Flirt vs Commit: Red Sweater Spring
I used to shop like I was filling gaps. Like I was behind, and the next sweater or pair of boots might finally make everything click.
But now, I’ve slowed it down.
I used to shop like I was filling gaps. Like I was behind, and the next sweater or pair of boots might finally make everything click.
But now, I’ve slowed it down.
These days, I think of everything I buy as falling into one of two categories:
✦ Flirt: A lower-cost, low-stakes version of something I think I might love.
✦ Commit: The real thing. An investment piece I know will live in my closet for years — because I’ve already tested it with my life.
This approach has saved me money, time, and regret — and helped me build a wardrobe that actually suits how I live, not just how I scroll.
If I’m drawn to a new silhouette, color, or style, I’ll flirt with it first — find a secondhand or budget version. I wear it on walks, while working, running errands. If I reach for it over and over without thinking, I know it’s a keeper. And when it wears out? That’s when I look for the commit version — better fabric, better fit, something I’ll keep long-term.
Here's a spring outfit I’ve been wanting to give a shot — and a few ideas if you’re building your wardrobe slowly too.
Some days you just want to flirt—with color, with trends, with the idea of being That Girl in red shoes. And other days? You’re ready to commit. To pieces that feel like forever, like they’ll walk with you through seasons and stories.
Today’s mood? Red.
Because nothing says main character energy like a cherry pop of confidence.
Flirt – Budget-friendly red Mary Janes + a cozy cropped sweater that’s giving spring fling energy. Perfect for testing the waters of bold color without diving all the way in.
Commit – The investment pair you’ll wear with everything for years. Paired with a beautifully made knit that feels like a love letter to your closet.
The vibe is the same. The intention is yours. Which are you feeling today?
A Corner I Love
Before I had even finished unpacking this apartment — before the dishes had found their shelves or the rugs were rolled out — I set up a corner in the kitchen that I didn’t even realize I needed.
It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t urgent. But it was necessary.
Before I had even finished unpacking this apartment — before the dishes had found their shelves or the rugs were rolled out — I set up a corner in the kitchen that I didn’t even realize I needed.
It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t urgent. But it was necessary.
I propped a painting I bought in the process of moving — a small thing, moody and feminine — and placed a lamp next it on the counter. That was it. No styling. No plan. Just those two things.
But the moment I turned that lamp on and saw the way it lit the painting, something inside me exhaled.
It felt like future me and current me had finally collided — the woman I hope to become meeting the one who is still figuring it all out.
That corner didn’t ask anything of me. It didn’t require cleaning or organizing or decision-making. It just was. And it reminded me that I can shape a life even before it’s fully arrived. That beauty doesn’t have to wait until everything else is in order.
That’s why I love corners like this.
Small, intentional spaces that let the light in — even before you’re ready for it.
I still haven’t finished unpacking. But the kitchen painting is there. And the lamp is still glowing, quietly, at the end of each day. Reminding me I’m not behind. I’m just building slowly — and that’s allowed.
Do you have a corner like this? A space that felt like “you” before anything else did? I’d love to know.
Staying..
I’ve been slowly going through the corners of my home — closets, shelves, drawers — not in a frantic purge, but with the quiet question: Does this belong to the life I’m building now?
For a long time, I kept things out of obligation. Things from another season. Things that reminded me of who I used to be, or who I thought I had to become. But lately, I’ve been choosing based on something quieter: becoming.
I’ve been slowly going through the corners of my home — closets, shelves, drawers — not in a frantic purge, but with the quiet question: Does this belong to the life I’m building now?
For a long time, I kept things out of obligation. Things from another season. Things that reminded me of who I used to be, or who I thought I had to become. But lately, I’ve been choosing based on something quieter: becoming.
Not usefulness, not value, not whether I should — but whether the thing makes me breathe out when I look at it. Whether it feels like who I’m becoming.
And here are a few of the things I’ve decided to keep:
– A stoneware mug that I got thrifting and think it feels perfect for nighttime tea
– A framed photograph of Paul Newman shaving because it invokes a feeling of another life….an artistic one
– My favorite book from my teens, The Clan of the Cavebear, because it reminds be to continue to follow my passions, even if they are out of the box
– A neon light that reads, Love Made Me Do It, to remind myself of everything I have done to get here
– A pink glass candlestick holder because whimsy and color are necessary for happiness
These things may look like nothing. But they anchor me.
They are the visual reminders of the life I’m choosing to build — not fast, not flashy, but felt. A life where nothing is taken for granted, and everything that stays earns its place.
I’ll be sharing some of the objects I am letting go of soon, along with the stories they carried while they were with me. But for today, I wanted to begin with what’s staying. With what I’m holding onto, gently.
And maybe that’s a good place to start — not always with what we need to change, but with what we still love.
Becoming…
It didn’t happen all at once.
There wasn’t some dramatic explosion, no single moment where I stood up and said I’m done with this life. It was slower than that. Quieter. It was in the way I never recognized myself in the path of my life. The way I went through the motions and told myself it was enough, even though a small voice inside me whispered, This isn't the life I want.
It didn’t happen all at once.
There wasn’t some dramatic explosion, no single moment where I stood up and said I’m done with this life. It was slower than that. Quieter. It was in the way I never recognized myself in the path of my life. The way I went through the motions and told myself it was enough, even though a small voice inside me whispered, This isn't the life I want.
True to the Scorpio that I am, I tend to think starting over means burning it all down. Because the truth of it is, up until now, I have LOVED starting over from scratch. Just letting go of everything that wasn't working and starting over instead of figuring out what about myself needed to become more authentic. I grew up moving every few years and I think I learned from that the joy in starting over. The freedom. And I leaned into it too much as a way of coping.
Now, at the oh-so-grown age of 42, I've begun to see that in choosing to stay and choosing to focus inwards, I’ve learned that sometimes, starting over means listening more closely. Letting the discomfort in. Making a tiny shift. Then another. Then another.
And one day I woke up and realized—
I'm no longer surviving.
I'm no longer shape-shifting.
I'm no longer waiting for permission.
I'm just… shedding the things that aren't me and becoming.
For me, part of that shift meant choosing not to renew my current rental I shared with my sister for two years. As a single mom, living with my sister meant security and a feeling of not being alone. But, as I healed, I no longer needed that safety blanket and made the step to move into a beautiful apartment with my boys. And I'm beyond happy with the choice. It was another instance of letting go of something that was no longer me and it made room for the things to come in that are.
Another small choice has meant leaning into becoming a writer--something I have wrestled with wanting for a few years now. Last year, in between life and work, I wrote a book and sent it to agents. But it was a bust. After querying for a year and over 50 agents, I had to face the fact that I needed to get serious about my writing or give up. And something inside of me couldn’t give it up. It had become a part of me. So, I gave myself permission to start over. Not because the book wasn’t good enough, but because I’ve changed. And the story deserves the version of me who’s not afraid to tell the truth this time.
So that’s where I am now. Rewriting. Reimagining. Rebuilding a life that feels like mine.
Wynd & Stone isn’t about perfection. It’s about the slow, brave work of coming home to yourself. If you’re in that place too—shedding old stories, trying to find your footing, wondering who you’re allowed to be now—I hope this space feels like a soft landing.
This is the beginning.
I won’t be showing off here. I won’t be selling you a better version of yourself.
What I will offer is what I know how to give:
A few words from my real mornings
The things I’m learning to let go of
The pieces I’ve decided to keep — whether they’re habits, objects, or ways of being
You’ll find bits of my home, photos of ordinary beauty, reflections on rhythm and rebuilding, and the vintage pieces I’ve collected that I’m ready to send back into the world.
I want this to feel like a letter slipped into your mailbox. A reminder that you don’t have to do everything. That beauty lives in authenticity and showing up as yourself. That it's okay to move through life at your own pace.
So welcome to this quiet space.
There’s room here for all of us.