying a price for it.

L: Is there anyone who should not be using these?

DN: Anyone actively using a prescribed retinoid should be thoughtful about frequency. Stacking multiple strong actives requires attention to your skin’s tolerance. And anyone mid-flare with compromised or broken skin should wait until the skin has recovered before introducing any exfoliant.

L: For women who are pigment prone or dealing with melasma, exfoliation can be a bit of a double-edged sword—where do your pads fit into that conversation?

DN: Careful but not off-limits. Exfoliation can help with pigmentation by clearing the surface and improving the penetration of brightening actives. The risk is that over-exfoliation causes inflammation which triggers more pigment. I’d recommend starting slowly, two to three times a week and pairing consistently with a tinted SPF that contains iron oxides. That last part is non-negotiable for anyone dealing with melasma.

L: What’s the key ingredient or combination that makes these really effective?

DN: The multi-acid system is the answer. Glycolic acid resurfaces and improves tone. Lactic acid refines texture and gluconolactone provides uniform exfoliation while supporting the barrier. No single acid does all of that. The combination is what sets this product apart.

L: Was there anything you intentionally left out because it would have been too aggressive or trendy?

DN: High-concentration salicylic acid. It has a place in targeted acne treatment but not for a resurfacing product focused on anti-aging benefits. Leaving that out was a deliberate choice.

L: Where do these fit into a routine that already includes things like Vit C or retinol?

DN: Morning or evening before your serum and moisturizer. If you’re using vitamin C in the morning the pads work well as a prep step beforehand. They optimize the skin’s receptivity to what follows. If you’re using retinol at night I’d alternate rather than stack. The skin benefits more from consistency than from doing everything at once.

L: You work in a world very focused on “fixing”—how do you personally define healthy skin vs perfect skin?

DN: Healthy skin is functional, good barrier integrity, even tone, efficient cell turnover and capable of defending and repairing itself. Perfect skin is a marketing concept. My goal has always been to return people to their optimal state, looking like themselves, but the best version of that. When skin is genuinely healthy the aesthetic results follow naturally. Chasing perfection without building health underneath it is where most people go wrong.

L: If someone could only use one Eighth Day product, which one tells the story of your brand the best?

DN: The Regenerative Serum. It contains the highest concentration of our patented Peptide-Rich Plasma® technology, 24 bioidentical peptides, amino acids and growth factors that mimic and stimulate the skin’s own ability to renew, restore and regenerate.

L: What’s the most unhinged skincare trend you’ve seen lately?

DN: The 12-step routine. People have been convinced that more products equals better skin and it’s just not true. I see patients who are using eight products before bed and wondering why their skin is reactive and compromised. Skin doesn’t improve because you use more, it improves when you use the right things consistently. Simplicity paired with the right formulations will always outperform complexity.

L: If you weren’t a doctor, would you still have ended up in beauty?

DN: Perhaps something in the artistic realm of beauty. However, beauty without the science underneath it wouldn’t have held my attention.

L: Do you personally feel pressure to have perfect skin? (do you ever lay out in the sun?)

DN: I feel pressure to practice what I preach which mostly means to take care of my own health. In skincare, it’s about consistency with SPF and not undoing what good skincare builds. As a skin cancer surgeon sun protection isn’t a skincare preference for me, it’s a non-negotiable. I’ve seen firsthand what cumulative UV damage does. I don’t lie in the sun unprotected but I do enjoy the outdoors safely and in a healthy way.

L: What’s one piece of advice you wish every woman over 40 actually followed?

DN: Stop rotating through new products and commit to a routine. The compounding effect of consistent use of the right formulations is where real change happens. Novelty is the enemy of results.

L: What’s one piece of advice you wish every woman under 30 actually followed?

DN: Sun safety starting now. The damage accumulates silently for years before it shows either as early aging or skin cancer. By the time it’s visible the investment required to address it is significantly greater than what prevention would have cost. In the case of skin cancer, the price could be your life.

Thank you to Eighth Day skin for sponsoring this newsletter and to Dr. Nakhla for your thoughtful and detailed advice.

You know that feeling—when you come home after a long day, your feet aching from heels, your lipstick gone slightly dry and sticky, your clothes pulling in all the wrong places—and you just…strip it all off. You wipe away the makeup, take the hottest shower possible, drench your skin in something that smells expensive, twist your hair up, and slip into the softest, most forgiving pajamas. Heaven. It’s honestly one of my top ten feelings and it was the exact mood I was going for, and accomplished, in St. Barth. No spectacles, nothing forced. This is a vacation and it needed to feel like one!

I packed and planned activities for the version of myself that doesn’t try too hard. My outfits were a variety of pieces that fall on the body or move with it with ease. Nothing precious and certainly nothing demanding. I wanted to wear clothes I could take a nap in—and I did just that. My days were spent in that same spirit: unstructured but with purpose. Swimming, snorkeling, wandering, eating well, repeating. Here’s the itinerary for the laid-back, vacation girls out there.

Day 1

We flew in from Boston and took Winair to St. Barth. It was our first time flying instead of taking the ferry. Some people get a little seasick on the ferry but for me flying on a tiny plane into an even tinier runway scared the shit out of me. That being said, by taking the flight we had so much more time our first day. We checked into my favorite hotel on the island, Hotel Christopher, took a dip in the hotel’s most beautiful pool on the island (don’t take my word for it, it’s just a known fact 😂), and then headed into town before dinner for a quick stop at MC2 Saint Barth where Henry picked up these. We had dinner at Bonito, which, could be our favorite (but it might be too hard to choose). I wore a men’s linen shirt, a mesh skirt and some flip flops.

Day 2

Henry was itching to get going so we had the buffet breakfast at our hotel and off we went. Still casual, but on a mission. We went on one of my favorite hikes which leads to my favorite beach. Columbier Beach Hike is not too hard but not too easy either. A nice workout that leads to an even nicer beach and snorkeling experience. Henry and I saw sea turtles and a spotted stingray. Luckily I applied sunscreen to both Henry and my husband so a full day at the beach was perfect, even without umbrellas.

After we got back and showered we headed into town and did a little shopping. Truth be told, I don’t shop much when I’m on vacation. So many of the stores are all the same wherever you go, so I don’t waste time with shops that I can shop online or in my own backyard. But, I DO shop vintage/consignment or local artists or local boutiques. For that, we went to Mollie Mae Vintage, known for their vintage Fendi bags and other treasures. I, myself, found the most treasured thing of all, a Voyage vintage lavender skirt, that I wound up wearing as a dress. Beyond!!! I also found a Blue Marine lace skirt and a beaded clutch. We also hit up Creed because Henry has an obsession with the fragrance house and he wanted to try out a few of the scents to see how they smelled in a more tropical climate. (they all smelled amazing fyi) We also revisited a favorite shop, Hartford, where both Henry and Todd stocked up on linen pants and some colorful belts. Dinner was at Eden Rock which felt a bit touristy this time around so I might skip it in the future but the decor is fun and the bar is colorful, decor and people-wise. I wore the easiest linen dress by Second Summer Label with leather sandals, vintage Fendi and Dorsey earrings.

Day 3

Another beach day. This time it was Governor’s Beach. I only brought two bathing suits and wore shorts and sneakers with them or flip flops and a t-shirt. Like I said, this was laid-back St. Barth girl, not performative St. Barth girl.

After the beach we got some lunch at Le Select in town. A super casual burger and bar local type place. Food is great and eclectic patrons. Afterward we stayed in town and checked out James Perse as they had the cutest t-shirts to bring home as gifts and for dinner we went to L’ISOLA. I don’t normally love eating food that doesn’t align with the overall vibe of the location but I made an exception this time and it was one of the best italian meals I’ve ever had. I wore a silk sarong, gorgeous beaded necklace, and a vintage sweater I shopped from my own Sunday Links.

Day 4

More swimming and searching for sea life. We rented a car during our time on the island, which I’d definitely recommend, so we drove over to Le Barthelemy Hotel & Spa to rent paddle boards and kayaks and snorkel. What we found two hours later is, you can easily just walk out into the water and see all the turtles you want, no boat required. But paddling around is fun and you can venture further so I’d still rent them. We ate lunch afterward at the hotel’s restaurant, Amis, and then went back to our hotel for pina coladas by the pool, a quick nap and downtime before dinner that night at Beef Bar at Fouquets, where the view rivaled the meal. Absolutely stunning view of the harbor and the most perfect sunset sky. I wore a simple tank, lots of fun necklaces and one of my finds from Mollie Mae.

Day 5

Another day and another excursion. This one takes us to Grand Fond Natural Pool. This hike is akin to shopping at the most secret vintage shop and then discovering there’s a hidden closet that only you can see and inside of it is the most precious treasure. When I first visited this spot, it wasn’t until a local disappeared from the cliff that I even realized just how to reach the secret pools. Along the way are the sweetest goats, adult and baby ones, but all on the tinier side, grazing along the side of the mountain, overlooking the ocean.

After the hike we weren’t quite ready to head back to our hotel yet so we decided to check out Le Toiny and have some lunch. It feels like an adventure because to get to the beach, restaurant, and the most adorable little boutique, you have to hop in one of their customized Land Rover Defenders where they take you down the mountain on a gravely road which makes it all the more fun. Of course Henry had to get a t-shirt (they are pretty cute) so I also got one for my daughter’s boyfriend.

For our last dinner on the island, we went to our other favorite, Tamarin. The most perfect little tropical garden restaurant that is magical. The whole chicken is outstanding and the creme brulee is a must. I wore my Voyage skirt as a dress, flip flops and a Thatch necklace.

What I Packed

I packed so little. It was all about ease and ability to transition from day to night, beach to lunch, lunch to pool. I barely wore makeup and didn’t even pack shampoo. Hair was sea-soaked and pulled up with a great clip. I had three pairs of shoes—sneakers for hikes— and sandals and flip flops for everything else. I left a little room in my suitcase for my three amazing finds from Mollie Mae and incorporated the finds into my looks while there. Below are all the links, which, because this is the laid-back guide, aren’t even that many! xo

Mother’s Day is fast approaching which means lots of gift guides, sweet mother/child pics and a shit ton of florist ads. Personally, I sort of hate Mother’s Day, which I know probably sounds a bit strange coming from a substack, literally with the word mother in it, but it’s always felt a bit forced to me. Dads always scrambling to figure out what a “meaningful” gift is, kids half understanding the assignment (and preferring to go play with their friends on a nice Sunday anyway) and this overall sense that we’re all just performing rather than actually feeling.

And in the age of social media, it only gets worse. By late afternoon, the feeds are flooded—brunches documented, smiles forced, and a parade of gifts no one really needed but everyone felt obligated to post. It starts to feel less about motherhood and more about proving it. “See how much my kids love me?!!” Sure, Jan.

I feel the least like a mother on Mother’s Day.

Recently, a reader commented that while she isn’t a mother, she still finds herself drawn to reading about parenting—about mothering, in general. My immediate response was this: we are all mothers to someone, or something.

I don’t have a relationship with my own mother anymore. We were once very close—inseparable, even—but life has a way of shifting those dynamics. Still, her absence hasn’t left me without mothers. Quite the opposite. I have many.

These are the women I call when I need perspective. They’re usually older and wiser and have more insurance (if anyone understands this reference I will be happy). These are the salt-of-the-earth women who will sit with me in the mess of things, who help wipe tears without making a spectacle of them. They offer clarity when everything feels murky.. sort of like looking down from a plane 1,000’s of feet up—they just see things more clearly and help me do the same. And they do it without judgment, without urgency, without needing to be right. They aren’t necessarily the women I call to bitch with, or talk fashion with, or even go have a quick drink with. No, these are the wise ones and they don’t always overlap in all aspects of my life. And that’s okay.

They mother me, in the truest sense of the word.

We all have this in us. We each mother our friends in our own way—checking in, remembering the small details, sensing when something is off before a word is spoken. We mother our animals, of course, with a kind of tenderness that asks for nothing in return and somehow gives everything back. We mother our children, if we have them, in ways that are both instinctive and entirely learned on the fly. Hell, some of us even mother our plants! (I personally do not, but I DO mother my Fendi bags)

But maybe most importantly, and often most neglected, we mother ourselves.

We tell ourselves to go to bed when we’re exhausted. We get ourselves off the couch to take that walk in nature, and we talk ourselves off the ledge when shit gets too much. We soothe, we correct, we encourage, we forgive. Or at least, we try.

Because mothering, at its core, is not about perfection. It’s about attention and intention. It’s about care. It’s about staying.

So maybe the problem with Mother’s Day isn’t the sentiment—it’s the scale. I think maybe that’s what I have the issue with. It reduces something vast and constant into a single, over-packaged (and commercialized) moment. A day that asks us to perform gratitude instead of live it, to document love instead of practice it. Fake.

The truth is, motherhood—real motherhood—is happening all the time. In quiet gestures, in unseen decisions, in the way we show up again and again for the people (and parts of ourselves) that need us.

You don’t need a child to be a mother. You just need the instinct to care—and the willingness to follow through—something we’ve been doing all along.

Who are you a mother to? xo

I don’t know why I’m not used to this yet. But I’m just not. I see people, both men and women, happily, and very easily, taking pictures and filming videos, out in public without a care in the world. Not a hint of self-consciousness.

They twirl. They strut. The world is their runway and stage. The more people who witness it, the better! Each picture they take is better than the last. They make strong eye contact with the camera, make cute expressions that photograph well and give them personality.

I notice this a lot on brand trips. And in fact, one of my very first brand trips (see below), all of the guests were told to pose on a staircase so the brand could take pictures. As soon as the camera started flashing, these ladies were in motion. Hands up, lips pouted, hips out, hips in, side angle, front angle. I felt so awkward, I just stared at the other women in awe (it was so easy for them!) and then I just started laughing and said, “I just can’t.”

Posing on command is for models. I am not a model.

And this isn’t new for me. When I got married, I didn’t want a first dance (we didn’t ballroom dance normally so it seemed weird to do it for our wedding) and I didn’t want anyone alerting the guests when we cut the cake. I didn’t want people looking at me. Not in a forced sense, anyway. Like, if they looked at me, as humans do (I was the bride, afterall) that was fine, but I didn’t want to force people to look at me and I really didn’t want to be expected to pose while doing a relatively normal thing. Just cut the damn cake, already.

I think this could be partly generational although that doesn’t fully make sense because many women my age embrace being photographed wholeheartedly and have no issue doing so in public. Perhaps this is my grandmother’s fault who was from an entirely different generation, born in 1907. She would say it was one thing to be fabulous, secretly, but to know you were fabulous and embrace that, in public??!!? Cardinal sin. No hats inside. Hand-written notes always. And don’t ever call attention to yourself! Manners, after all.

But it’s 2026. And I’m an accidental influencer. That means pictures will, and do, get taken in public. People are watching. Deal with it. I usually deal by talking while the pictures are being taken (which ruins them fyi) or if I’m lucky, someone says something funny and it prompts a laugh or a smile.

But the thing is, I like things natural. I like a little rough around the edges. Rain on your wedding day (sorry Alanis). Anything that can break up perfect is where I’m at. It’s why I love vintage bags and pre-loved clothes. They tell a story and I love a good story.

The picture below is my favorite from my wedding day. I can still almost remember the joke that was told and the feeling of the large glass of water in my hand. (I didn’t drink on my wedding day but I did have two slices of that cake).

If you like taking pictures but want some variation in how they come out, try these cameras. They just make picture taking a bit more fun!

First let me say, I don’t know how tf I got here. When I first caught sight of Molly Sims she was gracing my J.Crew catalogs looking insanely effortless. I vividly remember thinking she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, perfect, to be exact. And while no one is perfect, I can tell you now, years later, and having been around her, she’s damn close. She’s a gal’s gal and an actual star, but she somehow manages to bring everyone around her into her limelight. She shares the glow, if you will. But enough about her, let’s get to the weekend and her brand, the real star of the show.

The theme was pink in celebration of YSE’s new Xtreme Glow Peptide Plumping Serum. So naturally, we checked into The Colony Hotel, the most charmingly iconic pink hotel in Palm Beach. If there were ever a place designed for unapologetic femininity and just a hint of theatricality, this is it. (an apt description of the guests as well, fyi)

Molly—and her incredible team—don’t just host, they curate. Lots of goodies were woven into the weekend from sun hats, sundresses, flip flops, workout wear, pj’s to the most amazing workout class I’ve ever experienced with Tracy Anderson. (I’m signing up for this when I get home)

We also had a master beauty class that dove into the why behind the products (always a must) because glowing skin is far more interesting when you understand it. (I finally learned what a peptide is!) But I also learned (yes, I took notes) that Glow increases plumpness by 500% in 30 minutes (that’s not a typo), and continues to build by the hour. This is micro stimulation that activates your skin to plump up and get glowing.

I’ve been using it for about two weeks now. As I walked to dinner last night guests of the hotel came up to me and asked what I did with my skin because, as they shrieked, “you’re skin is glowing!!!” Just the reaction I was going for. But also, facts. Look at my skin.

In between workouts, sun, fun and food, I did have some downtime to explore, so of course I skipped Worth Avenue and grabbed a cab to Paradise Lost, a funky little shop blaring 70’s music, with a sweet, almost concerningly tired cat who stands guard, I mean sleeps, out front. I wore a tee and skirt and flip flops and my most favorite bag of late.

I found so many gems, and one I actually took home with me (see below). I would have gotten more but they didn’t have it in my size. That’s the thrill of consignment shopping in my book. Some items you really want but you just can’t have them. Shopping as a life lesson!

When I got back to my room I had the sweetest package waiting for me. I love this brand and had even brought one of their sarongs with me to wear to the pool. Which I did.

For our last evening the theme was silver. I found this vintage Rodarte on The Real Real and knew she was the one. I paired with Emme Parson heels, a diva-filled boa by Rotate and Kits glasses.

Today is my last day so I’m casual and have no dress code to live by. The sun in shining and my skin is glowing. The women (and men for that matter) on this trip were amazing per usual. Molly and team never include assholes. These are people who laugh easily, who exude joy, vitality and warmth. It’s like a big warm hug, except exceptionally well dressed and hydrated.

There was a time when my binges were obvious. Loud. Almost theatrical in their lack of restraint. I could point to them, name them, and swear I’d never do it again. And for the most part, I don’t. Not like I used to. I’m no longer the girl inhaling an entire sleeve of something in the front seat of my car, or staying up until 2 a.m. in a sugar-fueled trance. My kids don’t believe me when I tell them that in a single sitting I’d inhale a dozen donuts, a pint of ice cream and a bag of Doritos. In fact, no one believes me. Even back then, as a teenager and young adult, when I asked for help, grownups chuckled at me saying I must have a fast metabolism and if I wasn’t throwing up (I wasn’t) then what was the problem? But it was a problem. There was a frenzy to it, an out-of-control frenzy. Which of course meant the next day I had to over-correct and be very very in control. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

At 54, luckily, that version of me feels distant—retired, even. Evolved.

And yet.

She lives.

These days, my binges arrive dressed as productivity. As discipline, oddly enough. As the woman who “just wants to get ahead of things.” It’s finishing a project in one aggressive sitting instead of spacing it out like a sane person. It’s packing a week before the trip. It’s staying up way too late to finish the book. And yes, it’s having one York Peppermint Patty—because restraint—followed by five more because, well, momentum. But now, there is no guilt. There is no over-correction. It is what it is. I wanted to get that project done. In one sitting. And I wanted five, or six, (see, I’m not even counting anymore!) treats in one sitting. What about it? But the chaos and the angst are gone and I often wonder if age has made it this way or if I could have harnessed this newfound mental nonchalance way back when? I wish I could have.

I watch my own kids around food and I marvel. They can eat a few bites of cake and be done. They can have Halloween candy still in their pumpkin containers well past November 5. Their Easter chocolate bunnies sometimes had to be thrown out, because, well, I don’t know why??!!! They also, on the flip side, seem to have less urgency, about pretty much everything, whereas I always seemed to be in a constant state of it.

I used to think growth meant erasure. That if I had truly “fixed” something, it would disappear entirely. I thought I’d become a different person like the kind who paces herself, who nibbles, who closes the laptop at a reasonable hour and says things like “I’ll pick this up tomorrow.” The woman who drinks her eight glasses of water a day and has a stocked, neat fridge. I am not her.

Nope. I am still the same binge-riddled girl I always was but now instead of the uneaten ice cream from the freezer calling me, it’s the new embroidery project I’ve just started or the outfit that needs be pulled together. I still hear the call, the incessant nagging, but the result is one of creativity and productivity, not shame or anxiety or angst.

And maybe that’s the real shift. Not that I stopped being that girl—but that I stopped fighting her so hard.

Besides, there’s a certain kind of energy in her. Intense, impatient, a little relentless. The same energy that once felt destructive now, mostly, feels…useful. Not something to eliminate, just something to watch. To shape.

People ask me about my diet all the time. And I truly understand the question. I was that girl.. just give me the code and I’ll follow it. I will master this and be the A student I am. Except, for some reason, that intensity and drive did not work in my favor when it came to diet/health.

People like to say weight is an issue of discipline, but in my case, the discipline was the issue. The more I studied it and categorized, (“right” foods, “wrong” foods) the worse it got. The more I dug in, the more I also rebelled. The key, for me, was to almost surrender. Let go. RELAX. I started to just listen to my inner voice instead of the outside nutritional “experts.” I found peace and along with it, the body that was most comfortable.

My husband and I met in college. We were 20 years old. After six months of dating he was professing his absolute suredness about how I was “the one” and how he was most likely going to propose after graduation. Graduation came and went and so did seven more years without said proposal.

Let me just say, my husband is a Gemini. IYKYK. Settling down, quiet life, commitment, these are not the top words in a Gemini’s vocabulary. Don’t get me wrong, he was committed, but to make it a legal commitment was a bit too far, at least in his early 20’s. He liked to be social. He once said, at the age of 26, “I’m 26 and I like to party!” To which I said, “You’re an idiot.” He drank. I didn’t. He had one set of sheets for his bed, I saved up and bought a solid wood sleigh bed from Grange at 21. You see the issue.

As time went on, so did other couples’ proposals. And weddings. I remember riding the train to work and all I saw, day after day, were women my age with engagement rings on. To add salt to the wound, friends of ours were meeting someone totally new at 25 and married by the next year. Is this is a fcking joke?

I started to get a little bitter. What happened to the “I’m proposing when we graduate” speech? Was it me? What was so special about these other women that they got proposed to and I didn’t? I started to bitch about it, as Leos do, (insufferable Leo pride) and his response was, “keep your eyes on your own fries.”

What really pissed me off at the time was, how do I respond to that? He was right. What good was it doing to focus on what other people were doing, or getting? What, in the end, did that actually have to do with me/us? While my friends would oblige me in bitching and analyzing the situation for 4 hours over a Sunday brunch, this allowed for none of it. It was so simple. Just focus on you. Period. Because, in the end, isn’t that really all you can do anyway?

I recently listened to a podcast with Gwyneth Paltrow. In it she told a story about how she went for a role and another girl got it. She went home and started complaining to her mother about it, and the other girl. A natural inclination and we’ve all done it. Her mother, Blythe, (I’m paraphrasing but hopefully you’ll get the gist) told her that putting down the other girl was pointless. The role was simply not hers to get and there was no use in being upset about something that wasn’t hers to begin with. She said the roles that were hers, would be. Simple as that. What I really liked about it was that usually mothers say shit like, “you shouldn’t be jealous of other people. hate is a terrible word. jealousy will kill you. it’s not nice to be jealous,” or the possibly even worse mother who chimes in with you! The one who makes your “defeat” all about that other girl. Except it isn’t. Eyes on your own fries. What is yours is yours.

Life, relationships, stuff, etc is not a competition. Some of those people who got engaged earlier also got divorced. Did anyone “win?” That was just their journey and this is mine.

The funny thing is, I wound up learning the lesson so well as to almost be oblivious. I got off Facebook over 10 years ago. I go to cocktail parties and haven’t the slightest idea what any of the town gossip is or who’s doing what (it’s amazing). I miss a lot of talented creators’ content on instagram because after about a minute of scrolling, I lose interest. I love them, I’m just focused on my own fries, which for me, mostly means life outside social media.

In regards to fashion and shopping, I find my own fries, per se, in the vintage aisles. I’m particularly fond of sites like 1st Dibs, The Real Real, Vestiaire, Madly Vintage, Chairish, Etsy and many others. They are the places you can meander, chart your own wardrobe and be totally oblivious as to what everyone else is doing. Sounds like my cup of tea! xo

Here are some of the finds I’m currently eyeing:

First let me say, I know our bodies change. I know hormones can be wacky and shit happens. But, I think we do ourselves, and future generations who look up to us, a real disservice by blaming everything on getting older. Our minds are seriously powerful so by reorienting them, or even being slightly delusional (my preferred method), we can make huge impacts on our physicality without supplements, treatments or diet changes. Don’t believe me? Look it up. There have been countless studies on how the mind has the ability to heal and even reverse aging, exercise not required.

My own grandmother, who lived until 97, was told she had cancer at the age of 90. She disagreed. The doctors insisted she have treatment. She did not. She refused to believe she had cancer and went home and went about her life. Six months later she went back to do a check on the cancer (she said she was humoring them) and guess what? They couldn’t find any. I remember thinking at the time that my headstrong grandmother had just willed cancer away, or, perhaps, God just wasn’t in the mood for her bullshit yet so on she went, for another seven years.

But I’ve also seen it with my daughter. She thinks she’s lucky. She used to say it as a child all the time even about the smallest of things. “I’m just lucky,” she’d say, when she’d find a beautiful shell or get the last piece of cake or win the local raffle. As time went on, she seemed to get luckier and luckier and about bigger and bigger things. Friends of mine would say she was a bit like a fairy.. in her own fairy world. Things just always seem to work out for her. Is this what manifesting really looks like? I think so.

Which brings me back to aging. I, like my grandmother and my daughter, am delusional, but it seems to work in our favor which is why I’m recommending it to you. Now, if I got a cancer diagnosis at 54, I would not rely on this method (I might at 90 but not now) but in less dire matters, this is pretty much how I roll. I believe, and have since I was a kid, that I am “only getting younger.” I was an old soul as a child, and a young soul as an adult. A mental Benjamin Button as it were. I truly believe I am always improving, not deteriorating. I think this summer I will be even stronger and fitter than I was last summer. I think I can create better outfits, style my hair better, and even have better skin. It doesn’t even cross my mind what my age is or that that’s not really how this is supposed to work.

I do not look back at younger pictures of myself and think how great I looked. I look back fondly but truly believe I am better now, wrinkles and all. (see how being delusional is more fun?) It helps that my eyesight isn’t as great but that’s just another delusional tool in my delusional toolbox. I believe I will always be improving and guess what? I have. I have more energy now than I did in my 20’s. I have more clarity of mind than I did in my 30’s. I am more direct and more powerful than I was in my 40’s. I even like my more angular face shape now. Yes, it’s more drawn but I kinda dig that.

I know a lot of women swear by taking hormones and I would totally take them if I felt I needed them. But so far, I’m good. Or maybe I’m not but don’t tell me, ignorance is bliss. xo

Here are some things in my daily routine that I think help.

I like to glow. So I use this and this and this.

I drink a pot of tea every morning. This is my favorite.

I love a sweet treat so besides a lot of chocolate I also like these.

I walk in the woods a lot. These sneakers have been hip/knee/back savers.

If I ever have trouble sleeping, or when I travel and don’t want to have jet-lag, I take these.

And lastly, I highly recommend a lot of these (dogs too). They make everything so much better!