I want to tell you something that might sound counterintuitive for someone trying to build a small business.
I don’t want to sell something every day.
Not because I don’t care about building this — I care about it enormously. But because the way I’ve chosen to make jewelry, and the reason I make it at all, are both incompatible with the always-on, always-available model that many product businesses run on.
It starts with why I make jewelry at all.
I am, and aspire to be, a joy seeker. Not in a passive way — actively, intentionally, looking for the moments that make you take a small breath in. The sweep of a view that stops you mid-step. An unexpected detail in a plant or a stone or a piece of architecture that makes your eyes widen just slightly. The feeling of noticing something you almost missed, and being briefly transported by it.
This is what jewelry does for me — both wearing it and making it. I wear jewelry all the time, my own and others’, and I pay close attention to how people encounter it. Not always through a compliment. Sometimes just a pause in someone’s gaze. A half-second of recognition that something is a little out of the ordinary, a little worth looking at. That moment — that quiet intake of something like joy — is what I’m chasing when I design.
The making itself has its own version of this feeling. There is a particular moment when a piece comes out of the casting flask, or when the enamel vitrifies under the torch exactly as I hoped, and something that existed only as an idea in my head has become a real, physical object you can hold. I have been making jewelry for years and that moment has never become ordinary. It still takes my breath away.
That feeling — that specific quality of surprise and satisfaction — is what I’m trying to put into every piece. And it cannot be manufactured on a deadline.
This is why I work in drops.
A limited collection, released at a specific moment, is model that actually fits how I work.
Here’s what I mean. Making jewelry — real jewelry, made entirely by hand from scratch — isn’t one skill. It’s a sequence of completely different modes of thinking and doing. There is the ideation phase, when I’m drawing and dreaming and following my instincts about shape and color and form. There is the carving phase, slow and tactile and entirely focused on translating an idea into wax. There is the casting and fabrication phase, which requires a different kind of attention — technical, careful, prepared for the places where the material asserts its own will. Then the enamel. Then the finishing. Each stage asks something different of me.
When I try to do all of those things simultaneously — designing new work while also filling ongoing orders, fabricating while also ideating, finishing while also planning the next collection — none of it gets my full attention. The work suffers. More than that: the joy suffers. The thing that makes the making worthwhile gets diluted into the churn of keeping up.
Working in drops lets me move through those phases more or less sequentially. I can give ideation the time it needs. I can give fabrication the focus it demands. If I make a mistake, i can start again. I can finish a collection with the care it deserves, rather than rushing pieces out the door because something sold and needs to be remade immediately.
It also means I keep learning. When I’m not producing the same pieces on repeat, I can push into new techniques, new tools, new forms. Each collection is a chance to try something I haven’t done before. That matters to me — not because novelty is valuable for its own sake, but because the moment I stop expanding what I know how to do is the moment the work stops surprising me. And if it doesn’t surprise me, it won’t surprise you.
What this means for you, practically.
It means there are times when you can’t buy my work. The shop will be quiet between drops. The pieces from the last collection will be gone, and the next collection won’t be ready yet.
We live in a world of instant availability — same-day shipping, infinite scroll, always another option one click away. I am not that, and I’ve stopped pretending I could be or should be.
What I can offer instead is this: when a collection drops, it’s complete. Every piece in it has my full attention from the first sketch to the final polish. Nothing is rushed to meet a restock demand. Nothing is produced in a quantity that exceeds what I can make well.
The pieces are limited because I made them, by hand, one at a time. The drop is an event because I built it that way — because I think the things we wait for, the things that require us to show up at a particular moment, carry a different kind of weight than the things that are always just there.
The Summer 2026 collection is almost here and will be released in August.
It has been made the way I’ve described — sequentially, slowly, with full attention at every stage. I’m proud of it in the specific way I’m proud of work that surprised me while I was making it.
If you’d like to be among the first to see it, join the waitlist. Early access goes to the list first.