Letters from Paris, Part II: The Return

Paris was different this time.

For nearly two decades, I’d been flying in and out of that city — meetings, launches, long days under fluorescent light — and never once did I allow myself to feel it. Back then, I was at L’Oréal, and Paris was a place of work, not wonder. I’d sit in those vast boardrooms counting the hours until I could go home to my Kiehl’s offices, where life was unpredictable, creative, alive. At Kiehl’s, I was allowed to build, to imagine, to lead. In Paris, I simply sat through meetings that filled the day but never the soul. I didn’t know how to hold that balance then. I just wanted to come home.

But this time — this time I let it in.

From the moment I arrived, everything unfolded with a kind of grace I hadn’t felt in years. Even travel, with the threat of government shutdowns and chaos, was unexpectedly kind. People smiled, helped, ushered me through. It was as if the universe was quietly saying, you’re safe here now — look around.

And I did.

I saw Paris through new eyes — thanks to my dear friend Bianca, whose spirit could make even an ordinary day feel cinematic. We visited Dalida’s apartment, then her statue, where legend insists you rub her breast for good luck — a peculiar ritual, but I followed suit and laughed like I hadn’t in months. We jumped on motorcycles and crisscrossed the city, wind in our faces, history rushing past. At Notre Dame, I stood once more beneath those soaring arches — the same place I had visited when I was twenty, on my very first trip to Europe. That same week, I had bought my first CHANEL piece at Galeries Lafayette. A full circle moment, years in the making.

And then there was CHANEL — the true heartbeat of my trip.

So many have asked me about my connection to the house, and one day I’ll tell that full story. For now, I’ll say this: I spent the first ten years of my career there, moving through roles that taught me every facet of beauty — artistry, merchandising, fragrance, luxury. It was where I learned that aspiration is not about excess, but about excellence. That lesson has never left me.

Attending the CHANEL show felt like returning to the source — the place where my career first learned to dream. The show itself was electric, the kind of event the entire fashion world strains to enter. I watched from my seat, thinking of all those years — of the growth, the heartbreaks, the creations, the people I met along the way. I saw two friends who now lead at CHANEL, thriving, graceful, powerful. It filled me with pride. Success looks like many things, but the truest version, I’ve learned, is when the people you’ve known on the journey continue to rise.

The night ended in the glow of the Ritz — where Coco herself once lived — surrounded by old friends, laughter, and champagne. Paris felt generous, almost protective, as if the city knew I needed to remember beauty for beauty’s sake.

And somewhere between all of that — the laughter, the memories, the motorcycles — I realized I am still becoming.

I love that word: becoming. It feels more honest than arrived. It allows for evolution, for softness, for the grace of not knowing what comes next. At this point in my life, I’m not chasing reinvention — I’m chasing expansion. To think deeper. To feel fuller. To live wiser. Progress, I’ve learned, is not a race. It’s the quiet decision to use your life well.

So yes, Paris was remarkable. But what made it unforgettable wasn’t the show, the dinners, or even the beauty of the city itself — it was the sense of peace that followed me home.

Because now, I understand: I was never meant to just see Paris.
I was meant to finally feel it.

And as I sit here, back home, recounting it all — I’m reminded why I write. To gather people around the proverbial campfire and share what I’ve seen. To tell stories that make us feel less alone.

The next chapter?
Perhaps it’s the one I owe to CHANEL — not just the brand, but the education, the artistry, the world it opened to me.

Until then, I’ll hold this trip close — not as a memory, but as proof of what happens when we give ourselves permission to truly arrive.

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