Core Principles of Epicureanism

• Minimizing Pain, Not Maximizing Pleasure: Epicureanism focuses on minimizing pain and mental disturbance rather than maximizing pleasure. “Epicureanism isn’t about pleasure. It’s about being free from pain.”

• Simple Pleasures: Epicurus believed in finding joy in simple pleasures like friendship, good food, and tranquility. “Epicureanism is often misunderstood. The point is celebrating the simple pleasures in life.”

• Moderation: The philosophy emphasizes moderation in all aspects of life to avoid long-term suffering. “If you want to have a drink or two, that’s fine, but don’t do it to excess and have a hangover.”

The Tetrapharmakos (Four-Part Cure)

• Don’t Fear God: Epicurus believed that gods exist but do not interfere in human affairs, so there is no need to fear them. “There is no need to fear god.”

• Don’t Fear Death: Death is not to be feared because “where I am, death is not. Where death is, I cannot be.” “There is no need to fear death.”

• What is Good is Easy to Get: Basic needs and simple pleasures are easily attainable. “Anything good is easily attainable.”

• What is Terrible is Easy to Endure: Suffering is temporary and can be endured. “Anything terrible is easily endured.”

Sounds pretty great, no?

I want to talk about Epicureanism in the very broad sense. I know there’s a crazy amount of nuance and endless interpretations, but I want to talk about it in the don’t-think-about-it-too-much-super-broad-slightly-uneducated-version of it. The gist is to pursue simple pleasure, avoid physical and mental pain, and to really just live simply. Contrary to hedonism, the point of limiting pleasure .

I had decided long ago, growing up in an atheist household, one simple thing.

I WAS GOING TO ENJOY MY LIFE.

Disclaimer, I understand the simplicity of just “deciding” to enjoy your life comes with inherent privilege. A privilege that extends now beyond even the epicurean view of a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my stomach.

I think there is a very interesting correlation between fear of time and my own pull towards epicureanism. The quicker time passes, the more I’m desperately clutching it in my hands. Like dropping chocolate chips on the ground and scrambling to pick them up as the dog comes running over. I would lie awake in bed at night when I was seven and think of the fact that one day, my loving grandparents, then parents would die. Cheery!

The very normal human tendency to forget how rare and quick this all is. My mind always dwells on the ODDS of you being born at all. And being born at a time where we aren’t getting medieval style tortured for maybe being a witch.

Now is this timeline perfect? Absolutely not.

But these thoughts have swirled in my head for as long as I can remember. How rare it is to love, be loved, enjoy, swim in the water, eat my favorite foods, laugh, play, cry, to feel and be anything.

My goal in life is simple, again, to enjoy!

Not to enjoy at the expense of others, but to enjoy within the realm of reason. I will often, frequently, inconvenience myself for my village. The pursuit of pleasure also for me, directly correlates to making sure those I love experience happiness and pleasure.

When I was a little girl, my mother was great at helping us recognize the little things in life. Driving around, she would remark, “Isn’t it beautiful?” To my little kid brain, it was just a field where we lived... Yeah mom, cool…. But over and over again, she would point out small things. Simple pleasures. “Aren’t we lucky to eat these strawberries right from the garden?” “Look at how nice the sun is going down.” “Isn’t the rain so cozy? I know you can’t play outside, but you can enjoy reading by the fire now!” She really imparted this on me, and I’m forever grateful for it. Some on social media have coined this “The Art of Noticing.”

“He who is not satisfied with a little is satisfied with nothing.”
― Epicurus

And as I’ve gotten older, and growing up in the time of social media, you are constantly slapped in the face with peoples exorbitant wealth. Driving million dollar cars, plastic surgery, mansions, endless travel, ect. And I can’t help but just genuinely not understand the obsession for this lifestyle. To me, it extends past being comfortable. But I find that so many are deeply unhappy with what they have, even when they have SO MUCH. Especially so much compared to others. The things that I most enjoy in my life are absolutely free. Swimming in the ocean, seeing my friends, spending time with my family and husband, taking a walk at sunset, flower foraging, beach combing, and so on.

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”
― Epicurus

I think sometimes that we’ve lost the true meaning of enjoyment. We look to others to decide what we like, what hobbies we like, what to watch, what to eat, really just how to be. What do you like when no one is watching? What do you like when you aren’t posting it to your story, when you aren’t trying to prove to someone else (or even yourself) that it's cool? I’m completely guilty of this myself. The urge to perform even when no one is looking is so deeply engrained in me, unlearning it has been challenging. Who am I when no one is watching? How can I enjoy things on my own, without the approval of others? How can I find more happiness in the small things In life without chasing grandeur?

Last summer, I was floating on the raft they put out in the middle of the water at my favorite beach. The sun was low and hot. I was laying out by myself. The water was glistening, carrying the sounds of children laughing and playing by the shore. The boats and waves humming in unison, lulling me into pure tranquility, even with the plastic raft tearing and licking the skin on my back like a cats sandpaper tongue. I looked up when the raft abruptly jolted to the side over where the ladder was. It was an old woman, hair up in a now wet salty pony, and a little girl, all of 4, in a polka dot suit. They sat on the edge of the raft. I was impressed that they both swam out this far. They talked, well, mostly the little girl talked. Well, she mostly asked questions. Grandma answered them best she could, smiling while she warmed her thoroughly goose-bumped body in the sun. We exchanged an understanding smile.

As I looked at them, I realized, here were two girls, one at the end of her performance, and one at the beginning. But little wasn’t there yet. She hasn’t yet fallen to only liking what her schoolmates like, or NEEDING the latest thing, or wearing her hair just so. She was unapologetically her. She sat, wiping snot all over her arm, exclaiming she could catch a fish with her bare hands. And grandma was at the end. Not in a morbid she’s about to die kind of way, but the end of the performance. Among all the small beach town preppy ladies, she wore a bright orange sequined suit and had nails with fun shells painted on. Now this might not seem like much to some, but in the small beach town full of white collared tops and plain suits, it was. The care of what people think or thought, the desire to BE desirable, to perform, had almost vanished now. She was unapologetically her.

The two had an understanding, even if it wasn’t spoken, or the little one couldn’t quite understand yet.

They were free, and they were even freer together.

Sometimes maybe to an annoying extent. I’m easy to impress. I love a balloon tied to a mailbox. (a party is happening inside!!!) I love seeing other footprints in the sand of people enjoying the beach before me. I love seeing a well used lawn chair or a little old lady enjoying her afternoon walk.

I get lots of comments and messages of people asking me,

“How do you romanticize your life so much?”

The internet is always full of things you need to buy, places you need to go, ect.

So here are things I look for, enjoy, appreciate, with little to no explanation. Life is rare so I’m soaking it in ꩜

1. Find a plant and watch it grow

I picked my rhubarb this year. Bonus points if you can consume it once it’s ripe! There’s something so primal and rewarding about watching your food grow. But a nice flower or really anything will do. Time slows down, I promise

2. Find patterns in things

   Kind of like the childhood whimsy of looking at clouds seeing a dragon. Man, the fun doesn’t stop for me there. Presenting…. A stump that looks like a fig

3. Look for pretty shadows!

   sometimes I am the pretty shadow :D

4. Collect stuff for your fridge

   

   This has been one of my favorite silly things to do. Thrifting magnets, or getting them from museums or places I’ve been. It’s like my junk journal but I get to see it every time I reach for the milk.

5. Make your food pretty

   Stars and patience

6. Write a poem with friends

   

   Bonus points if you can find a typewriter. We have a poets corner at our local library. We each take a turn writing a line

   “Guys….this is publishable”

7. Stamp making

   I think I’m addicted… Buy or find some erasers in your junk drawer and grab a knife. So perfect for journaling and for me a great way to mellow out and clear my head

8. Water and light

   Find water. a fountain, the ocean, a pond, a river, a stream! enjoy the way the light bounces off it !

9. Laundry on the line

   Truly one my most favorite things in the world, the process of washing and hanging my laundry. The sun kissed smell of cotton sheets off the line on a summer day!

10. Read a book in the sun

    Even better if you are laying in the grass under a tree or by the water. But along as sun is touching you while it’s happening.

Here’s to finding a thrill and joy in the seemingly mundane !

Love you

And not in a excusing-the-bad-behavior sort of way, but in the I’m-not-screaming-at-every-man-who-looks-at-me-for-an-extended-period-of-time-end-up-in-a-viral-video sort of way.

( I think this might be my most relatable piece yet )

I was very fortunate to grow up in an extremely body positive/body neutral household. My mother was very adamant that I wasn’t exposed to negative language surrounding my body, eating habits, ect. I am so thankful for this. Because of course even with all that effort, I still hated my body and the way I looked for a long time. Spiraling in this confusing wave of flourishing in my newfound woman’s body, and reveling in its budding sexuality, to avoiding the mirror for weeks. Through all that weird torment, I landed on the other side of pure admiration for my body as a whole.

Well most of the time.

As a young woman, I learned the more my hips widened and my breasts grew, the more the world changed. Well, the more the world had changed at me. Men of course in particular. Familiar platonic hugs suddenly pressed even more tightly and lingered for too long. Men stood uncomfortably close behind me in the store line, drinking in my scent like predator stalking its prey. Unwanted touches, comments, stares, things I’m sure everyone reading this can relate to.

When I was living in Los Angeles for a time, I was living with my three best friends, one of them being a current boyfriend at the time. And at the time, all male presenting. It was rare I ever went anywhere without them, being freshly 18 and nervous in a new place. I’d never ever had any problems. I wasn’t catcalled, bothered, anything. I realized soon after it’s because I had been walking around with three bodyguards.

Until the next year I had moved back, and I was going places all on my own. I would walk to work and back, a super sketchy walk underneath a dreary underpass lined with the occasional food truck peppered with groups of men. I was like a bone on a string being dragged through the hallway of a dimly lit kennel. I was walking this terrifying walk everyday to work at an ice cream shop, fixed with a supremely dorky cap and apron. I swear, with hardly any makeup, my short hair in small pigtails, I was 20, but probably looked about 12. I remember the bouncer from the bar/club next door coming in and chatting with me, having a great energy, and saying since I’d be closing late a lot, he’d keep an eye on me. Honestly, I was relieved.

How naive!

It only took 3 shifts before he asked for my number to get drinks. This man was probably in his early 50’s, and again, I cannot stress enough the me looking twelveness of it all. I remember the pit in my stomach when I realized that he was in fact not looking out for me. When I politely declined, he called me a bitch. It was silly of me to not realize this was a barter, my safety in exchange for sex.

That night, I walked home with tears in my eyes, catcalled by men with their oily mouths half full by the food trucks, bits of rice sloshing around resembling maggots. When one decided to follow me home, I darted into a local goodwill thinking public = safety. The man at the register pointed out a pair of toy handcuffs on the rack and asked me if I’d want to test them out. He had a smirk so sickening I thought it better to take my chances with the man outside.

The idea had always been there, but I had truly gotten to a point where I realized no matter what I did, I would be sexualized. I could be covered from head to toe, it truly didn’t matter. Somewhere there was a man undressing me in his head while I check for a ripe avocados at the grocery store.

So why not just live my fucking life and enjoy.

I suppose there is no way to avoid talking about this in regards to my social media, because it couldn’t NOT be pertinent.

I don’t mind showing my body. I don’t feel as if my body comes with innate sexual connotations. I’ve had this funny conversation with so many of my friends, the idea of nudity or the glimpse of the body being in an “artistic siren on the rocks way not a subscribe to my only fans way.” Neither being wrong of course, but I always felt that even if my body was incorporated into posts, that wasn’t the point. (Yes, sometime it IS the point, but not always.)

And of course like anything, I occasionally get feedback along the lines of “why are you always naked in your pics?”

Well the truthful honest truth is that’s because I live in a constant state of nakedness. Always have. So much so that my mother has a diary entry complaining about it.

Sleep, walk around the house, outdoor when I can. So a lot of the time my pictures are candid or candid adjacent (lol), and there is either clothes or a lack of clothes. Another thing I credit to my body positive upbringing. Also maybe the French genes.

That being said, I feel incredibly fortunate to have cultivated an almost entirely female audience when it comes to social media. But when the occasional man / men find their way to my account, it’s like they feel as if i’ve been waiting my whole life for them to find me. Every picture with my blonde hair cascading down near my breast was just for them.

…And if it wasn’t for them?

“The mirror was often used as a symbol of the vanity of woman. The moralizing, however, was mostly hypocritical.

You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, you put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity”, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for your own pleasure.”

―John Berger , Ways of Seeing

My nakedness or the IDEA of my nakedness doesn’t solely exist for your pleasure. It doesn’t go away when you close your phone. When I look in the mirror I’m not in a constant state of surmising how fuckable I look. I’m not brushing my teeth wondering what I could post next to end up in the saved folder of someones’ spank bank. It’s just my body. And god forbid you enjoy your own body, and tell them that it’s not actually for them. Fellas, is it vain to enjoy and love the one body you’ve been given for this very short time we have here on earth?

If you made it this far yay, you’ve either decided this is entirely relatable or possibly insufferable rhetoric and honestly either is ok with me. But this goes out to anyone who knows what it’s like to hug with a concave chest or pull your skirt down when the man behind you on the train is pressed against you.

Love you

But to give myself a little credit, I was never really into owning a lot of useless things. I liked things orderly in my bedroom, lined up just so. But living in such a capitalist society means that I put a lot of my worth into what I had. But when I hit my twenties, my aversion to traditional consumerism has really blossomed. Whenever I’d go into Target or any store like it and see the endless winding aisles of useless things!! It sticks in my craw. Usually plastic, ugly, no purpose, and to be thrown away when the next trend comes and goes. Now, have I been guilty of indulging in such practices? Of COURSE. Is this piece meant to pass judgment or be rude to those who do?

No.

But, my hopes is maybe someone who reads this could get inspired to own things with more discernment.

My favorite example of this phenomena is my own experiences as a kid, and also babysitting. I had one very special doll as a kid, and I took her everywhere. She was a fairy doll, waldorf style. She wasn’t plastic with bright flashing lights to keep my attention, she was cotton, simple, perfect. Of course I had other toys, I didn’t grow up like Laura Ingalls with a corn cob doll. But, I definitely didn’t have near as much as other kids I knew. But me and that doll. Inseparable. The most special thing I think I ever owned and still own.

Now flash forward to me, age 11, babysitting two sweet little girls. They had an absolutely CAVERNOUS playroom, stuffed full of any toy you could imagine. Bright flashing toys, stuffed animals, games, puzzles, barbies, sets, I mean literally everything. And 99.9% of the time, it all sat untouched.

“There’s nothing to do” “I’m bored” “I want a new toy".”

They were absolutely overwhelmed. They had too much, so everything became jejune. A room stuffed full of toys, and yet somehow nothing to do.

Much like me moaning about having nothing to wear with a closet stuffed full of clothes

Even though I’ve always liked nice things, and did 98% of my shopping second hand, it wasn't until last year, 2025, that I really started to get into what I call “Intentional Owning.” Before when I would go to the thrift, anything (within reason) that I liked even slightly, I would take home “to try” ( a sneaky way of saying well I might re-donate this in a day but oh well, that’s the thrill of the haul! ) I was in a very constant cycle of thrifting and then donating. Doing social media and also just being a fashion girl means of course, that I’m shopping more than most. And It wasn’t until last year that I realized something. I was starting to become wildly uninspired. Going and thrifting just wasn’t hitting the same, it was becoming this predictable cycle of big hauls to eventual re-donation. Nothing was feeling special anymore. My playroom was full. Something needed to change, to break my cycle.

And the catalyst for this change was fabric.

Now, of course I’ve always been interested in it to an extent, and also had the basic common knowledge of what poorly made clothes were. What cheap fabric was vs a silk or something. But the extent was mostly “Shein Bad.” Very good, Emma….

But when I started doing my own research (and some conversations with my mom who was very ahead of the curve) I decided that I was dumping polyester. O.M.G. Polyester is my bright pink plastic overstimulating toy of my adulthood.

Yes, I decided it was time to go through my closet and ditch MOST of my polyester. As I said before, within reason. I’m not throwing away my mom’s old 1990’s little black dress because it’s a poly blend. But, that shirt I don’t really wear all that much, it’s gone. Suddenly I was weeding out my entire wardrobe. Trimming it down neatly until I realized what I was doing. I was making a little capsule wardrobe. What I once obtusely deemed impossible, was happening. Once my wardrobe was cut down in size, I went through and made note of things I needed.

Linen pants, a black cotton cardigan, a few wool sweaters, ect.

Suddenly I had things to look for, and I wasn’t going to just bring home anything. It had to be perfect. Not close to perfect, not good enough, no. It needed to be the thing I was looking for without a doubt.

That’s when thrifting and searching became fun again. Digging through was now even more of a challenge and I LIKED that. I know some people get discouraged when they don’t find what they’re looking for, but I love it. Like the start of a toxic fling, the chase only makes me want it more.

Slowly I began picking away at my list, and the thrill of finding the perfect item became tenfold. And when I found my dream sweater, but with a slight tear and stain on the sleeve, I decided it was also time to learn repairing.

Throughout this whole process, learning to polish up my used items has been the best part. Not only is it now a core memory for me learning with my maman, it’s also more satisfying than watching an ASMR video.

One of the first things I got was a stain removing bar soap. I had used these magical bars in France before, so I already knew the drill. But actually getting my own and adding it to my laundry rotation was phenomenal. Forget a tide pen, this soap is life changing.

A soak in cool water and a few scrubs of this soap can make even the most stubborn lipstick come out. I soaked and scrubbed my favorite makeup bag, absolutely destroyed on the inside with mascara, old eyeshadows and lipliner, and poof. Like magic, the bottom was white and shiny new again. I couldn’t believe my eyes!

Another favorite I came across is leather care. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING is as satisfying as polishing up your second-hand leather. Also because it’s so easy.

I so wish I had taken a before picture, but these sweet shoes were bad. Scuffed, dull and lifeless. After a quick lesson from mom, we polished them up brand new.

Same goes for bags.

Between mending, polishing, brightening ect, I’ve found so much satisfaction in this new era of consuming. That feeling of truly having what you want, and having in a sense, worked for it. Reaching for less and less.

Now, I still love my things, always will. I have that little voice in me that says “CONSUMEEEE.” Last year was the start to quieting that voice, and this year I find the voice is even quieter. I have less, but it means more.

Here’s to my year of intentional owning.

warmly and with love,

EKR

I think everyone talks about unplugging, and that concept is especially palatable in the summer when the outdoors are much more accessible and there isn’t chilly wind blowing up under your coat. But what does it mean to really unplug? Does it mean never go on your phone, lose communication, leave social media behind?

I wanted there to be a way for my phone to be a tool- to capture memories, but not be the reason for making them.

A tool to tell my friends to meet me down at the beach, but not to mindlessly scroll while I sit there and wait. So that’s just what I did.

Every evening, when the sun was beating hot, I would grab my rusty bike with the sticky pedals and stuff my little speaker full of sand in the metal basket. This was accompanied with my bag, also peppered on the inside with a healthy amount of sand, crushed bits of advil that tasted slightly like my perfume that leaked in 2015. I would put on my suit and that was it, I was gliding down the driveway and past the marina to my favorite beach spot, waving to the shipyard guys on their lunch break.

I spent a lot of time with myself this summer. My friends were either in the city, or working, so I was left with a lot of time reading and writing. It’s funny getting to an age where the pressures of filling up time with friends sort of disappears. When I was able, I was at the beach, plunging into the cold water and floating above the waves, letting drops of salt water fall of my nose like an old leaky faucet. When Finn would come, I would watch him run into the water, the glittering sun dancing around him. I would ready by the water, my pages wilting with the humid summer air.

We would swim out to the raft, warm ourselves in the sun, and watch the sailboat races. After we would bike down the way and get a sticky ice cream cone and dash home before the mosquitos came. Every once in a while, we’d get caught in a rainstorm, laughing and swerving about the road. When we got home we’d watch the fireflies blinking in the back yard. Inside I would wash clumps of seaweed out of my hair and clog up the shower drain. We would eat fresh tomatoes out of the garden for dinner with a terrifying amount of salt and climb into bed with slightly burned skin.

Having two grandparents pass this year was a jarring wake up call for me. Having to mourn two wonderful, loving grands while already being a wildly nostalgic person was, to put it plainly, hard. Not to mention, watching my parents grieve at the same time.

I’ve always felt the weight of time ever since I was a little girl. Curled up in my little pink bed, I would cry and cry thinking of my parents getting older, my grandparents passing, and how scary it all is. And here I was, at this giant marker in my life. Everyone is older, time is moving so fast, faster than I ever knew or expected it would. It puts a heaviness on my chest that makes me feel paralyzed. When the weather started to warm, one of the only comforts I found were being outside, in nature, in the waves. Feeling truly connected to my life, to the world and people in it. I would lay and chat with the older ladies in their beach chairs, choking back tears at the ones who reminded me of my late Gigi.

So even with so much grief this year, my summer was a special one. The summer I sorted out so much in my head.

It was also our last summer in our apartment of 5 years.

Summertime at our place was always so easy. We were high up enough on a little hill to catch a salted breeze, but the first floor so all the heat traveled to the apartments above.

This apartment was the first place besides my parents that was ever truly home. It’s where one cool summer evening my sweet stray Hobbes (the cat), came running up to me and decided to move in. It’s the home I celebrated birthdays, got engaged, married, and so much more.

Wild blackberries grow outside in a huge twisted bush, and across the street every spring are a parade of daffodils. Our next-door neighbor has a beautiful garden. She leaves vegetables for us on the front porch. It’s the place I will carry in my heart with a melancholic pang of nostalgia every time I think of it.

2025 was a year of so much change for me, good and bad.

I hope among any obstacles or great sadness this year, you were able to find your beach.

I’ve also always had my own sense of style. My mom let me wear whatever I wanted, with certain guidance of course. No, she wasn’t afraid of a clashing pattern, overlapping florals or even velcro shoes. Nor was I. And thus was born my lifelong love of clothes.

“How do you find such good things? Where do you go? How much do you thrift?”

These are probably some of the most frequently asked questions for me online and in real life. And the (probably annoying) but very real answer is you have to learn. And you have to go. A lot. More than seems sane. I go so often it’s a running joke in my family. This of course is its own luxury I understand, the luxury of time. But, go when you can. And you have to dig, and I mean dig. It’s very easy to be overwhelmed at first by all the choices, but as your eyes graze the aisles it’s easy to miss a perfect cotton blouse curled up in between two Shein nightmares. The more you go, the more you dig, the easier and better you will be at what I call the “quick scan". I go to my local thrifts, goodwills, savers ect. Really any will do. For me, one isn’t really better than the other. But of course this depends on your area and where you live. I always make an effort when I’m out of town to pop into any thrifts wherever I’m going.

“I go but I never find anything!”

Probably the worst feeling, especially if you are with a friend with a full cart, or you’re watching videos online of perfectly curated thrift hauls that make you feel like God truly does have favorites. Don’t be discouraged, but this usually (usually, sometimes it truly is bad luck) means that you aren’t quite sure what you’re looking for. This requires a deeper dive into what you need, and what you want to do with your wardrobe. But that’s a whole other post. For now, what I do when I’m stumped, is take a look at something that inspires your style. Go on Pinterest, look in your saved folder, go hang out with your cool great aunt with her simple but chic clothes.

K maybe that one is just me.

Once you have a little inspiration, it’s much easier to know what you’re looking for.

Something else that comes with time is the ability to look at a piece of clothing and know immediately how you can style it. My mom picked up a pair of navy polka dot pants the other day and stared them down for quite a while before putting them back.

“I just don’t know what I would wear them with!”

I told her it would go perfectly with a little white shirt tucked in and some red flats to match her style. Now I’m not claiming to be some genius. After all, that outfit is not ground breaking. But sometimes It’s hard to see a pair of pants as not just a pair of pants, but a cog in the machine that is your wardrobe.

“I found something cute but, it’s kind of worn…”

Well, it’s at the thrift, so probably. It’s had a whole other life before you, kind of like adopting a pet from the shelter. We have sort of lost the idea of fixing, mending, and treasuring your things to the fullest. I’m certainly guilty of this too, but I try my best to keep things and repair as I go. Some of my most favorite things to thrift and polish up are leather bags. Invest in a little leather polish and watch these beautiful bags come back to life. Of course, like fur, I would never buy new. But vintage and second hand make for a nice sustainable solution.

TURN. IT. OVER.

Yes, turn it over. Turn it inside out. Look at the tag. Look at the brand. Look at the material. The washing instructions. The pickier you are at the thrift, the more gratifying it is when you leave with nice items. Now, if there’s the polyester shirt of your dreams, I’m not saying you have to pass it by. But just being a *bit* more discerning with what you're taking home can help curate a timeless wardrobe of quality things. Just the other day, I saw a silver unassuming kettle on the shelf by the kitchen section. The nozzle looked familiar, but I continued to walk by. I stopped myself and went back and turned it over. It was a Le Creuset Kettle, sparking under the flickering florescent lights. One that I had already had on my wish list. Oh, and it was 3 dollars.

Take your time, look a little closer, and remember only take what you need!

Well that’s all for now, talk soon. x

EKR

**Remember to give back to your local thrifts, and if some have food pantries and you are able, donate when you can. <3 **

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