The first thing I ever designed was a birthday card for a friend when I was six years old, using Microsoft Paint. I didn’t know it at the time, but I even created a logo. On the back, I added a small graphic that read, “Made for you by Liz.” Even then, I was drawn to the idea of making something personal—something that said, I thought about you long before you opened this.

That instinct has stayed with me. I’ve always believed there’s something uniquely meaningful about giving a handwritten or homemade gift. It carries intention. It says you paused, planned, and created—rather than clicking “add to cart” and shipping something overnight. In a world where convenience is constant and immediate, thoughtfulness often looks like time. Time spent thinking, writing, and showing up for someone in a way that feels human.

That’s what led me to begin building my stationery line. What started as a love for notes and cards has grown into something more tangible—collections of greeting cards for birthdays, Mother’s Day, love notes “just because,” and more. I’ve begun sharing and selling these at spring pop-ups (with more to come), and soon they’ll be available on my website as well as through select boutiques. I’ve also been documenting the wholesale journey on Instagram, which has been both a learning experience and a creative expansion.

Stationery for Every Life Event

At the heart of it all is a simple goal: to make art that feels accessible, but also deeply personal. A card isn’t just paper—it’s a moment. It’s something you hold, reread, and sometimes keep forever.

VIEW STATIONERY

Recently, that belief was deepened by a book I read with my monthly book club, The Correspondent. It tells the story of a woman in her seventies through the letters she writes—to family, friends, neighbors, and even people she admires from afar. Through these letters, we see how she processes life, connection, and, most poignantly, grief.

Each character in the book encounters grief differently—through the loss of a pregnancy, spouse, a child, a parent. It’s a reminder that grief is universal, yet deeply personal. And what struck me most was how writing became a way through it. A way to slow down, to organize thoughts, to say what’s often hard to speak out loud.

That idea—of writing as both expression and reflection—has stayed with me. We don’t always need to write long letters to one another. But when we do take the time to put pen to paper, something shifts. We become more present. More intentional. More honest.

In many ways, this stationery line is my invitation to return to that practice. Not out of nostalgia, but out of necessity. To create space for connection that isn’t rushed. To say things that matter. To remember that sometimes, the simplest gestures—a card, a note, a few handwritten lines—are the ones that stay with us the longest.