I didn’t know when it would happen.
After years of making, there came a moment when “almost ready” simply became ready—when the headwear was ready to be seen not just by me, but by others. Not everywhere. Just in the right places, with the right people.
Four doors opened in two cities—New York and London—and suddenly the hats began living lives of their own. On real women, in real cities. They were being chosen. Tried on. Taken home. Worn out into the world.
What surprised me most was not the sales, but the recognition. People understood the hats immediately. They felt familiar, but different.
The cashmere berets became favorites. Then the bucket hats. And then the shearling cap—subtle at first, and then, almost without warning, in high demand. Maybe it’s because headwear is having a moment again. Or maybe it’s because people are tired of looking like everyone else. Maybe they want one piece that feels personal—like a signature you don’t have to explain.
Copenhagen Fashion Week became another meaningful moment. Seeing the collection there, and receiving such thoughtful reactions from visitors, felt like confirmation that the work speaks beyond borders.
Around the same time, conversations with stylists began to take shape.
Collaborations followed in the US and the UK. Magazine shoots. Careful styling. Seeing the hats through someone else’s eye was unexpectedly emotional. Each collaboration felt like a quiet validation—not of success, but of direction. The feedback was generous. Thoughtful. Specific. Encouraging.
And then, somehow, came the moment that didn’t feel real until it had already happened.
British Vogue. GQ. Tatler. Condé Nast Traveller. Vanity Fair.
It felt less like an achievement and more like one of those rare moments you remember exactly, because it changes how you see your own work and opens a new chapter.
Maybe the best beginnings don’t come with a moment you can point to. They settle in, the way good taste does— until one day you realize you’ve arrived.