There's a Japanese concept called "mono no aware"—the awareness of the impermanence of things, and a gentle sadness at their passing. But within this philosophy lies something profound: if everything is temporary, then the objects we choose to live with matter deeply. They shape our days, influence our moods, and silently communicate what we value.
I spent my twenties accumulating. Fast fashion, trendy decor, things purchased on impulse because they were on sale or simply because I could. My apartment was full, yet I felt empty. There was no coherence, no story being told through the objects around me. Everything was replaceable because nothing meant anything.
Moving to Florence changed my perspective entirely. Here, in a city where people drink from glasses blown by artisans on Murano, where leather goods are still hand-stitched in family workshops, where the pursuit of "il bello"—beauty—is woven into daily life, I began to understand the difference between objects and treasures.
Treasures are items chosen with intention. They're made with skill, designed with purpose, and acquired not because they're cheap or easy, but because they resonate with who you are or who you aspire to become. A well-made ceramic mug transforms morning coffee into ritual. A beautiful notebook makes journaling feel sacred rather than obligatory. The right piece of furniture doesn't just fill space—it creates atmosphere.
When I set out to create The Substitute, this philosophy was foundational. We weren't making just another bag. We were crafting an object of intention—something that would support a meaningful practice, be made with exceptional materials and craftsmanship, and become more beautiful with time and use. Every detail mattered: the weight of the Italian leather, the precision of the stitching, the way it feels in your hand.
I wanted to create something that people would reach for not out of habit, but with purpose. Something that would sit on a nightstand or desk as a visual reminder: pause, breathe, center. An object that earned its place in your life by serving a genuine need while honoring aesthetic principles that have endured for centuries.
This intentionality extends beyond The Substitute to everything in my space. My writing desk holds a fountain pen from a Florentine stationer, given to me by a mentor. It writes beautifully, but more than that, using it connects me to her wisdom every time I put pen to paper. My bookshelf holds only books I've read or genuinely intend to—no decorative spines, no performative intellectualism. Each volume has taught me something or moved me in some way.
In the living room, a single painting by a local artist. I watched her work on it over several weeks in her Oltrarno studio, and when it was finished, I knew it needed to come home with me. It depicts the Arno at dusk, and every time I look at it, I remember to pause and appreciate beauty in passing moments.
This curation isn't about minimalism for its own sake, though I do believe in the Japanese principle of "ma"—the power of empty space. It's about ensuring that everything in my environment earns its place by serving a purpose, bringing beauty, or ideally both. It's about refusing to let my space become cluttered with the meaningless, the mediocre, or the merely adequate.
When you live with intention, shopping becomes a different experience. You're no longer seduced by sales or swayed by trends. You ask different questions: Will I still value this in five years? Ten years? Does it align with the life I'm building? Is it made well enough to last? Does it support my practices and rituals, or will it become clutter?
I've also learned that objects of intention don't have to be expensive, though quality often costs more than its cheap alternatives. A simple ceramic bowl from a local potter, a linen napkin that will last decades, a sturdy canvas tote that carries your daily essentials with dignity—these aren't luxury items in the conventional sense, but they elevate ordinary moments into something more considered, more beautiful.
The Substitute sits on my desk as I write this, as it does most mornings. It's become such an integral part of my daily ritual that I feel its absence when I travel without it. That's what objects of intention do—they integrate into your life so thoroughly that they stop being possessions and become extensions of your practice, your values, your very self.
I invite you to look around your space right now. What objects truly serve you? Which ones bring genuine joy or beauty? And which are simply taking up space, accumulating dust, creating visual and mental clutter? What might your life feel like if you surrounded yourself only with items chosen with care, made with quality, designed to endure?
We shape our objects, and then our objects shape us. Choose them wisely. Curate with intention. Live with beauty that has meaning. This, I've learned, is one of the most accessible forms of luxury we have.
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