I Miss Daydreaming
where Mariah Carey and my creative process cross paths
The other day I was driving with my son when Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey came on. We started singing it from the top of our lungs.
Without warning, I was sixteen again.
Not because I remembered every lyric, but because I remembered the girl who used to listen to that song.
Back then, my Discman went everywhere with me. Every morning before school, I’d make sure it had fresh batteries because the bus ride was my favorite part of the day. School wasn’t necessarily my favorite but that morning bus ride was glorious.
Those bus rides became my escape. A gorgeous view, my high school crush, “always be my baby in my ears”.
Life at home felt heavy. My parents were going through a difficult season in their marriage, and as a teenager there wasn’t much I could do except hope things would eventually be different.
So I daydreamed.
I would stare out the window with that album playing in my ears and imagine the life I wanted someday. A peaceful home. Beautiful spaces. A family that felt safe. A creative life. Adventure. Freedom. I didn’t have words for all of it then, but I knew I was imagining a future that felt brighter than the one I was living.
Looking back, I don’t think I realized how much those moments were carrying me.
They reminded me that my circumstances weren’t the end of my story.
Somewhere between growing up, raising kids, running a business, answering texts, and carrying a phone that’s always within reach, I forgot how to daydream.
Not because I stopped believing in beautiful things.
I just stopped having quiet enough moments to think my own thoughts.
I miss that.
I miss looking out a window without instinctively reaching for my phone.
I miss letting my mind wander.
I miss the kind of imagination that wasn’t trying to solve a problem or produce something. It simply made room for hope.
A few months ago, I went back to my hometown in southern Brazil.
If you’ve ever flown into Florianópolis, you might have noticed something unusual in the airport: little references to The Little Prince scattered throughout.
Years ago, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (the author of The Little Prince) stopped on our island while flying the mail route between Europe and South America. Over time, he became part of the city’s story.
I’ve always loved his illustrations. The tiny stars, the sense of wonder. The poetry of his words.
At the same time, I found myself remembering something else: the hot air balloons I used to doodle on the back of my notebooks during class. I was always so drawn to the magical colors in the sky.
That is where this collection was born. I wanted to create wearable reminders of something I think many of us have lost.
The hope our sense of wonder can bring.
Every illustration in this collection carries a piece of that story. Some are inspired by childhood. Some by old technology that became the soundtrack of our memories. Some by my hometown. Some by The Little Prince. Some by the little girl who spent bus rides imagining a different future.
I hope these pieces make people ask, “Where did you get that?”
But even more than that, I hope they make the woman wearing them remember something to believe that better days are still ahead.
Maybe that’s what nostalgia is really for. Not to make us wish we could go back.
But to remind us of the hope that carried us forward.
The nostalgia collection drops this Saturday at 9 am. I can’t wait to share it with you.
These are incredible