Full Circle Isn't a Return

The unknown has always been my medium.

From 1990s fashion to building a life in Portugal

Watching the 1990s Vogue series on Hulu recently pulled me back into a time when not knowing didn’t feel like a problem. I was in art school then, launching my fashion brand, learning by doing, trusting instinct more than plans — who had those? My designs found their way into magazines, television, film, and onto celebrities not because I had a clear roadmap, but because I was willing to move forward without one.

Looking back now, I don’t see a beginning I’ve outgrown. I see a pattern I’ve always trusted — one that was shaped during my years building a fashion brand and defining my approach to design and longevity. 

Art school and my job at Chanel didn’t feel like opposing worlds — they fed each other, because that tension has always been part of who I am. I didn’t come from money, but I cared deeply about quality. I learned early how to make inexpensive pieces feel intentional, and I learned just as quickly that price alone never justified anything.

Working at Chanel taught me craftsmanship — that the inside of a garment should be as considered as the outside. That if something is built with integrity, the customer doesn’t outgrow it; they age alongside it. As I started making money, I chose to spend it on things that were beautifully made. Shoes became my item of choice — not as a status symbol, but because craftsmanship mattered to me. I never wanted people to know what I spent on something, whether it was five dollars or five hundred. Labels didn’t matter to me. Standards did.

I’ve always been drawn to the tension between raw expression and refinement. When done well, they aren’t opposites — they’re aligned. I loved pairing beautiful fabrics with exposed seams, heavy masculine wools cut against diaphanous materials meant to fray. Structure softened by vulnerability. Polish interrupted just enough to stay alive.

That sensibility never left. I still respond to it instinctively, whether I’m designing something or choosing what to live with. I’ve always been drawn to pieces that age — that soften, mark, and show their use over time. Wear doesn’t diminish them; it deepens them. I’ve always believed that wear adds value — the way Jane Birkin’s original Birkin, scratches and stickers intact, became iconic precisely because it was lived with, not preserved. The point was never perfection. It was honesty — allowing things to be well made, lived in, and not overly controlled.

What I was reading, watching, and listening to then mattered. Those magazines and films gave me dreams — fantasies of traveling the world, of living a life bigger than the one I could see in front of me. They offered possibility. A sense that there was more beyond where I was, and that I might get there.

Music held the emotional weight of that time. I lived between anger and longing — loud, thrashing intensity paired with lyrics that had to say something. I’ve always been drawn to words first. The feeling mattered more than the sound. My taste moved between raw angst and a quieter kind of hope layered with sadness.

I’ve always been comfortable in solitude — the kind shaped by work, study, art, and long stretches of focus. It was never loneliness. Music, books, and close friendships were always part of that world. They didn’t distract me from myself; they kept me company while I became who I was.

Those early years were long, busy, and full. I was juggling being a new designer, our production, sales, work travel, and building the brand. Everything was made by hand, in-house. There were no cell phones, no social media — everything took longer, which meant more hours. I was exhausted, but I felt free. I was designing what I wanted, building something of my own, moving through the world on instinct.

Fear around money was always there. I grew up watching it handled poorly, and that left its mark. Scarcity followed me into my business in two ways at once. It made me work harder, longer, faster — taking on as much as I could because next season was never guaranteed. And at the same time, it made me selective.

What shook me wasn’t competition — it was watching buyers pass my work to line up for things that felt cheap or overly embellished. Not because it wasn’t my style, but because it didn’t align with my standards. I’d give myself five minutes to be annoyed, then remind myself: they weren’t my customer anyway. I took the orders I believed in, even as I pushed myself to keep going, just in case.

I saw myself then as both creative and deeply professional. I still resist being boxed into a single title — not because I reject structure, but because I’ve always worked as a creator and a designer, moving between categories and places. San Francisco in the 90s felt like my happy place: the energy, the people, the collision of ideas. Early success was motivating, inspiring, and grounding all at once.

What’s surprising now is how little I thought about the future then. Not because I lacked ambition, but because life was happening in real time. The days were full, and time passed almost without my noticing. It’s strange to realize that my brand began nearly thirty years ago, and that I held it for twenty-seven. Time flew — not because I wasn’t paying attention, but because I was fully immersed.

Watching that era again didn’t make me nostalgic. It made me attentive. Aware of how quickly time moves when work is the center of joy. And it made me ask a different question than I ever did before: how do you build a future where fun, curiosity, and meaning aren’t primarily work-shaped?

This move — this new life in Portugal — isn’t about starting over. It’s about choosing with awareness. The unknown hasn’t changed. Only the scale has. I’m still drawn to spaces where structure and openness coexist, where craftsmanship meets honesty, where life isn’t over-controlled.

Full circle isn’t a return.

It’s recognition.