On small business, finding joy in uncertain times, and creating a world we actually want to live in.

I've been having one of those existential crises that probably isn't helped by the fact that I own a retail business in 2026.

Between the interest rates, inflation and the cost of absolutely fucking everything, there are days when I stand in Love Spell and wonder what the hell I'm doing. Who buys beautiful clothes when they're worried about their mortgage? Who's thinking about a new pair of jeans when the weekly grocery shop requires the financial planning of a small nation?

It's a fair question. I'm not immune to any of it. I have two shops to run, staff and suppliers to pay, rent, insurance and the seemingly endless parade of taxes that come with running a business in Australia. I want Love Spell to make money, obviously. I'm not running a not-for-profit in leopard print.

But somewhere between looking at the numbers and wondering whether I've completely lost the plot, I remember why I started.

I wanted to create something. A shop with personality, where women could find things they hadn't seen everywhere else, try on something a little unexpected and leave feeling fantastic. I wanted to build a place that felt like me, rather than spend my life doing something that paid the bills but left no room for the things that make life interesting.

And lately, I've been wondering whether that's more important than ever.

We can't fix the whole fucking world.

I know. Groundbreaking.

We can spend our days doomscrolling, watching the news and worrying about the next economic or political catastrophe. God knows there's enough material. But at some point, I think we have to look at the little patch of the world we've actually been given and decide what we're going to do with it.

I've always believed in creating the world you want to live in, rather than waiting for someone else to make it happen.

For me, that starts at home. Our old Victorian cottage is full of things we've collected over the years. It's a little eccentric, occasionally chaotic and definitely not beige. I want it to feel lived in, loved and interesting. I want people to walk through the door, put their bag down, open a bottle of wine and stay for dinner.

I don't want a perfect house. I want a house people remember being in.

There's a difference.

And I think the same applies to how we spend our days. Flowers on the table. Music while you're cooking. Inviting friends over even though the house isn't immaculate, because if we're waiting until the house is perfect before we have people over, we'll be eating alone until 2047. Buying the artwork because you love it, not because it matches the cushions.

These aren't solutions to the state of the world. They're simply ways of making the life we're living right now feel a little more like our own.

And yes, I think getting dressed matters.

Not because a new outfit will fix your problems. I've worn some spectacular outfits while having an absolutely terrible day.

But I've always loved that moment when you put something on and think, oh, there she is.

Underneath the work, the parenting, the bills and the endless mental to-do list, there's still a person who likes beautiful things, has opinions about lipstick and wants to feel good in her own skin. Sometimes we get so busy looking after everyone else that we forget she's there.

Getting dressed can be a small way of remembering yourself. It doesn't have to involve buying anything. Wear the jacket you forgot about, pull out the jeans you love, put on the ridiculous earrings you've been saving for somewhere special. And if you can afford something new that genuinely makes your heart beat a little faster, enjoy it.

I don't think pleasure needs to be justified by productivity. We don't have to finish every task, solve every problem or become a better version of ourselves before we're allowed to enjoy being alive.

That's a fairly miserable way to live, if you ask me.

The thing about community is that somebody has to create it.

I think about this a lot as a small business owner. The little café where someone knows your order. The local artist making beautiful things in a studio somewhere. The independent shop owner spending hours getting a window just right because she wants someone walking past to stop and smile.

Those places don't just appear. Someone takes a risk, puts in the hours and tries to make something worth experiencing.

That's what I want Love Spell to be. Of course I want people to shop with us. I want the business to thrive, to pay its bills and to still be here in ten years. But I also want to be part of a community that has a little life in it. Somewhere you can wander, discover something unexpected, have a conversation and feel connected to the place you live.

We can't all afford to buy something every time we walk past a shop, and I would never pretend otherwise. Life is expensive enough. But we can recommend the place we love, show up to an event, tell someone they're doing a good job or make a point of visiting the businesses we'd genuinely miss if they disappeared.

Because if we want to live in interesting places, surrounded by people who make interesting things, we have to care whether those things survive.

So what am I actually trying to say?

I don't have a grand solution to the economy. I'm not going to tell anyone to spend money they don't have, and I'm certainly not suggesting a handbag is going to solve the housing crisis.

But I don't want to spend my life waiting for things to get better before I allow myself to enjoy it.

I want the dinners that go on too long, the clothes that make me feel fantastic, the home full of things we love and the conversations that remind me there's more to life than the next bill or the next terrible headline.

I want to keep creating things that make people feel something.

And I want to remember that making money and making a life aren't mutually exclusive. One keeps the business running. The other reminds me why I'm bothering.

Some days, running Love Spell feels completely absurd. Other days, I see someone light up in the fitting room, or watch a customer leave with something she absolutely loves, and I remember that the things we create can mean something beyond the transaction.

Maybe that's enough of a reason to keep going.

Not because beautiful clothes will save the world, but because the world is a better place when we still make room for beautiful things.

So start somewhere. Wear the outfit. Invite your friends over. Make your home somewhere you love being. Support the little business you would genuinely miss. Find one thing that makes an ordinary day feel a little less ordinary.

We have very little control over what's happening out there. But we do have some say in what we create, what we care for and how we make the people around us feel.

And in a world that can sometimes feel relentlessly bleak, I think that's worth something.

Heather XO 💋