Love is not only a feeling; it is a practice. The feeling comes from the practice itself, from repeated decisions we make to return to ourselves even when no one is watching or applauding. Most people do not struggle because they lack self-love; they struggle because they were never shown how to practice it in a world that is constantly evaluating, ranking, and observing.
I have always been drawn to art. I studied fashion because I believed clothing could communicate identity before language ever had the chance. The forms of art that initially found me were not the ones that lived on walls. They were the ones I could carry with me—makeup, accessories, clothing—art forms that move through the world alongside the body. Growing up wearing uniforms, wearable art became a kind of antidote. It was a way to reclaim choice, to experiment, to signal something personal in environments that asked for sameness. These mediums offered a ticket to freedom: small, intentional decisions that said, I am allowed to be seen.
One of my favorite classes in college was art history—the large, general seminar that nearly everyone takes. I don’t remember many specific facts about the pieces we studied, but I remember learning how to look: how to notice symbolism, how to sit with an image long enough for meaning to emerge. That education shaped how I understand beauty as language to read.
And yet, makeup did not always feel like a language I knew how to speak. In college, my sorority publicly awarded me “Worst Eye Makeup.” It was announced in a room full of people, the kind of moment where the laughter ratio outweighed compassion. I remember the heat in my face and the sudden awareness of my body, the desire to disappear. It wasn’t playful; it was humiliating. I was also voted “Most likely to dress like a founding member,” again publicly, again as a joke made at my expense. Those moments did more than bruise my ego. They taught me that visibility could cost you safety and that expressing yourself might make you a target. For a while, I wondered whether it was worth trying at all.
I didn’t know how to do my own makeup until I went to school for it. When I returned, I felt equipped. I experimented, changed, and tried on different versions of myself the way one might try on clothes, searching for knowing. After more than a decade in this industry, I understand something clearly: people do not come to me because they want makeup. They come because something feels slightly out of alignment. They don’t want to look different; they want to recognize themselves again.
There is a moment I understand immediately. A client looks into the mirror and pauses. Her eyes fill, her breath catches, and she says quietly, “That’s me.” I tear up too, because that is connection. Or when someone picks out a refurbished vintage compact, selects their favorite shades, and squeals with excitement like a child discovering a treasure. That joy is about finding a piece of yourself you didn’t know you could own.
That is why every appointment is private. There is no audience or comparison in the room. Just space. Some people already know what it feels like to be watched too closely. Here, attention is offered gently.
Makeup is art because art is expression. It is a way of seeing yourself or another person, and being seen in return.
Beauty, to me, is not a measurement. It is a moment of noticing. When we notice beauty — in ourselves or in someone else — we return to ourselves. We come home.
This is why makeup is a tool, choice, and form of autonomy. If you don’t want to wear makeup, you don’t. If you do, you do. Either way, you are choosing yourself.
This Valentine’s week, I want to offer something quieter than romance: a space where love is practiced through attention, patience, and care. A space where being seen does not cost you dignity. If this reaches you, it’s likely because some part of you is ready to be met—gently. I would be honored to meet you there.
