I am tired of being told that aging is something we should be trying to outrun. Reverse it. Erase it. Correct it. Tighten it. Lift it. Prevent anyone from knowing it happened. At some point, can we just let women age?

I’m not talking about giving up on ourselves. Quite the opposite. Take care of your skin. Feed it well. Moisturize it. Protect it from the sun. Move your body. Eat beautiful food. Get your sleep. Wear the lipstick. Use the face oil. Do the things that make you feel good when you look in the mirror. But maybe we could stop asking all of those things to make us look younger.

There is a difference between caring for ourselves and trying to erase ourselves. And I think we’ve blurred that line.

I love skincare. Obviously. I’ve spent years creating it. But I don’t believe the purpose of skincare is to keep your face frozen at 35. Skin changes. It gets drier. It gets thinner. It loses some of its bounce. Lines settle in places they didn’t used to. The face looking back at you changes because you have changed. That isn’t a skincare failure. That is being alive.

And yet we are surrounded by an industry—and increasingly a culture—that keeps pointing us backward. Look how you used to look. Look at this old photograph. Look at your jawline then. Look at your eyes then. Look at your body then. It feels like spending an awful lot of our lives looking in the rearview mirror.

And I keep wondering: What are we missing right in front of us?

Because this version of me is here now. This face. This body. This life. And she deserves my attention too.

I don’t want to spend my 50s wishing for my 30s, only to arrive in my 70s and realize how young 54 actually was. I want to be here for it.

There is something freeing about deciding that youth is no longer the prize. Health is. Vitality is. Curiosity is. Feeling comfortable in your own skin is. Being surrounded by people you love is. Still wanting to learn and make things and cook dinner and sit in the garden and laugh until your stomach hurts is. A face cannot tell you whether a woman has those things.

Maybe graceful aging isn’t about preserving what was. Maybe it’s about caring beautifully for what is.

So yes, take care of your skin. Love the skin you’re in enough to care for it well—not because you’re desperately trying to make it look like the skin you had twenty years ago, but because this skin belongs to you now.

And perhaps instead of constantly asking how we can look younger, we could start asking a much more interesting question: How do I want to live as I grow older?

That feels like a future worth looking toward.

Just let us age. I think we might actually be quite beautiful at it.

- Natalie

I love being alone.

I genuinely do. I love a quiet house. A morning to myself. Working in the studio with music playing. Walking through the garden without needing to talk to anyone. I’ve always believed there is something important about being comfortable in your own company.

And I still believe that.

But lately I’ve been thinking about the other side of being well: each other.

Our brains are wired for connection. Long before wellness became something we practiced individually—with routines and rituals and all the things we do to take care of ourselves—human beings survived by belonging to one another.

We gathered. We shared food. We cared for each other’s children. We told stories. We worked beside one another. We sat together through births and deaths and celebrations and ordinary afternoons.

We needed each other.

And we still do.

There is something that happens when we are with people who make us feel safe and seen. We settle. We laugh. We exchange ideas. We tell a story and realize someone else has lived it too.

We nourish each other.

We inspire each other.

We comfort each other.

Sometimes another person reminds us of something we have forgotten about ourselves.

I think our culture has made independence such a virtue that we can forget there are things we simply cannot give ourselves. You can learn to enjoy your own company. You can create beautiful rituals. You can take care of your body, feed yourself well, go for the walk, put down the phone, tend the garden.

All of that matters.

But none of it replaces belonging.

Maybe that is why I have watched our little shop become something I never really planned for it to become.

When we opened our doors in Warrenton, I thought of the shop primarily as a physical expression of Love + Be Well—a place where you could experience what we had created online in real life.

But people came in.

And they stayed.

They talked to us. They talked to each other. They shared pieces of their lives. We began gathering in the garden. We shared food and music and conversations. And somewhere along the way I realized that what was happening between people mattered every bit as much as what was sitting on the shelves.

It has made me think differently about what it means to be well.

Skincare can nourish the skin. Food can nourish the body. Solitude can nourish the soul.

And people nourish us too.

Maybe wellness was never supposed to be entirely solitary.

Perhaps we need both.

The quiet morning alone and the long conversation across the table.

The walk by ourselves and the chair pulled into the circle.

The ability to come home to ourselves and a place where we know we belong.

I don’t want a life filled with constant activity or endless socializing. I still need plenty of quiet. Probably always will.

But I understand connection differently now.

It isn’t something extra we fit into our lives when we have time.

It is part of being human.

And perhaps part of being well is remembering that we were never meant to get everything we need from ourselves.

Come home to yourself.

And sometimes, come sit with us.

- Natalie

Lately, I’ve found myself looking at old things differently. The glass candy dish that belonged to someone before me. The mismatched plates. Old music playing in the kitchen. Movies I’ve seen so many times I already know what comes next. Things I’ve had for years suddenly seem to carry more weight. More meaning.

And I caught myself wondering recently: Is this just age? Have I officially entered my nostalgia era?

Maybe. But I think there’s something more to it.

Because I don’t actually want to go backward. I don’t believe everything was better then. It wasn’t. Every generation has a tendency to polish its memories around the edges and forget the harder parts. What I miss—or perhaps what I’m appreciating more—is the feeling that things lasted.

You had things long enough for them to become part of the family. A candy dish wasn’t replaced because another one appeared in your feed. The dishes got chipped and stayed in the cupboard. Furniture collected scratches. Recipes were made so many times nobody needed to look at the recipe anymore.

And music belonged to particular chapters of your life. There are songs I can hear today and immediately remember a room I haven’t stood in for decades. I can remember the people. Sometimes I can almost remember the way the air felt. That’s the strange thing about nostalgia. It can collapse forty years into about four seconds.

When you’re younger, I don’t think you always understand why people hold onto things. It’s just a bowl. Just a photograph. Just some old dishes. Then one day, it isn’t.

The glass candy dish becomes the house it sat in. The sound the lid made when someone lifted it. What was usually inside. The hands that reached into it. An ordinary object somehow became a witness.

And maybe that’s why I’m increasingly drawn to the imperfect things in my own home. The chipped plate. The old serving bowl. The pieces that don’t match. The things that show evidence of having had a life. I don’t want a home—or a life—that looks like everything arrived yesterday. I want some history in the room.

I also wonder if this feeling has something to do with the world we’re living in now. Everything moves incredibly fast. We’re shown something new before we’ve even had time to appreciate what we already have. New clothes. New kitchens. New beauty. New restaurants. New trends. New things we’re apparently supposed to want.

Buy it. Use it. Replace it. Move on.

And somewhere in the middle of all that newness, I’ve become increasingly interested in the opposite. Things that have stayed. Things that have been repaired. Recipes passed around a family. Music someone loved before I did. A table that has hosted hundreds of meals. A dish that somehow survived three generations. There is something reassuring about an object that existed before today’s algorithm and will probably exist after it.

And then there is age.

At some point, you realize you’re standing somewhere in the middle of your family’s story. There are people behind you whose voices you can still hear if you think about them long enough. And now there are people coming after you.

That changes things.

You begin to understand that you’re not simply the recipient of your family’s history anymore. You’re one of its keepers. You decide which recipes continue. Which stories get told. Which traditions survive. Which ridiculous old dish gets handed down with the very important instruction: Don’t you dare get rid of this.

And perhaps that’s what I’m feeling. Not a desire to live in the past. A desire for continuity.

I’ve always believed in using the good things. Drink from the beautiful glass. Light the candle. Put dinner on the old plates. Wear the jewelry. Use the linen napkins on a Tuesday. I don’t want the things I love preserved so carefully that nobody actually gets to love them.

Maybe that’s part of preservation too. Not putting something away. Keeping it alive. Making another meal with it. Playing the record again. Watching the old movie. Telling the story one more time. Adding another scratch to the table.

And one day, perhaps someone will hold one of the ordinary things from my life and discover that somewhere along the way, it stopped being ordinary to them too.

So yes. Maybe I’ve entered my nostalgia era.

But I’m beginning to think it’s something else.

Maybe I’ve entered my preservation era.

Not wanting to go backward. Just wanting to make sure the good stuff comes with us.

— Natalie

Creamy cannellini beans simmered with fresh tomato, garlic and shallot, finished with peppery arugula, basil, Parmesan and plenty of lemon. Cozy enough for dinner, but bright enough to make year-round.

Serves 3–4

Ingredients

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 shallot, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 large ripe tomato, chopped
2 cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 to 1½ cups chicken broth
½ teaspoon sea salt, plus more to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
¼ teaspoon red chili flakes, or to taste
2 generous handfuls fresh arugula
¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan, plus more for serving
Juice of ½ lemon
Handful fresh basil, torn

Make It

Warm the olive oil and butter in a wide skillet or shallow pot over medium-low heat. Add the shallot and cook until tender and translucent.

Add the garlic and chili flakes and cook for about 30 seconds, just until fragrant.

Stir in the chopped tomato with a pinch of salt and black pepper. Let it cook for a few minutes until the tomato begins to soften and release its juices.

Add the cannellini beans and 1 cup of the chicken broth. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook uncovered for 10–15 minutes, adding a little more broth as needed. Mash a small spoonful of the beans against the side of the pan and stir them back in to give the broth a naturally creamy texture.

Fold in the arugula and let it wilt into the warm beans.

Turn off the heat and stir in the Parmesan, fresh lemon juice and torn basil. Taste and adjust with more salt, pepper, chili or lemon.

Spoon into shallow bowls and finish with a drizzle of good olive oil, more Parmesan and fresh basil.

Glow Notes

Cannellini beans bring plant-based protein, fiber and minerals to the bowl, while tomatoes, arugula, garlic, herbs and olive oil layer in colorful plant compounds. It’s the kind of meal we love most—real ingredients cooked together into something deeply satisfying.

From the Table: Serve on its own, spoon over a thick piece of toasted sourdough, or add a jammy egg for an even heartier meal.

Love + Eat Well,

by Natalie

Warm, savory and deeply satisfying. Ground beef and broccoli are tucked alongside rice and finished with a gingery coconut broth that gets ladled over everything at the very end. A little chili crisp on top is optional, but very good.

Serves 4

For the broth

• 2 cups beef broth
• 1 cup full-fat coconut milk
• 2 tablespoons coconut aminos
• 1 tablespoon honey
• 2 cloves garlic, finely grated or minced
• 1 tablespoon freshly grated ginger
• 1 tablespoon butter
• Sea salt + freshly ground black pepper, to taste

For the beef + broccoli

• 1 pound ground beef
• Sea salt + freshly ground black pepper
• 3 green onions, thinly sliced, divided
• 1 tablespoon honey
• 1 tablespoon rice vinegar
• 1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil
• 2 cups broccoli, cut into small florets

For the bowls

• 3–4 cups cooked rice
• Sliced green onion
• Chili crisp, optional

Make the broth

Add the beef broth, coconut milk, coconut aminos, honey, garlic and ginger to a saucepan. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for about 8–10 minutes, allowing the flavors to come together.

Stir in the butter and season with salt and pepper. Keep warm over low heat.

Make the beef

Add the ground beef to a large skillet over medium-high heat. Season generously with salt and pepper and cook until nicely browned, breaking it into crumbles as it cooks.

Add the broccoli and most of the sliced green onion. Cook until the broccoli is bright green and just tender.

Stir in the honey, rice vinegar and sesame oil. Cook for another minute or two, tossing everything together until the beef and broccoli are glossy and flavorful.

Build your bowl

Add a generous scoop of rice and a scoop of the beef and broccoli mixture to each bowl.

Ladle the warm coconut-ginger broth over everything.

Finish with plenty of sliced green onion and, if you like a little heat, a spoonful of chili crisp.

From the Table: The best bowls have a little bit of everything in every bite—rice soaking up the broth, savory beef, broccoli and that warm ginger-garlic finish.

Love + Eat Well,

Natalie 

There is something deeply satisfying about a cookie that tastes like a cookie—and just happens to have a little more going for it.

These flourless chickpea cookies are soft in the middle, lightly sweet, and full of dark chocolate. Chickpeas create the base, almond butter brings richness, and maple syrup adds just enough sweetness without taking over.

And no, they don’t taste like chickpeas.

Make a batch, let them cool just enough, and eat one while the chocolate is still a little melty. That’s the move.

Ingredients

• 1 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed very well
• ½ cup creamy almond butter
• ⅓ cup pure maple syrup
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• ½ teaspoon baking soda
• ½ teaspoon cinnamon
• ¼ teaspoon sea salt
• ½ cup dark chocolate chips or roughly chopped dark chocolate
• 2 tablespoons chopped walnuts or pecans, optional
• Flaky sea salt, for finishing

To Make

Preheat the oven to 350°F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Drain and rinse the chickpeas well, then pat them fairly dry.

Add the chickpeas, almond butter, maple syrup, vanilla, baking soda, cinnamon, and sea salt to a food processor. Blend until completely smooth and creamy. Give it a little time here—you don’t want any chickpea texture remaining.

Fold in the dark chocolate and nuts, if using.

Scoop the dough onto the prepared baking sheet, about 2 tablespoons per cookie. These won’t spread much on their own, so lightly flatten each one with damp fingers or the back of a spoon.

Bake for 10–13 minutes, until the edges are set and the centers are still slightly soft.

Finish with a little flaky sea salt and allow the cookies to cool on the baking sheet for at least 10 minutes. They’ll continue to set as they cool.

Best enjoyed while the chocolate is still a little warm.

Glow Notes

Chickpeas + your gut
Chickpeas are naturally rich in fiber, including fermentable fibers that help feed beneficial bacteria living in the gut. That makes them a simple way to bring a little more plant diversity and prebiotic fiber into the day—even in a cookie.

A little plant protein
Between the chickpeas and almond butter, these cookies offer more plant-based protein than your typical flour-and-sugar cookie, which also makes them a bit more satisfying.

Healthy fats
Almond butter brings monounsaturated fats along with vitamin E, while also giving these cookies their rich, soft texture.

Dark chocolate counts
Dark chocolate—particularly varieties with a higher cacao percentage—contains naturally occurring cocoa polyphenols. It also happens to make chickpeas infinitely more exciting.

Easy Swaps

No almond butter? Cashew butter works beautifully.

For a slightly less sweet cookie, reduce the maple syrup to ¼ cup.

Use a good 70% dark chocolate if you prefer less sweetness and more cacao flavor.

And if your gut isn’t accustomed to a lot of legumes or fiber, start with a cookie rather than half the tray. Chickpeas can be wonderfully gut-friendly, but suddenly adding a lot of fermentable fiber can also mean a little extra bloating or gas.

Love + Eat Well