Little Boy Lost
Turning 44 brings with it a flood of memories, fragments of a life lived across so many borders, yet somehow, still yearning for a place that feels like home. This birthday, I find myself looking back not just at the years that have passed, but at a young boy who had to grow up far too quickly, becoming self-reliant in ways that left childhood feeling half-lived and distant.
I was that little boy who had the world at his fingertips but was often alone, traveling alongside either my mom or dad but rarely feeling the pull of permanence. There were holidays lost to solitude, times when I watched friends make plans together, settle into the familiarity of their homes and routines, while I was packing for yet another destination, learning new rooms, new walls, and new spaces that would never feel like mine. "Friend" became a loose term; relationships came and went with the seasons, as fluid and fleeting as the places I called home, only for a time.
Each move taught me to adapt, to blend into my surroundings, yet left me feeling like a stranger, both to the world and to myself. I became someone who could settle anywhere, but never quite fit in—rootless, floating between people, places, and identities. In moments where most people feel grounded, I felt lost. Without a place to anchor to, I grew up quick, taking on the weight of self-reliance, learning to navigate emotional terrain without a guide.
It took me years to realize just how deeply this transient life affected me. My need for connection became a quiet ache, always just below the surface, a reminder of something I’d longed for but never found. The concept of “home” was elusive, intangible—like grasping at air. It wasn’t so much about a physical place as it was about a sense of belonging, a feeling that, no matter where I was, I could be myself without the instinct to adapt or hide. I learned to cherish moments with others, perhaps because I was constantly aware of how easily they could slip away.
This year, however, has been one of remarkable transformation. It’s as if I’m finally peeling back layers of distance and uncovering parts of myself that had remained hidden. The weight I’ve lost isn’t just physical—it feels symbolic, a shedding of something far deeper. I’ve lightened not only my body but my spirit, letting go of years of self-doubt and emotional armor. The transformation isn’t only skin-deep; it’s in my heart and mind, as I embrace a version of myself who, at long last, feels ready to belong.
With Olfactory Dept., I’ve found a purpose that’s more than business—it’s personal, it’s rooted, it’s a way to share something genuine and lasting with others. Our new direction this year has been a journey of its own, like navigating new terrain with the certainty that, finally, I’m on the right path. Together with the team, we’ve created a collection that speaks to the senses and souls of others, a way to connect not just with memories but with dreams. These fragrances aren’t merely scents—they’re experiences, shared connections in a world that can feel isolating.
As I look back, I see a little boy who was always lost, always searching, but somehow, through it all, he kept going. Each bottle, each candle, each note in our collection feels like an answer to the silence, an echo of the home I’ve longed to create all my life. For the first time, I am proud—not only of Olfactory Dept. but of the man who, through years of loneliness, weight, and uncertainty, has come to find connection within himself.
Turning 44 isn’t simply a milestone; it’s a marker of survival, of resilience, of knowing that maybe home isn’t where I was. It’s what I am creating, what I’m sharing with others. And, in this creation, perhaps I’m finally finding my way.
