Objects of Affection and The Energy They Give

This morning, I woke unusually early and reached for my hairbrush. My new hairbrush. It may sound like a strange place to begin, but bear with me. I have naturally straight, very fine hair—but a lot of it. For years, I invested in high quality haircare (and still do), yet brushing my hair was never something I thought much about. It was simply a means to an end.

Only in the last few years did I begin brushing with intention, from root to tip, taking the time to distribute my hair's natural oils rather than immediately reaching for another product. The scalp stimulation alone feels incredible. 

This isn't really about haircare, though. It's about objects. More specifically, the feeling certain objects create when we use them.

During COVID, I bought two beautiful brushes: an Evo Pete paddle brush and a miniature Mason Pearson. Both are well made and continue to serve their purpose. More recently, I purchased the No.1 brush from La Bonne Brosse in a gorgeous deep burgundy. The weight of it. The finish and gold detail on the end. The way it sits in my hand. I look forward to brushing my hair with it each morning and night. A tiny ritual that anchors my day. My hair feels wonderful afterwards, of course, but that's almost secondary.

The experience itself creates joy. That feeling doesn't stop when I put the brush down. It ripples into the next thing I do. The same is true of the makeup brand I discovered recently, Fara Homidi. The formulas are exceptional, but it's the complete experience that keeps me reaching for them. The weight of the compact, how it gently snaps closed, the beauty of the brushes that complement the collection, the thoughtful design—it all communicates care before the product ever touches my skin. I'm still deeply loyal to my Westman Atelier (I love her contour and blush sticks, and she also does a lovely dark chocolate eye liner), and Fara Homidi has become another object of affection in my daily routine. 

The opposite is equally true. A few weeks ago, I wandered into Sephora looking for a lightweight hair serum. I found something that likely would have performed perfectly well, but I couldn't bring myself to buy it. Not because the formula seemed poor—it had rave reviews. But because the object itself didn't resonate. The packaging felt disposable. The experience felt transactional. I didn't feel connected to it. I knew I wouldn't reach for it, no matter how well it performed.

That may sound particular, but once you begin surrounding yourself with thoughtfully designed objects, you notice the difference immediately. It's like biting into a mass-produced chocolate chip cookie versus one someone baked with real care and intention. Who am I to deny an Oreo? No shade. You know exactly what I mean. 

Some things naturally, effortlessly elevate your day because of the care that was poured into them when they were made. Other objects simply occupy space.

The same is true of Calm And Define. I genuinely love reaching for it. I want to apply another layer even when I don't need another layer. The subtle fragrance takes me someplace mentally that I enjoy, like getting ready for dinner after a hot shower, after a relaxing day while on holiday. It's this feeling bottled up that subtly transports me. 

I love the weight of the jar, the ritual of applying it, the way it sits on my bathroom counter, and perhaps most importantly, how I feel afterwards. I catch my reflection and genuinely think, wow—before anything else has gone on my skin. 

It isn't just skincare. It's one of those small moments that gently shifts the rest of my day. It has me feel a certain way. 

The same extends beyond beauty. To clothing. To linens. I am textile (and fragrance) obsessed if you have not noticed yet... It's the quality oud that quietly fills a room rather than the random room spray with no story to tell. It is in the chair you read in every evening. To the lamp you switch on when the sun sets. 

Have you ever walked into a home, a hotel, or a restaurant and immediately felt something before anyone spoke? The lighting. The art. The scent. The music. The textiles (obviously). Individually, they may seem insignificant. Together, they create an atmosphere that changes how you feel.

Every detail contributes to the ambience. That is intention. 

And for those of us who create products, that responsibility matters.

Every decision contributes to the finished experience.

Not just the ingredients or the materials, but how something feels in your hand, how it ages, how it fits into your life, and ultimately, how it makes you feel each time you return to it. Perhaps I'm overly attentive to these things. I'm perfectly okay with that. 

Because I believe we are, in many ways, shaped by what we repeatedly choose.

The objects we bring into our homes. The clothes we wear. The food we prepare. The people we spend time with. They all carry an energy.

When you put on an outfit you love, you feel incredible; unstoppable. When you drink your morning coffee from a cup that feels just right, something shifts. When you brush your hair with an object you genuinely enjoy using, even something as ordinary as getting ready becomes something worth paying attention to.

This morning, after brushing my hair, I immediately sat down to write this. Because I felt different. And I wanted to capture that feeling before it disappeared.

Things are just things, and people and experiences will always matter more. But things—we live with them every day. Choose your objects carefully. They quietly become part of the way you move through the world.

I'd love to know—what are some of the objects that quietly bring you joy?