I’ve never been one for excess, but I’ve always believed in constancy—objects, habits, rituals that stay with you because they feel like part of who you are. That’s what the bracelets on my right wrist represent. They aren’t for show. They aren’t about trend. They’re simply… mine.

The first one entered my life in 1992: yellow gold, Cartier. I’d wanted it for years, and when I could finally afford it, I bought it without hesitation. It was a milestone—my first true luxury purchase—and I loved everything about it: the weight, the warmth, the way it encircled my wrist as if it had always belonged there. A few years later, I added another in white gold, then a third—one of the slimmer models Cartier introduced later. Over time, they’ve fused into something inseparable from me.

What I love about them most is the intention. They don’t slide on; they’re screwed into place. You have to commit. That’s the beauty of it. You fasten them once, and they stay. They bear the small scratches of daily life, the soft burnish of time, and the quiet assurance of something that doesn’t need changing.

Of course, gold isn’t the whole story. Over the years, the stack has expanded—braided leather, beaded stones, oxidized silver. Some came from David Yurman, others from small ateliers discovered in my travels. I’ve always been drawn to stones—their tactility, their imperfections, the way they hold warmth from the skin. Together, the mix feels organic, layered, quietly powerful.

I’ve never worn rings; I find them intrusive. Necklaces, too, feel fussy. But a bracelet sits at the pulse point—it moves with you, catches the light when you gesture, reminds you that you’re grounded. There’s something about that balance of movement and restraint that feels right to me. It’s design that lives.

The stack has become, in its way, a signature. I don’t plan it. I don’t switch it up. It simply exists—like the way I take my tea or the scent I wear every morning. It’s familiar. Personal. Enduring.

What began as a single symbol of achievement has evolved into something far more intimate: a reflection of who I’ve been, who I’ve become, and what I choose to carry forward. The gold has softened with age, the leather has darkened, the stones have absorbed years of sun and conversation. They’ve traveled the world with me, from showings and closings to quiet breakfasts and late-night flights.

And though people often notice them—sometimes they ask, sometimes they don’t—I wear them for myself. Not as jewelry, but as memory. As energy. As proof that the best things in life don’t need to be replaced to remain relevant. They just need to be loved and worn.

The bracelets remind me that elegance isn’t loud, and permanence doesn’t have to be rigid. It can be lived in. It can evolve. And the beauty of that—the patina of time and touch—is what I find most comforting of all.

That’s the heart of Happily Ever Always™ for me. It’s not about dressing up for the world. It’s about dressing my life in meaning, layering it with memory, wearing my stories proudly—and daily.

In a world that prizes the new, I take quiet pride in what stays.