When I was in first grade, I lost both of my great-grandmothers. Though their absence left a space in my life, they also left behind something profoundly beautiful: their jewelry. Strands of pearls, brooches with filigree frames, carved cameos, and mysterious trinkets that carried the quiet dignity of another era. To most people, then and now, they might have seemed outdated, even unwanted. But to me, they were and are treasures—reminders that beauty used to be made with care, meant to last, and full of stories.
As I grew, so did my love for that kind of beauty. The kind you have to slow down to appreciate. The kind that doesn't shout to be seen but reveals itself in the details. I noticed how the world was moving faster, valuing speed and convenience over quality and character. But I couldn’t let go of that longing—for craftsmanship, for soul, for things created with integrity.
I was raised as an only child, adopted by a woman who deeply longed to be a mother. Our home was peaceful and quiet, and in that stillness, I developed not only a close relationship with the Lord, but also a vivid imagination and creative spirit. Around age eight, I began making jewelry—starting with salvaged pieces and broken bits I could bring back to life. I’d fix old clasps, string beads and design my own charm bracelets. I taught myself to sew in the same way, taking things apart just to learn how they were made.
A Castle in the Woods
One of my most treasured memories is from my grandmother’s home in Florida. It wasn’t extravagant, but to me, it felt like a castle—tucked deep in the woods, nestled near a lake, full of quiet and charm. The layout of the house was full of mystery: you could walk out one door and enter through another, as if it were a secret passageway. I was just a child, but the place felt magical.
In the living room, tucked into the base of the couch, was a drawer I’ll never forget. At the very bottom sat a jewelry box, and beside it, a little paper container holding bits and pieces—sparkling brooches, elegant pins, vintage costume jewelry, and even a harmonica. I’m not sure exactly where they all came from, but I knew they were heirlooms from a late relative and they held a kind of sacred beauty to me.
When I spent the night there (which was often), I would quietly slip open that drawer and explore its contents, trying on pieces and imagining their stories. If we were house-sitting and she wasn’t home, I’d venture into her closet to admire her intricate dresses with beading and embellishments that hadn’t been worn in years. To me, they weren’t outdated—they were gowns, and I felt like a princess discovering treasure in her single story, country tower.
That sense of wonder never left me.
I think that’s why I still see beauty in the overlooked. Not just in antique jewelry, but in old fabrics, forgotten details, and memories wrapped in lace. My brand was born in places like that drawer—in the quiet spaces where the past still lingers.
To me, nostalgia isn’t about living in the past—it’s about honoring the beauty that came before us and carrying it forward. Whether it’s a pair of earrings inspired by a great-grandmother’s brooch or a charm that feels like it belongs in a velvet-lined jewelry box, each piece I make is rooted in memory, meaning, and the belief that beauty is better when it lasts.
That’s why my brand is nostalgic at its core. Not just for the style—but for the heart behind it.
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