But I don’t actually think this is about the word. I think the word is just a symptom of something more exhausting: everyone is trying so hard to be perceived as different.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped simply liking things and started wanting to be seen as the kind of person who likes certain things. It is no longer enough to have a favorite restaurant, a favorite book, a favorite perfume, or a hobby you enjoy. Now it has to say something about you. It has to feel obscure enough to make you interesting, curated enough to make you desirable, and specific enough to separate you from everyone else. How ridiculous!

The funny part is that in our collective attempt to become more unique, we all started sounding exactly the same. Everyone is chasing the same “cool girl” vocabulary, the same understated aesthetic, the same niche references, the same desire to seem like they discovered something before everyone else did.

As someone who creates content online, you realize very quickly that almost everything has already been done. Every post has been posted. Every trend has been recycled. Every “original” idea probably came from something someone saw, saved, forgot about, and accidentally reimagined six months later. That does not mean creativity is dead. It means we need to stop confusing originality with complete novelty.

The goal is not to be the first person to ever like something. The goal is to know why you like it.

That is where taste comes from. Not from liking something no one else has heard of, but from developing your own point of view. You are allowed to like popular things. You are allowed to love the viral Louise Carmen journal (same), the indie underground band, the restaurant everyone posts about, the book on every bedside table. Liking something that other people like does not make you basic. It makes you human.

The internet has made us terrified of being ordinary, but ordinary is not the same as empty. Most of life is shared. Most feelings are universal. Most of us want some version of the same things: to be loved, to be seen, to feel beautiful, to feel interesting, to feel like our lives mean something.

Stop asking, “How do I become more niche?”

Ask yourself, “What do I actually like when no one is watching?”

Because that is the part no algorithm can give you. That is the part AI cannot generate. That is the part that makes your life feel like yours.

You do not need to become a more obscure, more curated, more digestible version of yourself to be interesting. You do not need to collect increasingly specific references to prove you have taste. You do not need to perform individuality for strangers on the internet.

You can just be a person. A real one.

And honestly, that might be the rarest thing left.

Not happier. Not more alive. Not more connected.

Better.

More optimized. More disciplined. More impressive.

I’ve never been one of those people who fully “lives in the moment.” Even when I’m having fun, some small, annoying part of my brain is awake in the corner, watching and calculating. Is this good for me or bad for me? Will I regret it tomorrow? Am I being disciplined or indulgent?

A night out becomes something I’ll need to recover from. Sleeping in becomes something I have to explain. Missing the gym becomes proof that I’m falling behind. Eating late becomes a character flaw. Having fun starts to feel like a tiny betrayal of the “responsible” woman I’m supposed to be.

I understand the appeal because I’m not anti-routine. I love a routine. I love a walk. I love a clean room, a productive morning, a calendar that makes me feel like I’ve briefly defeated chaos. Discipline isn’t the enemy. The problem is when the routine becomes the religion.

A walk is no longer a walk. It’s zone two cardio. A vacation is no longer a vacation. It’s a reset. Rest is no longer rest. It’s recovery. Joy is no longer joy. It’s nervous system regulation. Even time off has to prove itself useful.

The strangest part is that all of this is supposedly in service of happiness. We’ve optimized for years, and yet somehow we seem more anxious, more self-conscious, more afraid of wasting time, and more suspicious of pleasure. We have better routines and fewer spontaneous dinners that turn into the kind of night you remember years later for no logical reason.

The danger is that optimization culture teaches us to confuse control with goodness. The disciplined person becomes good. The indulgent person becomes weak. The person who sleeps in becomes lazy. The person who misses the gym becomes someone who has “fallen off.” So we begin to treat normal human experiences as little failures of self-management. Hunger, sadness, boredom, desire, exhaustion, pleasure, regret. All of it becomes data. All of it becomes something to fix.

We don’t ask, “Did I enjoy my life this week?” We ask, “Was I consistent?” We don’t ask, “Did I feel connected?” We ask, “Did I hit my targets?” We don’t ask, “Did I make a memory?” We ask, “Did this throw me off?”

It’s such a clean little trap because optimization culture never sounds cruel. It sounds responsible. It sounds aspirational. It sounds like becoming your best self. But better for what? Better at looking composed? Better at never overdoing it, never wasting time, never losing control, never eating something just because it tastes good?

So much of life is impossible to optimize without destroying it. Friendship is inefficient. Beauty is inefficient. Falling in love is inefficient. Laughter is inefficient. Sitting around a table for three hours talking about nothing that will make you richer, hotter, thinner, smarter, or more successful is inefficient.

And thank God.

This isn’t a call to abandon discipline. Discipline is good. Routines are good. Sleep is good. Movement is good. Self-respect is good. But control isn’t the same thing as care. And a good life isn’t the most optimized life.

A good life has rhythm. It has mornings where you wake up early, drink water, take a walk, and feel annoyingly proud of yourself. It also has nights where you stay out too late and laugh so hard your stomach hurts. It has green juice and 2 a.m. pizza. It has discipline and indulgence. It has routine, but also rupture.

Maybe the point isn’t to become someone who never falls off. Maybe the point is to stop treating yourself like a problem to solve.

Not every pleasure needs a defense. Not every dinner needs to be balanced. Not every season of your life needs to be your most disciplined. Sometimes the skipped workout isn’t a moral failure. It’s just a skipped workout.

Sometimes the 2 a.m. pizza was the point.

A life can be healthy and still have room for pleasure. A life can be disciplined and still have room for surprise. A life can be beautiful and still be inefficient. And a life measured perfectly isn’t the same as a life fully lived.

Makeup favorites

Chanel Les Beiges Water-Fresh Complexion Touch doesn’t really feel like foundation. It’s more like a veil. I hate when summer makeup makes your skin look flat or heavy, and this does the complete opposite. My friend Ivanna recommended it to me, and it’s become a summer staple, especially in this Miami heat.

Chantecaille Cheek Shade in Horse Joy is gorgeous and so luxurious. I haven’t used powder blush in a while, but this one stands out. A few sweeps of this on your cheeks is perfect for something natural and glowy.

Victoria Beckham Beauty Colour Wash in Bronze Water Tint is not so much a contour as it is a warm tint. It’s the perfect finish and blend to look like you don’t have makeup on.

Artists I love right now

Sasha December’s work feels like stepping into the emotional world of adolescence. Her paintings sit somewhere between innocence and melancholy, creating dream like scenes that feel equally comforting and unsettling. (@sashadecember on ig)

I discovered Fatima de Juan at Art Basel a few years ago. If you loved Lisa Frank growing up, you will love Fatima de Juan, trust. Fatima’s work feels loud in the best way. It’s colorful, weird, fun, and full of attitude, like the girls in her paintings know something we don’t. There’s a cool mix of softness and chaos that makes her work feel alive instead of overly polished. (@fatimadejuan on ig)

Yoshitomo Nara is one of my absolute favorite artists, and I always get SO happy to see his work irl. His art is easily translatable for anyone who looks at it, which I love. (@michinara3 on ig)

On my nightstand

I’ve been burning Japanese incense from Omakase Forest in the mornings and while I do work, and it’s one of my favorite things. As a Taurus, I think it’s important to set the tone of every environment you’re in, and scents are one of my favorite ways to do that ~

The Biodance Glow Booster is sooo good. I started using this mostly because of the TikTok ads (guilty). I don’t always believe in “glow” products because sometimes glow just means sticky, but this actually makes my skin look plumper and more hydrated.

I discovered Fragonard on a family trip to France, where we toured their factory and I instantly fell in love. Their Ambre Safran, has been my favorite scent ever since, and I’ve been quietly gatekeeping it until now. Thank me later…

Startups on my radar

Darkfin Labs is building a single-bottle skincare protocol powered by regenerative peptide science. What I find most interesting is that the brand is backed by an actual team of scientists, and it speaks to a very real problem in beauty: the exhaustion of using ten different products when one well-formulated product could do more. It’s a streamlined, science-led approach to skincare, and I’ll definitely be keeping an eye on them.

Zellerfeld is 3D printing shoes custom-fitted to your actual foot scan. I first heard about them at an Art Basel party in 2022 with my investor friend and have been keeping an eye on them ever since. At the time, it felt very Art Basel, like of course someone is talking about 3D-printed shoes at a party. But it actually makes sense! Why are we all wearing generic shoes when feet are so specific?

Goodles is one of my favorite mac and cheese brands. It’s colorful, nostalgic, better-for-you-ish, and the branding is so good. I love the “Shella Good” flavor.

Listening to

Ed Mylett’s June 13 episode, “Cracking the Hidden Code to Visualize Your Dreams into Reality.” This is a great podcast to listen to on a long drive. I love Ed Mylett, and all his episodes are gold!

The age of analog

One of my favorite hobbies is film photography because it makes you slow down and actually notice what’s in front of you. Lately, it feels like everyone is craving slower, more analog rituals again like film, vinyl, ceramics, journaling, painting. Anything that gets you off your phone and lets you make something beautiful, even if it’s a little imperfect. So if you’ve been waiting for a reason to try something new, consider this your sign!

• link to my favorite Japanese water color sets.

• link to vintage film cameras.

In case you missed it

The World Cup in the U.S. is already less about highlight reels and more about fan lore.

Scottish fans drank Boston into an emergency beer delivery. Tourists are treating Waffle House, Chic-Fil-A, Texas barbecue, and free refills like sacred American experiences. South Korea and Mexico somehow became the tournament’s cutest friendship arc, complete with tequila, chants, hugs, and “Coreano, hermano, ya eres mexicano.” :’)

The games are the reason everyone is here, but the best content is happening around them: the bars, the food, the flags, the comments, the random friendships, and every host city having its own cultural crossover.

that’s all for June! see you next month.

Between tuition, housing, and life in New York, the final bill sat close to $200,000. Looking back, it was worth every penny.

Not because I think everyone needs an Ivy League degree. Not because I think prestige automatically makes you smarter, more interesting, or more successful. And definitely not because I think a school name can save you from having to figure out who you are.

But because, for me, it became the door to a much bigger version of my life.

Since high school, I had this idea in my head that I wanted to go to an Ivy League school. At the time, it seemed like the ultimate marker of having “made it.” The kind of place where everyone was brilliant, impressive, well-connected, and somehow already fluent in a world I was still trying to understand.

I knew people who went to those schools, but always from a distance. A relative here, a friend of a friend there. Close enough to make the idea feel real, but far enough away that it still felt like another world.

I first applied when I was seventeen. Every Ivy. Duke. Georgetown. The whole list of schools I had decided meant something.

I got rejected from all of them.

So I did the next best thing. I went to the University of Florida, stayed in-state for undergrad, and I loved it. UF gave me confidence, leadership, independence, and a version of myself I needed to become.

But the dream persisted.

I applied to Georgetown again while I was at UF. Rejected again.

After graduating in three years, I moved through a few versions of the life I thought I was supposed to want. I worked in politics, then in banking. I learned a lot, grew up a lot, and slowly realized that even though I had built a respectable path, I still wanted something bigger from my career and my life.

I wanted space to recalibrate. To step outside the path I was already on and ask myself, honestly, what kind of life I was trying to build.

Eventually, after months of going back and forth, I decided to apply to business school and get my master’s degree.

Most people around me did not exactly think this was the obvious next move. Friends, family, bosses, and mentors reminded me, in their own ways, that I had limited experience, a nontraditional background, and a pretty real chance of not getting in.

They were not being cruel. They were being practical.

But sometimes the most important decisions in your life do not look practical from the outside.

I only had two years of real work experience. I had already been rejected from the schools I once hoped would want me. Still, I applied.

For the third time, I applied to Georgetown.

This time, I got in.

Then came NYU. Duke. And Cornell, which would become my future home.

I got into every school I applied to.

But the acceptance was not the real lesson. The degree I later received did not even provide the lasting gratification I expected.

For years, I thought getting into a school like Cornell would make me feel chosen. Like the name itself would validate the ambition I had carried around for so long. Like arriving there would finally quiet the part of me that was always trying to prove something.

It did not.

What it did instead was much more useful.

It showed me the actual mechanics of access. It showed me what changes when you are placed closer to certain people, conversations, opportunities, and rooms. It showed me that prestige has power, but not in the way I once imagined.

Prestige is not a personality, a purpose, or a finish line. It is access.

It is proximity. It is a door.

And once you are in the room, you still have to decide who you are going to be.

For me, that meant learning to use my voice in rooms where I did not always feel like the obvious person, stepping into leadership, building new projects, and choosing to steer my career toward technology, strategy, and the future I wanted to be part of.

Cornell gave me incredible things. It gave me New York. It gave me friends, mentors, a stronger network, a better career path, and rooms I probably would not have entered otherwise. It expanded my sense of what was possible for my life.

But it also taught me that no external achievement can do the internal work for you.

You can get the degree, the job, the title, the acceptance letter, and still have to build your confidence from the inside. You can be surrounded by impressive people and still have to learn how to trust your own voice.

You can finally get what you once wanted and realize the better gift was not the thing itself, but becoming the kind of person who could handle it.

That is the part I think we forget when we talk about success.

We focus so much on the destination that we miss the quiet transformation that happens on the way there. The rejection. The waiting. The detours. The jobs that made no sense. The seasons where you feel behind. The small moments when you realize you are not lost, you are being redirected.

So the takeaway is not that everyone needs an Ivy League degree or a big, expensive life pivot.

It is much simpler than that.

Apply again. Send the email. Take the meeting. Admit when something is no longer working. Let yourself want the thing, even if it feels embarrassing to want it. Stop assuming a past rejection is a permanent verdict on your future. Put yourself in rooms that stretch you, even before you feel fully ready for them.

And when you do get into the room, do not confuse access with arrival.

Access is only the beginning. What you do with it is what changes your life.

My MBA was worth it, yes. But not because Cornell gave me a brand name to hide behind. It was worth it because it stripped away the illusion that I needed anyone else’s permission to be ambitious.

We spend so much time calculating the cost of taking a risk, but we rarely calculate the cost of staying exactly where we are.

I did not spend $200,000 on a piece of paper or a safety net. I spent it on the ultimate bet on my own potential.

And that is an investment that never stops paying out.

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The ring lights. The affiliate codes. The “link in bio.” The smoothie ads. The Revolve trips. The perfectly casual mirror selfie that was, of course, not casual at all.

For a long time, it was easy to act like the whole thing was unserious. Girls who “just posted online.” Girls who made money taking pictures of their outfits. Girls who somehow turned getting ready, going to dinner, opening PR packages, and filming their coffee order into a job.

And I get why people laughed. There was something easy to dismiss about it. Something that looked too feminine, too aesthetic, too online, too obsessed with taste to be treated like real business.

But maybe that is exactly why it mattered.

While everyone was laughing, creators were quietly learning something most companies spend millions trying to figure out: what people want.

In real time. Every day. Through every post, comment section, failed launch, sold-out product, weird trend, and oddly specific audience reaction. They were testing language, products, aesthetics, price points, aspiration, desire, and cringe before a strategy team could put any of it into a deck.

For years, people acted like influencers were just posting.

But they were really building taste, trust, and leverage.

And now the business world wants in.

I think about this more now because I have lived on both sides of it. I’ve spent years making content, working with brands, watching certain products explode because the right girl posted about them, and still somehow feeling the need to downplay it. “I just post online” became the easy thing to say because it sounded less embarrassing than admitting the internet had become a real part of my work.

Then I got to business school and realized companies were spending entire meetings trying to reverse-engineer the exact thing creators understood intuitively: how to make people care.

That is when the whole thing started to feel different.

A sponsored post was never just a sponsored post. What brands were really paying for was not content. It was borrowed trust.

Trust that had been built slowly, recommendation by recommendation, story by story, until an audience felt like they knew the person on the other side of the screen. And once people feel like they know you, they are much more likely to care about what you like.

That was the first real unlock. Influencers were not valuable because they had attention. They were valuable because they could move attention.

And for a while, brands got an incredible deal. They paid once, borrowed a creator’s credibility, and kept most of the upside. A creator could make a product sell out, make a brand feel relevant, introduce a company to an entirely new audience, and then walk away with a flat fee while the brand kept compounding off the association.

At some point, creators started realizing the obvious.

Why am I making everyone else rich?

So they became the brand.

Rhode. Skims. O.piccola. Parke. The list keeps growing, but the point is not just that influencers started launching products. The point is that some of them understood the customer better than the people in the boardroom.

For years, brands paid creators to borrow their taste. Then creators realized they could stop being the ad and become the business.

And when it works, it really works. A creator-led brand is not powerful just because a famous person puts her name on something. The better version happens when the product feels like a natural extension of the world the creator has already built. The audience already understands the taste. The product just gives them a way to buy into it.

That can sound shallow until you remember how much of consumer business is about desire. People do not just buy the most useful thing. They buy the thing that feels right. The thing that feels like them, or like the version of themselves they are trying to become.

But I also think the “every creator should launch a brand” advice is too simple. Building a company is not just moodboards and launch parties. It is inventory, margins, packaging delays, customer service, cash flow, and realizing the font you loved on the deck looks terrible on the actual box.

Not every creator wants to become an operator. Not every creator should.

Which is why the next shift is more interesting to me.

Creators do not always need to become the company. Sometimes, they need to own a piece of the companies their taste helps make valuable.

That is the real power shift.

A brand deal says: we will pay you to talk about us.

Equity says: we believe your influence can help build the value of this company.

One treats the creator like media. The other treats the creator like capital.

This is also why AI makes the whole thing more interesting, not less. AI is going to make content faster, cheaper, and more endless. The internet is about to have more reviews, more recommendations, more “honest thoughts,” and more perfect captions that sound human but somehow feel like they were assembled in a lab.

In that world, the rarest thing will not be content.

It will be taste.

Not taste as in liking pretty things. Taste as in judgment. Knowing what is actually good. Knowing what is over. Knowing what is about to matter. Knowing the difference between something with real cultural momentum and something that just has expensive packaging.

AI can mimic a format. It can write a caption. It can generate a campaign. But it cannot replicate the slow accumulation of trust between a creator and an audience. It cannot manufacture the tiny, irrational, deeply human instinct that makes people say, “Wait, I need that.”

That is where creators become harder to replace, not easier.

The best creators are not just content machines. They are filters. They tell people what is worth noticing.

For years, creators were told they were lucky to be paid. Lucky to get the brand deal. Lucky to be invited into the room.

But maybe that was backwards.

Maybe the brands were lucky creators let them rent what they had built: the trust, the taste, the attention, the instinct, the cultural read, and the ability to make people care.

Because that is the real business.

And the smartest creators are starting to understand that they should not just be paid to post about the next big thing.

They should own a piece of it.

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While living in New York, I stumbled upon the cutest little indie bookstore on the Lower East Side and started popping in whenever I was nearby. A few impulse purchases later, I found myself excited to read again.

Below are the books that got me out of my reading slump.

Fiction:

Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors

Twenty-four-year-old Cleo is a British artist in New York struggling to stay afloat when she meets Frank, a successful man nearly twice her age. After a whirlwind romance, they impulsively marry. This sets off a chain reaction that ripples through their friends, families, and former lovers. What begins as a glamorous love story unfolds into a sharp, funny, and human portrait of addiction, ambition, and the people we become when we are desperate to be loved.

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman

Thirty-nine women are held captive in a barren underground bunker, guarded by silent men and given no explanation for their imprisonment. When an unexpected opportunity for escape arrives, the youngest woman ventures into a desolate landscape. Having no memory of the outside world, she begins searching for answers about humanity, freedom, and what it means to truly live. It is a quiet, haunting look at isolation and resilience.

Tender Is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

After a lethal virus makes animal meat unsafe to eat, society normalizes the practice of breeding and consuming humans as livestock. Marcos works within this gruesome new industry, mechanically carrying out his job at a processing plant while wrestling with his own grief and the moral collapse of the world around him. This dystopian novel is relentlessly unsettling and forces readers to confront uncomfortable ethical questions.

Memoirs & Non-Fiction:

Strangers: A Memoir of Marriage by Belle Burden

A candid memoir about the illusion of intimacy. When Burden’s husband of twenty years leaves her without warning during the pandemic, her steady partner overnight becomes a man she hardly recognizes. She reflects on her marriage, old-money privilege, and betrayal, looking at how two people can build an entire life together while remaining unfamiliar to one another.

Philosophy & Personal Growth:

The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts

Though written in the 1950s, this book feels perfectly tailored to modern life. Drawing heavily on Eastern philosophy, Watts explains why our constant search for certainty and security often creates more anxiety rather than less. It is a thoughtful, accessible read filled with passages you will want to underline.

The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer

A practical guide about the constant voice in your head and why you do not have to believe everything it says. Singer explores consciousness, self-awareness, and inner peace by teaching you how to observe your thoughts instead of getting swept away by them. It breaks down spiritual concepts in a way that feels grounded rather than preachy.

The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins

The premise is simple: let people do what they are going to do. Whether dealing with a friend, coworker, family member, or romantic partner, Robbins argues that you surrender your own peace when you try to control others. By adopting the “Let Them” mindset, you can drop the burden of managing everyone else’s behavior and focus on your own life.

Creativity, Style & Culture:

The Creative Act by Rick Rubin

Written by one of the most successful music producers of all time, this is not just a book about the music industry. It is a book about paying attention. Rubin explores creativity not as a rare skill reserved for artists, but as a fundamental way of moving through the world, listening to your intuition, and remaining open to inspiration.

The Art of Intentional Dressing by Erin Walsh

Part fashion guide and part reflection on personal identity, written by a celebrity stylist. Rather than chasing trends, Walsh encourages readers to use their closets to reflect their goals. She asks you to think deeply about why you wear what you wear, offering a practical approach to using clothing to communicate who you are.

How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are by Anne Berest, Audrey Diwan, Caroline de Maigret, and Sophie Mas

Less a rigid style guide and more a cultural mood board. Written collaboratively by four Parisian women, the book covers everything from fashion and beauty rituals to dating, confidence, and entertaining. It is charming, witty, and occasionally contradictory. Best enjoyed with a coffee in hand.

Happy reading!!

Not ugly enough to hate, but ugly enough that I genuinely couldn’t understand why people spent over $1,000 on a shoe that looked like a hoof.

Then I kept seeing them.

On friends. On influencers. On stylish women walking around New York. Eventually, I found myself clicking on them more often than I care to admit.

For those unfamiliar, the Tabi was introduced by Martin Margiela in 1988, inspired by traditional Japanese split-toe socks. Decades later, it’s become one of the most recognizable shoes in fashion.

What I like about them is that they don’t try to be universally appealing. They aren’t trendy in the traditional sense, and they’re definitely not for everyone.

But, maybe that’s the point.

Six Pairs I Love:

The Classic

Maison Margiela Tabi Ballerina

The Boot

Maison Margiela Tabi Ankle Boot

Affordable Alternatives

WoodchuckSato Burgundy Leather Split-Toe Tabi Fold Ballerina Flats

Raboesy Tabi Ballet Flat

Raboesy Tabi Ballet Flat II

Maison Nakamoto Tabi Flat

If you’re still unconvinced, I completely understand. If you’re currently adding a pair to your cart, I understand that too. ;)

Every few weeks, a new influencer, reality star, or vaguely famous internet personality launches something.

A lip gloss. A bronzer. A “clean” skincare line. A sweatsuit priced like it was hand-loomed by Italian monks.

And maybe I’m being dramatic, but at some point, it starts to feel less like innovation and more like Taco Bell.

A Crunchwrap. A quesadilla. A burrito. Technically different. Fundamentally the same. The same ingredients rearranged into a new shape.

That’s how a lot of celebrity consumer brands feel right now to me..

Not bad, necessarily. Just familiar. The same formulas, the same packaging language, the same soft-focus campaign, the same founder story about how they “couldn’t find the perfect version” of something that already exists in 400 nearly identical versions.

To be fair, not every celebrity brand is low effort. Some are excellent. Some invest heavily in product development, testing, formulation, design, and actual differentiation. There are celebrity brands that deserve the hype because the product is good, the execution is sharp, and the point of view is clear.

But a lot of the market does not work that way.

Many beauty, skincare, and fashion products are made through private-label or contract manufacturing systems. In simple terms, a third-party manufacturer can already have the formulas, packaging partners, production capabilities, and fulfillment systems in place. A brand can then customize the product through packaging, minor formulation changes, branding, and marketing.

The celebrity brings the audience. The infrastructure already exists.

This is not some secret conspiracy. It is just how a lot of consumer goods are made. And honestly, it makes sense. Launching a brand used to require massive operational complexity. Now, if you have attention, taste, capital, and the right partners, you can move much faster.

Which is why everyone is doing it.

Beauty alone is enormous. McKinsey estimated the core global beauty market at around $590 billion in 2025, with even more money sitting in adjacent categories like injectables, sun care, supplements, and spa services. In other words, there is a very obvious reason every famous person eventually ends up holding a serum in a campaign photo.

But this is where it gets interesting.

Celebrity brands are no longer just product businesses. They are media businesses disguised as product businesses.

When I first started creating content, I had the same thought a lot of creators probably have at some point: Wouldn’t it be cool to launch a brand?

So I started researching what it would actually take.

What surprised me was not how impossible it felt. It was how accessible it seemed. There are entire ecosystems built to help people launch things. The formula can exist before the founder does. The packaging can be sourced. The product can be manufactured. The logistics can be outsourced.

The hard part is not always making the thing.

The hard part is making people care.

And that’s where celebrity becomes the product.

Because most of the time, we are not just buying blush. We are buying proximity to Hailey Bieber. We are not just buying a hoodie. We are buying the feeling of being inside a certain world. We are not just buying a lip liner. We are buying the fantasy that our life might look slightly more edited, more glowy, more expensive, more culturally fluent if we own the thing.

That is the real genius of celebrity consumerism. The object matters, but the identity around the object often matters more.

This is why the branding has to be perfect. The color palette. The font. The launch dinner. The founder’s bathroom counter. The campaign imagery. The TikTok haul. The “get ready with me.” The product is not just being sold to us as useful. It is being sold as a membership card.

And I say this with complete self-awareness because I am absolutely not above it.

I love beautiful packaging. I love a chic campaign. I love a product that looks good on a counter. I love the little dopamine hit of buying something that feels like it belongs to a better version of my life.

Consumer psychology works because it works.

But there is a difference between enjoying branding and letting branding do all the thinking for you.

At some point, we have to ask whether the thing is actually good, or whether it is just good at making us want it.

Does the protein powder actually work, or do you just want your abs to look like the girl selling it?

Do the jeans fit well, or does the campaign make you want to become someone who wears it?

Would you still buy the product if the logo were blurred out?

That’s the question I keep coming back to.

Because the issue is not that celebrity brands exist. Some of them are genuinely great. The issue is that hyper-consumerism keeps convincing us that we are one more purchase away from becoming the version of ourselves we already know how to imagine.

Another nude lip liner. Another “clean girl” serum. Another activewear set. Another tiny bottle promising transformation.

The better strategy is probably less exciting, but much more useful: find what actually works.

The skincare brand your skin likes. The jeans that fit every time. The makeup you actually finish. The bag you reach for constantly. The pieces that become part of your life instead of another trend cycle you briefly participate in.

Taste is not just knowing what to buy.

Sometimes taste is knowing what not to buy.

So no, celebrity brands are not inherently bad. A good product is a good product, famous founder or not. But in a world where attention can be turned into a checkout button overnight, consumers should be a little more honest about what they are actually paying for.

Is it the product?

Or is it the identity it promises?

Madewell jeans never fail me. Truly. I’ve never had to get them hemmed, which feels like a miracle, and they’re currently on sale. I own multiple pairs in different washes.
(1) Madewell The Petite Perfect Vintage Wide-Leg Jean
(2) Madewell Petite Low-Slung Baggy Jeans in Airy Denim
(3) Madewell The Petite Longline Straight Jean
(4) Madewell Petite Pieced Barrel-Leg Jeans

If you buy anything from this list, make it these Reformation low-rise pants. They’re so flattering and super easy to dress up or down. I’ve been wearing them constantly lately for dinners or nights out with a cute top.
(5) Reformation Vida Low Rise Pant

Other honorable mentions:
(6) Reformation Vida Low Rise Short Pant
(7) Reformation Mason Short Pant

Another great going-out option if you prefer skirts:
(8) Guzio Micro Mini Stretch Skirt

Haven’t tried these yet, but they’re high on my wishlist:
(9) Still Here NY Sport Jean

Some of my favorite petite-friendly work pant options:
(10) Ann Taylor The Petite Grace Easy Fit Pant
(11) Favorite Daughter Petite Pant
(12) Aritzia The Effortless Pant - Crepette
(13) Aritzia The Effortless Pant - CruiseLinen
(14) Aritzia The Effortless Pant Cropped - CruiseLinen

For the summer, I’ve been loving these J.Crew linen pants:
(15) J.Crew Soleil Pant in Linen
(16) J.Crew Cosmo Pant

Hope this saves my fellow petite girls a trip to the tailor.