I made it past the emerald and discovered there was an actual person attached to it. Yes, I am not that shallow. She was the jewelry designer behind that outrageous emerald. Eventually, Dara became one of my closest friends. But between two errands, I often catch myself drifting into a kind of reverie. The ring is mine. Fourteen carats of emerald sitting unapologetically on my pinky. Wherever I go, the ring goes, hand in hand. Literally. Alas, the ring never makes it beyond the figment of my imagination. And every time I see it on her finger, I think the same thing: I want that ring. In fact, I need it.

There are not a hundred solutions. I could simply buy it and call it a day. Financial considerations aside, my friend is a phone call away, and we already have a lifetime planned together. The ring and I.

Keeping me apart from my forbidden fourteen carat affair is my own outdated idea of jewelry. I am perfectly comfortable buying myself clothes, shoes, bags and absolutely everything else my closet could probably not survive without. But with jewelry, I hesitate. I have always thought of jewelry as something given to me. Refrain from calling me entitled. Preferably by my husband. Is my thinking old fashioned? Probably. The feminist movement would disown me on the spot. Also, we are in 2026. Wake up.

The more I kept thinking about it, the more my own logic started to crumble. My husband should not buy me this ring. I should. This is not husband gift material. This is my Employee of the Month celebration. I want that emerald in my face at school pickup, getting stuck in my grocery bags at Publix, not at the annual gala I am never invited to. Also, if he wishes to wire me the funds for it, I won’t say no.

The ring is bold. It’s a statement. Wearing it feels strangely defiant, especially in front of my husband. Yet underneath all that bravado, its grandeur makes me shy. Could it be guilt? No. I am not sneaking home at four in the morning with my shoes in my hand. So why does showing up with a huge green rock on my pinky feel suspiciously close to committing jewelry infidelity? Am I cheating on the jewelry he gave me? With an emerald. On my pinky. Am I going too far?

A wise person once said, “I can buy myself flowers.” That wise person was Miley Cyrus. Well, yes, Miley, I know. I can write my name in the sand too. But flowers are easy. And flowers die. An emerald I intend to wear for the rest of my life is another matter entirely. Above all, I don’t want flowers. Still, the girl had a point. If I can buy myself flowers, clothes, shoes, bags and everything else, why does buying myself jewelry still feel like breaking some kind of unwritten rule?

When it comes to getting dressed, clothes require a certain level of planning. Jewelry requires a hand. I have a hand. What I don’t have is time and, recently, the nerves. The emerald needs approximately three seconds to land on my finger. A decent outfit today requires considerably more, and I am already fighting against the clock. Class starts at 8 a.m. Why so early, I will never understand. She is two years old. And then it all made sense. What I love most about jewelry is that I can actually see it. No mirror required. No searching for my reflection. I can be running late, carrying bags, writing this article, and all I have to do is look down and think, damn, I look good. The same goes for bracelets and watches.

But before Miley gets too excited and Simone de Beauvoir claims me as one of her own, make no mistake. Being my own jeweler does not, under any circumstances, mean that I want my husband to stop buying jewelry for me. Au contraire. The jewelry he gives me carries something very different: a gesture of love that, preferably, comes in a very nice box. My emerald pinky ring serves a purpose entirely of its own. My vanity. I have room for both in my jewelry box. Fortunately.

Perhaps my analysis couldn’t have been more off base. What if buying myself jewelry is not cheating at all? Could I have been unnecessarily faithful to a rule I was always free to break? My husband certainly did not care. Miley definitely did not. Dara, judging by the emeralds that started this entire identity crisis, did not either. Which ultimately leaves only one person standing between me and that ring. Me.

Will I buy the ring? Maybe one day. I am still negotiating with myself. But I know exactly what will happen the next time I see Dara. I will look at her emerald. I will look at my lonely, bare pinky. How much longer do I intend to remain faithful?

Bisous,

The Closet Theory is powered by clothes, questionable decisions and, thankfully, its readers. Subscribe to join the drama.

I was 19 when I landed a very important job as an assistant to an editor at Madame Figaro in Paris. Every day, I scrolled through Style.com, pulled runway looks and called fashion houses. In my mind, I was doing the Lord’s work. You would have thought I worked at the White House. Back then, my devotion to fashion was very different. I never owned runway pieces, though being close enough to them was a thrill in its own right. I bought magazines, studied the runways and searched the high street for anything that came remotely close. Judging by the photographs, my sense of style was questionable. My obsession was not.

The fixation had a name. Balmain. To be precise, Look No. 16 from the Spring 2009 runway. It was all I could think about. The shoulders, the military buttons, the denim. Rihanna had it. I wanted it. I spent every second of my free time looking for dupes on the high street. I was not working much.

Years later, a trip down fashion memory lane brought me right back. I was curious to see what had happened to it, similar to looking up an old boyfriend on Instagram to see if he is married with kids or, even better, divorced and miserable. I checked 1stDibs, Vestiaire, The RealReal. Nowhere to be found. The obsession came roaring back. And then, there it was. On eBay. At auction. Mine.

After all that, I finally had it in my possession. It fit. I remembered exactly why I had fallen in love with it all those years ago. And then, as if returning a piece to the archives, I put it in the closet. If only I could tell you I was waiting for the right occasion. Clueless as to what I was waiting for, wearing it just to walk from one end of the apartment to the other was certainly not an option. Though why not? After all that fantasizing, my actual life did not seem to warrant it.

I hunted it for years. Now I was hunting for somewhere to wear it. I waited. Waited for a dinner, a party, a trip, anything that warranted the glamour and eccentricity. Invitations came. Plans were made. But somehow, it never made the final edit. There was always a reason. Too much for the day. Too precious for dinner. Too Balmain for a Tuesday.

At some point, I had to question the logic behind it. How special did life need to get before I could actually wear my clothes? If not now, when? At 50? 60? Pass them on to my daughter? Meanwhile, Tuesday kept showing up. Every single week. What if the occasion did not need to come first? What if I had it all wrong? Maybe I did not need a reason. Maybe wearing them was the reason.

Tuesday could be it. No special occasion. No perfect plan. No waiting for my social calendar to suddenly become more exciting. Which brings me back to my Balmain jacket. The exile lasted long enough. Almost 16 years to find it. Eighteen months to do absolutely nothing with it. It was time. This Tuesday, we are going out. Out of my closet. Out of my house. Where are we going? I have no idea. For once, it does not matter.

Bisous,

The aloe mask never made it onto my face. As Anastasia, my facialist, reached for it, I sat up and ended the treatment. Tingly and red, I could not wait one more second. Neither could my ideas. They had waited inside my mind for years, but the final thirty minutes of my treatment were apparently impossible. Still dripping in ylang-ylang oil, I ran to my husband’s old home office and started writing. The words raced across the page. It was new. It felt right. An hour later, my first essay existed. And now what? Should I write a book? Publish the essay? But where? My last contribution to the internet had been during the MySpace era, two decades ago. Things had changed; I guess. How does Substack work? Should I have finished my facial?

After deserting my facial, sprinting to my home office and convincing myself that I had just begun my memoir, the essay simply sat on my computer for two weeks. Writing had been the easy part. Pressing publish required my friend Dara and some extensive negotiations with myself. The following Tuesday, I published “The Closet Theory.”

It has always been about fashion. Always. At first, I considered social media, but Instagram would require me to speak through pictures of myself, and I just can’t. I found beauty in writing about clothes, not in posting them.

My days moved between home, playdates and the mall, with the occasional dinner in between. Two weeks ago, school drop-off joined the itinerary. This was the life I had always wanted. Still, somewhere between one place and the next, I was wondering what was coming down the runway, which color would define the season, what trouser silhouette would take over. I created outfits for places I never went. Fashion was constantly in motion in my mind but completely still in my life. Our relationship was surviving on imagination alone. We were heading towards a breakup, not for lack of love, but because I no longer knew what to do with it.

It was writing that rescued our relationship. My clothes found a purpose: somewhere to go, even when I had nowhere to be or simply chose not to go. On the page, they began lives of their own. One theory at a time, they left the closet. They went to dinners, survived internship disasters and made it through school drop-offs and PTA meetings, carrying old stories with them. With that, my love for fashion finally stepped outside the comfort of the closet and into my writing.

Six weeks, six published theories and ten unpublished ones later, I returned to the first post. I recognized the name at the top. The voice, though, sounded nothing like mine. Since when was I so polite? This was me. This was me in a place where I knew nobody. Shy, unduly polite, choosing every word meticulously and waiting to see how much of myself the room could handle. The page was different. It had no rules, no code to understand. It simply let me be.

Sixteen essays later, not sixteen years, I stopped holding back. I was no longer a timid guest. I was the one hosting the dinner. One theory led to another, and then another. The life I once thought had so little room for fashion kept turning into material. Fashion was no longer standing still. It had left my imagination for the page, and I was the one trying to keep up. At thirty-six, I wrote the first theory. Now, as I turn thirty-seven, I am writing it again. I still have no idea what Le Closet Theory will become. I only know that fashion and I have called off the breakup. As for what comes next, perhaps it will find me during my next facial.

Bisous,

Earlier that morning, before the actual separation hijacked my mind, I opened my closet and could not help but ask myself: what kind of mother do I want to introduce to the school? I could be fabulous. Cool. Put together without looking like the kind of woman who spends two hours getting dressed and makes her daughter run late every morning. The mother from Paris, naturally elegant, slightly eccentric but warm and friendly. I wanted the other mothers to wonder: Who is this mother?

The look I went for had very little to do with the mother figure I had in mind. Somehow, I had managed to dress as though I were the one about to go to class. A blue boyfriend shirt from Gap, medium-wash denim and brown suede Chanel ballerinas. Fortunately, my vintage camel Kelly was the only evidence that I was the grown-up.

Back at school, against all odds, my husband, my daughter and I arrive on time. We are the second family in the classroom. Orientation has barely begun, and I am already making a good impression. It must be the back-to-school outfit. My daughter, meanwhile, immediately begins butterflying between toys and tables. The classroom is her playground. Well, the same cannot be said for me. As more families arrive, I become quieter. Almost mute. The fabulous mother from Paris has left the room before introductions have time to begin. I move to the back of the classroom, sit stiffly on the tiny chair and wait for someone to speak to me. Nobody does. Excellent start.

Two older children, no more than four, arrive with their little brother. Within seconds, toys are flying across the room. Blocks on the floor. Plastic food everywhere. Complete chaos. I want to stand up, put everything back in place and tell those monsters to stop the carnage. Instead, I remain glued to my tiny toddler chair, waiting for someone to save the classroom. Then it occurs to me that someone could be me. My daughter bursts into tears. I jump off my little chair to pick her up and hold her tight against me. I realize that we have been having the same first day. She is shy. I am shy. She wants to leave. I want to run away and never come back. She is two. I turn thirty-seven in two weeks.

The following morning is our official first day of school, and we wake up late. Full disclosure: I wake up late. The back-to-school look does not make it to day two. I am right back in my high-school days, and those were not my brightest years. I throw on jeans, keep my pajama T-shirt on and slip into red sneakers. So much for looking put together. We arrive at school at nine. I am mortified. Drop-off was at 8:10. Forget about making a good impression on the mothers. They left fifty minutes ago. Perhaps that is not such a bad thing.

At the classroom door, my daughter bursts into tears again. I am about to do the same. Having a mental breakdown in the hallway will not get either of us through the first day. They close the door, and I can still hear her crying. I want to go back inside, grab her and run as fast and as far away as I can. Be strong, I repeat frantically to myself as tears roll down my face. Instead, I walk to my car. At least I did not have time to put on makeup. That worked out.

Sitting in the car, my self-respect at an all-time low, I remember that drop-off is at 8:10 every morning. At 8:10, neither my daughter nor I are operational. Now I will have to be awake, dressed and possibly pleasant to other mothers. My performance so far: D-minus.

I know better than to stay in the parking lot. Given another minute, I will march back into the classroom and withdraw us both from school forever. I begin to wonder whether I could homeschool her. Teach her math. No, that is a terrible idea. Instead, I find an Argentine bakery next door, order a coffee and a medialuna, open my computer and begin writing. My daughter is inside having her first day of school. I am next door, still wearing my pajama T-shirt, trying to recover from mine.

At pickup, I see another mother. Neither of us is dressed to the nines. We look at each other and laugh. “Tomorrow will be better. Upwards only,” I tell her. We laugh again. I think I made a friend.

Bisous

Getting there was another story. It required an hour in the car, a stop at the Prada outlet and some internal negotiations worthy of an international summit. I had not been to a proper party in a very long time. These days, most of my plans never make it beyond the calendar. But this was Michelle. I was not missing her birthday simply because I was too lazy to go out. Bye-bye, bed. Hello, Weston.

To avoid any fashion-related angst, I jumped into my daily uniform: oversized light-wash Levi’s and a white T-shirt. To elevate the look, I threw on my green Irish Twin tweed jacket, slipped into my Alaïa escarpins and took out the vintage Miu Miu bag I had spent nineteen years hunting down. Jeans and a white T-shirt had never betrayed me, and they were not about to start on my return to society. The bag made it clear that I cared. Vintage treasures do not leave my closet for just anyone

.

As dinner begins, I scan the room. There is no dress code, thank God. I dread them like the plague. But looking at the guests, you would never know we are all attending the same birthday. Had I missed a theme or something? Some even appear to have arrived from another decade. God knows what invitations they received. They have all led us to the same place: a Lebanese restaurant in a Weston strip mall

.

My side of the table is a world of its own. Directly across from me sits a fabulous Frenchman in his sixties who has something to do with the CFDA. What exactly, I do not really know, but it seems fab. To my left is a woman in a kaftan fit for a night in Oman. We are at a Lebanese restaurant, so why not? As she sits down, she immediately announces that her blonde wig might be flammable. Amazon couture. There are no candles on the table. We might make it out alive. And then there is Francesca Filler. The cherry on the cake. Well, she deserves a paragraph of her own.

Francesca arrives in Weston straight from 1987, wearing a gold sequined mini dress, high heels and Schiaparelli accessories. Her makeup is completely d’ époque: strong eyeliner, sculpted brows and a red lip. No concessions have been made to the present. Her hair is an homage to hairspray. Big, high and sculptural, it could withstand a Category 5 hurricane.

Leaving the 305 is apparently all the risk Francesca is prepared to take for the night. She has brought her own bottle of wine, or three. “I only drink the good stuff,” she says while filling my glass from across the table. I can barely hear a word she is saying, but she laughs at everything I say. Well, I am funny.

The rest of the room is just as interesting as my little corner. I spot one woman wearing a long dress and heels. Is she heading to prom straight after her falafel? Another, in denim shorts and a bright pink top, might have stopped by for dinner on her way back from summer camp. And then appears this majestic creature of the night, covered in piercings and dressed head to toe in Rick Owens. He butterflies around as though he has been teleported from a downtown New York runway. Am I hallucinating? Or is Francesca’s wine taking effect?

Then Michelle gives a speech, and suddenly we are at The Michelle Show. The room becomes her stage. She laughs and throws the occasional “Ya tú sabes” at us. Side note: Michelle is not Spanish, nor does she have any Spanish origins. For a moment, all fifty-four guests forget the drive to Weston. In other words, very Michelle.

For someone who obsesses over fashion as much as I do, the copy-and-paste effect has ruined half the fun of actually going out. On the rare occasion that I do, I spend an embarrassing amount of time looking at what people are wearing. This is Miami, so quite often, what they are not wearing. Michelle’s party is refreshing. Somewhere between Oman, summer camp, a downtown runway and the eighties, we have all met in Weston, and I am here, lucky to witness it all. Fabulous.

After the birthday cake, a phone call from my daughter reminds me that Miami is still an hour away. The party is still going, but my grand retour to nightlife has reached its end. I say goodnight and begin the journey back to my world.

A couple of days later, Michelle sent us the photograph from the online publication. Apparently, neither Dara nor I had remembered to smile. We were nameless, so who cared? There we were: the Witches of Weston.

Bisous,

.

There it was: a vintage red, strapless midi dress that moved with every step. Very Carrie Bradshaw going on a date with Big. Not the tutu, but almost. To enhance the silhouette, I had opted for yellow crocodile Aquazzura stilettos. I completed the look with vintage gold and enamel earrings and vintage Cartier bangles borrowed from my mother’s safe, sans permission, of course. I was dressed to the nines. A real Cinderella. I glanced at my phone. It was 1 p.m. His flight was not supposed to land at LaGuardia until 9 that night. I had eight hours to wait before my big ball. I decided to remain in costume

.

Timing aside, there was still one minor detail: was the man actually coming to New York? I silenced the doubt with the affirmations I had just learned: “He is coming. Of course he is coming.” The reservation had been made. The outfit was ready. Whether the man would actually arrive felt, for a New York minute, secondary. We had met twice. That was more than enough for me to reconsider my whole wardrobe and, while I was at it, my personality.

Until then, my uniform for going out had always been the same: a crop top, a blazer, baggy jeans and some kind of heel. There was nothing wrong with it. That was the problem. I looked fine. Tonight, I wanted more. This time was different. He was different. For one, he did not seem to be carrying a hundred kilos of emotional baggage and insecurity. That alone showed great potential. More importantly, next to him I felt elegant, composed and alive. Naturally, this required dresses. Lots of dresses.

As one does, I did not stop at one. I bought enough dresses for an entire relationship. The clothes were unlike anything I had ever worn. The relationship, meanwhile, had barely made it to its third real date. There was a demure dress for breakfast, a short one paired with black Chanel Mary Janes for walking around New York, and an Etro silk dress for lunch. Drinks and dinner were a completely different story. Even his departure had a look. Effortless, of course, yet screaming, “Please come back soon.”

The outfit planning had turned into a whole dossier on my phone. I had assigned a look to every possible moment. Yes, I know. It was a lot. Suddenly, I was back in my Madame Figaro days, planning photo shoots. Well, in this case, a date. He was supposed to come to New York for two nights. I had bought enough clothes for six months. What can I say? I am a romantic.

Against all odds, the man came. As planned, we went to Majorelle. The dress worked. The shoes worked. Even the jewelry from my mother’s safe worked. The date was perfect until, just before the vanilla soufflé, he announced that he had to leave for Washington, D.C., the following evening for work. Total devastation. There I was, dressed for my fairy tale, eating soufflé in silence and despair. Just like that, our future life together was over, and my six remaining outfits were suddenly unemployed.

In retrospect, the clothes were never really for him. They were for the woman I had already decided to become around him. Any sane person would have called this irrational. Borderline neurotic. Imagining an entire relationship before even confirming the weekend is usually a recipe for a broken heart and several dresses I could not return.

Fortunately, for the sake of my reasoning and my self-esteem, the man came back. Then he came back again. Eventually, he became my husband. And if you are wondering about the dossier, it still exists in my Notes app.

The fairy tale came true. The outfits, however, never left my closet.

Bisous

Made entirely from black lace, it had a fitted bodice, a deep neckline, cape-like sleeves, and a ruffled peplum. Only one detail stood between us: the $6,000 price tag. Before tax, just to make the decision even more insulting

.

Then the long-awaited sale season arrived.

I kept returning to the Bergdorf website to check the price. It dropped slowly, but never enough. So I waited, a level of patience I rarely display when shopping.

Eventually, it was 80 percent off, and somehow my size was still available. A 36 is usually long gone by then. It was a calling. I answered

.

A few days later, a small, suspiciously light cardboard box arrived. I assumed it was another Amazon order for my husband and set it aside.

Later that day, I noticed it on my desk. It was addressed to me. Inside were the words Bergdorf Goodman.

It took me a moment to understand what the hell I was looking at. There it was: my Chloé top, rolled into a ball inside a clear plastic bag

.

I had waited a year for that.

No hanger. No tissue paper. No garment bag. Nothing to suggest that the ball of lace in front of me had ever cost an entire month’s rent or had even been down a runway.

In my head, a small ceremony had been prepared for its arrival. It turned out I was the only one invited.

I had no words, this rarely happens. Bergdorf had sent my precious Chloé top looking like someone’s forgotten dry cleaning.

For a moment, I considered closing the box and sending it straight back. It was still in its pathetic plastic bag. An eyesore. A crime against fashion. I could not look at it for a minute more.

Then I told myself to be the bigger person. Come on the top was 80 percent off.

So I opened the bag.

Underneath the indignity, the top was everything I remembered and more. Oh, glory.

The lace was exquisite. The fit was unlike anything I owned. The silhouette looked vintage and completely modern at once romantic, gothic, and somehow grunge

.

This was the pièce de résistance my wardrobe had been missing and God knows how long I had resisted buying it. A statement piece that did not require an entire production around it. I could wear it with loose, light-wash denim or Saint Laurent tuxedo trousers. It worked with both.

The top survived the plastic bag. Bergdorf and I were officially done. Moving on.

These days, everything calls itself luxury. The word is everywhere; the care is not. Luxury is now a vibe, not a standard. Usually, that means an ordinary experience with better lighting and a worse attitude.

For instance, go for lunch at Hotel Costes in Paris, and you are welcomed by an arrogant 20-year-old hostess who believes she is Madonna. The attitude is shitty, to say the least. It has become part of the décor, and still, we keep coming back.

Meanwhile, a Chloé top the product of real craftsmanship and a designer’s vision arrives rolled inside a plastic bag.

We have kept the circus alive. The care is dead.

You may be wondering whether I returned the top.

Of course, I kept it. It is divine.

I also kept the grudge.

The top was 80 percent off. Apparently, so was my experience.

Bisous,

Besides being an incredible friend, Jill is an incredibly talented designer and the founder of The Irish Twin. So, it felt natural and perhaps slightly ambitious to ask her to create all five of my wedding dresses with three months’ notice.

The entire process took place virtually I did not travel to Paris for a single fitting. I was entering my seventh month of pregnancy, so between the different time zones, my ever-growing belly, and, of course, my hormonal shifts, the operation was obviously very practical

.

Fast-forward to Thursday evening, just before the festivities began. The box containing my five dresses had made it to Miami. God bless DHL. We had done it. Well… she had done it.

They were divine, and each had been designed for a specific moment. But one dress felt different. She had so much personality that I wasn’t entirely sure whether I would wear her or she would wear me.

The dress was made from mousseline and silk, with delicate French lace tracing the off-the-shoulder neckline. The empire waist allowed the fabric to fall almost weightlessly. The white was perfect not too stark, not quite cream. Romantic without being precious. A true masterpiece.

I had planned to wear it to the rehearsal dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant by the river. But when the moment came, its aura got the better of me. I was intimidated by my own purchase. That was a first. I placed it back inside its garment bag.

Instead, I went for a dramatic black dress with red flowers that I already owned from the same brand. I looked like a very pregnant extra straight out of a Dolce & Gabbana summer campaign in Rome. The look worked. It was also Plan B.

As we speak, the white dress is still in its garment bag, waiting to make its grand debut.

So why choose a dress I already owned when this one had been made for that exact evening? The dress was ready. I was not. It simply felt too special to wear.

It was custom-made for me, yet I felt so far from myself that it no longer belonged to me. I convinced myself it deserved to be worn when I had the body for it. I know it sounds ridiculous. It is also true, and it sucks.

The problem was that it did not stop with the dress. It became a pattern.

Truth be told, I never bought a single maternity outfit. If being pregnant already has you feeling dreadful, maternity clothes simply finish the job.

I lived in sweats while continuing to buy clothes online in a size 0. I wasn’t dressing myself. I was dressing future me.

She would be back soon. She would attend another black-tie gala when and how that is going to happen remains unclear. She would attend her children’s birthdays.

The closet kept filling with clothes for later. The white dress stayed in its garment bag, waiting for the woman I kept shopping for.

I had an entirely different life in mind for the dress: dinner with my husband in Italy or an evening at home surrounded by friends. I love to host. I hate to cook. I kept telling myself I was on my way to becoming the woman who would wear it.

At some point, I had to admit that Italy, the perfect dinner, and the woman I planned to become were all excuses. The dress is not waiting for any of them. It is waiting for me.

Life, rather inconveniently, continues before I lose the weight, plan the dinner, or feel ready. To be clear, I am not wearing silk and French lace to school drop-off I have not completely lost the plot. But dressing like me should not require a private chef, a table in Europe, or the body my GLP-1 is still working on.

Most of life happens on a Tuesday. So, I hereby declare Tuesday an occasion. Every Tuesday, I’ll share an outfit worth wearing when I’m in the mood, but that’s another story.

Bisous,

#TheTuesdayTheory

I said I would think about it. I liked the sound of it. However, each time I tried to put that thought into action, a tide of uncertainty took possession of me, bringing my potential social media career to an immediate stop. Why would I do that? Who needs another rich girl online posting about her outfits? Who the hell cares about a bag rotation?

I, on the other hand, had stopped caring for myself altogether during pregnancy. The weight of watching myself disappear was far heavier than the weight of the baby I actually carried. Finding a reason not to do it felt reassuring, and yet I kept circling back to it. Fashion never stopped inspiring me, but if you were to judge by my pregnancy photos alone, you’d think otherwise.

I am a mother of two, and before that, I was a party girl, a party of one, if you will. Fashion was an extension of who I was, a way to leave a lasting impression in a world of fleeting, vapid parties. More than that, it became a means of turning meaningless nights into moments of purpose. I didn’t remember much, but I always remembered what I wore.

This brings me to today. And why now?

Now that my life is full of love, full of purpose, why not fill it with fashion?

It took me a while, but I finally understood.

Because I can, but most importantly, because I get to do it for myself.

Because it lights me up in a way I can’t explain.

It gives me a sense of joy that is mine and only mine minus the awful hangover.

Well, isn’t that what fashion’s all about?

So, to answer my friend Dara…

Le Closet Theory or therapy, if I may say is for anyone whose life has changed, who may have lost a part of themselves, but who keeps coming back to fashion to reconnect, feel good, and have fun. Life is full of ups and downs, yet a good outfit always remains, and I get to share that with you today.

Bisous,

Olympia