I used to be really fake.

For years, I pretended to be someone I’m not.

In conversation, in rooms, in relationships. I learned which parts of myself made people lean in and which parts made them look at me weird. There was no single moment when I disowned where I came from. Just a slow, quiet accumulation of edits. A history in reality TV. Time spent in places like L.A. and New York. It’ll do that to you.

So I learned the script. I said I was from New York, not New Jersey. I smiled when someone made a Housewives joke and changed the subject when they asked if I watched it. I went blonde and lasered every inch of my body hair. Anything to look a less ethnic. I dated guys who loved the idea of me, never the actual me.

It was all one long, quiet attempt to separate myself from the people and the place that raised me.

But time breaks that shit down. So does therapy. So does creating things. Creativity holds up a mirror. And what I saw staring back was this: A hairy, Greek-Italian girl from New Jersey.

New Jersey is in me. The animal print. The volume. The inescapable drama of it all. And yes, The Real Housewives of New Jersey too. I used to think I had to outgrow it. Soften it. Sand it down into something shinier, sleeker, more digestible.

I don’t do that anymore. Now, I let it inspire me.

I tried the quiet luxury thing. The clean girl thing. The slicked-back bun that somehow gives everyone else “chic” and gives me “wet dog.” But the truth is: I love shit. I love maximalism. Chunky gold jewelry. Red fingernails. People who say fuck too much and talk with their hands.

And I love all of that about me.

That’s why the first shoe I ever designed had to be a leopard ponyhair pump. It’s a wink to my roots…a loud, unapologetic reclamation of everything I loved, but once felt I had to leave behind.

There’s something deeply freeing about deciding to be yourself. Not the version you edited into acceptability. Not the version you thought would be most liked. Just you.

Most people are thinking about themselves, anyway. The only way to actually connect with someone is to show up as you are and let them see that you’re just as fucked up as they are.

Wherever you’re from and whatever your story, let it live in your work.

Let yourself be seen.

Because damn, does it feel good.