It’s late August, and I’ve started looking ahead to fall.

I’m definitely not ready to give up summer yet. But I looked at my calendar the other day—September, October, November, December—and it is pretty much planned out to the day.

There’s work and travel, including a trip out of the country. There are celebrations and some really special personal moments coming up. I’ll be visiting friends, showing up for people I love, and spending time with people who are going through difficult times.

It’s a lot.

But looking at it actually made me happy.

Because my calendar isn’t just busy. It’s full of people.

And that got me thinking about some of the people who have come into my life in the most unexpected way.

Through Instagram.

Yes, the same Instagram that can drive me completely crazy. The algorithm, the followers, the unfollows, why one post does well and another does absolutely nothing.

But here’s the part I don’t talk about enough.

I’ve made real friends here.

Naomi Sedgewick is one of them.

Naomi and I met on Instagram, and somehow next week I’m co-hosting a screening of her documentary, JUMPERS, in Bridgehampton during Hampton Classic week.

There’s something so full circle about it for me. I started riding when I was three, grew up riding at Swan Creek in Bridgehampton and even rode in the first Hampton Classic. I stopped riding at 35 and really thought that part of my life was over.

And now here I am, back around horses in a completely different way, because of someone I met on Instagram.

Then there’s Julie Hechty, the founder of Love Ellison. We met through Instagram too. It started with her jewelry, we started talking, and somewhere along the way Julie became a friend.

When I told her about JUMPERS and Skylar, she wanted to help. She made an incredibly generous donation to support Skylar and the film and offered a piece from Love Ellison for the silent auction.

And Michelle.

Another Instagram friendship.

This summer, Michelle and her sister Jennifer came to my event for The Retreat.

They showed up.

Maybe that’s the part that means the most to me.

These are people I didn’t grow up with. We didn’t go to school together. We didn’t meet through family or old friends.

We met on Instagram.

And now we text. We see each other. We support each other. We show up for each other.

There are so many others I could name, and that’s exactly why I don’t want to turn this into a list. I know I would leave someone out.

But when I started Secrets N Style, I thought I was creating a place to talk about clothes.

And yes, I still love talking about clothes.

But I had no idea I would make friends along the way.

Real ones.

So maybe that’s what I’m looking forward to most as I head into these very full next few months.

The people I’m going to see. The places I’m going. The celebrations. Showing up for friends who need me. And probably a few things—and maybe even a few people—I don’t know about yet.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to summer.

But I am ready for what’s next.

My calendar is very full.

And when I look at what’s actually filling it, I realize how lucky I am.

Have you ever met someone through Instagram who became a real friend?

I’d love to hear about it.

Someone said something to me a couple of months ago, and I cannot get it out of my head.

“You know you’re almost 60. You need to start dressing your age.”

I laughed when they said it.

But obviously it bothered me because I’m still thinking about it.

I was wearing a silk circle skirt with the matching circle top. The top had a little bit of a crop to it. I loved the outfit. I felt good in it. And until that comment, I hadn’t given my age a second thought when I put it on.

Now I am.

Do I not dress my age?

And I have to admit, the question has gotten into my head more than I would like.

Because I remember being in my twenties and seeing women who I thought were “older”—which, back then, was probably 45—wearing miniskirts and bikinis. They could have had phenomenal bodies, and I would still think, She looks great, but maybe that skirt is a little young for her.

I thought it.

And now here I am, on the other side of it.

I still love a short skirt. I love a halter top. I love a shift dress with bare legs. I like showing my arms. If I’m in Palm Beach or the city, I might wear a halter with a miniskirt and feel completely comfortable in it.

Or at least I did before someone told me I shouldn’t.

Because now I sometimes wonder: when I walk down the street, does someone look at me the way I used to look at that woman?

Do they think, She’s too old to be wearing that?

Maybe they do.

But here’s what I’ve been trying to figure out: What does dressing your age actually mean?

Does a certain birthday mean the hemline comes down?

Do I stop wearing halters?

Do I start covering my arms even though I don’t want to?

None of that feels like me.

Of course my style has changed over the years. It should. There are things I wore ten or twenty years ago that I wouldn’t wear today. There are trends I can appreciate on someone else and know immediately aren’t for me. And sometimes I try something on, look in the mirror and think, Nope.

But I’ve never thought of that as dressing my age.

I’ve thought of it as knowing my style.

And maybe that’s the difference.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I don’t want to dress younger. I don’t want to dress older either.

I just want to dress like myself.

I want to keep discovering designers. I want to try something unexpected. I want to get excited about a beautiful dress. I want to put something on and feel really good in it.

Isn’t that part of the fun of fashion?

Maybe something I love today won’t feel right five years from now. That’s okay. I’ll know when I get there.

But I don’t want a number—or someone else’s idea of what that number is supposed to look like—to make that decision for me.

So I’m still wearing the short skirts.

I’m still wearing the halter tops.

And I’m still showing my arms.

Not because I’m trying to look younger.

Because, right now, they still feel like me.

And I’m also thinking about my mother, who at 40 would wear white Ralph Lauren short shorts with a knit tube top, a straw hat, and Jack Rogers sandals. She had an incredible body, and I remember thinking she was the chicest woman I had ever seen but she never dressed like the other mom’s her age. I never thought of her as too old to rock that look.

And I’m curious how you feel about this.

Do you believe in “dressing your age”? Has the way you dress changed because of a number—or has your style simply evolved along with you?

Tell me. I have a feeling we’re going to have a lot to talk about with this one.

Over the past few months, something unexpected has been happening.

I’ve been invited to sit in on master classes with platforms like LTK, ShopMy, and ManyChat. I’ve been asked to participate in conversations about content creation and have even had opportunities to join industry panels.

Every time, I quietly ask myself the same question:

How did I get here?

The truth is, I’ve never had a roadmap.

Everything I’ve built has come from curiosity, hard work, and figuring it out along the way.

I started in music and television production. Years later, I built a jewelry business that became my career for nearly two decades. Then came consulting and recruiting. Today, I’m building something entirely different—but somehow, it feels like every chapter has led me here.

Looking back, those careers weren’t as different as they seemed.

They all taught me how to recognize quality, appreciate craftsmanship, tell stories, and connect with people.

Today, that’s exactly what I’m building through Secrets and Style.

I’m endlessly curious about beautifully made things, the founders behind them, and the stories that often go untold. Some are launching a second or third career. Others have quietly built remarkable businesses over decades without becoming household names.

Those are the people I find myself drawn to.

Those are the stories I want to share.

The world of content creation is crowded. There are more creators, more recommendations, more links, and more noise than ever before.

For a while, I wondered if I was doing enough.

Posting enough.

Selling enough.

Growing fast enough.

Then I realized I was asking the wrong questions.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t building an Instagram account with a newsletter attached.

I was building an editorial publication that happens to use Instagram as one of the ways I share it with the world.

That realization has quietly changed every decision I make—from the stories I choose to tell, to the founders I introduce, and the brands I choose to work with.

Most importantly, it reminds me that my responsibility isn’t to keep up with the algorithm.

It’s to earn your trust.

When I recommend something, I want you to know there’s a reason it’s here. Maybe it’s because of the founder’s story. Maybe it’s beautifully made. Maybe I’ve lived with it long enough to know it’s worth sharing.

I want every recommendation to feel intentional.

Because trust isn’t built overnight.

It’s built one story, one recommendation, and one relationship at a time.

I don’t know exactly where this path leads.

What I do know is that I’ll continue searching for remarkable brands, meeting inspiring founders, and sharing the people and places that genuinely earn a place in my life.

If you’ve been here from the beginning, thank you.

If you’ve only recently found Secrets and Style, welcome.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Here’s to discovering beautiful things—and the people behind them.

~ Kara

There comes a moment every summer when I find myself looking ahead.

As much as I love this season, I begin thinking about what’s next. Fall travel starts taking shape. I make thoughtful additions to my wardrobe. My notebook fills with ideas. Another season always feels like another chapter.

This year, looking ahead also led me to look back.

Last November, I quietly reimagined this space.

Secrets and Sauces became Secrets N Style. It wasn’t simply a new name. It was a promise to myself that this platform would become more thoughtful, more intentional, and more reflective of what I truly love—timeless style, meaningful travel, beautiful craftsmanship, and, perhaps most importantly, the remarkable people behind the brands.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t simply changing a name.

I was changing the direction.

At the time, I didn’t know exactly where that direction would lead.

I only knew what I wanted this space to feel like.

Less like social media.

More like a conversation.

Less about chasing trends.

More about discovering pieces with lasting value.

Less about buying more.

More about buying thoughtfully.

Somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened.

The conversations became richer.

Founders began inviting me into their studios and ateliers. Designers shared not only their collections, but the stories behind them. Readers wrote to tell me about a piece they had purchased years ago that they still treasure, or a destination they finally visited because of something I’d written.

Those moments reminded me that style isn’t really about clothing.

It’s about memory.

It’s about craftsmanship.

It’s about the people behind the work.

My inbox has changed, too.

It’s filled with invitations to travel, collaborations, studio visits, launches, and introductions to women building extraordinary businesses. Opportunities I never imagined when I quietly changed the name of this platform.

I’m deeply grateful for every one of them.

What I’m most proud of, though, isn’t how full my inbox has become. It’s that I’ve learned the value of saying no.

Not every collaboration is the right fit.

Not every beautiful product belongs here.

Not every opportunity aligns with what I’m building.

Every invitation has to answer one simple question:

Would I genuinely share this if there were no partnership attached to it?

If the answer isn’t an immediate yes, it’s an easy no.

Because I’ve discovered that protecting your point of view is just as important as growing it.

Lately, one of the questions I receive most often is:

“Do you have a dupe?”

I understand why people ask. We all shop differently, and there are wonderful discoveries at every price point.

But I’ve realized that what interests me most isn’t finding the closest imitation.

It’s discovering the original.

The founder who took the risk.

The artisan who made it.

The story that inspired it.

The details you don’t always see in a photograph.

Because beautiful things become even more meaningful when you know the people who created them.

As summer slowly gives way to fall, I’ve started doing what I always do this time of year.

Planning.

A few thoughtful additions to my wardrobe.

A calendar beginning to fill with travel.

Fresh notebooks filled with ideas.

Stories waiting to be written.

And if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that the best part has never been the destination.

It’s been sharing the journey with all of you.

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My grandmother, my mother, and me. The butterfly has become a symbol of today’s celebration of legacy, community, and hope.

There is a misconception that fashion is about clothes.

For me, it never has been.

Long before I became Secrets N Style, I spent nearly two decades designing and selling jewelry. I learned that every beautiful piece begins with a person—with an idea, a risk, and countless hours of work that most people never see. Maybe that’s why, even today, I’m drawn less to logos and more to founders.

When I discover a brand I truly love, it’s rarely because it’s trending. It’s because I connect with the woman behind it. I admire her story, her resilience, her craftsmanship, and the courage it takes to build something from the ground up.

Whether it’s Christina at Coniglio Palm Beach, Eleni at Helen Giorgio, or the founders of so many of the brands you’ve come to know through Secrets N Style, I genuinely believe that when we choose to support thoughtful businesses, we’re supporting dreams, artisans, families, and communities—not simply purchasing another dress or another beauty product.

That philosophy is what inspired today’s event.

Many of the brands participating didn’t hesitate when I asked if they would join me. They understood that this wasn’t simply an afternoon of shopping. It was an opportunity to come together in support of something far greater than ourselves.

For those who may not be familiar with The Retreat, it is one of the East End’s most vital nonprofit organizations. Its mission is to break the cycle of violence by providing safety, shelter, counseling, advocacy, and prevention programs for children, adults, and families affected by domestic violence, sexual assault, abuse, and human trafficking. Their work extends far beyond emergency shelter, offering a 24-hour multilingual hotline, legal advocacy, counseling, education, and support programs that help survivors rebuild their lives with dignity and hope. Every service is confidential and provided at no cost to those who need it most.

For decades, The Retreat has quietly been a lifeline in our community. It isn’t always the organization making headlines, but it has been changing lives every single day. That quiet commitment is one of the reasons this cause has always meant so much to my family.

My mother, Judith A. Ackerman, believed deeply in giving back to the community she loved. Long before conversations around domestic violence became more visible, she helped support The Retreat’s mission on the East End. While she is no longer here, her example continues to shape the way I think about service, generosity, and showing up for others.

The photograph accompanying this essay is one I treasure. It captures three generations—my grandmother, my mother, and me as a baby. Resting in front of it is the butterfly pendant created in my mother’s honor. To me, it represents love passed from one generation to the next, resilience through life’s seasons, and the hope that even the smallest act of kindness can create lasting change.

A legacy isn’t built through grand gestures. It’s built through showing up, lending a hand, supporting your community, and believing that small acts of generosity can have a lasting impact.

Today, our home will be filled with women who have built businesses with intention, guests who have chosen to spend an afternoon supporting an important cause, and friends who believe that shopping can also be an act of giving.

That feels incredibly meaningful to me.

If there’s one thing I hope you take away from Secrets N Style, it’s this: behind every garment worth owning is usually a person worth knowing. Behind every meaningful purchase is an opportunity to support someone’s dream. And sometimes, when those dreams come together in service of a greater purpose, they can help change someone else’s life.

Thank you for following along, for supporting the brands I believe in, and for allowing me to share stories that go beyond fashion.

Today, fashion simply happens to be the vehicle.

Community is the destination.

With gratitude,

Kara Sue 🤍

Sometimes life brings you right back to where you started 🤍

There is something about walking down East 71st Street on a summer evening.

The brownstones, the old iron railings, the quiet elegance of a block that somehow feels untouched by time.

This street has always held a little piece of my story.

Long before I understood fashion, I understood style.

I lived at 3 East 71st as a child, and my mother would push me down this very block in my stroller — past the same brownstones I walk by today.

Years later, I now find myself living across the street. And every time I pass by, I can’t help but think of her.

This is also the street where Breakfast at Tiffany’s was filmed — which feels especially fitting because I was raised on old movies starring Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and the women my mother admired for their timeless elegance.

She taught me that style was never about having more. It was about an appreciation for beauty, the details, and the way something made you feel.

Maybe that is why I am still drawn to classics.

This night I was wearing my Eden top and cinch back skirt from Coniglio — a brand I discovered and immediately connected with because of the woman behind it, Christina.

Paired with my Helen Georgio bag, handcrafted by founder Eleni herself — because the pieces I treasure most are never just things. They carry the hands, the stories, and the people behind them.

Over the last year, one of the unexpected gifts of sharing my style has been discovering small brands and the incredible women creating them.

I’ve realized the pieces I reach for again and again are usually connected to something deeper.

A memory.
A conversation.
A place.
A person.

Maybe that is what personal style really is — a collection of all the little stories we carry with us.

And sometimes life has a beautiful way of bringing you right back to where you started.

Appreciate you guys… bye for now 🤍
Kara

Early access. Last chance. Extra 20%. Extra 30%. Stack your savings. Ends tonight.

Before one promotion disappears, another takes its place.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a good sale. In fact, if I discover something beautiful that I think you’ll genuinely love—and it happens to be on sale—I’m happy to share it. That’s always been the heart of this community. I love introducing you to brands, designers, and pieces that I believe are beautifully made and thoughtfully designed.

But lately, I’ve found myself wondering if we’ve reached a point where the sale has become more important than the piece itself.

We’ve almost been conditioned to wait.

We hesitate before purchasing something we truly love because we wonder if another email will arrive tomorrow offering another discount. We tell ourselves to wait until the holiday weekend, the friends-and-family event, the end-of-season markdown, or the next promotion.

Somewhere along the way, shopping became less about discovering something that speaks to us and more about trying to outsmart the calendar.

Fashion itself seems to move faster than ever. Resort collections arrive before summer has fully begun. Fall starts appearing while many of us are still living in linen, sandals, and evenings that stretch long past sunset.

Instead of enjoying the season we’re in, we’re constantly being encouraged to think about the next one.

Maybe that’s why so many of us feel overwhelmed.

There are more emails, more notifications, more discount codes, more “must-have” lists, and more urgency than ever before. Every brand is competing for our attention, and every message seems to come with a countdown clock.

The irony is that the pieces I treasure most in my wardrobe have very little to do with what I paid for them.

I remember where I wore them.

Who I was with.

The dinner overlooking the water.

The weekend away.

The family celebration.

A walk through East Hampton on a warm summer evening.

Those memories stay with us long after we’ve forgotten whether something was 20 percent off.

As many of you know, I spend a great deal of time discovering brands and sharing pieces that catch my eye. I’ll continue to let you know when I come across a wonderful sale or an opportunity to purchase something at a better price because I believe that’s part of serving this community well.

But this summer, I’m also giving myself permission to slow down.

To buy a little less, but buy with intention.

To appreciate beautiful craftsmanship.

To support brands I genuinely admire.

To choose pieces because they make me feel like myself—not because a countdown timer tells me today’s the last chance.

Maybe you’ll do the same.

This Fourth of July weekend, I hope we all spend a little less time refreshing our inboxes and a little more time watching the sunset, gathering around the table with family and friends, taking a walk after dinner, or simply appreciating the season we’re in.

Because style has never been about chasing the next promotion.

It’s about living a life that’s beautiful enough to get dressed for.

Wishing you a happy, safe, and beautiful Fourth of July weekend.

Thank you, as always, for spending part of your Tuesday with me.

Until next week,

Kara 🤍

The day before Father’s Day, I found myself once again sitting in an audience listening to my father tell a story I’d heard before.

Or so I thought.

He was discussing his book, Leibisch’s Journey, in conversation with Joan Baum, whose thoughtful questions seemed to uncover not only the story behind the book, but the deeper story beneath it.

I’ve attended several of these talks over the past year. There was one at the Jewish Center of the Hamptons. Another at The Hedges. With his next book, Moments Out of Time, scheduled for release on July 22, this would likely be the last public conversation devoted to Leibisch’s Journey. Perhaps that’s why this one felt different. More intimate. More revealing.

Perhaps three times is the charm.

Each time I hear my father discuss the book, I learn something new—not just about my grandfather’s journey, but about my father himself.

The book traces my grandfather’s story as a twelve-year-old boy forced to flee Ukraine during the upheaval of the Russian Revolution. He left carrying the ritual objects his father had given him for the bar mitzvah he was supposed to celebrate the following year. His plan was to travel to America and join his older brother, Sidney. Instead, his journey took an unexpected turn, delaying his arrival in the United States by five years.

Long before I was born, long before my father became a father himself, there was a frightened twelve-year-old boy leaving everything he knew behind.

What makes the story even more remarkable is that my father didn’t learn all of this growing up. He discovered crucial pieces of it much later in life, almost by accident, after hearing his father speak Spanish in a Miami Beach bodega. A language. A conversation. A doorway into a history that had remained hidden for decades.

What strikes me most is how much remained unspoken.

My father often describes his childhood as one shaped by silence. His father rarely discussed what happened to him before arriving in America. Imagine spending decades beside someone and still not knowing the story that shaped them.

Listening to my father speak, I was also reminded of my mother.

She was an intensely private person. Growing up, she rarely spoke about her own childhood. Like my grandfather, she carried parts of her past quietly. There were stories she chose not to tell, hardships she rarely discussed, and questions that were never fully answered.

Yet somehow, she and my father created something entirely different for my sister and me.

Our childhood was loving. Warm. Stable.

Looking back, I realize how much my parents protected us from the burdens they carried.

As a child, I knew my grandfather simply as my grandfather—an older man with a thick Yiddish accent and a life I knew almost nothing about. I remember sitting in synagogue with my mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, and cousin while the men sat downstairs. I didn’t know the history he carried. I didn’t know the losses he endured. I didn’t know that so much of his life existed beneath the surface.

Children rarely do.

What struck me most wasn’t what my father had learned. It was the realization that he is still learning. Even now, after writing a book about his father’s life, he is still trying to understand the man behind the silence.

Now, years later, I find myself fascinated not only by my grandfather’s story but by my father’s continued search for understanding. Even after years of research, conversations, and discoveries, he still seems to be reaching for a relationship that was never fully available to him.

Perhaps that’s what happens when silence becomes part of a family’s inheritance.

Read more

Recently, I was reading The Rivki Report on Substack, and it got me thinking about the relationship between influence, trust, and community online.

One idea in particular stayed with me: influence isn’t necessarily about audience size. It’s about credibility. It’s about consistency. And perhaps most importantly, it’s about trust.

For the longest time, I’ve struggled with the word influencer.

Not because I think I’m above it. Quite the opposite. Every time someone introduces me at an event as a “micro-influencer,” I find myself wanting to explain.

The truth is, I’m not entirely sure that’s what I am.

Before Instagram, before Substack, before affiliate links and creator programs, I spent more than twenty years designing jewelry. Long before that, I was the friend recommending a restaurant, a dress, a piece of jewelry, a handbag, a beauty product, or a small business I thought deserved more attention.

What I do today doesn’t feel all that different.

Yes, I create content. Yes, I share links. Yes, some of those links generate commissions. But the heart of what I do has never been about convincing people to buy something.

It’s about discovery.

It’s about introducing someone to a female founder whose story resonates with me. It’s about sharing a small business that might otherwise go unnoticed. It’s about highlighting a beautifully made piece of jewelry, a fragrance, a dress, a handbag, or even a place worth visiting—things that have genuinely become part of my life.

One of my favorite parts of this journey has been meeting the women behind the brands. From founders and designers to shop owners and creatives, the relationships are often just as meaningful as the products themselves. Pictured with Julie Liechty, founder of Love, Ellison, and fellow guest Wilder.

Perhaps that’s also why I’ve always felt drawn to supporting smaller brands and female founders. Having spent years building a business myself, I understand how much work goes into creating something from scratch. Behind every collection, product, shop, or brand is a person taking a risk, solving problems, and hoping their work finds the right audience.

Being able to play even a small role in that connection is one of the most rewarding parts of what I do.

Over the past year, I’ve also had the privilege of receiving guidance from women whose audiences are significantly larger than mine. Some have hundreds of thousands of followers. Others have built communities approaching a million.

What has surprised me most is their generosity.

They’ve answered questions, shared advice, offered encouragement, and helped me navigate a space that often feels like it’s changing by the hour.

At the same time, I’ve developed friendships and connections with creators at every stage of the journey. What I’ve discovered is that the most successful among them aren’t obsessing over follower counts.

They’re focused on serving their communities.

The best creators I know are thoughtful. They protect their credibility. They say no more often than they say yes. They understand that trust takes years to build and only moments to lose.

That idea resonates with me.

Because while social media often rewards scale, the most meaningful interactions I have are rarely about numbers.

They’re the messages from women who discovered a brand they now love. The note from someone who found a piece she wears constantly. The introduction to a founder whose work she may never have discovered otherwise.

Those moments matter more to me than any metric.

Over time, I’ve realized that the most meaningful part of this work isn’t the products at all.

It’s the connection.

Sometimes that connection happens through a dress, a piece of jewelry, or a small business. Other times, it happens through a cause, a conversation, or a story that deserves to be shared.

As I’ve worked on this summer’s benefit for The Retreat, I’ve been reminded that community is built one relationship at a time. The same trust that encourages someone to try a new brand can also encourage them to support a mission, attend an event, or learn about an organization making a difference.

Perhaps that’s what influence really means to me.

Not persuading.

Not selling.

Connecting.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never fully embraced the label influencer.

When I think about the women and brands I admire most, I don’t think about influence as persuasion.

I think about influence as recommendation.

A trusted friend who tells you about a wonderful shop.

A writer who introduces you to an idea.

A creator who shares something because she genuinely loves it.

Perhaps the title matters less than I once thought.

Influencer.

Creator.

Writer.

Curator.

Whatever the label, my goal remains the same: to share thoughtfully, support good people, and earn the trust of the community that chooses to spend a few moments of their day with me.

And for that, I’m incredibly grateful.

Appreciate you guys, thanks for being here.

Until next time, bye for now. 🤍

One of my favorite parts of building Secrets and Styles has been meeting the women behind the brands.

Not the marketing teams or social media accounts, but the founders, designers, and creatives who spend years turning an idea into a business.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon at KZ_K Studio on Great Jones Street in New York City with founder and designer Karolina Zmarlak. We talked about her journey, her approach to design, and the philosophy behind the brand while I spent nearly two hours trying on pieces from the collection and learning more about the craftsmanship behind them.

Perhaps it’s my years as a designer, but I’m always curious about what inspires someone to build something from the ground up. The sketches, decisions, setbacks, risks, and persistence required to bring an idea to life are often just as fascinating as the finished product itself.

Having spent more than twenty years designing jewelry, those conversations feel familiar. There is a shared understanding among founders and creatives that what people ultimately see is only a small part of the story.

I wasn’t alone on this visit. My niece Lilly joined me, and one of the highlights of the afternoon was seeing the collection through her perspective as well as my own.

As we moved through the studio trying on different pieces, it was interesting to see what caught her eye. While we gravitated toward different silhouettes, we were drawn to many of the same qualities—beautiful tailoring, thoughtful design, and versatility.

It reminded me that great design doesn’t belong to one generation. Whether you’re building a wardrobe, refining it, or looking for pieces you’ll reach for again and again, quality, craftsmanship, and versatility never go out of style.

Watching Lilly respond to the collection reinforced something I often think: when a designer creates with intention and a strong point of view, it resonates far beyond age or stage of life.

Karolina’s path to fashion began long before KZ_K Studio. Originally from Poland, she studied tailoring and garment construction at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and that foundation is evident throughout the collection.

As we walked through the studio, Karolina spoke about draping, fit, movement, and creating pieces that work with a woman’s life rather than dictating it. Every detail felt purposeful.

What struck me most was the collection’s versatility. Jackets, dresses, and separates were designed to be worn in multiple ways and across different occasions. The pieces felt modern and architectural, yet entirely wearable.

In a fashion landscape that often encourages constant consumption, it was refreshing to encounter a designer focused on longevity. These are not pieces meant to be worn once and forgotten, but garments designed to evolve with the woman wearing them.

As Lilly and I moved from one rack to another, trying different combinations and silhouettes, I found myself thinking less about trends and more about intention.

The most meaningful brands are built on a clear point of view—not just beautiful products, but a vision shaped by years of dedication.

That’s what I found at KZ_K Studio.

Not simply beautiful clothing, but a designer with a strong vision and the courage to pursue it.

And perhaps that’s why meeting the women behind the brands remains one of the most rewarding parts of this journey.

I’d love to know—have you ever discovered a brand and then felt even more connected to it after learning the founder’s story? Let me know in the comments.

A beautiful piece of jewelry can catch your eye in an instant. A truly exceptional one reveals itself over time.

People are often surprised when I tell them I’ve spent more than twenty years in the jewelry business.

Long before Secrets N Style, jewelry was a significant part of my professional life. I designed, sold, and sourced jewelry, spending years learning what separates a beautiful piece from a truly exceptional one.

Because of that, I’ve become incredibly selective.

The longer you’re around jewelry, the less impressed you become by trends, logos, and marketing campaigns. Instead, you start paying attention to things most people never see.

Quality.

Craftsmanship.

Customer service.

Integrity.

The people behind the brand.

As someone who buys and wears fine jewelry myself, those things matter.

Especially when you’re asking someone to invest in a piece they may wear for decades.

Today, there are only two jewelry brands I am actively involved with and genuinely excited to support. Not because there aren’t other beautiful brands. There are. But because these are two female founders whose work, values, and approach resonate with me.

This summer, those two worlds are coming together in unexpected ways.

Next week, I’ll be hosting an evening with Augustine Jewels in New York City, and in July I’ll be welcoming Helen Giorgio to East Hampton for a charitable shopping event benefiting The Retreat in honor of my mother.

The stories behind both relationships are very different, but they share something important in common: they both began with genuine curiosity.

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Before I get into this week’s post, I wanted to share something quickly. I’ve decided to make this Substack fully paid going forward. I’ve loved writing here and sharing these pieces openly, but I’ve realized I want this space to feel more intentional, more intimate, and more sustainable long term.

You’ll still see occasional previews and public notes, but full essays and posts will now continue behind the paywall for subscribers only.

If you’d like to continue reading, you can subscribe below to access the full archive and all future posts.

East Hampton never really begins with sunshine. At least not for me.

It begins with unpacking sweaters that still smell faintly like storage, gray skies nobody expected after Palm Beach, grocery stores full of arrivals, and the strange realization that another summer has somehow appeared.

The month of May felt like constant movement. Palm Beach dinners, Anguilla in saturated color, Charleston charm, quick days in New York, Middleburg heat and rain — and then suddenly, Memorial Day weekend arrives and somehow I’m right back where I’ve always been.

I don’t think I’ve ever spent Memorial Day weekend anywhere other than East Hampton.

As a child, it marked the beginning of summer. Coming home from boarding school, seeing friends again, beach parties in sweatshirts and shorts despite the dampness in the air. There was always something comforting about the ritual of it all.

And even now, years later, certain parts feel exactly the same.

What always fascinates me is how quickly a place changes the way you dress. Only days ago I was wearing color constantly — Palm Beach prints, island dressing, lightweight pieces meant for heat and sunlight — and within hours of arriving in East Hampton, I instinctively reached for black cashmere, denim, boots, and layers.

East Hampton has always felt quieter to me stylistically. More understated. Less polished in an obvious way. There’s an ease here I’ve always loved — clothing that feels lived-in rather than overly considered.

“Continue reading”

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Somehow, in less than three weeks, we went from Palm Beach to Miami, Miami to Anguilla, then on to St. Augustine, Charleston, and Middleburg — and now we’re heading north again, first to New York City and finally East Hampton for Memorial Day weekend.

And somewhere between overnight hotel stays, dinner reservations, shipping boxes ahead, unpacking in five different closets, and trying to remember which bag held my sandals versus my chargers, I realized this month became less about travel and more about transition.

Not just geographically — stylistically too.

May has been one long exercise in dressing for multiple lives at once.

In Anguilla, it was bikinis, pareos, oversized sunglasses, salt air, and my Coniglio Palm Beach wrap pants and silk dresses almost every night. Caribbean dressing has its own rhythm to it — lighter, freer, less structured. You need pieces that move with you. Things that can go from beach to dinner with wet hair and gold jewelry.

Back in Palm Beach, it shifted into sundresses, polished lunches, and pieces from Dottie Hart that somehow always feel feminine without trying too hard.

Then came Charleston — probably the most social stop of the entire month. Long dinners with friends, walking through the historic district late at night, rooftop cocktails, jazz, architecture, and that particular Southern charm that makes you want to dress up for absolutely everything.

Charleston also became one of those cities where I realized how much crossover there was between my Palm Beach wardrobe and travel wardrobe. I wore my Coniglio Palm Beach pieces constantly there — especially one dress that somehow felt equally perfect for walking through the square, champagne at Hotel Bennett, and a special dinner celebration. Charleston evenings turned unexpectedly cool, so I found myself draping my scarves as shawls — pieces that still looked polished while feeling feminine and pulled together.

And then came Virginia horse country — which, stylistically, I thought would be a complete shift. I packed for chilly evenings, layered knits, equestrian jackets, and all the romantic ideas one imagines when thinking about Middleburg in May.

The weather, however, had other plans.

It was ninety degrees.

So instead of cashmere and structured layers, I found myself in silk camisole tops and wrap skirts from Julia Amory, trying to dress for horse country while simultaneously surviving a heat wave. Somehow those pieces still worked — polished enough for dinners, lightweight enough for the weather, feminine without feeling overdone.

That’s what fascinated me most about this entire month: how adaptable certain pieces become when you really love them.

The same jewelry traveled through every city. The same sandals kept reappearing. Certain items earned their place over and over again simply because they adapted.

Maybe that’s what personal style really becomes after a while — not having more, but knowing what survives every version of your life.

And while all of this was happening, we were simultaneously packing up Palm Beach for the season. Closing closets. Shipping boxes north. Deciding what stays, what travels, and what version of yourself each destination requires.

Palm Beach dressing is its own language. East Hampton is another entirely. New York asks for something sharper. More restrained. Less silk dress, more blazer.

And yet somehow, every year, I find myself carrying pieces of one place into the next.

A little bit of island dressing in Charleston.
A little Palm Beach in New York.
A silk dress from Anguilla that will probably end up layered with a sweater in East Hampton by July.

Maybe that’s the beauty of this season of life — not fully belonging to one place anymore, but learning how to take pieces of each one with you.

There’s always a strange feeling this time of year in Palm Beach.
The season winds down slowly, then all at once.

For days now, I’ve been packing away pieces of my life here — folding pareos and wrap pants back into drawers, stacking sandals that somehow still carry traces of late dinners and salt air, reorganising closets that, for a few months, became part of my everyday rhythm.

And every year, I’m surprised by how emotional the transition feels.

Palm Beach has its own uniform. Mine became second nature: a scarf tied into a top, wrap pants, bronzed skin, oversized sunglasses, something effortless enough for lunch but polished enough to somehow carry into cocktails a few hours later. There’s an ease here that quietly seeps into the way you dress, move, and even think.

Soon, I’ll trade that rhythm for two entirely different versions of myself.

New York is structure again. Black blazers. Monochromatic dressing. Faster mornings, faster energy, sharper silhouettes. Everything feels a little more intentional there — even getting coffee somehow feels like an occasion.

Then East Hampton enters the picture somewhere in between. Jeans, oversized sweaters, button-downs thrown over a swimsuit, sandy tote bags left in the backseat of the car. Hair undone. Makeup minimal. Clothes that feel lived in instead of styled.

I always forget how much my surroundings influence the way I dress until I begin shifting between them again.

The truth is, packing isn’t really packing for me anymore. It’s more like rotating identities. Or reopening different chapters of myself that have been waiting in other closets, in other cities.

What I didn’t expect this season, though, was reconnecting with another part of myself entirely.

Not just through style — but through writing.

My father, Leonard Ackerman, began writing books and essays after my mother passed away. Over the years, I watched him build a life around reflection, memory, and storytelling, and every week I still read what he writes. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood the catharsis he found in it — the way writing can help you process grief, growth, transition, and identity all at once.

I understand it now.

Somewhere during this Palm Beach season, through creating Secrets and Style and building this unexpected community, I found myself returning to writing in a way that feels deeply personal to me. What started as styling looks and sharing clothing slowly evolved into something much more meaningful.

This space became a place for reflection.
For memory.
For connection.

And through Substack especially, I realized I wasn’t just documenting outfits or places or travels. I was documenting seasons of my life.

The older I get, the more I realize I’m constantly evolving — always trying to grow, understand myself more clearly, and become more honest in the way I move through the world. And in many ways, my father gave me permission to do that. Watching him reinvent himself creatively later in life reminded me that there’s never really a final version of who we are becoming.

I think that may be one of the greatest things I’m taking away from this season.

Not just beautiful memories or wonderful clothes or evenings in Palm Beach — but the realization that creativity can continue evolving alongside you, if you allow it to.

And while I’m genuinely excited for travel, summer dinners, mornings in New York, and weekends out East, part of me already knows I’ll miss this version of life too.

I’ll miss slipping into a scarf top without overthinking it.
I’ll miss humid Palm Beach evenings where getting dressed feels easy.
I’ll miss the softness of this season.

But maybe that’s the beauty of living between places.
You’re constantly evolving without fully leaving any version of yourself behind.

And somewhere between Palm Beach, New York, East Hampton, and now this unexpected return to writing…
I think I’ve realized style has never really been about the clothes for me anyway.

It’s about the life happening around them.

It’s not a day that arrives with plans or reservations or anything particularly light. In many ways, it sits alongside the day my mother passed, and her birthday—days that feel more like quiet markers than holidays.

Over time, I’ve learned not to force it into something it isn’t.

Instead, I’ve let it become a day of reflection.

I think about who my mother was—not just to me, but in the way she moved through the world. I find myself asking my father questions I didn’t think to ask when I was younger. Small things, mostly. What she liked, how she spent her time, what she was like when we were little. The details that, somehow, feel more important now.

And in those conversations, she becomes present again.

“She never really left. I just learned how to carry her differently.”

Not in a way that feels heavy, but in a way that feels continuous.

Because the truth is, she never really left. I carry her with me, quite literally, every day. Something I wear, something I reach for without thinking—it’s almost always hers. It’s become a quiet ritual, one I didn’t plan but now understand.

A way of keeping her close without needing a specific day to do it.

Mother’s Day, then, isn’t about trying to recreate something that no longer exists. It’s about acknowledging what still does.

It’s also a day I’ve come to spend differently. I reach out to the women in my life who are mothers—the friends and family who are in the middle of raising children, building lives, showing up in ways I now understand more deeply.

There’s something meaningful in that, too. In recognizing them. In celebrating what motherhood looks like in the present, even as I reflect on it in the past.

If anything, Mother’s Day has become less about the idea of a holiday, and more about a perspective.

About legacy, in the quietest sense.

About what stays with us.

There are certain things you don’t fully understand until you watch them over time.

Friendship is one of them.

Growing up, I didn’t realize how rare it was to see the same people at our table, year after year. My parents held onto their friendships from high school, from early adulthood—through moves, through careers, through every season of life. These weren’t occasional check-ins. These were real, lived relationships. Phone calls. Dinners. Weekends away. The kind of friendships that quietly become part of your foundation.

My parents

My mother never had the opportunity to continue her education beyond high school. She worked—hard—to help support my father through law school. She even paid for their wedding herself. There was no fanfare around it. It was simply what needed to be done.

But what she built, alongside my father, was something just as meaningful.

A life surrounded by people who stayed.

And now, as I watch my father at this stage in life—where friendships become even more sacred, where time begins to shift, and people you’ve known for decades are no longer as accessible—I understand it differently. These relationships aren’t just memories. They are anchors. They are history. They are identity.

And they require care.

At the same time, I look around now and see how much harder it seems for people to form those kinds of connections. We’re more “connected” than ever, but often to strangers. To screens. To versions of people that aren’t fully real.

And yet, what we actually need hasn’t changed.

We need to sit across from each other.
We need to listen.
We need to show up—consistently, imperfectly, but genuinely.

When I think about my own life, I feel incredibly aware of how fortunate I’ve been in this way.

The friend I met on the beach when I was seven years old—still in my life.
A friend from college, finding our way back to each other.

The women who have walked alongside me for the past twenty years—through moves, loss, and everything in between.
The friendships built as couples, which take on a life of their own.

There’s a photograph that comes to mind as I write this—filled with the faces of women who have walked through so many chapters of my life with me. I won’t name them here, and not all would want to be shared publicly. But if you’re reading this, you know who you are. And you’ve meant more to me than I could ever fully put into words.

And then there are the unexpected ones.

The people who arrive quietly, often at moments when you need them most.

Some friendships arrive exactly when you need them

When my mother passed, I felt that in a profound way. It was as if, in her absence, there were people placed in my life—gently, but unmistakably. Women who showed up with presence, with understanding, with care. Not to replace anything, but to hold space in a way that felt meaningful.

One of those women I’m with now.

And I don’t take that lightly.

Because the truth is—friendship is not just about history. It’s also about openness. About allowing new people in, even when life feels full. Even when it feels easier to stay within what you already know.

The most meaningful relationships require both.

Holding onto the ones who have known you forever.
And remaining open to the ones who are still finding their way to you.

That balance is something I think about often.

It’s also, in many ways, what I hope to create here.

Yes, Secrets and Styles is about fashion, beauty, and the things we love. But underneath it, there has always been something else—a sense of connection. A space where conversations happen. Where there’s a feeling of familiarity, even among people who may have never met.

And in a quiet way, friendships have come from it.

Which is not something I ever expected—but something I value deeply.

Because at the end of the day, style evolves. Trends come and go. But the people in your life—the ones who know you, who see you, who show up—that’s what stays.

That’s what matters.

Always.

There are certain evenings that feel different from the moment you arrive. Not louder, not more elaborate—just more intentional.

Last night, I found myself in a space I had never been to before—Palm Beach Regency, tucked along Dixie Highway. The kind of place you pass without realizing what’s inside, and then once you’re there, you wonder how you hadn’t discovered it sooner. Beautiful, thoughtful, quietly designed. It was also a pleasure meeting the owner behind the space—there’s something special about being in a room that reflects someone’s vision so clearly.

My friend Wilder, who has quickly become my partner in crime down here, joined me, and together we stepped into a gathering that, on the surface, was about a brand, but in reality felt like something else entirely.

“Some nights, the right people find their way into the same room.”

The evening was hosted by Love, Ellison, and it felt exactly as it was described—an intimate gathering of community, thoughtful details, and vintage-inspired moments. There was something easy about it—bubbly, light bites, women moving in and out of conversation, creating custom pieces, and simply enjoying being there.

I had actually been in touch with Julie Liechty for some time now—what started as a connection on Instagram almost a year ago finally turned into meeting in person. And it reminded me how often those quiet, digital introductions can turn into something more meaningful when the timing is right.

What she has built is rooted in something deeply personal—her daughter, Ellison, the inspiration behind the brand—and yet the way it comes to life feels light, generous, and full of intention. The pieces are colorful, wearable, and designed to move with you, but there’s also a deeper layer to them. A portion of proceeds supports causes close to her heart, including pediatric cancer and wildlife conservation, which gives everything an added sense of purpose without ever feeling heavy.

I left with a small box of pieces from the evening, and as I’m sitting here writing this, I realize I’m wearing one of them—the Mariela gold bangle—almost without thinking. It’s funny how certain things carry a memory with them. A quiet reminder of where you were, who you met, and how something felt in the moment.

The Marilla bangle—worn without thinking, remembered for everything else.

Love Ellison Marilla bangle

But more than anything, what stayed with me was the feeling in the room.

It was one of those rare evenings where you’re introduced to women you’ve never met before, yet the conversations don’t feel like introductions at all.

There’s a certain energy that comes from being in a room of like-minded women—women building, creating, supporting, and showing up with intention. It’s not forced, and it’s not transactional. It’s just… understood.

It’s a reminder that the best gatherings aren’t really about what’s being presented. They’re about who you meet, what you take away, and the feeling you leave with.

And lately, I’ve been thinking more about that—about the importance of saying yes to these kinds of evenings. Not because you have to, but because every once in a while, you walk into a room and leave with something you didn’t expect.

A new connection. A conversation that stays with you. A quiet sense that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Some nights are just that.

As always, appreciate you being here. 💋

There are a few weeks every year where I start to feel the shift before anything has actually changed.

Palm Beach is still very much Palm Beach—but I can feel the edges of it softening.

The dinners thin out, the energy quiets, and suddenly I’m looking at a calendar that starts to pull me elsewhere.

We have a few trips coming up—Anguilla at the end of the month, a quick stop in Charleston, then Virginia. We’ll drive back up, eventually landing in the Hamptons in June.

On paper, it sounds seamless.

In reality, it always feels a little more emotional than that.

Palm Beach has its own rhythm, and once you fall into it, it’s hard to step out without noticing the absence.

I find myself holding onto small things a little longer this time of year—morning light, familiar corners, the ease of getting dressed without thinking too much about it.

My wardrobe always seems to reflect that in-between feeling.

Pieces I’ve worn all season—easy sets, soft structure, the ones I always seem to reach for this time of year—are still in rotation, but I’m already thinking ahead.

A jacket set aside for New York.

Something lighter that feels right for Anguilla.

Shoes that can handle a bit of everything in between.

I’ve realized I don’t really pack for a trip—I edit for the version of my life I’m stepping into next.

There’s even a road trip in there this year, which feels different for us—less polished, a little more real, and probably exactly what this transition needs.

I never quite feel ready to leave, even when I know I’m meant to.

But maybe that’s the point—

not rushing the transition, just moving through it.

One place gently giving way to the next.

Every April, there’s a moment when my mindset begins to shift.

In Palm Beach, dressing is effortless. The air is warm, the light is soft, and most mornings begin with the same instinct: reach for something easy that works from coffee to lunch to a walk in town.

But as the season begins to wind down, I start thinking about what comes next.

Because soon enough, my wardrobe will shift again — from Palm Beach to East Hampton, and then back into New York City.

I’ve lived this rhythm for more than a decade now, but this year I’m thinking about it a little differently.

In the past, I would pack, ship, and move entire wardrobes between places. Too many options, too many pieces, and inevitably there were things I never wore. Dresses that stayed on hangers. Jackets that traveled for no reason at all.

This year I’m approaching it with a slightly different mindset.

Less moving.

More translating.

Instead of bringing everything north, I’ve been thinking about which pieces from my Palm Beach wardrobe can make the transition.

Because the truth is, many of them can.

Lately I find myself reaching again and again for pieces like the power pareo and scarf tops from Coniglio Palm Beach, the effortless shift dresses from Julia Amory, and some of the beautiful new pieces from Dottie Hart. They’re easy, flattering, and somehow always feel right for the moment.

But what I’m realizing is that many of these same pieces can travel north with me.

The pareo that feels perfectly coastal in Palm Beach can become something entirely different layered with a sweater in East Hampton. A simple shift dress that works for lunch here can easily move into the city with the addition of a jacket and a slightly different shoe.

And I already know a few things that will absolutely make the trip.

The jackets from Benar LA have become staples for me lately — the kind of pieces that instantly pull a look together and make lighter spring clothes feel a little more structured.

The shift, I’m realizing, isn’t really about buying a completely new wardrobe.

It’s about editing.

Choosing the pieces that travel well between places. The ones that feel effortless whether you’re walking down Worth Avenue, heading to dinner in the Hamptons, or spending a day in the city.

And if I’m honest, that idea feels more aligned with how I want to dress going forward anyway.

Less excess.

More intention.

Clothes that truly earn their place in the suitcase.

So as April unfolds, I’ve started quietly pulling aside a few pieces I know will make the trip north with me.

Not an entire wardrobe.

Just the ones I know I’ll actually wear.

And somehow, that feels like a much better way to begin the next season.

Perhaps the most interesting wardrobes aren’t the biggest ones — they’re the ones that know how to travel.

Recently, I took a closer look at the analytics across my social platforms, and something interesting emerged.

The women following along range from their twenties to their sixties. Some are just beginning to experiment with personal style, while others are refining wardrobes they’ve built over many years. There are also a handful of men who follow along — often deeply interested in fashion and personal style in their own right — which I find incredibly meaningful.

What struck me most wasn’t the age range. It was the shared curiosity.

Curiosity about style, about quality, and about the stories behind the brands we choose to wear.

That curiosity is really the spirit behind what I’m doing here.

What began as a small personal platform — simply sharing things I genuinely loved — has quietly grown into something more intentional: a place for discovery. A place where I explore brands that feel thoughtful, well made, and worth sharing.

And that often means taking the time to truly understand the people behind them.

When I discover a brand — or when a founder reaches out — I almost always want to learn more. I ask questions. I get on the phone with founders. I listen to how a piece is designed, where it’s made, and what inspired it in the first place.

Because when I share something here, I want to understand it.

Over time, that process has introduced me to an incredible range of brands, many of them independent and female-founded.

I’ve been supporting Coniglio Palm Beach since the early days of the brand, long before their recent studio opening. I’ve been a customer of Julia Amory since she opened her Palm Beach store, drawn to the elegance and ease of her pieces.

Other brands I’ve come to appreciate through this process include emerging labels like Benaar LA, whose California perspective brings a fresh point of view to modern dressing. I’ve also recently discovered Dottie Hart, a newly launched, female-founded lifestyle brand inspired by the founder’s timeless taste and creative spirit. The pieces feel fresh and optimistic — beautiful coordinated sets and springlike colors that capture an easy, effortless way of dressing.

Some brands are defined by craftsmanship. Breck + Grier, for example, creates beautifully handcrafted tote bags made in Morocco, each one reflecting the artistry of the people who make them.

Accessories are often where the most interesting stories live. I’ve enjoyed discovering Apposé, whose versatile leather bags move effortlessly from work to travel and even into evening as an oversized clutch. I’ve also loved the work of the Greek jewelry designer Helen Georgiou, whose handcrafted pieces reflect both tradition and a very personal design perspective.

And then there are brands like Tyler Böe, which have built a loyal following by creating clothing that feels classic, wearable, and easy to live in.

The truth is, I’m selective about what I share.

Not in a way that excludes, but in a way that respects the people who follow along here. If I feature something, it’s because I’ve taken the time to experience it myself — to wear it, to style it, and to see how it lives in the real world.

This platform isn’t about promoting everything.

It’s about editing.

That’s really the difference between content and curation.

In many ways, this space has become something like a living editorial notebook — a place where I share the things I discover along the way: pieces that feel timeless, brands that are building something meaningful, and ideas about style that evolve as we do.

At the end of the day, this platform has become something of a shared space — a place where discovery, style, and thoughtful design come together. Whether it’s a new designer just beginning their journey or a brand that has quietly built a following over many years, what interests me most is the intention behind what they create.

The audience here spans generations, backgrounds, and personal styles, but what connects us is a shared appreciation for things that are well made, beautifully designed, and meant to be lived in.

That’s really what I’m building here — a place to celebrate personal style, thoughtful brands, and the small discoveries that make getting dressed each day a little more interesting.