Wardrobe
Concierge

I'm a lifelong student of the relationship between a woman and her clothes.

It started with the iconic Molly Ringwald in her John Hughes films — the vintage finds, the layered textures, the pieces that looked chosen with emotion and creative electricity rather than pulled from a typical fast-fashion rack. Something clicked: clothing could be a form of self-expression almost like a language, and the most interesting vocabulary came from the past. I've been shopping vintage ever since — learning fabric and construction, and the difference between a garment built to last and one built to be discarded.

My earlier work as a massage therapist and yoga studio owner gave me something I didn't fully recognize as a credential until later: an intimate, expert grasp of the human form. I know how bodies move, hold tension, and change — and that most clothing is designed as if they don't. It's the most practical thing I bring to a consultation: not just an eye for style, but an instinct for how it lives on a real body rather than a hanger.

My university education in international and global gender studies made the garment industry impossible to unknow — the exploited labor, the environmental cost, the way fashion has extracted value from women's hands for centuries. That knowledge changed how I shop, how I dress, and eventually what I do for work. There was also Paris — living on a street called Rue Trousseau, simply observing the Parisienne relationship with clothing: considered, intentional, creative but with restraint, personal. Women who owned fewer pieces and wore them with purpose, who mixed vintage and contemporary without hierarchy, who understood that style is not about newness but about knowing yourself.

Home is the American West — not Paris, though the contradictions of both exist in my preferences, in good harmony. I split my time between city and mountains, and the clothes need to hold up in changeable weather and rugged terrain. Life here has its own character — recreationally and culturally rich, while being unpretentious, with attention to physicality and fitness — and I love that. Rue Trousseau is the translation I've spent years refining: Parisian effortless chic with higher altitude sporty practicality, all with attention to the ethics of slow fashion. I come to you, go through your closet with you, and believe not in ruthless purges but in considered and deliberate editing — keeping what you love, letting go of what no longer serves you, and making sure it is consigned, donated, or recycled responsibly.