I Used to Wear Heels to Work. Now I Stomp into Strategy.

There was a time when I wore stilettos to work.

Not kitten heels. Not sensible blocky compromises.

Stilettos.

The kind that made an entrance three seconds before I did.

The kind that whispered, “I will dominate this pitch deck and leave without smudging my lipstick.”

But something changed.

Maybe it was the lockdowns.

Maybe it was turning fifty.

Maybe it was the slow realization that I could still command a boardroom without risking a stress fracture.

Now?

I wear these.

Cue image of Naomi’s beloved Stella McCartney platform brogues—sawn-tooth soles, wood-meets-space-age, quietly ridiculous in the best way.

They’re not elegant.

They don’t make my calves look like Naomi Campbell in 1996.

But they do make me feel like a woman who could kick down a glass door, then run for the train without rolling an ankle.

And when I walk into my office across from the Freedom Tower—four days a week, in 90-degree heat, with subway eyes and a Q3 campaign in my brain—these shoes are the only thing standing between me and collapse.

I’ve bought backup pairs on eBay.

I’ve scoured the resale sites like a woman searching for a discontinued antidepressant.

Because they’re that important.

Not as fashion.

As armor.

These shoes have seen things.

They’ve been in pitches where the client “forgot” to invite the female strategist.

They’ve paced subway platforms where safety feels more like a negotiation than a guarantee.

They’ve walked me through grief, growth, and more Monday mornings than I care to count.

I used to dress to impress.

Now I dress to endure.

To create. To show up—in body and brain, blister-free.

And here’s the thing:

I don’t miss the heels.

I don’t miss the pressure to pretend my feet weren’t killing me.

I don’t miss the version of myself who thought pain was part of the uniform.

Because when you’ve spent 20 years building brands, you start to realize something:

You are the platform.

The shoes are just along for the ride.

And just like that, I stomped into the meeting—taller, wiser, and blessedly comfortable.

#PowerPlatforms #StellaSaves #FootwearWithFeelings #NaomiWoreThis

I Survived the Subway. But Not My Hair.

Every weekday morning, I wake up at 5 a.m.

I do an hour-long streaming workout in my living room—the kind I started during lockdown and never stopped.

Not because I’m virtuous.

Because it’s the only thing keeping me from screaming into my AirPods at 4 p.m.

Then I get dressed, grab a coffee I won’t drink, and descend into the underworld.

Also known as: the New York City subway in mid-July.

There was a time when overcrowding was the enemy.

When we packed in like lip-glossed sardines and prayed the A/C didn’t fail.

But in 2025?

The fear isn’t sweat. It’s safety.

Especially if you’re a woman. Especially if you look like you’ve showered.

I used to think the scariest part of my commute was making eye contact with a man holding a ferret.

Now it’s remembering to stay alert, and keep my mascara from melting down my neck.

“Some women fear the subway after dark. I fear it at 8:15 a.m.—because there’s nothing more terrifying than arriving at the office looking like you just lost a hot yoga deathmatch.”

And the kicker? My office is across from the Freedom Tower.

So after surviving potential harassment, heatstroke, and a subway performer singing Adele off-key… I emerge, sweating through silk, into the most patriotic zip code in America.

I swipe into the building.

Smile at security.

Do the elevator mirror hair check.

Wonder if my deodorant is still doing its job—or just lying to me like a bad creative brief.

And then I sit down at my desk.

With a look that says:

“I’m totally composed and deeply invested in this Q3 rollout.”

Even though internally, I’m begging for a shower, a nap, and a federal grant for better public transportation.

But here’s the thing—

We still show up.

Women, I mean.

With our tote bags full of hope and overpriced toner.

We show up with data dashboards and dreams.

We show up with thighs sticking to subway seats and pitch decks balanced on rage.

Because that’s what it means to work in this city.

You don’t commute. You battlefield your way into brilliance.

And just like that, I remembered:

The only thing stronger than a New York summer is a woman who doesn’t let it ruin her blowout.

#SubwaySurvival #HeatwaveAndHighHeels #WorkingWhileGlossy #NYCSummerDiaries

I Picked Out My Wedding Dress Alone. She Should’ve Been There.

When I finally got married—at 50-something, on a rooftop that smelled like lilacs and champagne—I wore a dress that made strangers stop and stare.

It was perfect.

But she never saw it.

My mother died the year before my wedding.

Not suddenly. Not cleanly. Not in a way that lets you wrap things in meaning or platitudes.

She slipped away after a year of unanswered questions, inconclusive tests, and hospital visits that started to feel like part of my daily commute.

The Canadian health system couldn’t explain it.

Private specialists didn’t help either.

We threw everything we had at it—money, time, connections.

But the answers never came.

Only more appointments. And more waiting.

And in between it all?

Zoom calls.

Brand meetings.

Campaigns that couldn’t be paused.

There’s a special kind of heartbreak in muting yourself on a client call while a nurse walks in with vitals.

Or forwarding deliverables from a hospital cafeteria that smells like burnt coffee and broken hearts.

People talk about “work-life balance” like it’s something you can schedule.

What they don’t talk about is how many women are silently dying inside while answering Slack messages that say,

“Quick question—should this CTA be active voice?”

When she died, everything got louder.

The grief. The inbox. The pressure to keep moving.

Then came the dress fitting.

It was at one of those places in Manhattan. The kind with chandeliers and stylists who whisper when they zip you up.

I stood in the mirror, alone.

No mother. No sisters.

Just a sales associate who said,

“Oh honey… is there someone we can FaceTime?”

And I smiled. Because what else do you do when your grief shows up wearing satin?

I picked the dress myself.

It was beautiful.

And heavy in all the places I didn’t expect.

The wedding, somehow, was magical.

Heavenly, even.

People told me I looked radiant—and I believed them. Because joy can live in the same body as grief.

And sometimes they dance together under fairy lights.

But that day, I learned something important:

Even when the world tells you “this is your moment,”

you’re still carrying the ones who aren’t there to see it.

So here’s to the women who work while they grieve.

Who build campaigns between breakdowns.

Who pick their own damn dress—and still look like royalty.

And just like that, I walked down the aisle.

Wearing a dress she never saw.

But I felt her in every step.

#GriefAndGlamour #WorkingWhileWounded #MotherlessBride #BrandTherapy

When the Strongest Person I Know Started Chemo

Last Tuesday, I pitched a $3M brand strategy while fielding Slack messages from someone whose favorite emoji is the mushroom. I also learned that my mentor—my compass, my coffee date, my “don’t wear that to the pitch” person—was starting chemo.

There was no announcement. No dramatic music cue. Just a text:

“It’s breast cancer. Starting treatment Friday. Let’s still get lunch?”

And just like that, the algorithm of my brain went dark. Every open tab in my head—budgets, benchmarks, backlink audits—just stopped refreshing.

We say we’re “resilient,” don’t we? Like it’s a skill set. Like it belongs in the LinkedIn headline between “growth strategist” and “cross-functional collaborator.” But there’s nothing linear about watching someone you admire swap her blazer for a hospital gown.

I went to lunch. She showed up in red lipstick. She said she’d keep working “because strategy is a distraction.” I nodded. Pretended I didn’t feel 14 again. Pretended I hadn’t spent the subway ride there Googling “best socks for chemo wards.”

She ordered the Niçoise salad.

I ordered a glass of wine. At noon.

We talked about The Bear. And about whether Instagram’s death is greatly exaggerated. And then she said this:

“Everyone wants me to fight. I just want to feel”

That sentence did something to me.

Because maybe that’s what this whole industry is missing. Not more calls to arms. But space.

To feel. To reflect. To not collapse into performance—just because that’s the KPI of modern womanhood.

I used to think marketing was about telling stories.

Now I think it’s about making room for the real ones. The ones that hurt. The ones without a CTA.

So I’m lighting a candle tonight for the woman who made me brave enough to launch my first campaign—and strong enough to pause this week, just to write this.

And just like that, I remembered:

Not all heroes wear capes.

Some wear lipstick to chemo.

#RealOnesOnly #MarketingAndMortality #BrandTherapy #WhenYourMentorIsMagic