As very few of you know, my mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s over 15 years ago. I’m at the age where many of my friends have lost their parents or have watched them struggle with chronic illnesses; for most of us, the loss of a parent doesn’t come as a real surprise, though that doesn’t necessarily make it easier for anyone.

My mom has endured the progression of her own disease with the resilience of a fighter and the calmness of her Buddhist upbringing, and while it’s heartbreaking, it’s inspiring in many ways. And it prompts me to think, “What can I learn from this process of watching someone I love leave us, slowly?” 

Just recently, I was thinking about the time, thought, and care we pour into our loved ones’ memorial tributes. I realized that, in her case, I had a shimmering opportunity: to create a tribute she can take in while she's still here.

So, here is a little sketch of my mom, all four feet and ten inches of her, and what she has given to me — which has so much to do with what Ayla is today.

Her nickname, Kram, is the Thai word for indigo blue, the blue of the ocean: vast, beautiful, and welcoming, with corners that remain unknowable. My mother lived in Bangkok until graduate school, but she speaks English and French flawlessly and collected more languages from time to time, just for fun, while teaching French in New England public schools. I have her to thank for my own love of language, whether native, foreign, or musical; I continue to push myself to keep up my French because it reminds me of her.

If you’ve ever wondered why our collection of products at Ayla — and travels that I post on Instagram — lean so heavily towards France, it’s because of her, too. When I was five years old, my dad, an engineering professor at Dartmouth, went on sabbatical in Lyon; my parents thought, “Why not?” and enrolled me in a French school even though I didn’t speak a word of the language. The other students, unaware that any other languages existed, were mystified by my muteness. Supposedly, I hated going to school so much that my parents had to bribe me with a pain au chocolat every morning, at least in the beginning.

I have no recollection of this, though it’s certainly believable given the power that pâtisserie still holds over me. What I do remember, though, is that my mom — who was no stranger to racism in the smaller towns where she lived in the US, but found the urban French to be quite warm given her facility with their language — was truly happy there. And every time we’d visit afterwards, she’d delight in everything from the mayonnaise and mustard in their grocery stores (notably better; still staples in my own household) to the energy of their bookstores (the best) to the exquisite craftsmanship in their clothing, shoes, or jewelry. Because of that delight, I suspect, it’s my happy place, too, and I’ll always be overjoyed to source from there.

My realization that some skincare products could be dramatically better than others first came from her as well: as a tween and a teen, I delighted in stealing into her bathroom to use her Clarins Doux Nettoyant Moussant from time to time. I will always remember its smell, its texture, its rinse-off — the whole experience of stepping into a slightly different world from the simple use of a cleanser. For her, the pursuit of beauty was not a frivolous, trendy one; it was about quality, daily pleasures, aspiration, inspiration.

I often say, “I have no idea how I ended up in the beauty business, coming from a family of academics,” but now that I think about all of this, I have no idea how I couldn’t have. My mom passed along a love of beauty everywhere, whether in museums, natural landscapes, or a well-prepared dish of food. She is both an incredible cook and a talented artist who recognizes the importance of great ingredients and raw materials; her meticulous effort to do things well with them inspires me still.

Also inspiring: her easy laugh, which helps her see the humor in our own human absurdity — something we too often forget.

And then there’s the worry that so easily comes to her, as it often does to mothers, and that would drive me batty, as it often does with children. Constant worry is a trait that I either didn’t inherit or, more likely, learned to shake off so vigorously that its shedding became second nature. It recently occurred to me that this could be one of the things that made me feel confident enough to jump into the crucible of entrepreneurship, where there are so many things to worry about — truly, so many, all the time, everywhere — that you have no other choice but to push them aside and keep moving.

My mom’s time here is coming to an end too soon; I know this, and I also know that for some time after that, it will feel hard to keep moving. What I’ll try to remember, though, is that I carry these pieces of her with me, and I will always be honored to share them with you. These seeds of brighter beauty may have evolved to become mine, but they were planted by her — and I was so very lucky to grow up in that garden. 

Je t’aime tellement, Maman.

Bisous,
Dara