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Now, that may not sound revolutionary.

Take it away and it is.

This is what I do every morning.

I get up. I find Franklin. We snuggle. I sing to him. I pet him. I talk to him. He gets his GUOOJAH’s a completely made-up word that basically means scratching and petting and snuggling and loving my beast of an animal.

He fulfills his pet duties of therapy, and I fulfill my human duties of scratches and I love you because you are my animal and you are my mornings.

There are songs. All made up. Whatever comes to me in the moment.

And then Franklin tries to kill me.

Because I am blind without my glasses, un-caffeinated, and he has decided the most efficient way to get breakfast is to weave violently between my legs while I attempt to walk to the kitchen.

Franklin.

If you trip me and I die, nobody is going to feed you.

Think this through.

But no.

The dance begins.

I need coffee.

He needs food.

The beans get ground before the beast gets fed.

Then: Where is yesterday's open can of wet food? Is it in the refrigerator? Where is his dish? Does the dish need to be washed? Where are my glasses?

Please don't kill me.

Eventually Franklin gets fed.

Currently, we are both on MiraLAX.

I wish I were making this up.

Franklin gets a little in his wet food every other day.

I just spent nearly three weeks barely moving, including two weeks in the hospital, one of them in the ICU, with two IVs in my arm, approximately fifty fucking wires attached to me, things on my chest measuring my heart, things on my fingers measuring my oxygen, cuffs on my legs so I don't get blood clots, endless drugs and saline, and approximately one million pokes and prods—preferably, for the hospital staff, at three o'clock in the morning.

So we all know what that does to a person's system.

Franklin and I are taking MiraLAX together.

You know... normal stuff.

Franklin inhales his breakfast as though he has never been fed once in his entire life.

Then starts howling because he wants his kitty crack.

Meanwhile, I am still trying to make my coffee.

I do pour-over in the morning with this little AeroPress thing that has lost its press because that never worked, so now I basically put it over a cup and stir it with a fork.

Very sophisticated.

Franklin is back between my legs trying to kill me.

I still don't understand the economics of this decision.

If you kill the human before the kitty crack arrives, there will be no kitty crack.

But finally, he's fed.

And finally, I have coffee.

And then we go sit in our corner.

My corner.

Before I even went home from the hospital, I went straight to Trader Joe's.

I needed coffee beans — and I like theirs.

And I bought myself flowers.

Now I have lilies in my corner because I bought myself flowers on my way home from the ICU.

They had these things called strawberry plums.

Holy crap!

Did anyone else know about these?

Am I just late to the party?

They're amazing.

I'm sitting here with Franklin and my lilies and my strawberry plums and drinking the nectar of the gods for the first time in nearly three weeks.

Coffee.

Oh. My. God.

I feel like a new human.

Also, I forgot the lemon.

If you've never done this, take a tiny piece of lemon rind and rub it around the rim of your coffee cup. Then put a little piece into the pour-over while you're making it.

Not a giant lemon wedge.

We're not making lemonade.

Just enough.

It is heaven.

And here's the thing.

I'm home.

I slept from about 4:30 yesterday afternoon until 10 or 11 this morning.

My headache is gone. The first time I can say that in three years!

Yay.

But I'm not all here yet.

Coming home does not mean I'm suddenly recovered.

I still need a massive amount of help and sleep.

I'm a solo founder who was already playing three years of catch-up. This summer was supposed to be the summer I reached out to everyone, reconnected with my accounts, made major sales, and created some breathing room.

Instead, I spent it in and out of the hospital.

And now I need about two months of economic runway to recover, catch up, and rebuild the cushion that this summer was supposed to create.

Which brings me back to something I've been trying to figure out how to say.

People keep asking me what they can do.

And apparently I actually have to answer them.

So, what can you do? My dear readers?

• Continue to read my work.

• Become a paid subscriber.

• Send it to your people.

• Shop the jewelry.

• Send the jewelry to your people.

Those things allow me to keep doing the things I can do from wherever I happen to be: write and make things.

And if you’re an object person...

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Jewelry One of a KIND Journal

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For now, though, I'm going back to my sofa.

Franklin has been fed.

I have coffee.

There are lilies in my corner.

I'm home.

And this morning, that feels pretty f—ing revolutionary.

— Amanda

In reality, I’m 5’3” and maybe 105 pounds. Or 110 pounds. I don’t know—I don’t weigh myself. Depending on the day, soaking wet.

Over my life—we’re talking since grammar school—I’ve collected friends, mostly blonde friends, who are supermodel tall. Like six feet and over.

I don’t know what that’s about. Maybe I’ve collected all these girlfriends because they’re the epitome of who I think I am in my mind’s eye. I’m not sure.

I realized this the other day—well, I’ve known this for a long time. I was gathering all my girlfriends in this new group that I’ve become friendly with to support my girlfriend Ginny. As we were sitting there all together, we all looked the same height.

One of them, Shea, had to leave early. She was there supporting several of her clients—they were speaking, too. I went over to say goodbye to her, and I literally did that thing where you pause... then you start looking... and keep looking up... and up... and up... until your neck cranes all the way back and you finally make eye contact.

I jokingly said, “I didn’t realize how tall you are.”

She said, “I put on deodorant.”

She must be 6’5”. She’s a giant. And she owns it.

I happen to have another friend in that group—a literal supermodel, Karolina—who is also six-foot-something and blonde.

I realized I’ve somehow found my people in Miami... they happen to be tall blonde women, which, to me, is hilarious.

I told Shea on Instagram, “Next up, the story of how I literally have a gaggle of friends that are six feet tall... since childhood.”

She replied, “We’ll be waiting on pins & needles & 4-inch stilettos!”

So here goes….

I think my cousin Suzy and I compete for the tallest woman in our family. We’re both about 5’3” or 5’4”.

For the longest time, I thought I was 5’4”. I even had it on my driver’s license because I did a little modeling when I was younger, but I was always too short. I think I probably lied because I thought 5’4” was at least doable.

This was around the 5’5” Kate Moss era.

I’m actually 5’3”, and my mother is 4’11”. When I stand next to her, I look the way I looked standing next to Shea.

I look like a supermodel.

I look like a giant next to my mother.

Over the years, I’ve collected these tall women.

When I got to college, one of my friends was MJ. She happens to be six feet tall and blonde. I remember sleeping over at her house one time. She had this boyfriend—his name is Chip, now her husband.

They’re what I call “The Family Large.”

Large in height, not in width.

And then there’s me.

I am a mini person.

My feet are a size 5.5. My wrists look like a child’s. I’ve just always been small.

My mother was 89 pounds and 4’11” when she got married. In fact, when my parents went on their honeymoon, they had to call their parents so the hotel would let them check in because they thought they were children.

I literally got hand-me-downs from my friends’ kids, and by the time they turned eight years old, I wasn’t getting hand-me-downs anymore because they didn’t fit.

So I sleep over at MJ and Chip’s house, and I accidentally leave my—quotation marks—underwear there.

Chip comes walking out holding them and says:

“What the heck is this? Is this... like a slingshot?”

It was so tiny.

He said, “Whose is this?”

Of course, this was during the Calvin Klein G-string era. I’m calling them “stinky strings.”

They were literally a tiny triangle with two strings because we all thought that was sexy.

They were super fucking uncomfortable.

They didn’t cover anything.

I would never wear those again.

But back then, I guess that was what we thought we were supposed to wear. Or at least I did.

No panty lines.

What we do for fashion.

I just remember him coming out holding them and me being completely embarrassed because my girlfriend’s boyfriend was holding my underwear.

Fast forward.

I meet my friend Carol.

Carol and Gary are husband and wife. Gary is 6’7”—literally the Tall Man in Black. Carol is over six feet tall, and all of their children are over six feet.

They are truly “The Family Large.”

Carol is a dear friend of mine. She lives in California. I call Gary “the entertainment guru” because he worked in the entertainment industry, and they were so gracious. They invited me to incredible events and amazing concerts.

When I first met Carol, it was actually at Elton John’s Red Piano tour in Las Vegas.

But to explain that, I have to tell you about another one of my tall blonde friends.

Kathy Cheesecake.

And I’m getting back to Carol, I promise you, but we’ve gotta go through Kathy Cheesecake first.

Actually, that is a whole other story.

So, for now: Carol and I became fast friends. Fifteen or twenty years later, we are still friends.

When Gary became ill and sadly passed away, Carol held a beautiful celebration of his life.

There’s a photograph of me with Carol, her son, and Gary’s close friend Chad. I’m wearing six-inch heels. Carol is wearing flats. The picture is hysterical because I look like I’ve been Photoshopped into it, like someone cut me out of another photograph and dropped me into theirs.

The proportions look completely wrong.

That’s how tall everyone is.

Carol became yet another one of my tall blonde friends—and one of my ride-or-die people. Unfortunately, she lives all the way in California. At the time I met her, I was living in New York.

Now I’m in Miami.

We all met for brunch one day. Everyone was sitting down, so it didn’t really register that everyone was unusually tall.

A Miami friend kept looking around like, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Then everyone stood up.

I stopped.

Everyone else just kept rising.

Their legs just kept going... and going... and going.

She looked at me and said, “Oh my God. Now I get it. I get it.”

And I thought, See?

I realized I’ve somehow collected this incredible gaggle of gorgeous, talented, intelligent, successful women. I’ve got artists. I’ve got poets. I’ve got entrepreneurs. I’ve got money mavens. I’ve got weightlifters. I’ve got triathletes. I’ve got writers. I’ve got musicians. I’ve got models.

There’s just something about this group.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe this is just my type. Maybe if I’m going to become close friends with someone—and they’re genuinely good humans—they’re just going to happen to be six-foot-tall blondes.

I mean, I’m kind, and I’m down here.

I don’t know what the science is.

Maybe I should start wearing stilts around them.

The plot thickens with my tall blondes.

I get here to the hospital, and I text my group chat.

Shea reaches out and says, “Amanda, my friend is head of patient experience at UM. Please let me know if you need anything or if your experience while there is not up to par. Sending you so much love!”

I tell her that everyone at UMiami has been fantastic. The only odd thing is, I’ve been here for 36 hours and I haven’t seen a doctor yet.

Well...

I think within fifteen minutes, in walks a tall blonde bombshell named Lauren.

There you go.

Add another one to the list.

I cannot have this story complete without my friend Debra. She is my six-foot blonde Princetonite. That is, until she also stopped dyeing her hair during COVID, so now she’s no longer blonde.

I just got off the phone with her.She called me while I was in the hospital and was telling me what was going on with her life, and I said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

She said, “It’s gotta be really bad because you’re in the ICU and you’re telling me my situation sucks.”

Debra is in the school of six-foot blonde brainiacs—she’s part of my coven of women.

I remember after one of my Hospituationships when I was living in Princeton, she didn’t ask, “What can I do?”

She just showed up with food and a loaded Apple TV with 230-some-odd movies raring to go.

I have a gaggle of intelligent, fantastic, supportive women who are breathing air on a different level, and I love them dearly.

And then there’s Ginny.

Ginny and I are the same height. Actually, I am a tiny bit taller.

(Update: We spoke this morning. I am definitely taller. She told me she shrunk an inch.)

We’re both tiny people.

She’s blonde.

And I know all of you are looking at me thinking, “You’re not blonde.”

Well... I was.

I had honey-blonde hair as a little girl. Then I started highlighting it.

During COVID, I stopped highlighting it. I haven’t colored my hair in four or five years.

Now the gray is coming in, and honestly...

I kind of like it.

Ginny keeps telling me, “You should color it. Gray hair makes everyone look older.”

She says it in a very gracious way. She’d never actually say it quite that directly.

I may eventually add a little color just to give the gray some oomph. But my hair has definitely gotten darker with age.

It’s not brown.

It’s definitely not blonde anymore either.

Next up for paid subscribers

P.S. Remember Kathy Cheesecake?

She’s another six-foot blonde.

There’s a hazelnut farm in Italy, a five-pound crystal with its own seat, a slightly creepy man named Peter, my grandmother, Las Vegas, Elton John—and how I actually met Carol and Gary.

That’s a whole other story… and it’s next.

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

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coffee, always appreciated

It's 5:16 AM. It's Tuesday. Today is my second day of having infusions for a headache I've had for three years.

Holy hat, Batman.

Here's the amazing thing that I noticed yesterday. I showed up at 7:15, and I had a girlfriend pick me up whom I haven't spoken to or seen—I don't know, I don't remember. I just remember seeing her during the pandemic. We're not very close. Actually, we're not close at all, but she's still in the group, you know? When texted that I needed rides to the hospital in the wee hours of morning, she was one of the first people who said, "Yeah, I'll do it."

She showed up in a big SUV with the baby seat in it. She had a baby six months ago. The baby's at home, she also asked if she could come 15 minutes earlier than we had originally planned.

Fucking epic.

It is currently 5:15 am in the morning, and I have my second infusion. I have another friend who's coming, and surprisingly it was really easy —which is wild— to get rides to the hospital at 6 AM. It's was a little more difficult to figure out who's going to pick me up in the middle of the day, which is normal. Everybody's working.

Here’s the deal. When I got to the hospital, there was nobody there to check me in. I had to go to three different areas of the hospital to figure out where I was going. You're supposed to be there 30 minutes early, when I finally got to the right place, there's 15 people already waiting at 7 o'clock in the morning, and when they finally start checking us in — most of them were getting infusions. I'm assuming for cancer, considering all if the fashionable headwear. I wasn't getting a cancer infusion, I'm getting headache infusion.

What they didn't explain to me—and this is not a dig at anybody who helped me yesterday—when you're so in it, you don't realize what you don't know. You don't know what questions to ask because you've never done it before, right?

I take the corner seat, my dear, because that’s the kind of girl I am.

It turns out I have a nurse who's also from New Jersey. She moved to Miami a week ago. We both started laughing immediately because we're Jersey girls.

Jersey girls are really kind, but we're not nice.

What that means is we'll do anything for you. We'll go out of our way to explain things and help however we can. But we're not fake. We don't smile when something happens that we don't like. We don't sugarcoat things. I actually think that's a gift.

Here in Miami, people are really nice, but you don't always get what you want, need, or expect. She and I had a big giggle about it, and I said, "Hey, let me give you the keys to the kingdom." She was so excited.

I spent four hours getting infused. During the first part of it, I started writing all these things down. I made a quadrant on a piece of paper: music, art, groceries...

Back to my point. When you're in it, you don't realize it. You're just going through the motions. Nobody told me this infusion was going to kick my ass. At 11:30 I was done. It's not an opioid, but they gave me this cocktail. I literally sat there with an IV while they hung, like, five different bags. That's how long it took for everything to go through. I had also read that if it really knocked me out because it was administered too quickly, I could ask them to slow it down. I'm definitely going to do that today because when I got home, I couldn't even...

The exhaustion.

I mean, I've been exhausted for five years because I've been so sick, but this exhaustion...

I just lay there like a jellyfish in my bed.

I think I watched a movie. I couldn't tell you what I watched.

Thank God I was smart enough on Monday to know that I needed a clean bathroom, a clean kitchen, and fresh sheets. I also baked myself some bread. I was also smart enough to bake only part of it and leave the rest of the fermented dough in the fridge so that each day I can just stick some in the oven without having to think about it, which is great.

I also have a stocked fridge of things I can just forage through because I really am an expert at hospitals. I've been doing this for years.

I took a bag with me to the hospital. I made myself toast with my fresh bread, honey, butter, and almond butter. I brought fruit. I also brought earbuds because I know it's always loud. I brought a cashmere blanket. I brought a four-ply cashmere sweater. I wore jeans. I wore socks.

I call Miami in the summer "our winter" because the buildings are freezing.

The hospital is the same way. Or really, any building in Miami. It can literally be freezing inside and 90 or 100 degrees outside, so you have to be prepared.

The one thing I didn't bring yesterday?

Eye shades.

I'm bringing them today. They have a little lavender in them, so they don’t smell so... hospital. I hate fluorescent lighting, and fluorescent lighting and a headache are not friends. They hate each other.

I'm in my chair. I have all my things. Surprisingly the hospital has a fully stocked fridge with cheese, grapes, and all kinds of yummy snacks.

I brought my own coffee because it is the nectar of the god’s and I don’t leave home without it.

Here’s the really funny part.

My friend Ginny is speaking on Thursday, and I really think I'm going to be able to make it. I even organized a whole bunch of other women to make sure they come to support her. She’s now going to be the fireside chat event at The Moore here in Miami, which looks like it’s gotten even bigger than originally planned. From 6-9 pm I don't know how the fuck that's going to happen.

I thought I would come home and get stuff done.

Not a fucking chance, folks.

Now it’s 5:30 am and I'm going to jump in the shower so I can wake up a little bit and get to my appointment on time.

Val is picking me up at 6:30. Thanks Val!

— Amanda

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

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But wait... there’s more.

For the past three months, it’s gotten even worse. It’s that hangover headache with what feels like an ice pick shoved into the left side of my head and eye-watering pain 24/7. That’s where I’ve been for three months. So... what did you do on your summer vacation?

Next week I’ll spend three days in the hospital doing DHE infusions. Quite honestly, I don’t give a fuck at this moment. I need this gone. We are not taking this roomate with me to the next apartment.

Until then...

Let's keep these beautiful things in circulation, because they ain't coming with me.

Back in the day, there was something called a goodie closet. If you’re in magazines, publishing, or PR, you know exactly what I’m talking about. When I had my first jewelry company, I’d reached that next level in the business. I had showrooms representing my collections on both coasts, handling some of my wholesale sales volume, and I hired a PR agency to build national press. This piece is a Collette Malouf bracelet that came from the goodie closet as a gift to me. The agency used her as their big success story. “This is how fabulous we are. This is what we can do for you.” Then they’d pull out this six-inch-thick tear sheet book filled with all the press they’d gotten for her. They did a really great job, and I worked with them for quite a while.

That’s the story behind this cuff. I love it. It’s fabulous. I have the tiniest arms on the planet. They’re like a six-year-old’s, and every time I wear it, it falls off. Now it needs a new home. It’s literally like a piece of sculpture.

It looks fantastic on my table, but it does not work on my arm.

Enjoy.

And this other piece in the Everything Doesn’t Come With Me volumes is another Russell Wright pitcher. I told you guys I have a huge collection of Russell Wright, and at this point in my life, I do not have the home to go with it. I live in an apartment, and I need to downsize. I do not need all of these pitchers by Russell Wright, perhaps you guys do.

Here’s a gray one. They’re all original. None of these are reproductions. I also have all of the teacups and saucers that go with this collection, and I don’t use them. I actually like to drink out of mugs, and I also prefer to drink out of porcelain. I know... I’m a total snob. I like my tea in porcelain. I like my coffee in a mug.

What do you guys think about these teacups?

I love them because they’re all different colors.

That’s a little housewares section for you.

I’m definitely a chocolate, gray, and white girl.

Then here are some shoes.

I have a girlfriend named Ginny. Her last name is extremely famous. Our nickname for each other is #Vinnifer because her first name is Virginia, my first name is Jennifer, she’s always gone by Ginny, and as an adult I’ve always gone by Amanda.

She came over one day knowing I am selling a bunch of my things and she has a gorgeous collection of shoes. I have a size 5½ foot, and she has a size 7 or 8, these are all hers.

If you want a pair of famous person’s shoes, I’ll tell you who she is once you buy them.

And if you just want a beautiful $800 to $1,200 pair of gorgeous black stilettos bought in Florence, for a steal, along with the gossip that goes with them. Here you go ….

These shoes have flown on the jet. They’ve walked the cobblestone streets. These shoes have stories.

And a terrific price.

I think that’s it for this Vol. 2 of Everything Doesn’t Come With Me.

If you’re interested in anything, you’ll find it over on my Depop. Seriously, haggle with me. If I put a price on something and you think it's too much, make me an offer. I love a good deal, and I'm assuming if you're reading this and are a thrift, vintage, or consignment person, you do too! Also, I’d much rather see it in one of your homes than sitting in a box in mine

Please forward this to your vintage hunter-gatherer girlies or guys. There are SOOOO many of us here on Substack, and I have not found all my people yet. So send it to yours.

Thank you for coming along for the ride. We’ll see what shows up in Volume Three.

P.S. If there's no link and you don't see it on Depop, I haven't caught up yet. DM me—I will respond. Thanks!

— Amanda

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

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At the time, I was newly sober. Let’s just say I had about 6 years sober then. He raked me over the coals in his book for going to meetings, praying, meditating, calling my sponsor, and all of the things I did to stay sober. Now I’m twenty-five years sober, and I still pray, meditate, talk to my sponsor regularly, go to meetings, and do all of the things because that’s what we do when we’re sober.

Back then, my sponsor was going to Sloan Kettering every Tuesday because she’d been living with cancer for years. At the same time, this guy also had cancer and was getting treatment, so I was going to his appointments with him. Yeah... I was extremely codependent.

He lived in a studio apartment, and for some reason I had this idea that I needed to help with everything. Because he was so immunocompromised, it was important that the apartment be clean, so I hired my cleaning lady and worked with his mom and brother to clean it. It took four people over eight hours to clean his tiny studio apartment. You can imagine how disgusting it was. It was filthy.

Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all of this is because of the chocolate meme. In his book—he described my chocolate addiction.

At the time, I ate chocolate the way I used to do drugs and drank alcohol. I would buy those five-pound bulk bags of M&Ms—the kind you’re supposed to have for forty people over the course of a month—and I’d eat one by myself in a single sitting.

Then, of course, I’d have horrible you know what — the d word. I had terrible gastrointestinal problems and never really under stood why. Looking back now, it’s almost funny.

He described my chocolate addiction so eloquently that I’ve always thought I should pick up the book again. I remember getting it, reading his descriptions of me, and being so angry that I threw it against the wall. I never picked it up again.

The problem is I can’t find the book. The library doesn’t have it, and I’m a huge library person.

They closed the Books & Books on Lincoln Road years ago, so now the closest one is in Coral Gables or Coconut Grove. I literally don’t have a bookstore I can walk to anymore in Miami Beach, which is just appalling. I can’t find it online, I can’t Google the passage, and I can’t find a used copy anywhere.

So, for now, I guess I’ll just have to wonder exactly how he described my chocolate addiction.

- Amanda

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

Subscribe for collector releases, museum-quality jewelry, and the object side of my brain.

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This essay has been sitting in my drafts since Memorial Day weekend. This week got away from me—Zoom meetings, apartment hunting, doctor’s appointments, and life. I thought I’d finally share it with you.

Good morning, lovelies.

I’m actually thinking about my cousin this morning.

I sent her a text because I didn’t realize until now that her birthday and her wedding anniversary are on the same day. Yeah... it took me like forty years to realize that.

I think I was thirteen when she got married. She and her husband are a real team. They met in college, got married, and I was in their wedding.

We had no idea what was in store for us. We were all together. It was a completely different world.

That summer, just before I turned thirteen... that was the summer. I don’t think I’d been kissed yet. Well... actually, I had. My first kiss was in Venice. Yeah, that sounds really fabulous. My parents took us to Venice. I think I was in seventh grade. Actually, no—I was about to start high school.

We went to Venice, and instead of just remembering my first kiss, I went down one of my financial rabbit holes. First it was, “How did the family in Home Alone afford that house?” and somehow turns into, “Wait... how the hell did my family afford all of this?” As an adult, I look back and think, what the hell Dad? My childhood was unbelievably privileged, and I didn’t even realize it until I got older. How did a family of four go to Europe and take vacations pretty regularly? Wow. Dad, you were unbelievable!

Back to the kiss.

For some reason, my parents thought it was a great idea to let my sister and me—she was fourteen and I was twelve, almost thirteen—wander around Venice until midnight. I honestly have no idea why that seemed like good parenting. But... Gen X. Parents in the eighties. Apparently they thought that was perfectly reasonable.

My sister and I “went out.” And I say that in quotation marks because all we really did was wander around Venice with our eyes wide open, thinking, Wow... this is incredible.

And of course... we met boys.

During the day, boys followed us everywhere. My father would turn around and hiss at them or make jokes in English. I don't know if they understood what he was saying, but the definitely knew what was going on. He was basically saying, "I'm the dad of these little ducklings. Get the f***away from us."

My mother would wonder why people kept staring at us. One time my mother looked at someone in a restaurant and said, "Why are you staring at us? Stop looking at us."

Eventually, one evening, we weren’t with my parents anymore. It’s Venice. It’s late. I think it was also the first or second time in my life I’d ever smelled pot. I was this completely innocent little girl. We met these boys. They didn’t really speak English. We didn’t speak Italian. They spoke just enough English that somehow we managed to communicate. We walked around together. I can still picture them wearing parachute pants. It was just peak 1980s.

I also remember the shopping. My sister and I got our first Fendi bags. God, I wish I still had that bag.

Eventually they walked us back to the hotel. Now... that sounds really creepy. But they literally just walked us back to where we were staying. We stood outside. They kissed us goodnight.

Except...

My idea of a kiss was... a kiss on the lips.

It was not the romantic TV kiss I had imagined. I remember watching people making out on The Love Boat—or whatever was on television back then—and thinking, That's not how people kiss. I even remember trying to show other kids what I thought kissing looked like because I thought tongue kissing was so gross. Apparently, I considered myself an expert on kissing despite never having kissed anyone.

Instead, all of a sudden this guy sticks his tongue down my throat.

I remember thinking, Eww... that’s disgusting.

What are you doing?

Nobody told me this was what kissing was.

There I am, tongue down my throat, thinking, Oh my God, that’s disgusting.

And then immediately after that I thought, Oh my God... I’m going to get in trouble.

The concierge is going to see us.

He’s going to tell my parents.

Because, of course, when you’re twelvep, you think every adult is watching you all the time.

That was my first kiss.

I do remember writing letters back then. That’s what you did when you met people on vacation. The boy wrote me letters. They were all in Italian. I think my mother—or maybe my grandmother—translated one of them. Honestly, I don’t even remember if anyone ever translated them. I don’t even know if I ever wrote him back. But I do remember finding one of those letters years later in the attic.

I was thinking about Suzy this morning because when I opened my phone, I saw the happy birthday, happy anniversary text I’d sent her, and she had sent me back a little heart.

Then I started thinking about her wedding. I started thinking about all those romantic ideas you have when you’re thirteen. I had a crush on one of the boys at her wedding. God, I can’t even remember his name now, but I desperately wanted to walk down the aisle with him. Instead, she paired me with my cousin, so I walked down the aisle with F.D. instead of the boy I had a crush on. I was devastated.

After the wedding, everyone went across the street for the after-party at one of my aunt’s best friend’s houses. They had a hot tub. It was also one of the first years I wore a bikini. And, like I said, I was thirteen going on thirty. There I am, in a bikini, with a whole bunch of University guys who had been drinking at a wedding all day.

Danger zone.

I remember someone saying I probably shouldn’t be wearing that bikini because it wasn’t safe. It’s crazy to think about now because, back then, the responsibility somehow landed on me instead of on the grown men.

I was okay.

Thankfully, somebody finally did say, "Stay the fuck away from her. She's thirteen."

But I do remember one moment when one of the guys cornered me. I can still see his face. He was really aggressive. I honestly can’t remember if he kissed me or not. I don’t remember how I got away. I just remember being pinned against the wall and feeling really, really scared. Somehow I got out of it. I don’t know who rescued me. Nothing worse happened, thankfully.

But your body remembers those moments even when your brain doesn’t remember all the details.

The other thing I remember from that night is sitting on the stairs while everyone else was partying. Then this guy walks out of one of the bedrooms. He’s wearing navy blue boxer shorts with this amazing print—blue, pink, yellow. Honestly, it reminds me now of something Matthew Williamson would design.

Of course that’s what I remember.

I’m a designer.

And then...

I saw the biggest erection I’d ever seen in my life.

I’d never seen one before.

I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. I think I just stared as he walked past because it was right there in my line of sight. I was just thinking, Whoa... what is that?

It’s funny what sticks with you.

A crush.

A wedding.

A first kiss.

Getting cornered.

A pair of boxer shorts.

And somehow those are the memories that came flooding back this morning, all because I sent my cousin a happy birthday text.

Anyway, now I'm going to have my coffee.

—Amanda

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

Subscribe for collector releases, museum-quality jewelry, and the object side of my brain.

Jewelry One of a KIND Journal

More photographs, fewer words

Fourth of July, I'm realizing, is a really contradictory holiday for me. It's one of my favorites. I love fireworks. I don't say that like, "Oh, I love fireworks." I giggle. I laugh. I burst with joy, like the fireworks. I know that sounds cliché.

One year, when we were kids, I remember it snowed in Lake Placid, New York, during the fireworks. We all sat outside on the hill and watched them. The local fire station had them, and they were glorious. Not Grucci ala New York City, obviously. It was some really small-town fire company fireworks display, but it really felt like that. It was magical.

I'm reviewing my past experiences while making myself some fresh strawberries.

In 2018, I got hit in the face. I got a concussion on the Fourth of July. It was the beginning of the end. I left that relationship in September. Not talking about that right now.

I do remember one Fourth of July—I don't know why I wasn't out at the beach. I think it just wasn't my weekend because I was staying in Montauk a lot back then. So I was in Princeton, and I was working in the garden. It was beastly hot. New Jersey humidity is different than Miami humidity. I hit my ankle with a garden hoe, or maybe one of those three-pronged cultivator things. It was rusty. I took two Advil, iced it, and went to bed.

I woke up, got out of bed using that leg, and collapsed. There was something really, really wrong.

So I hobbled—or crawled—into the cellar, step by step, practically on my ass, and found a pair of crutches that I knew my neighbor had left there. I took myself to the hospital. Drove myself to the hospital. Mind you, I have a purse around my neck like a feed bag for a horse, and I have crutches. Don't ask me why I didn't call anyone for help. I just... did it. I didn't want to bother anybody. I didn't feel like trying to figure it out.

I get to the hospital, and they've redone the Princeton hospital. They used to valet. Now they have this four-f** ing-acre parking lot that's as far away from the entrance as possible. Whoever decided that was a good idea is a bloody moron.

I park the car, and then I hobble to the emergency room, where there are two old people outside screaming, "Help me! Help me!" The automatic doors open—you know, they're like five feet thick—and then they close, and you can no longer hear them.

I hobble over to the desk with my feed bag, huge swollen foot, sweating, and I say, "There's two people out there that need help, and I need a wheelchair."

The woman at the front desk looks at me like I've just placed a sushi order. She doesn't even look up. She just says, "Your ID and your insurance card, please."

Like I'm a transaction.

I also remember a Fourth of July up in Camden, Maine. Remember those summers in college when you were madly in love—fill in the blank with the person's name—and you had to be with them? It had to be specifically them. I think it's probably called obsession and not love, although this person was absolutely wonderful. To this day, just an incredible human being.

We went to see the fireworks in a field where the grass was way higher than we were, and the bugs were so bad I don't remember the fireworks at all.

I remember the smell of the field. Wet, wheatie and humid.

I remember nervous and tingly feeling of being with my favorite human at the time.

I remember the journey to get there.

I literally couldn't tell you anything about the fireworks, but I can tell you about the smell. I can tell you about the heat. I can tell you about the humidity. I can tell you about the romance and that feeling of being young on the Fourth of July, when the only thing you have to think about is where you're going to sit and who you're going to be with.

And I swear there was no one else in that field, which is, of course, impossible.

Then another experience—completely high on acid—with my friend. I'm not naming names. Out in Southampton. We were on this absolute journey, driving around trying to find the fireworks, which we never, ever found because that's what happens when you're tripping on acid at seventeen looking for fireworks.

There was no GPS. There was no map. There was no internet. We were trying to find them by looking at the sky and driving around on Route 27, which is the main road out east if you don't know.

We never found them.

We just drove around all night in my convertible trying to figure out where the fireworks were. I'm sure it wasn't until one in the morning that we got back to his place, magically ending up there in some acid haze, pretending we were on some journey in the '60s.

Then I remember, as an adult, getting an invitation to Peter Schjeldahl magnificent, epic Fourth of July party upstate. If you've never been—it was incredible. I don't have pictures. I think they're on another hard drive.

Everybody from the upper echelon of the art world to the local fireman showed up. It was like Burning Man meets the state fair.

When you arrived there were all these different signs and boards where you signed up for service—fifteen minutes at the dessert table, fifteen minutes for cleanup, fifteen minutes helping somewhere else. And we all brought food. I made my favorite summer celery lemon salad with a secret ingredient.

I really wanted to be with the pyrotechnics crew, and I found them because they were underneath the house in the basement. That's where the cool guys were. Also, I'm such a firework head.

For those of you who don't know—and don't ask me because I'm not Googling it right now—the blue in fireworks is the most difficult color to create. So when you see blue in fireworks, just know that you're looking at scientific, expensive, creative, pyrotechnic magic.

Peter created—I mean, Peter Schjeldahl is no longer with us—but he created this pyrotechnic ballet, this art experience in the trees, in the mountains, in the hills, so you never knew where the fireworks were coming from. It was this giggling, awestruck, excitement experience. I'm trying to think of a cool way to describe it.

Holy shit.

It was incredible.

At the end of it there was this huge haystack that was burned as a bonfire. It really was like a festival. He would play "The Star-Spangled Banner" on an old record player through the speakers they had, and that would start the festivities.

Wow.

Fourth of July.

So happy 250th, everybody.

— Amanda

Maybe some of you can relate. Is it what’s going on in the world? My life? My health? Honestly, I’m not really sure. I know this Substack is a little different than my others, but here’s the deal.

Yesterday was Sunday, and the plan was pretty straightforward. I had signed up to canvas for a local candidate here in Miami, Lucia Baez-Geller. I’ve been involved in campaigns since 2001. I’ve volunteered in local elections, presidential elections, and just about everything in between.

This isn’t a political story, though.

It’s a story about showing up.

The plan was to meet everyone at the park at 10:00 a.m., spend the morning knocking on doors, and then meet my real estate agent to look at five or six apartments.

Simple enough.

Except my body had other plans.

Last week it basically said, “No more.”

I spent most of the week in bed. I wrote. I worked on my computer. I answered emails. I even made my board meeting because, thankfully, Zoom only requires you to look good from the shoulders up. But anything physical—washing dishes, walking anywhere, showing up to an event—felt enormous. I even had to cancel a one Zoom meeting because I simply couldn’t do it.

At some point during the week, I sent an SOS message to a group of women here in Miami. I basically said, “I need help. I can’t do this by myself anymore.”

I don’t think anyone realizes how sick I really am.

Honestly, I don’t think I realized it either.

I also don’t want this story to become one about being sick. I don’t want to be identified by my illness.

I think I’ve been living under the delusion that I could just keep pushing through.

Apparently my body had a different opinion.

“No way.”

“If you don’t ask for help, we are done.”

So I asked.

One friend came over and tackled what felt impossible: laundry. I had almost two months’ worth piled up. She started washing clothes while I sat there thinking, thank you, thank you, thank you. I still have another five loads to go.

Sunday morning I showed up for Lucia anyway.

Because that’s what I do.

It was over ninety degrees in Miami with what felt like one hundred and twenty percent humidity. Walking there, I remember thinking:

What the hell am I doing?

This is horrible.

I don’t know if I’m going to make it.

Then I saw Lucia. She was there canvassing alongside everyone else. She’s amazing, and I adore her. The energy of being around people carried me for about an hour.

Then I had to admit something I almost never say.

“I can’t do this. I have to go home.”

She offered to call me a car. It was only four blocks away. I said no and walked home. Looking back, I probably should have taken the ride.

When I got home, I wrapped my head in ice packs and lay there thinking I was going to throw up.

A little while later, I somehow managed to meet my real estate agent and look at apartments. I think I found one. We even submitted an offer.

Later that afternoon she called with last-minute questions about my application. My first thought was, You’ve had this paperwork for a week and a half... But I never said it.

Halfway through the conversation, I realized I was going to vomit.

I literally hung up on her. About an hour later, I texted her back.

“If it works out, it works out. If they need anything else, I’ll get it to you tomorrow.”

That’s where I am.

And that’s really why I’m writing this.

Not because I’ve stopped believing I’ll get better. I do.

Not because I’ve stopped working. I haven’t.

I’m still writing. I’m still building Jewelry One of a KIND. I’m still applying for consulting work. I’m still trying to contribute in every way I can.

But I’ve finally reached the point where I can’t do all of this alone anymore.

Maybe the bravest thing I can do right now isn’t showing up.

Maybe it’s finally admitting that I need other people to show up for me.

If you’ve followed my work, you’ve seen the projects. You’ve seen me secure grants, build Jewelry One of a KIND, write consistently, launch two Substacks, create partnerships across Miami, mentor young founders, help educate thousands of people through my public health work, speak at events, and continue showing up.

What you haven’t seen is what it has taken to keep showing up.

Social media captures the hours I’m able to work. It doesn’t capture the days spent in bed, the hours on the phone with doctors, pharmacies, insurance companies, and hospital administrators. It doesn’t show the biopsies, MRIs, blood work, specialist appointments, or the endless cycle of testing that’s consumed my life for the past five years.

This isn’t just about a headache.

For the past five years, I've been navigating a complex autoimmune illness that doctors are still trying to fully understand. The reality has been the same: trying to build a business, earn a living, and contribute to my community while my body has slowly become less and less reliable.

Some weeks I spend five hours managing my healthcare. Other weeks it’s closer to twenty. Being a patient has become a part-time job I never applied for.

Since October 2023, I’ve lived with a daily headache. Over the past two months it has settled into a relentless level-seven pain that simply doesn’t let up. Somewhere along the way, I stopped realizing just how much I was asking of myself.

But I’ve reached a point where not telling the truth has become harder than telling it.

I’m sharing this because I can no longer keep pretending everything is okay, and because I've finally realized that asking for help is part of the healing process, too.

I know this isn’t forever. I’m someone who has always packed a lot into a day. Even sick, I probably get more done in a day than some people do in a week, which is probably why it took me so long to realize how much I’d slowed down.

I fully expect to get back to creating, building, writing, teaching, partnering, and contributing in the ways I always have. But I also know I’ll get there much sooner if I stop pretending I can do this entirely on my own.

If my work has ever touched your life—through Jewelry One of a KIND, my writing, partnership work, overdose prevention efforts, mentoring, or simply a conversation we've shared—I hope you'll consider helping me through this chapter.

The studio is still open. I'm still making work. I'm still writing. And I'm going to get better

For now...

If you’re wondering how you can help, here are the ways that would make the biggest difference right now.

Here are the ways that would make the biggest difference right now.

1. Work With Me

I’m actively looking for fractional leadership and project-based work with founders, small and midsize businesses, museums, cultural organizations, hospitality groups, retailers, and mission-driven organizations.

I can help with strategic partnerships, business development, operations, AI workflow design, community engagement, experiential programming, event strategy, e-commerce, fundraising strategy, and special projects that need an experienced operator who can quickly connect ideas, people, and execution.

If you’re building something, solving a complex problem, or need someone who can jump in and get things moving, I’d love an introduction. You can learn more about my background on LinkedIn, or email me directly at amanda@partnr305.com with the subject line: Amanda – Substack Sent Me

LinkedIn

2. Subscribe to the Everything Doesn't Come With Me series here on Substack.

As I prepare to move, I’ll be sharing weekly stories from my personal archive. Every purchase gives one of these objects a new home while helping support this next chapter.

Follow along for the stories behind the objects I’m letting go. And if you know someone who loves vintage, design, collecting, or a good treasure hunt, I’d love it if you shared the series with them. There are some wonderful treasures waiting for new homes.

Everything Doesn't Come With Me

3. Collect Jewelry One of a KIND.

There are also a handful of new designs alongside a small number of limited-edition pieces that will soon retire from the collection. If you’ve been thinking about collecting one, now is the time.

And honestly... I couldn’t resist sneaking a few baubles into the conversation.

Shop the Collection

4. Make an introduction.

The greatest professional help you can offer is an introduction.

If you know a founder, museum contact, hospitality group, retailer, cultural organization, or business that could use someone with my background, I’d be incredibly grateful if you connected us.

And if this story resonates with you, sharing it is always appreciated too. (Sharing is caring. Yes, I know how corny that sounds.)

5. If you’d simply like to help...

Several people have asked if there’s a direct way to support me while I focus on getting healthy. If you’d like to help, I’ve included my Venmo below.

This season is about healing, but it isn’t the end of the story. The studio is still open. I’m still making jewelry. I’m still writing. And I’m committed to getting stronger.

My goal isn’t simply to recover—it’s to continue creating, building, and contributing the work I’ve devoted my life to.

Venmo

Thank you for reading, for believing in my work, and for walking with me through this season.

Every introduction, every share, every purchase, every project, and every note of encouragement genuinely helps more than you know.

Thank you for being here.

With gratitude,

Amanda

^{Every object in this collection has a story. I’ve shared those stories here. If one of these objects belongs in your next chapter, you’ll find it available through my Depop shop.}

I know I have to move, and I’ve started looking at apartments. I find one I like, and emotionally I begin moving myself in. I start measuring rooms in my head, seeing my things in the apartment, and imagining my life there before I’ve even signed a lease.

That’s where I am right now.

I’ve seen two apartments (Okay... maybe 949 online) that already felt like home—and I say home in air quotes because the first one literally took my breath away. Ocean view. Corner unit. Huge space. Fourteenth floor.

It had that old-school Miami feel, which is what I love. I’m in a modern building right now. It’s from 1965, but it has a much more modern feel, and I really miss walking into a building that immediately feels like you’re at the beach. That’s exactly what this one was.

Then you walked out onto the balcony and wondered if it was going to collapse.

There were two bathrooms with tubs—old-school, very vintage, absolutely gorgeous tubs. One was baby blue and one was yellow.

Oh my God, it was awesome.

I don’t have a tub in my current apartment, and I used to take baths every day. It’s very English, although I’m not English. I just love baths, and I really miss having one.

This apartment had two out of three.

No dishwasher.

Of course, we asked the woman showing the apartment all kinds of questions. There was a huge alcove with its own entryway that would have been perfect for my jewelry studio. There was literally a closet in the bedroom the size of a New York City apartment.

But the structure of the building was questionable.

I got home and did my due diligence. Sure enough, there were structural and elevator complaints on the city’s website—pretty much monthly—for the past ten years.

That one came off the list.

But you know what it’s like when you’re trying to fit a round peg into a square hole. You start negotiating with yourself.

“But I want the view.”

“I’ll never find another one like this.”

“It’s such a great price.”

Then I found the second one.

It’s on a beautiful, quiet street, and quiet is the number one thing I need right now. At the moment, I’m living in a construction zone. They're scheduled to demolish the building next door. There's construction in the apartment above me, below me, in the hallway, outside my window, and they're about to start construction around the pool. Add the leaf blowers at seven in the morning, and I spend half my day wearing earplugs with noise-canceling headphones over them.

I have to get out of here.

The second apartment is on the National Register of Historic Places, and I was already emotionally married to it.

We were driving around looking for parking when I saw it. The negative voice in my head immediately said, “There’s no way that’s the building.”

Sure enough, it was.

It even has its own Instagram.

It's absolutely gorgeous—a classic 1948 Miami MiMo building. If you know, you know.

It’s a two-bedroom, which means I could finally have a proper jewelry studio. It doesn’t have a dishwasher. It doesn’t have a bathtub. It doesn’t have a balcony—which, honestly, Franklin needs more than I do.

But it does have a dock on the bay where I could launch the stand-up paddleboard I don’t own...yet.

It’s a beautiful historic building designed by a well-known architect, and I thought,

“I have to live here.”

I put in an offer.

So did everyone else.

I didn’t get it.

Which brings us to today.

I’m moving.

And as I prepare for whatever comes next, I’m opening my archive to all of you.

Over the years I’ve collected beautiful things that no longer serve this next chapter of my life. Rather than pack every one of them into another apartment, I’d love to invite you to browse them instead.

Each piece comes with a little story.

This is the first drop. Everyone gets this one.

Over the next few weeks, paid subscribers will receive first access to future archive releases and first dibs on some of my favorite pieces before they’re offered anywhere else.

This Substack is a little different than usual, but I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy it.

Everything in this collection is one of one.

Once an object finds its next home, it will be removed from the Archive. Paid subscribers will receive first access to future drops over the coming weeks.

Thanks for taking this journey with me.

—Amanda

Russell Wright and his wife, Mary, were original American designers.

They first became known for their textile patterns, but they’re really remembered for completely changing the way people entertained at home.

This was the 1950s, when many families of a certain socioeconomic background still had household staff. Russell Wright designed dinnerware for people who wanted to entertain beautifully without staff. It sounds very 1950s housewife, but it was actually revolutionary. They designed not just dishes—they designed community.

His work is highly collectible now, and I have a beautiful collection, some of which came from my grandmother. Chocolate is my favorite colorway. I actually have a few of these pitchers, and I’m only keeping one. That’s what happens when you become a collector and eventually realize you’re a minimalist maximalist.

I encourage you to read about Russell and Mary Wright. They were brilliant.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

My Grandmother's Shoes are magnificent. They’re chocolate velvet with grosgrain ribbon.

Back in the day, you would go to Bonwit Teller, Bergdorf Goodman, Henri Bendel, or Saks Fifth Avenue and have your shoes custom made. These were made specifically for my grandmother. And yes, she was that kind of woman, because she built that kind of life for herself. Almost everything I inherited from her is either custom-made or beautifully made.

These are for a teeny tiny foot. I don’t wear chocolate brown velvet shoes in Miami, but the woman with a tiny size 5 or very slender 5½ foot is going to love these.

But the real story isn’t the shoes.

It’s the woman who wore them.

She built, owned, and operated a stock car racetrack beginning in 1948, and she ran it for more than fifty years.

On the day she died, before she was buried, her final request was that her hearse take one last lap around the track.

That tells you just about everything you need to know about the kind of woman she was.

Whoever ends up wearing these shoes will be stepping into the shoes of an icon.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

This Brooks Brothers shirt is made from incredibly substantial cotton.

It is not for the faint of heart—and honestly, that’s one of the reasons I’m letting it go.

It’s beautifully made. It’s actually designed for women, but the cotton is so wonderfully thick that it’s simply too warm for Miami, where it’s humid almost all year long.

When I found it, I bought two.

No one needs two.

I hope one of you gives it a wonderful second life.

Mavrans is probably one of the coolest brands in Miami. It just isn’t my style.

Mavrans is iconic, and I know some of you hipsters in Los Angeles—or maybe New York—are going to absolutely love it. They designed womenswear for a hot minute before going back to what they do best: menswear. Because of that, this matching set is a little harder to find.

It was a gift to me, and I honestly tried. I even wore it around the apartment to see if it would grow on me.

It never did.

I love looking at it. I just don’t love wearing it. Not because it's uncomfortable—it isn't. It’s simply not me. We all know what that’s like, trying to wear something that doesn’t fit your style, even inside your own four walls.

It’s hopeless.

Enjoy.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

The Bee Necklace From the Tangled Necklace Series

This is one of my own creations.

I collected a boatload of vintage necklaces—many of them from my grandmother’s stash, including this one—and began making one-of-a-kind necklaces from them.

This piece is probably from around 2011. The bees are vintage hand-stamped brass, intertwined with freshwater pearls, a sterling silver chain, and gold vermeil woven throughout. The necklace itself is made from vintage components, semi-precious stones, and what I believe is a vintage necklace dating to the 1950s.

I called this series my Tangled Necklaces.

I love it.

I never wear it.

So it’s time for someone else to.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

These are Hudson Holly jeans, brand new with tags.

They have the most fantastic little baby pink paint details, and I absolutely fell for them.

Unfortunately, I’m a mini-person.

I convinced myself oversized, that these baggy jeans were going to look amazing on me. Even with a belt, these are still too big. They’re high-waisted, and the combination of the oversized fit and the belt gave me a very unfortunate silhouette—camel toe meets under my armpits.

Needless to say, they’re fabulous on someone else.

Enjoy them—and don’t miss the little pink paint accents.

They’re really fun.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

This Paris Perfume Bottle

I have to rethink my relationship with Paris.

It’s not a happy story, and today isn’t the day to tell it. If you’ve been reading along for a while, you’ve probably read that chapter already.

But this bottle is absolutely magnificent.

It appears to be a mid-century Italian Murano or German Lutz art glass perfume bottle. The cap is metal, the bottle is hand-blown and hand-painted with a beautiful metal overlay, and even the stopper is blown glass.

It’s tiny—only about two and a half inches tall—but it feels incredibly decadent.

It was a gift from my mother.

Every time I look at it, I think of Paris.

I think it’s time for someone with happier memories of Paris to continue its story.

Available through my Depop shop. Once it's gone, it's gone.

A quick note: Most items are already listed on Depop. A few will be added over the next day or two. Purchases are first come, first served, and I'm not able to hold items. If you'd like to purchase something before it's listed, you're welcome to Venmo me.

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

Subscribe for collector releases, museum-quality jewelry, and the object side of my brain.

Jewelry One of a KIND Journal

More photographs, fewer words

coffee, always appreciated

Read more

coffee, always appreciated

Now, I’ve been following Ian O’Connor’s photography for a couple of years, or so I thought. And KDR had moved from her amazing home gallery into this new space what felt like just a minute ago.

Turns out, that is not the case…

I get to the gallery, and of course I take the bus. I’m walking around the corner and there’s a wholesale fruit vendor who hands me two coconuts, literally from the trees.

The green ones with the strands hanging.

I am walking into the gallery with two coconuts, and Katia is greeting me. We leave them in the corner. I wash my hands. I go into the space.

The last time I saw Katia in her physical space was when she had an opening in her backyard. Katia’s magical. I met her mom and I met her friends, and she has created the most incredible community in Miami, if you ask me.

It was a few years ago, and last night when we were talking, it was revealed—no, it was six years ago. I don’t know what time warp I’ve been living in.

Cue Rocky Horror Picture Show. “Let’s do the Time Warp again.”

I mean, is this an age thing? I don’t know.

Last night was the first time I’d seen Katia in years.

I think it has a lot to do with social media. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been keeping up with people because I see them online, only to realize I haven’t actually seen them in years.

So let me tell you about Katia.

She is a woman’s woman.

When I first got to Miami, I had this idea of Partnr305. Having been an art dealer and an art collector, and artist, and being put smack in the middle of tourist and hospitality central, I knew how intimidated people are to walk into a gallery. So I had this idea of putting together a business that would introduce tourists to galleries.

I picked a bunch of galleries in Miami and reached out to them. Nina Johnson, Anthony Spinello, Fred Snitzer—I mean, he’s the OG. He’s been here forever. Katia at KDR305. She was just starting her gallery back then. I reached out to a bunch of others that I can’t pull from my memory reservoir right now.

The idea was to work with hotel concierges to bring new people into the gallery ecosystem. People who wanted experiences, who were curious about art, and who needed guidance into the community.

The three pillars were education, inclusion, and being a trusted guide to places where people could learn, collect, and grow their understanding of contemporary art. The galleries would get new collectors because the galleries here are really spread out.

I think I met Katia through Ian. Actually, I know I met her through Ian. I had texted him about what I was doing, and he said, “You need to talk to Katia at KDR305.”

So I sat down with Katia and told her about the idea.

We went into the business of it. She was incredibly generous.

I remember sitting down with her, and she opened up her tax documents and shared how she was building her business.

That doesn’t always happen.

And she invited me to her home, which is where she originally had her gallery.

It was an old-school wooden house.

It was just, “Here. Welcome. Let me give you the ins and outs.”

Partnr305 never took off because I got sick.

I’m still dealing with some of those health issues today.

But here’s the funny thing. Last night I took the bus. It’s around the corner from the stop where I get off to go to one of my favorite thrift stores, Lotus House Thrift, and the hospital. And now I know how close Katia’s gallery is.

The part I never talked about was what happened afterward. I had reached out to people, signed contracts, done all this work, and then I disappeared.

Disappeared.

Like I Mi-Scam-ied, the nickname I have for people in Miami who turn out to be scammers.

Except I’m not.

I actually just got sick. And when you get sick, doing anything but being sick is what you do. You just fall off the face of the earth.

And so I never talked to her about it.

For years, I carried that with me.

So when I saw her last night, she was gracious. It didn’t even register.

She had already had an opening for Ian’s show. She had a season party that I didn’t go to. I think I was either too tired or sick.

But I really made an effort to go last night because I missed Ian’s opening, and the gift of “hey, we’re doing a sound bath” popped into my inbox, and somehow I actually read it.

Kismet.

And I saw Ian too.

He shoots 4x5 old-school film photography—the kind I learned in school. He understands what light does on film. He understands how photography can stop time.

I met him six or seven years ago. I heard him speak about his work and I was blown away. It was incredible. I wanted to buy the work and I couldn’t. He’s still my number one photographer that I want to collect.

He does work that’s reminiscent of Bill Jacobson’s, which is what he had on view last night. And he made a film for the meditation.

So when you closed your eyes, the pinks, the greens, and the blues that were part of the imagery almost appeared through your eyelids while listening to the singing bowls. Imagine closing your eyes and being bathed in sound. Then all of a sudden, pink and blue and green are bathing you as well.

Your eyes are closed.

Then you open them and see the art.

Or you keep them closed and breathe with the vibration of the sound and the people around you.

It was a really magical experience.

But it was also magical because of the Miami community. These were locals. We all live here. It’s not the crowd of being seen. It’s the crowd of community, experience, and interaction.

“What did you think?”

“How did you feel about the art?”

And I really thought it was wild because his show was landscapes with a colored screen in the middle.

A screen in a landscape.

But last night, as we were all sitting there lined up on our furry spots with pillows and little fur blankets laid out for us, there was a huge white screen before the film went on. And it was as though we were part of his photograph.

The screen was in front of us.

We were the landscape.

I wish he had a 4x5 photograph of the evening.

I adore Ian’s abstract architectural photographs of Miami. Some of them are almost like paintings. They look like shapes. You know exactly what you’re looking at, but you’re also looking at color, form, and light.

His eye is exceptional.

But to see the growth of the next generation of talent in the art world, and to see how they’re bringing experience and community together, being part of that last night left me feeling incredibly fulfilled.

— Amanda

If you made it all the way to the end, thank you. Maybe you know someone else who would too. Send it to your people.

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coffee, always appreciated

Honestly, I think this is an unpopular opinion, but losing my business was like losing a family member.

I wrote this recently in the comments section of Another Thing responding to an article about grief by .

What a fantastic article.

I lost my business in 2007–2008. Me and seven million other people because of the recession. It was also part of being young and having a business.

I remember when I lost my business and left New York City. It felt like I lost my entire identity. I didn’t leave the city willingly, and I went to live with my folks.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. I thought I was going to be there for a couple of months.

It turned into a couple of years. Yes, I just wrote that down on a public platform for others to read.

But it also gave me such power and understanding about how to rebuild. It’s not something anybody talks about.

I remember not being able to drive back into New York City. One time I did, and I ended up having to pull over to the side of the road, sobbing so hard I could not see because the tears were blocking my view.

At one point, I couldn't read the newspaper. I couldn't read magazines. I wasn't really able to function because I didn't want to accidentally hear, read, or stumble across what was going on in my industry or with one of my peers.

I think I was thirty-six at the time.

I remember my mother—because my father was going through a similar situation. My mother doesn’t always have the ability to have empathy or see things the way other people see things—and she said to me:

“You know you’re not the only one going through this.”

It was one of those Cher-in-Moonstruck moments.

“Snap out of it.”

And it was very helpful.

At the time, it felt harsh.

Years later—decades later, really—I think she finally understood what that kind of loss feels like.

But that moment changed something for me.

The comment ended up starting a conversation with Jane Pratt.

Jane and I have been “talking” back and forth in the comments about grief and how losing a business can sometimes feel very similar to losing a loved one.

She thanked me for my comment, but she also talked about how painful it was to see Jane magazine on newsstands after she was no longer involved with it.

How visceral it felt.

How devastating it felt.

And that’s something we don’t really talk about.

Thinking about that conversation brought me right back to that summer.

Not the jewelry.

Not the trade shows.

Not the recession.

That summer.

I remember knowing how depressed I was because I was sitting at my mother’s kitchen table having breakfast, and I couldn’t eat.

Now let me explain something.

NEVER in my life have I not been able to eat.

I am the first person who walks into a house—your house, preferably—and opens the refrigerator.

I go to events and immediately wonder what they’re serving, and mostly gauge whether I’m going based on the menu.

I am that annoyingly hungry and lean human being who can eat more than—I don’t know—what’s the guy’s name who wins the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest every year? Joey something-or-other.

It’s obnoxious.

I don’t know. I have the wooden-leg version of a bottomless stomach.

I’ve always had a ridiculously high metabolism. I’ve always loved food, and I’ve always eaten pretty well. I don’t eat a lot of crap, but I genuinely love food.

And I am lean. Like still wearing my high school clothes. And your kids' clothes as hand-me-downs.

I once thought about having a website called One Size Fits No One because I have somehow collected a gaggle of friends who are six feet tall and over. Nothing they buy is their size. Then there’s me and a bunch of mini people I know, and nothing fits us either.

So that summer, not being able to eat scared me.

This was years before COVID, before all of us suddenly understood what it felt like to lose your sense of taste and smell.

That was the beginning of my depression. Or maybe it was just the moment I finally noticed how depressed I already was. And it was dangerous.

So I called my psychiatrist.

My mother drove me back into the city, and I checked myself into what I think was Columbia-Presbyterian.

And this is where it gets funny.

Oh my God.

It’s so fucking hilarious.

At least now it is.

I remember being checked into the hospital and lying there on a gurney thinking:

I can't eat. I don't have taste. I am in the loony bin. WTF? How did I get here? (Cue the Talking Heads.)

I remember hearing about someone whose depression was so severe they lost the ability to see color.

This felt like my version of that.

Like I had lost my ability to taste.

And it’s funny because I’m actually lying down right now while writing this.

Well, sort of.

I talk a lot when I journal. Sometimes I talk into my journal (the Notes app on my phone). Sometimes I write into my journal—the real pencil-to-paper one. Can’t live without that.

Then I go back and re-edit it.

Right now I’m laying on my sofa doing the talk-to-my-journal version of my writing.

So maybe that’s why this memory feels so vivid.

Anyway.

I’m laying on this gurney, and when you’re laying down on a gurney, people walking by are basically waist-high because that’s your line of sight.

I am laying there, and out of the corner of my eye I see another patient who is absolutely losing his mind.

He’s running up and down the halls.

His gown is open.

His ass is hanging out.

He’s taking his own shit.

He’s flinging it all over the place.

His dick is hanging out.

Like a whole new definition of the phrase "swinging dick."

Everything is hanging out.

And in my mind’s eye, I am simultaneously horrified and hysterically laughing.

Not outwardly laughing.

Depressed-person laughing.

Which sounds something like:

Ha.

...

...

...

Because part of my brain is thinking:

Today it’s disgusting.

Today it’s horrifying.

And today I would really appreciate it if somebody would move me somewhere else before this man’s shit, dick, and balls end up directly in my face because that is really not what I signed up for.

And it is currently moving, in slow motion, like the film version of my life, way too close to becoming my reality.

Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t just grieving a business.

I was grieving an identity.

I was grieving a future I thought I was supposed to have.

And maybe that’s why Jane’s comment stayed with me.

Because we spend so much time looking at the polished versions of our lives.

Hell, we’ve all become our own personal PR companies.

As I write this, I gave myself an IPL peel, and my face is so swollen it is made for radio.

Because I posted a video showing how easy it is to put on my necklaces—with one hand, mind you—and I saw, really saw, my skin in the sunlight at 7 a.m.

Face, you are betraying me.

Completely in need of a reset.

Thankfully, I posted the video.

An economics-and-fuck-it-over-vanity moment.

But still, I am currently suffering through the aftermath of a peel because of what I saw in my own Instagram moment.

Maybe that’s why Jane’s comment resonated so much.

Sometimes you see something and you can’t unsee it.

We don’t talk about the parts that aren’t Instagrammable.

We don’t talk about not being able to drive into New York City.

We don’t talk about not being able to read a magazine from your own industry.

We don’t talk about sitting at your mother’s kitchen table and realizing you can’t eat.

And we definitely don’t talk about ending up on a gurney while a naked guy runs down the hallway flinging shit.

But those things are part of the story too.

Sometimes the thing you lose isn’t a person.

Sometimes it’s a company.

Sometimes it’s a career.

Sometimes it’s a version of yourself.

And the grief is real anyway.

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coffee, always appreciated

“To the unknowing, all fire looks like glitter. All branches grow straight.”

That was Gabrielle Hamilton.

And her new book, Next of Kin: A Memoir.

Some of us count days thinking of the years.

I’m counting right now in cats.

I woke up with Franklin this morning.

He’s 12.

He’s my beast, and he’s 12.

Good morning.

May 29, 2026!

In 2001, I had Milford.

Then I had Murray.

Now I have Franklin.

Three cats and 25 years.

Counting my life in cats.

It’s 6:30 a.m. and I’m walking to a meeting.

I’m in Miami Beach.

It smells like humidity and summer, and there’s a stillness.

I took a picture of the sky.

It’s beautiful this morning.

I chose to walk so I could walk and talk.

I’m also giving myself a retreat.

There is a beautiful walk along the bay.

I don’t take the time to walk there often.

I have to walk down my street, make a left onto a little path, and walk about a quarter of a New York block to get there.

That’s about how long it took me to say that sentence.

And I don’t give myself this gift.

It is such a beautiful walk, especially in the morning when there’s no one here.

I love Miami.

Fairly or unfairly, people are not up this early.

I’m an early person, so I get all the benefits.

Twenty-five years.

You think about it.

A guy came into a meeting yesterday morning.

First meeting ever.

He’s 24 years old.

He is the living embodiment of the years I’ve been sober.

He’s a grown man.

And my niece—who isn’t actually my niece, but we call her my niece because her mom came to our elementary school when she was in sixth grade and her sister was in fourth grade and I was in fourth grade and my sister was in sixth grade—and we all became friends.

Decades after we left elementary school, she got married and moved down the street from my parents.

Her kids call my parents their grandparents.

Well, pseudo-grandparents.

They spend holidays together.

Her birthday is in April.

I think April 22, 2001.

She really is the physical embodiment of a human being who has been in this world, in my life, since about a month before I got sober.

This morning feels different.

Talking and walking is different when I don’t have something specific to say.

When I write sitting down, it’s more intentional.

It’s Doggyland right now.

There are four dogs having a little get-together.

Absolutely adorable doggies that I needed to say hello to.

And now I realize it’s 6:47 and the meeting starts at 7:00 a.m.

I’ve got to put my New York walk on. And hoof it.

The thoughts.

Why am I where I am right now and not further along financially?

And then the thought of, oh my gosh, I’m so lucky that I have this program because I have peace.

I have peace that I never would have had if I had continued drinking.

I also have great skin, which I definitely got from my grandmother and my mom’s side.

Thank you, Nammy.

The Italians.

Well, Nanny had amazing skin too.

But I do know it has a lot to do with the fact that I have not poisoned myself for so long.

So there’s that.

What was this year like?

I’m going to have to look.

I keep a sobriety journal that I’ve written in, on and off, for 25 years.

It was in storage for a number of years when I left New York City, but pretty regularly I’ve been writing in it.

I’ll have to see what I did last year.

Over the last few years, I kept looking at what I was doing, where the opportunities were coming from, who was calling me, what people were asking me to do, and where the money was coming from.

And whether I realized it at the time or not, it all kept leading back to jewelry.

Jewelry consulting.

Jewelry projects.

Jewelry conversations.

Jewelry design.

Jewelry.

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was next.

And at some point I realized that maybe the answer wasn’t trying to force something new.

Maybe the answer was paying attention.

Paying attention to what God was putting in front of me.

Paying attention to what kept showing up.

Paying attention to the work that continued to find me.

Over a few years, I made a conscious decision to listen.

To stop arguing.

To stop trying to outthink it.

Jewelry was the direction.

This year feels more structured.

More of a gift.

I’m back in the jewelry business.

Not from a feeling of obligation.

From a feeling that I have found my place again.

And my love.

And a writing practice that I’ve had my entire life that now has a place to be, which is also pretty magical.

And that I can separate that on a business level as well as a personal level.

But what’s funny is that now that I’m here, I still don’t know what the answer is.

I know the direction.

I’m just not entirely sure where it’s leading.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this vulnerable in public.

And I think a lot of that has to do with it because I came from a family that was very much: if it looks good on the outside, don’t tell anybody what’s going on on the inside.

If everything looks great, you’re fine.

And that is not the case in a lot of situations.

I have a mask of pretty much being able to look good, which works really well in some situations and really kicks me in the ass in others.

I come off very self-sufficient.

And a lot of me is.

But the arrogance is thinking I’m self-sufficient.

I need a lot of help.

We’re human beings.

We need a lot of help.

It’s 6:52.

I’m going to be late to the meeting.

Maybe I shouldn’t have given myself the gift of a walk and should have ridden my bike.

You’re late to the meeting if you’re not early.

Shit.

Miami is so beautiful.

I really hope it doesn’t get spoiled.

There are so many little bungalows still here in Miami Beach that haven’t been bought up and turned the airspace into finance.

I’m back on Bay Road at 6:53.

Maybe I won’t make it to the meeting on time.

I just like being able to talk to people before the meeting.

So I’m going to get there and they’re going to be starting.

The air is thick this morning.

I’m going to put this away so I can walk fast.

Later that night.

So the gift this year that I got on the day itself was from my acupuncturist.

She called me and had an opening and offered me a session.

She had no idea it was my anniversary.

Last year I started a cohort for the business on May 29.

And I remember one year I was also accepted to business school on May 29.

What Harold neglected to mention was the $90,000 price tag attached to the acceptance.

It’s wild how HP shows up in my life.

Although, if I’m being honest, I’d occasionally appreciate a bag of money.

And I say that sarcastically, but not entirely sarcastically, especially at this age and with what’s going on in the world.

I know we’re all struggling.

I’m yawning.

I’m tired.

It’s almost 10 o’clock at night and I still haven’t looked over my journals.

I haven’t looked over the calendar to review the entire year like I normally do.

I know the year was filled with a lot of health challenges.

Again.

I remember at one point this year I did an exercise of writing down all of the different things that I was going to give to God, burning them, and keeping one.

And the one thing that was given back to me to focus on was my health.

Everything else was given to Harold, that is what I call my God.

This morning, I got a text message congratulating me from a friend of mine in Princeton.

We have the same date.

He is older than me and he also has more time than I do.

He’s very sage.

He’s got a lot of wisdom.

We talked.

I’ve always gotten a lot of wisdom from Michael.

And he gave me that suggestion and that joke that I think I wrote about recently on Substack.

The one about the guy in the flood.

All the people come to help him and he keeps saying no, no, God’s going to take care of me.

And then he gets there and God says, I sent you all these things, but you were too pigheaded to listen.

And I’m really struggling with that.

What is it that I’m too arrogant to listen to? What am I missing that is right in front of me?

I got on my knees this morning.

I don’t get on my knees very often.

I was making the bed and I got on my knees and I asked for a sign.

To tell me what to do.

I don’t know what it is.

I’m not really sure what direction I should go.

So just continuing to have faith.

Continuing to have peace.

Continuing to take care of myself.

Continuing to work my ass off.

But also take a nap.

Call my friends.

Drink lots of water.

Wear my sunscreen.

I promised myself I would jump in the ocean, so I’m going to jump in the ocean this week.

I ran into a friend and I’m going to bring him with me.

And I’m going to meditate on that.

I don’t know what it means.

I don’t know if I’m going the wrong way.

I need a sign.

I need to be told exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

Tell me what to do to make money, Harold.

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So I got on the bus this morning to go get a CT scan — sort of my regular routine these days, going to the hospital once or twice a month — and Ellen Gallagher popped into my head.

I’m riding the bus from Miami Beach into Miami on my regular route, the number 20, looking at all the people commuting into the city, and suddenly there she is in my head.

Ellen Gallagher.

Who is this phenomenal artist, and we went to art school together at the Museum School in Boston. She was on the painting floor.

Of course I probably never saw her. Or if I did, I probably never walked into her studio because I was always downstairs in the basement with all the photo nerds in the darkroom doing my weird little photo things while all the intimidating painters were upstairs being intellectual and terrifying.

And she popped into my head this morning and something in my brain said:

“You should reach out to Ellen Gallagher.”

I don’t know why.

I have absolutely no idea what that means.

And I’m curious if other people experience that — flashes from the past that arrive completely intact?

But once I thought about Ellen, I started thinking about my friend Amyk, who either killed herself or died from a heroin overdose depending on which version of the story you believe.

And Amyk was the woman who I believe Ellen shared a studio with upstairs in the painting section of the school, which I literally almost never went into because the painting floor intimidated the shit out of me.

But now that I’m thinking about it, my subconscious is clearly trying to tell me something because last night I had a dream that I went back to the Museum School to study jewelry because I wanted to take jewelry classes.

Which is wild.

And I was downstairs in the basement again in good old school SMFA, sitting with all these women, and I don’t know about you guys but I have an entire dreamworld.

Like:
I have the reality of what school actually looked like and felt like and who was there…

…and then I have my dream version.

And the dream version is incredibly consistent.

The same people.
The same faces.
The same rooms.
The same lighting.

Dream lighting is strange.

Mine is always slightly cinematic. Not the Instagram filter version. Real film. Celluloid. I wish I could film my dreams. I want to take a camera into them somehow. To document the patterns and the jewelry and the fashion and even record the music because I have created music in my dreams that I wanted to keep as an album.

And then I wake up and it’s gone immediately.

Like late afternoons mixed with fluorescent hallways and old museum buildings and winter light reflecting off dirty snow.

Even when the dream itself changes, the lighting remains emotionally consistent somehow.

And I also have this dream house.

Not like:
“dream house” dream house.

Not aspirational.

It’s just the house my subconscious has decided was my childhood home inside dreams, and whenever I dream about childhood or family or certain emotional situations, that’s where we go.

So in this dream I’m back at the Museum School and I run into somebody I’ve actually run into before in another dream.

And I recognize him.

And he says,

“Wow, you have a really good memory.”

And I said,

“No. I recognized your stool first.”

Because he was carrying this beautiful wooden hand-carved stool and I remember he draws and photographs, and I noticed the stool before I noticed him.

And that sentence probably explains my entire life.

I remember objects first.
Jewelry first. What you are wearing.
Textures first.
Rooms first.

Then people.

Which maybe sounds cold except I actually think objects become emotional anchors for memory.

A ring.
A chair.
A tree.
A hallway wallpaper pattern.

Sometimes they hold the feeling longer than the people do.

And once I thought about Ellen I started thinking about Amyk again and then I realized Memorial Day is coming up, and Amyk and I spent one summer in Boston together taking classes and working and basically doing everything possible to avoid going home.

At least for me.

I wanted to spend the summer with my friends and be with them for as long as possible and summer classes were my excuse.

Everybody else was going to Martha’s Vineyard and doing cool art school summer things and I didn’t really have the agency then to say:

“No, I’m doing that instead.”

So this was my pathetic little workaround.

And I remember Amyk and I spending July 4th together in Boston, which is my favorite holidays.

Watching fireworks.
Walking around the city.
Summer air.

And now I’m walking through the hospital campus in Miami and these hospital grounds are massive and beautiful because it’s a teaching hospital and there are all these trees and palm-lined walkways and I’m walking toward my favorite tree right now.

I visit this tree every time I come here.

Last year — I think December 2025 — I stood next to it and said:

“I don’t want to see you next year.”

Apparently my tree did not do its job.

So I’m going to pause now because I want to sit with my tree for a minute because my tree is gorgeous and I’m probably going to photograph it and sit with her for a while. She gets sung to too, and we have a little chat when I have the time.

OK. Now while walking, I pass Ryder Trauma Center and there are all these signs everywhere saying:

WATCH OUT FOR MOTORCYCLES.

And immediately I’m back in the summer of either 1991 or 1992, again — I can’t remember which — the summer Amyk died and one of our close friends was killed in a motorcycle accident in Paris right in front of us.

Completely horrific.
Completely traumatic.

And because my mind is sick and twisted, when I saw all those signs my immediate thought was:

“You guys are a little late on this one.”

Because there were like forty lawn signs everywhere outside the trauma center warning people about motorcycles and I was like:

“I think the people arriving at Ryder Trauma already missed the boat on that.”

Which is horrible.

And I think a huge part of that comes from my dad, who has this very immature but fantastic sense of humor, tells stories constantly, and played insane pranks with and on his friends growing up. I know I get my sense of humor from him. I think that’s where I also get my gift of gab and my ability to talk to literally anybody.

Because when you witness something like your boyfriend’s best friend being decapitated in front of you in Paris at two in the morning while not speaking French and your boyfriend is throwing up in the Seine and suddenly one person finally speaks English and you feel overwhelming relief…

…thirty years later your brain turns motorcycle safety signs into dark comedy.

And I think that’s probably healthy.

Because trauma is strange that way.

That European ambulance sound still lives somewhere in my nervous system.

Immediately.

And it’s strange what survives.

Not always the major event itself.

Sometimes just:
the ambulance sound,
the temperature outside,
the smell of the air,
the color of the sky,
the feeling of a street,
the exact way somebody turned before speaking.

Memory is embarrassingly specific that way.

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Editor’s note May 26, 2026: I’ve continued developing this piece and future jewelry, design, and collectible object writing will now live on Jewelry One of a KIND Journal.

coffee, always appreciated

I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts recently on jewelry and the jewelry industry.

I am not a fine jewelry maker. You know, it’s not really my wheelhouse. I am a jewelry maker and I’ve been in the industry for a long time, and I lost my mind recently because there’s finally all of this incredible content emerging around jewelry.

There’s The Jewelry Wire Substack with Robert Bates. Then last night I listened to The Diamond Dudes podcast, which was so cool. I think it was only their second episode.

National Jeweler has a podcast now too called My Next Question, and Michelle Graff and Amanda Gizzi are knocking it out of the park. I think they’re only on episode four now, so it’s very new.

And yay.

Thank you jewelry folks for finally getting on the podcast gravy train because I am loving it.

And honestly I think there’s this re-emergence happening on Substack and podcasts around jewelry and the jewelry industry and history and collecting and craftsmanship and all of the things that people inside jewelry talk about constantly but publicly?

Not really.

The real conversations usually happen:
at trade shows,
during buyer meetings,
over drinks after events,
inside booths,
or at hotel bars during JCK while everybody is exhausted and eating almonds out of convention center snack packs.

So it’s cool hearing jewelry people actually talking again.

Not just selling.

Hold on.

I have to stop because I need to take a picture of this beautiful tree.

…

Okay.

Tree photograph taken.

I am walking and I am talking right now. Freeform thoughts. Then I’ll go home and edit and write, but I wanted these thoughts to come out of my brain before I forgot about them.

So I’m listening to The Diamond Dudes. I’m listening to the jewelry podcasts. I’m listening to all of these people and everybody is sort of in their lane of:
fine jewelry,
diamonds,
fashion,
history,
collecting,
the emergence and re-emergence of jewelry conversations again.

And recently I had an appointment at my favorite place in all of Miami.

The Standard.

It’s in the old Lido Hotel on Belle Isle and one of the things I love most about it is they haven’t Miami’d it.

Like they have not over-modernized it into oblivion.

They kept old Miami intact.

There’s still this Deco feeling.
The gardens are beautiful.
There’s actual community there.

People gather there.

Which frankly feels increasingly rare in Miami.

And it’s one of my favorite places in the city.

They have the best spa in Miami and they also have this gorgeous little shop.

So I had a meeting there recently with the buyer and she has a really great background. Young woman, but she’s been in retail and buying for a long time. She worked at Reformation and had taken a hiatus and she’s worked at a bunch of places and she’s also a thrifter like me.

So immediately we bonded over that.

Miami has this whole curated mobile flea market thing — Little River Flea and all these pop-ups that move around the city — and we both have that style vocabulary.

Like: Reformation meets Lotus House thrift.

I don’t know.

I just know how to put weird shit together.

And she does too.

So we’re sitting there talking jewelry inside this tiny hotel shop with all these curated objects for men and women and talking about pricing and customers and jewelry and originality and all of it.

And one thing that always fascinates me is how people will spend thousands and thousands of dollars on facials and hair care and supplements and magic creams and all of these things that are not permanently changing their lives…

…but when it comes to buying a handmade piece of jewelry they’ll wear forever?

Suddenly everybody becomes financially conservative.

It’s so funny to me.

And of course the thing she really, really loved was the Amanda Collection, which are my tied wire rings that I’ve been making since my debut at the Museum of Modern Art Design Store in Soho in 2002.

And my other classic pieces the Culebra bracelet and Vertebrae Necklace.

They’re hand carved.
Hand cast.
Hand finished.

And yes, they’re a higher price point because they’re actually made by a human being. Me.

I hear that IG song in my head right now.

“ It cost that much because it takes me f***ing hours…It cost that much because I don’t have super powers…”

And don’t you think one of the weirdest things about being in jewelry this long is realizing how many normies genuinely cannot tell the difference anymore between something authored and something mass manufactured with really good branding?

Which sounds bitchy.

But it’s true.

And look, I don’t poo poo anybody making a living making jewelry however we do it because this industry is hard.

Really hard.

But what I see here in Miami especially is a massive white space for original, high-design, mid-range jewelry.

Museum-quality art jewelry.

And there is nowhere for it.

Like literally nowhere.

I’ve met a bunch of jewelry designers here doing original work and there’s no central place where people can actually discover them together.

In New York it’s a dime a dozen.

But in Miami everything still leans:
bling,
diamonds,
status,
flash,
generic luxury.

And again — I’m not anti-diamond.
I’m not anti-fine jewelry.
I’m not anti-anybody making money.

But especially in that $450 to $3,200 range I see SO much mass-manufactured jewelry disguised as originality.

And then my friends call me.

“Oh my God I bought this bracelet from this designer…”

And then:
“It broke after one wear.”

And I’m like:
Return it.

That’s what you do.

But also why are you spending $450 on a piece of shit when you have me as a friend and I can make you something that’s actually much better quality? And one of a kind.

I think there’s absolutely an audience for collectible art jewelry in that middle range, here in Miami.

People want originality again.

I swear to God if I see one more fucking arm stacked with generic jewelry from high-end brands all following the exact same trend cycle I am going to lose my mind.

People need originality.

Or maybe what they need is authorship.

Perspective.

Something that actually feels like a person made it.

Because everything now starts looking exactly the same after a while.

And Miami actually has the audience for this.

Collectors.
Artists.
Fashion people.
Hospitality people.
People with taste.
People with money.

But there’s no place to go see it all together.

There’s this beautiful fine jewelry store here called Material Good and it’s incredible.

And then of course we have the Miami Beach Antique Show which is less an antique show and more a giant jewelry universe.

The watches.
The stones.
The dealers from London and Paris and New York and Houston and and and and ……

I remember one year trying on a rose-cut diamond ring from the 1600s that was like two-and-a-half carats and completely insane.

And then walking into another booth filled with guilloché enamel pocket watches that…I am speechless,… because they were so beautiful.

That world exists.

But the bridge between collectible contemporary design jewelry and Miami retail culture still feels weirdly absent to me.

I can feel people starting to look for it.

Which is maybe also why all these podcasts suddenly feel important.

Because jewelry people are finally talking again.

Not just selling.

Talking about:
history,
craftsmanship,
collecting,
business,
taste,
objects,
why things matter,
why objects matter.

And thank God for that.

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND if you feel like following along there too.

Jewelry One of a KIND

Amanda’s Substack Subscribe for jewelry, strange stories, Miami, and whatever spiral I end up going down next.

Instagram: @jewelry_oneofakind

Website: jewelryoneofakind.com

Amanda Nicol

Founder + Designer

Jewelry One of a KIND

coffee, always appreciated

So I call my Instagram “my porn,” my personal Instagram. It is jewelry, music, and art, and I am grateful to the algorithm gods because now that I also have a Jewelry One of a KIND Instagram account — that, of course, is jewelry — and I follow a ton of jewelry designers, and I’m writing on Substack and writing on LinkedIn, I’m just flooded.

Literally flooded with all kinds of jewelry content, and I could not be happier.

And just recently — I don’t know what happened with the algorithm — but I think it’s because I’m not on it that much. I literally post, I look around for a second, and then I’m like:

I gotta get off.
Get the hell out.
Gotta get off this thing.

It’s like crack.

But the good thing about it is I’m finding so many other young, really talented designers.

And I met this woman today — well, I’ve met a bunch of people on Instagram, fellow jewelry people — and one of them is in Australia. I’m gonna tag everybody here because my brain is fried and I can’t think of all their names at the moment, but she has educational posts. Literally, she’s the wax-carving guru, and she gives all these tips on wax carving that I didn’t even know about, which is amazing because I’ve been wax carving for so long.

She’s incredible.

Her Instagram is Midnight Kiss Jewellery Instagram, and she’s also apparently having some kind of opal extravaganza in her workshop because she’s in Australia, which is basically the land of the most amazing opals on the planet.

And she’s having, I think, an in-person wax-carving-and-pick-out-your-own-opal situation.

Oh my God.

Can someone literally invent something that can beam us to different places already? Because I just want to go to Australia right now for the women’s opal event.

Like, I collect rocks.
I want rocks.
I want opals.
I want to be able to go to a fellow jewelry designer’s studio.

Can we all just be in the same hemisphere?

And there’s this other woman — because apparently jewelry and rock collecting is now my entire algorithm — and I’ll tell you this story:

When I moved to Miami — hehehehehe — I realized I have literally been collecting rocks my entire life.

Up in the attic at my parents’ house — this was probably 15 or 20 years ago — I found a box from when I was three or five years old, and there was a rock in it. It was labeled and saved in a little jewelry box, and it was literally a piece-of-shit rock.

I didn’t keep it.
I should have.
I think I thought I could go back to it, but I never got that rock again.

But it was a rock that I found as a three-year-old, and it was special. It was from Mount Washington.

When I moved to Miami, I had to move by cubic feet, and I had to find a moving company that charged by square footage, not by weight, because I shipped all my rocks.

I have rocks from Puerto Rico.
I have rocks from Africa.
I have rocks from my hometown beach in New Jersey.

I literally have rocks from all over, and I know exactly where they’re from and when I got them.

Boxes and boxes of rocks.

So when the movers were lifting some of these boxes, they were like:
“What is this? A box of rocks?”

And I’m thinking: Yeah. It is.

The algorithm has now fully realized that I am a rock girl and I am a jewelry girl.

Which is how I found this other artist today, and folks, she is incredible.

Her Instagram is Emily Frances Barrett Instagram.

Apparently you need certain licenses and permissions to do what she does because she goes along the Thames in London collecting objects from the riverbanks:
rocks, broken ceramics, bones, fragments, little pieces of history.

And then she catalogs all of it in flat files in her studio, which honestly feels like my exact psychological profile.

Flat files full of categorized found objects might actually be my dream life.

Then she transforms them into jewelry and art. She’s done collaborations with shoe brands. She’s an artist-artist-jewelry-designer dream. I just love the creativity that we all have and following other people and seeing what they’re doing.

There are two other people I’m thinking about right now, and I can’t think of their names, and I’ll probably write about them later, but there’s one really healthy and wonderful thing that I can communicate about social:

I can see what other jewelry designers and other makers are doing in other hemispheres, other time zones, other countries, and other continents.

And that part of social media is what I love.

Not the performance part.
Not the branding noise.
Not the algorithm manipulation.

The actual exchange of ideas and process and obsession between people making things with their hands all over the planet.

That part still feels magical to me.

Then there’s Substack, which I love for the exact opposite reason because I can actually stay inside the thought long enough to understand why it mattered to me in the first place.

What I want most in life is actually very simple:

I want to write.
I want to make jewelry.
I want to photograph it.

That’s it.

Also, I want to travel to places where other people are making beautiful things too. So there is that.

I want to visit everybody.
I want to sit in people’s studios surrounded by stones and half-finished objects and weird collections and tools.

That’s where my thoughts are right now as I sit on my sofa writing this. It’s now 2:32 in the afternoon, and I’ve been writing since around 7:30 this morning.

I think it’s time to take a break. My apartment looks like a bomb went off in it.

There are beads everywhere.
Waxes and tools everywhere.
Half-open boxes everywhere.
Chains on the sofa.
Crystals on the table.
Total creative collapse.

And honestly?

I’m leaving it exactly like this.

It’s Saturday afternoon. I don’t have to clean it. I live alone, thank God.

Sunday I’m going to a garden party at the Miami Beach Botanical Garden, and I think I’m going to make myself a crown before I go.

Not joking.

Probably crystals, agate, bees, wire, maybe pearls if I can find them somewhere in the current disaster zone surrounding me.

I’m wearing a simple white jersey dress. I’m bringing the birthday girl a beautiful keychain. Sometimes the entire point of life is just making beautiful little objects for people you like.

-Amanda

We also have a whole jewelry world happening over at Jewelry One of a KIND.

Subscribe for collector releases, museum-quality jewelry, and the object side of my brain.

Jewelry One of a KIND Journal

More photographs, fewer words