I started with fine jewelry. Pieces with meaning. Symbols. Heirlooms. The kinds of things you pass down. Every piece was named after a loved one.

That’s where my love of jewelry began. It felt like jewelry held so much more meaning than almost anything else you could spend money on. It wasn’t just something beautiful. It represented something. It remembered something. It lasted.

Then babies came along.

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My friends and family know this is a fairly common thing for me to say. Some of the ideas are better than others. Two in particular I’m actually working on right now. Aside from the two businesses I already run.

And when people tell me I don’t seem like a typical Gemini, I would like to point them here.

But I digress.

I’ve had this particular idea for a while, and I’m not going to do it, so someone here should.

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That’s it.

For someone who works in fashion, thinks about design basically for a living, and used to genuinely enjoy shopping, this feels like a pretty dramatic shift.

But lately, I’ll walk into a store or scroll through a website and feel absolutely nothing.

Not excitement. Not curiosity. Not even temptation.

Just: Haven’t I seen this already?

And the answer, almost always, is yes.

The same jackets. The same jeans. The same jewelry. Even the brands trying to feel different somehow feel different in exactly the same way.

I keep wondering: Did everyone just start copying everyone? Or have we always been copying each other, and social media just made it impossible not to notice?

Probably both.

Fashion has always borrowed. Trends have always traveled. Nobody invents anything in a vacuum.

But there used to be more distance between seeing something and making something. More space for an idea to pass through your own taste, your own experience, your own point of view. Now we all have access to the same references at the exact same time.

We wake up, open our phones, and absorb a hundred images before we’ve even had coffee. Then we do it again while waiting in line, sitting in the car, or winding down before bed. (Admittedly i’m trying to scroll less!)

We call it downtime.

But our brains aren’t actually off. They’re collecting.

Then, when it’s time to create, something surfaces.

And we think: I have an idea.

But do we?

Or did we see it three weeks ago, forget where, and mistake familiarity for instinct?

Sometimes the copying is absolutely intentional. Yes I am looking at you, everyone knocking off Jessica McCormack!!

But I actually think the more interesting problem is the unintentional version.

The one where nobody is setting out to copy anyone. Everyone is just drinking from the same fire hose and calling whatever comes back up their own.

And then we keep seeing the same things, so we keep making the same things, so we keep buying the same things. Until eventually everything starts to blur. And everything looks the same.

Maybe that’s why vintage is the only thing I’ve wanted lately. It feels like someone made something without knowing exactly what everyone else was making.

Or, at least, without having it shoved in their face seventy-five times a day.

As a designer, this has me thinking about more than shopping. How many of our ideas are actually ours? How much of what we call taste is just repeated exposure?

How often do we say we love something because it genuinely moves us and how often do we love it because we’ve seen it enough times to believe we should?

I don’t have a perfect answer.

But I do think originality probably requires something we’ve gotten very bad at protecting.

Space.

Space to be bored. Space to notice things in the actual world. Space to develop a preference before an algorithm hands you one.

Maybe the reason everything feels the same is that we’ve forgotten what our own minds look like without everyone else inside them.

And maybe the most original thing any of us can do right now is look away.

Alexa Leigh is about to turn sixteen.(woah mama!)

Sixteen years of designing jewelry, building a business, making mistakes, and occasionally wondering what the hell I’m doing.

We were profitable from day one. Partly because I ran a tight business. Partly because, for a while, the business was just me. And partly because I never bought into the idea that growth automatically equals success.

To me, profit meant success. Period.

I didn’t want a hobby. I wanted a creative outlet that was also a real job. A job that paid me. A job that worked.

And it did.

But somewhere along the way, the definitions of success started getting louder. Bigger teams. Bigger numbers. More visibility. More stores. More followers. More, more, more. More social media presence!

As if the goal of every business is to become enormous. As if staying small means you didn’t know how to grow.

For a while, I felt that pressure. Sometimes I still do. It’s hard not to when everyone around you seems to be measuring success by what they can show other people. Hello TikTok etc!

But my measure of success has changed along the way too.

Now, I start with a different question:

Am I happy?

Because to me happiness is success.

And flexibility is success.

Being able to travel, Pick up my kids from school, Show up to assemblies and class parties without feeling like I’m letting down a team of a hundred people is success.

The privledge of tucking my kids in most nights is success.(even though bedtime can be wildly long and annoying).

The thing is, I’m also acutely aware that my kids will only live under my roof for so long. This part of life is temporary, even when the days feel long. There will be years ahead when they won’t need me in the same way, when they won’t be waiting for me to pick them up or asking me to lie down with them at night. Just the thought of it breaks my heart.

I want to be around for this part. It’s so fleeting.

I have my whole life to dedicate to a career but only a few short years with my kids to swim, color, hold hands, do hair, cuddle, tickle, build etc etc etc.

I didn’t always know that would matter to me this much. Before I had kids, I probably would have guessed my ambition would keep pointing in the same direction: bigger, faster, more.

Then my first son was born, and every thing shifted.

Not my work ethic. Not my creativity. Not my desire to build something meaningful.

My priorities.

My kids became the center of my life, and honestly that surprised me. But it also clarified things. I didn’t want a business that looked impressive if it required me to miss the parts of my life I actually wanted to be there for.

That doesn’t mean I stopped caring about the business. It doesn’t mean I don’t want it to grow or make money or reach new people.

It means I want it to do those things without consuming everything else.

I want to make beautiful things. I want to be proud of what I build. I want to be paid for my work. And I want to have enough of myself left over for my family, my friendships, and my actual life.

So much is shared online about big collabs, big dollars, big sales, big big bigger. And everyone measures success differently. Such is life.

But Sixteen years in, I’m grateful I built something that works. But I’m even more grateful that it works for the life I want to live.

That if I walked away from something(a plan, a relationship, a business idea, a version of myself) it meant I hadn’t tried hard enough. I didn’t have enough grit. I couldn’t follow through.

So I stayed. I kept trying to fix things that maybe weren’t mine to fix. I stayed loyal to decisions simply because I had once made them. Perseverance felt strong. Stopping felt weak. Never give up! Right??

But sometimes giving up isn’t quitting.

Sometimes it’s growing.

There’s a certain maturity in being able to say: This isn’t working anymore. This doesn’t fit me anymore. I don’t want this anymore.

Not because you’re lazy. Not because it got hard. But because you’ve changed, or the situation has changed, or you can finally see clearly what you couldn’t see before.

We’re taught to admire the person who never gives up. The one who keeps going despite every obstacle. But we don’t talk enough about the wisdom it takes to know when something has run its course.

Not every idea needs to become something. Not every relationship needs another conversation. Not every goal deserves endless sacrifice simply because we once wanted it. And not every version of ourselves needs to be carried into the next chapter just because we worked hard to become her.

Sometimes we hold on because we care. But sometimes we hold on because we’re afraid of what stopping might say about us.

That we failed. That we wasted time. That other people were right. That we were wrong.

So we keep going. And not because we still believe in where we’re headed, but because we’re embarrassed to turn around.

Maybe growing up is realizing that changing your mind doesn’t make your earlier decision a mistake. You made the best choice you could with what you knew and who you were at the time.

Now you know something different.

There are, of course, things worth fighting for. There are difficult seasons we have to move through rather than escape. But staying isn’t automatically brave, just as leaving isn’t automatically weak.

The hardest part is knowing the difference.

Am I stopping because this is uncomfortable, or because it is no longer right?

Am I protecting myself from failure, or finally being honest with myself?

There isn’t always a clear answer. But I’m beginning to trust that there is wisdom in knowing when I’ve learned what I came to learn.

Sometimes it means releasing who you thought you were supposed to be. Sometimes it is choosing peace over proving a point. And sometimes it’s simply making room for what you couldn’t reach while your hands were still full.

Giving up isn’t always the end of the story.

Sometimes it’s the first honest sentence of the next one.

It feels very free. Like no one is watching.

I have very few followers (I honestly have no idea how many, if any? ). is it even called followers on here? I don’t really know how to look at my views or likes or analytics. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing to “grow.” I just write something when I have a thought, hit publish, and move on.

It’s been fun.

Then recently, I made the mistake of looking a little deeper.

Within a few seconds I was being fed articles and notes (whatever those are) about how to optimize my Substack. How often I should post. How often I should engage. Apparently I need to engage 89 times with other Substacks to optimize mine financially.

This person figured out the algorithm. That person doubled their subscribers. Someone else has a system for turning Notes into paid subscriptions.

And suddenly this thing I was doing purely because I enjoyed it became another thing I could be doing better.

And I thought: What the F are we doing?

Open Instagram and it’s:

5 things I learned in 10 years of marriage.

3 things you should never do in the morning.(shit what?!)

4 ways to be a better parent.

10 habits that changed my life.

The one thing successful people never do.

5 hacks to improve your ChatGPT.

How to sleep better. Work better. Eat better. Parent better. Communicate better. Exercise better. Travel better. Age better.

We’re even being taught how to relax better.

And I know the obvious response is: just don’t look at it. But how do you miss it?

Because some of it is interesting. Some of it is helpful. I like hearing other people’s perspectives. I LOVE learning things. I like changing my mind when someone makes me see something differently.

Having an open mind is a good thing.

But At what point does having an open mind make you lose track of your own?

When does being open about what everyone else thinks turn into not knowing what you think?

When does learning from other people become outsourcing your own instincts? there is always someone telling us a better way.

A better way to parent. A better way to communicate with your husband. A better morning routine. A better workout. A better way to run your business. A better way to build your brand.

And if you consume enough of it, suddenly everything you do comes with this tiny question in the back of your head:

Am I doing this right?

Not that all the advice is bad. A lot of it is probably great. It’s that there’s so much of it that I wonder if we’re losing the opportunity to figure anything out for ourselves.

What happened to learning something because you screwed it up the first time? Trial and error used to just be part of life.

So did instinct.

How much of what we think is actually ours anymore?

If I’ve consumed 47 pieces of content about the right way to run a business, parent a child, have a marriage, get dressed, eat breakfast, age gracefully and spend my Sunday morning, how much room is left for me to figure out what I think?

when nobody gives you the instructions, you have to pay attention. You notice what works for you.You try again. You change your mind. You trust your gut.

I’m not suggesting we all stop learning or become completely closed minded.

I’m just wondering if we’ve gone too far in the other direction. Maybe your morning routine doesn’t need to be optimized.

Maybe the book you’re reading doesn’t need to make you a better person.

And maybe you can write something on the internet without figuring out how to make it better and grow your followers. Doesn’t anything just happen organically?

So, I’m going to write when I have something I want to say.

I’ll probably do it wrong.

Good.

Not butter. Problems.

We have the same conversations over and over again. The details change, but the themes don’t.

The same complaint about our husband. The same frustration with a friend. The same issue with work. The same issue with our parents.

We tell someone about it. They agree with us. We feel better.

And then we do it again.

I started noticing it in conversations around me, and then, annoyingly, started noticing it in myself. Particularly about business and next steps.

There are things I have probably talked about hundreds of times. Different day. Different story. Same underlying complaint.

And relationships are maybe the most obvious example. How many couples have essentially been having the same fight for ten years?

The actual fight might be about someone being late But underneath it, it’s often the same thing.

You don’t appreciate me. You don’t prioritize me. I’m doing more than you. You don’t see me.You don’t listen to me.

The subject changes. The feeling doesn’t.

And then we go tell someone about it. Again.

I started wondering: if we really hate these things as much as we say we do, why do we spend so much time keeping them alive?

Why do we like talking about the same things over and over? Where your energy goes is what grows right?

We must be getting something from it.

I don’t think it’s as simple as saying people like to complain. And I don’t think we secretly want to be unhappy. But I do think there can be something weirdly comforting about a familiar problem.

We know the story. We know our lines. We know who was wrong(not us). We know how our friend will respond when we tell her.

We know the part where she says, “I would be so annoyed.”

And, for a minute, it feels so good.

There’s validation in it. There’s connection in it. There’s the satisfaction of being right. Sometimes there’s even identity in it.

Maybe we’ve told a story about someone for so long that we don’t quite know who they would be to us if we stopped telling it.

Or who WE would be without it.

And talking about a problem can sometimes feel suspiciously similar to DOING something about a problem.

You analyze it. You explain it. You get another person’s opinion. You understand why it happened. You decide what the OTHER person should have done differently. It feels productive.

Except nothing actually changes.

Then something slightly different happens a week later and we pull the same story back off the shelf. Hello old friend!

Maybe that’s the part I’m most interested in.

Because if you actually wanted the conversation to end, eventually you’d have to do something that might be much more uncomfortable than complaining.

You might have to accept someone exactly as they are. (Woa!)

You might have to change your own behavior.

You might have to have a conversation you don’t want to have.

You might have to stop expecting someone to give you something they’ve shown you, repeatedly, they aren’t going to give you.

You might have to leave.

Or forgive.

Or decide it isn’t actually that big of a deal.

And all of those require giving something up.

Complaining doesn’t.

Complaining lets us keep the relationship, the situation, the expectation and the grievance.

Which is a pretty convenient arrangement when you think about it.

I also wonder how much of our churning is really an attempt to get a different ending.

Maybe that’s why we tell the story again. Maybe this time someone will say the thing that finally makes it make sense. Maybe this time our husband will react differently. Maybe this time our mother will understand. Maybe this time our friend will become the friend we want her to be. Maybe this time we’ll finally feel heard.

So we replay it. Same theme. New episode.

And I don’t think the answer is to never complain. Sometimes you need to call a friend and say, “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”

That’s part of friendship. It’s part of being human. And frankly, sometimes it’s fun.

But I’m becoming more interested in noticing when a conversation has crossed the line from processing something to churning it.

Am I talking about this because something new happened? Or am I just telling my favorite story again? Am I trying to understand it? Or am I trying to get someone else to confirm the conclusion I’ve already reached? Do I actually want this problem to change?

Because that’s the uncomfortable question.

We say we want our problems to go away. But some of them have been with us for years. We’ve polished them. Retold them. Collected evidence for them. Brought them to dinner. Taken them on vacation. Introduced them to all of our friends.

At a certain point, you have to wonder:

Do I kinda like this problem?

Inspired by Coco Schiffer.

None of this matters. All of it matters.

Giving credit where credit is due.
Chic. (see above)

Complimenting another woman.
Chic. Even strangers

When someone asks compliments you on your sweater (for example) and you just say, “Thanks.”
Not chic. Come on. Help a sister out.

A T-shirt that costs $1,000 +.
Not chic. What are we doing?

Unboxing fifteen designer purchases for the internet.
Not chic. sorry.

Finding one incredible vintage piece after months of searching.
Chic.

Head-to-toe designer logos.
Not chic.

Vintage designer that’s been loved for twenty years.
Chic.

Vintage unboxings.
Chic. Sure Ill take it!

Buying something because everyone else has it.
Not chic.

Buying something because you genuinely love it.
Chic.

Doing every trend that shows up on your feed.
Not chic.

Having a sense of humor.
Chic.

Being genuinely excited for someone else’s success.
Very chic.

Reading an actual book.
Chic.

Leaving your phone in another room.
Chic.

Knowing something and not immediately posting about it.
Chic.

Keeping a few things to yourself. Like opinions.
Very chic.

(Which, apparently, I’m not doing at the moment.)

I feel like everyone is jumping on this “kinda chic” trend on the internet but I wrote this a few weeks ago sooooo… chic ;)

No one talks about what to do when it is.

Our best sellers have been our best sellers for years. Six, maybe longer. They still sell every single day. They built this company. They paid the bills. They introduced thousands of people to my brand.

By every business metric, I should keep making more of them. So why do I feel so restless?

Lately, every time an order comes through for one of those pieces, I have two completely different reactions.

The first is gratitude.

The second is a quiet feeling I haven’t really known how to explain.

Because I’m not the same person who designed them. I don’t regret them I just think I am ready to move on even though the customer isn’t. And I feel a little bad.

The things I can’t stop sketching now don’t look like the things I was sketching six years ago. The ideas keeping me awake at night are different.

And that’s where I find myself stuck.

Do I keep creating what people already know they want?

Or do I make the things I want and hope other people find them too?

Every business book tells you to double down on your winners. Don’t confuse your customer. Don’t walk away from what works.

I understand that logic.

But I also wonder what happens if you spend so much time protecting what worked yesterday that you never discover what could have worked tomorrow.

Maybe this isn’t even about business. Maybe it’s about life.

How many of us stay where we’re successful simply because success is easier than change? How many versions of ourselves do we hold onto because other people are comfortable with them? And we are a bit comfortable too.

The strange thing about growth is that it rarely feels exciting while you’re in it.

Mostly, it feels uncomfortable.

I don’t know if changing direction is the smartest decision I’ll ever make or the dumbest. Could be both.

I don’t know if the people who’ve been with me for the last decade will come with me.

I hope they do.

But I also know that I don’t want to spend the next ten years recreating the last ten.

The pieces that built this business deserve my gratitude. They don’t necessarily deserve my future.

Maybe the real work isn’t convincing your customers that you’ve changed. Maybe it’s giving yourself permission to.

I woke up early this morning wondering something.

Is anyone actually an expert anymore?

I’ve had my company for 16 years. That’s a pretty long time if I do say so myself! We’ve always kept a small team, partly because that’s just how I like to work. I’m a Gemini. I get bored easily. I like having my hands in everything. Designing. Marketing. Ecommerce. Operations. It keeps the work interesting.

But this morning I realized something.

I’m not an expert in any one of those things.

And then I wondered…

Is anyone?

Not because people aren’t smart. Because everything is changing too fast.

Ecommerce isn’t the same business it was even two years ago. AI has completely changed how I work. I can open Claude or Shopify AI, ask questions, pull reports, analyze trends, and make changes in minutes that used to take far longer.

Except I’m still learning how to use it.

I’m still figuring out when to trust it, when to question it, and when my own instincts are better than what the AI tells me.

Design has changed too.

Gold prices have shifted. Lab diamonds have become mainstream. Trends move at lightning speed, and half the industry seems to be recreating whatever was on Instagram yesterday. If I see one more piece with a black rhodium Georgian-style setting, I might lose it.

Marketing?

Forget it.

Anyone who tells you they’re an expert in social media marketing today is probably overselling it. The algorithm changes constantly. People shop differently than they did a year ago. You can’t launch a product and assume your followers will even see it, let alone buy it.

There’s simply too much noise.

It feels like the moment I learn a new platform, a new tool, or a new way of thinking, the rules change again. And there’s someone new telling me a new method to try. Is it even real? Who knows!

It’s exciting but also a little terrifying.

We’re all learning how to drive the train while it’s already moving. Seems a little dangerous.

I even think about doctors.

Of course they’re experts. Years of training matter. Experience matters. But medicine changes too. And fast lately! New research. New drugs. New procedures. New technology. A treatment that was considered the gold standard 15 years ago might not be today.

The best doctors aren’t the ones who know everything. They’re the ones who never stop learning.

Maybe that’s what expertise looks like now.

Not someone with all the answers.

Someone who’s curious enough to keep asking better questions.

Maybe the real experts today aren’t the people who claim certainty.

They’re the people comfortable enough to admit they don’t know yet and confident enough to figure it out.

I don’t know if that’s comforting or unsettling.

Maybe it’s both.

This will probably offend someone, and that’s honestly not my intention. To each their own. I mean that. I’m sure there are plenty of thoughtful reasons people choose to share their children online that I haven’t thought of. This is simply why I don’t.

My relationship with social media is... complicated.

If I didn’t have a business, I probably wouldn’t be on it at all. That’s just the truth. Personally, I don’t get much from it, and I often wonder if we’re all giving it more of ourselves than it deserves. But those are thoughts for a different post.

If I believe social media isn’t a particularly healthy place for kids (and I do)(and most studies agree) and I hope my children stay off it for as long as possible, then I have to ask myself: how can I also share their lives on it?

For me, those two ideas don’t align. Luckily my kids aren’t asking for a phone and social media yet but when the times comes it would be hard to argue that its ok for me to take pictures of them and share it with whoever is looking, but not ok for them to do the same. Tough sell.

Then there’s the stranger part.

My kids don’t understand what it means for thousands of people they’ve never met to have access to their photos. Honestly, sometimes I don’t either. Every now and then I look at the number of people who viewed one of my stories and think, this is so strange.

People I don’t know now would know what my children look like. How they’ve grown. How they dress. What they like to do. What they like to eat. Small details that, over time, become a digital record of their childhood.

I also think about consent.

My children can’t decide today what parts of their childhood they want to share with the world tomorrow. Especially if it were baby pictures. Maybe one day they’ll wish I’d posted more. Maybe they’ll wish I’d posted less. I have no idea. Until they’re old enough to decide for themselves, I’d rather make the choice that leaves them with more privacy, not less.

Don’t get me wrong, my camera roll is overflowing with photos and videos of my kids. I document when I can. I desperately want to freeze time and hold onto every version of them before it disappears. I look back and all the old photos and videos and my heart aches.

But those are my memories. They’re our family memories. They don’t need an audience.

No matter how cute the picture is or how funny the moment is, I’ve realized I want some parts of our life to belong only to us. Maybe that’s old-fashioned. Maybe it’s because I value privacy more than I value sharing. Or maybe it’s because the older I get, the more I realize that not everything meaningful has to be public to matter. Maybe I am just overthinking it?

I think we’ve reached a point where sharing has become second nature. We capture a moment and instinctively wonder whether we should post it. I’ve found myself wanting to move in the opposite direction. I want to experience more, document when I want, but share less. Tough in the current world we live in.

Perhaps we’re all just looking for connection and to feel relatable. I understand that. I think most of us are but I’ve started wondering if we’ve confused sharing with connecting. Most of the meaningful moments in my life have never been posted. They’re not content. They’re not for engagement. They’re not for strangers.

And sorry, but we are strangers.

At what point did we decide that every meaningful moment becomes more meaningful once it’s shared? Maybe one day my kids will decide to share their childhood with the world (I hope not) but until then, I think it belongs to them.

That’s enough on that for now.

I’ve been thinking about going in a different direction.

I wish I knew if it was the right choice.

Lately, running a brand feels like a real rat race of keeping up.

More posts.
More drops.
More reels.
More newness.
More sales.
More talking to the camera.
More founder faces.

And the strange thing is, almost all of these requirements go against what I believe.

Or perhaps, because they’ve become requirements, I automatically want to go against them. I’ve never loved “requirements”.

I don’t want to do “get ready with me” videos. I don’t want to constantly be on social media. I don’t want to believe that in order for my business to exist, I have to be visible every second of every day.

But then there’s the obvious question:

If I disappear, does the business disappear too?

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a while. And I’m starting to think I may never know the answer unless I just do it.

I want to go quieter.

Smaller.

More streamlined.

Fewer products. Less availability. Less noise.

I want to create more demand instead of constantly creating more things.

Mostly, I want to see if I can build a business in a way that actually feels like the way I want to live.

But change is scary.

And sometimes I worry it’s just the Gemini in me. She could change her mind tomorrow.

I wonder if people will still be interested in what I have to sell when everyone is selling something.

I wonder if I’ll alienate the audience I already have by no longer offering what they’ve come to know me for.

I wonder if I’ll regret changing something that, technically, still works.

But I also wonder if there could be something new and exciting on the other side.

And I suppose this is where business starts to feel a lot like life.

No one has a crystal ball. We make guesses all the time about how things might work out. We make decisions without knowing whether they’re the right ones. We change direction. We change our minds. Sometimes we stay somewhere too long because leaving feels scarier than staying.

I believe it’s all unfolding in our favor.

I just don’t always see the forest through the trees until I’m already there.

So maybe this isn’t about knowing whether going quieter is the right decision.

Maybe it’s about something I’ve always believed:

It’s not about making the right decision. It’s about making right with the decision you make.

Over the weekend, I realized that almost every conversation I heard was really about one thing: evaluating enoughness.

She’s not skinny enough.

She’s too skinny.

My kid eats too much.

My kid doesn’t eat enough.

He’s too sensitive.

She’s not sensitive enough.

I’m working too much.

I’m not working enough.

It seems we’re all carrying around invisible scorecards, constantly measuring ourselves and everyone around us against some standard. But what scale are we even using? And who made it?

Who decided the right weight, the right amount of ambition, the right level of sensitivity, the right number of friends, followers, achievements, activities, or accomplishments? Most of us spend our lives chasing an imaginary line without ever stopping to ask whether the line is real.

The funny thing about enough is that it moves.

Lose ten pounds and suddenly you could lose five more. Grow the business and suddenly the next milestone appears. Get the promotion, buy the house, hit the goal, and somehow the finish line takes a few steps forward.

Enough is often less of a destination and more of a mirage.

What struck me is how much of parenting is wrapped up in this too.

We worry our children are too shy, too loud, too emotional, too picky, too attached, too independent. We spend so much energy trying to optimize them that we sometimes forget to see them. Not as future versions of themselves. Not as projects.

Just as they are.

And if I’m honest, I do the same thing to myself.

I am constantly asking, “How can I be better?”

A question that sounds healthy but often hides a deeper one:

“Am I enough yet?”

The challenge, at least for me, is that acceptance feels suspicious. If I accept my body, will I stop exercising? If I accept my business, will I stop growing it? If I just accept my children, will I stop helping them grow? If I accept myself, will I become complacent?

But maybe acceptance and growth aren’t opposites.

Maybe acceptance isn’t saying, “This is perfect.” Maybe it’s saying, “This is what is true right now.”

Acceptance doesn’t mean you stop guiding your children. It means you stop treating them like problems that need fixing. The healthiest growth I’ve experienced never came from self-rejection. It came from self-respect. I don’t help my children grow because they’re lacking. I help them grow because they’re growing.

Maybe that’s the balance.

You can accept your body and still strengthen it. Accept your child and still guide them. Accept your business and still build it. Accept yourself and still evolve.

Acceptance isn’t the end of growth. It’s the end of the war.

• Paul Newman Sunglasses - I had been looking for a wider pair of frames but always found it hard to find ones that fit my face. These are large but not so wide and I love them!! Been my new repeat.

• Jamie Haller Hoodie - This hoodie is just so good. I love the color, the weight and the pockets. I might get it in navy or orange or both!

• Leset Jacket - I love this jacket so so much. It is a print but somehow all the colors feel like a neutral. It’s the perfect 3rd piece. It really completes the outfit.

• Khaite Clutch - I am always a cross body bag girl. I like to be hands free. But then it comes time for a little bit of a nicer event and I wish I had a clutch. I love this one. The perfect color. Perfect size! I already wore it out (the one time I’ve been out) and it’s just classic and goes with everything.

• Still Here Jeans - These are back in stock so I am reposting them here. I really love the burnt orange I got, but I’m tempted to get the tan. I do this when I love something and then need to buy it in every color!

• Jamie Haller Flip Flops - I have these in the black and they are sooooo comfy. The little bit of cushion really makes a difference. I have been eyeing the red and think I need to have it.

• Christopher Esber Wedge Heel - Speaking of comfortable shoes, I tried these on and they were soooo cute and comfy. A little heel (and I am not into high) and a sandal. It’s super fun. I love the little pop of color too.

Until next month!

Xx,

Alexa

He even offered to pay for his flight and he immediately said no, don’t worry about it. I told him it was so nice he was willing to switch and he smiled and said something like, “I’m just happy the dog is happy.”

And for some reason, I felt my entire body unclench. I had been unusually anxious about leaving. One of those heavy departures where your mind keeps threatening to cancel or hoping your flight does. But watching someone react with such ease shifted something in me.

He could’ve been annoyed.
He could’ve stood his ground.
He could’ve accepted the money.
Instead he just… let the moment be simple.

It made me realize how much anxiety comes from believing every inconvenience needs to be solved perfectly or defended fully.

For a few seconds, I think I borrowed his perspective:
everyone is okay,
the dog is okay,
the flight will land,
life keeps moving.

There are kind people out there. What a nice reminder. And we can focus on the negative or the positive. It’s about perspective. The seat is just a place to sit.

Not like on Broadway. More like everyday improv but aware there is an audience. People aren’t just talking. They are delivering. Not just existing. Even “ I don’t care” has a tone. Even “ This is casual” is somehow, not casual. I heard people talk about a “casual” dinner they went to. There were 50 people there! What about that is casual? No one was in sweats I can tell you that. And I am not above it. I am sure I do it too. Before I considered writing this I was going to look at past substacks and see which performed best so far (I stopped myself). But that would have been writing for the performance and not for the self. People have adapted to what gets likes. Or comments. Or shares. Or compliments and catered to it.

But the more you think about how something will be received, the less you say it. We used to talk on the phone or in person and didn’t have the chance to delete the text. Rewrite it. Edit it. It was spoken in real time without a chance to talk it back. It was off the cuff. More real. Now what are we doing? Who is everyone performing so hard for? Or are we all just caught up in our own play to even notice anyone elses?

…

I’m an outfit repeater.

There, I said it.

Half the time, I get undressed at the end of the day, and if it didn’t get stained and it doesn’t smell… it goes right back into rotation. Not folded. Not hung. Just out and ready for the next day

I don’t buy things just to have them. It’s not about minimalism for the aesthetic of it—it’s about keeping my closet tight, intentional, and actually wearable. Every piece has to earn its place.

Because the truth is, the best clothes aren’t the ones you wear once for a moment. They’re the ones that become part of your life.

ones you reach for without thinking.
The ones that somehow work with everything.
The ones that look just as good on a school drop-off as they do at dinner.

My sister says there’s a rule,
If I can’t wear it at least three different ways, for three different occasions, it doesn’t get invited in.

Because I don’t want a closet full of “one-time” pieces. I want a closet that works for me—on the rushed mornings, the last-minute plans, the days I don’t feel like trying but still want to look like I did. We are constantly being sold new! Buy more! Buy this! So here’s my take. Not one-time wear. Lifetime wear.

Or at least… as long as they don’t get stained.

Everyone says to grow a business and a following you need a niche. Something clear, repeatable, and recognizable. But people aren’t niches.

Some days I want to talk about business. Some days I want to talk about parenting and my kids. Some days I don’t want to HAVE to have anything to say at all.

Any time I think about a creative piece of content, the thought of having to repeat it or stick with it on a cadence is exhausting and bores me. What if I am not in the mood?! Then I never start any of them for fear of not being able to stick with them. Or wanting to change direction. Like anyone is really watching that closely. ha

anyway…

There’s this quiet pressure to always be interesting or doing something interesting. To have a take. Something to say or something worth sharing. To make even your normal life feel a little more elevated.

I admit, my life has been full this year with more travel than I am used to. More things! But most of my life isn’t interesting. Its repetitive. It’s logistical. Honestly every time I return to it from a more “interesting” trip or event, I think how much I prefer the “normal”. I prefer my normal life to the vacation. I like doing school pickup. designing at my desk. Tucking in my kids. Getting in to bed early (the dream)! Doing the same thing again tomorrow. Unfortunately, ist not what’s interesting for the internet. For engagement.

Maybe we need to stop trying to make everything more interesting and just notice what already is.

anyway…

There’s a version of success I am not interested in. But its easy to start chasing one that doesn’t actually fit your life.

There’s a version of success that looks really good from the outside. Its fast. Its visible. its always growing. It probably proof reads its substacks better than me. Its more launches. More expansion. More everything.

Its easy to think thats the direction you were supposed to be moving. But it comes with a cost.

Not always obvious at first. It shows up over time. In your schedule. Energy. In how you present and feel in your own life.

I try to pay attention to what feels good. what feels like too much. What starts to fell disconnected from the life I actually want. Because there is another version of success that’s quieter. It doesn’t always look so impressive. But its steadier. More time. More space. More control over how my day feels and actually looks.

There are moments when you push and when you pull back. The problem is when you don’t realize your still chasing a version that no longer fits.

anyway…