The Difference When Something Sparks Joy

Have you ever walked into a shop—or come across someone, somewhere, or something online—and felt instantly magnetized? It doesn't happen often, at least not for me. Which is precisely why I pay attention when it does.

I remember walking into my dear friend Hajnalka's boutique, MANDULA, for the first time in 2012. It wasn't just the clothing. It was the feeling of the space, the objects and textiles she had carefully chosen, and the intentionality with which everything belonged. I remember seeing a beautifully tailored corset in a magazine years ago and knowing I had to find the atelier that made it. More recently, I felt that same pull toward a makeup brand whose philosophy seemed to speak the same language I was trying to learn.

Sometimes you simply know. Other times, it's a slow burn.

An object quietly finds its place until, one day, you realize you couldn't imagine your life without it. You may put it away for a season, only to find yourself returning to it again. The relationship was never really broken—it was simply waiting.

Time and again, there are certain things I keep reaching for. Not because I have to—but because I want to. It's more than habit. It's recognition.

The instinct to apply one more layer of balm before bed, even when my skin doesn't necessarily need it, simply because it feels—and smells—so good. Packing two lip colours when one would probably do. Not because I need them both, but because I like knowing they're there. The favourite mug that somehow makes coffee taste better. Soup that genuinely tastes more comforting from my Le Creuset Dutch oven. My robin's egg blue Mason Pearson hairbrush that has travelled with me for years. A perfectly worn Saint Laurent sweater whose age has only made it more beautiful. The weight of a particular pen that somehow makes writing feel more intentional.

None of these objects change who I am. But they have a remarkable way of changing how I feel while I'm using them. And sometimes, that's enough to change the entire experience. 

When we feel different, we show up differently.

In the summer of 2024, I left my home in St. Barth and moved to the South of France, unsure whether I was beginning a new chapter or simply passing through. I was there completing my French residency, knowing the decision about where I would ultimately live would reveal itself in time. As it turned out, I returned to St. Barth before eventually making my way back to the United States—a place I'm deeply grateful to once again call home.

At one point, everything I owned fit into five suitcases. Just me. My two dogs. Nothing in storage on any continent. And the handful of things I couldn't imagine living without. I had intentionally let go of almost everything else, except for my vehicle on the island.

It taught me something I hadn't expected. When almost everything disappears, the things that remain become remarkably clear. Those few familiar objects became far more than possessions. They became anchors. Small rituals that reminded me who I was, no matter which country—or villa—I woke up in. One of those anchors was my skincare ritual. Not because skincare solved every problem. Because familiarity has a quiet way of restoring us.

There is something deeply comforting about reaching for things that ground us each morning and evening. About knowing exactly how something feels in your hands. About trusting it without having to think. Perhaps that's why I find myself editing my life again and again. Keeping what feels deeply right. Letting go of what doesn't. The goal has never been owning less. It's been living with what feels deeply right. We don't remember most of the things we own. We remember how certain things made us feel.

That idea became one of the guiding principles behind One And Only Apothecary.

I wanted to create something that, if it belonged in your life, would effortlessly become a familiar companion. Something you reached for not because someone told you to, but because one day you realized you simply wanted it nearby.

A ritual of ease. A familiar presence. A small object that, in its own subtle yet massively useful way, helps you feel a little more like yourself. Makes your life a little easier.