Metamorphosis

Scent, Memory, and the Path to Self

Things have been quiet since my last letter.

In the time that’s passed, the fragrance of freshwater and citrus has shifted to the crispness of clean air with a hint of humidity—a reflection of New York’s fleeting rain showers and heat waves, both appreciated during their brief visits.

Most mornings, I naturally wake up an hour before my alarm, remnants of my current scent, a faint vanilla, lingering on both sides of my pillow. As I check my phone for any missed messages, I glance over at my coffee table, adorned with my companions—dried mango slices, ginger candy, and the last of my crystallized ginger tea packet.

Whisper, United States, 2021, by Danielle McKinney.

I recall moments before drifting off to sleep, accidentally spilling a small amount of my latest obsession: Pellegrino tangerine and wild strawberry sparkling water. Instead of interrupting my evening relaxation to clean it up, I’d optimistically hoped that natural processes would take care of the spill. However, my optimism proved to be unfounded, as the spill persisted when I awoke approximately six hours later.

Freshwater & Citrus. (6.2.24)

The table, now holding a faint stain from the accidental spill that science couldn’t completely erase, has become a small, amusing reminder. While freshwater and citrus were never my preferred fragrances, lingering from an accidental spill, I was surprised to find myself drawn to their presence over the four days it engraved itself into my walls.

Fragrance has always intrigued me for reasons I can't fully explain. I've long believed that you can glean insights into a person from their chosen scent, even if it changes over time. That’s why titling an entry “freshwater & citrus” holds such significance for me. It’s not just about the scent itself; it’s about the emotions it evokes.

Before writing the entry, I intended it to simply explain my recent lull in writing. Typing at 10am while eating fresh mango chunks and listening to samba created a lighter, fresher, clearer tone. It still surprises me how quickly the entry shifted to questioning when an artist creates their final piece. Surely, a title like “Strange Fruit” would have likely evoked deeper, more ominous emotions.

Had I chosen that title, I might have felt compelled to delve into the question, “When does an artist realize they’ve created their final piece of art? Is it when they pick up the pen, or when they lay it down for the last time?” but as a writer, I aimed to soften the sentiment— even in posing the question, I sought to offer an answer.

As I wrote, more questions arose, the foremost being “What defines an artist? Is it their interpretation of life or how they document these interpretations?” Despite this, I held back because I might have been tempted to romanticize the truth and proclaim that once you’re an artist, you’re always creating— to suggest that what becomes a part of you stays with you forever.

Now fully immersed in my late twenties, I recognize that uncertainty persists, even at this stage of life. The truth is, you never truly know until you experience it, right?

I find myself in a space where I feel both prepared and unprepared for that pivotal moment: where the artist and the person no longer align. This duality often leaves me feeling both enlightened and uncertain about myself. I contemplate the possibility that tomorrow, I could set my pen down and resume writing the next day. Alternatively, I could set it down and forget that I ever considered myself a writer.

But back to scent, because in a strange way, I guess I could tie it all together.

Right now, the inconsistency in my writing stems from no longer spending my days in the familiar place that defined most of my twenties. I'm no longer the same writer and strategist surrounded by the scent of fresh chamomile or burnt maple, sipping chilled mint tea at 5am to tackle emails to the tune of bossa nova.

Gone are the days of struggling with deadlines in a bedroom that was both my sanctuary and my nemesis. Now in my late twenties, navigating luxury sales with new friends and untapped opportunities, capturing that aura feels elusive because I’m unsure if it still exists.

As I mentioned, this isn’t just about my art—writing; it reflects the broader phase I'm in with life. For instance, with my birthday approaching in about two months, friends are starting to inquire about my current favorite scents. During these conversations, I often lean towards vanilla, the safe choice, while overlooking the shift from scents centered on vanilla with honey and marshmallow notes to those anchored in sandalwood and amber, now complemented by subtle vanilla undertones.

Privately, I've explored scents that align with my current phase, some of which friends might describe as too mature or masculine when I suggest them; but the fact is that oriental fragrances have supplanted my former love for gourmand notes for a little while now.

I suppose it's because I work in an area of the city that reeks of international wealth and spiced rum; and while vanilla remains a constant, there’s a weightiness that has accompanied my journey into my late twenties. It carries no negativity, just more experience and intentional silence, but I've discovered that embracing these changes, no matter how small, feels unsettling.

I know I can acknowledge these shifts without resistance; I’ve earned that right. Yet, I hesitate.

I'm uncertain if this hesitation signifies my final resistance to change or if it marks the beginning of my struggle to embrace it. Interestingly, making a drastic change like cutting my long, wavy hair into a blunt French bob—something my family and close friends had to adjust to—was easier than giving up the last spritz of Aquolina Pink Sugar Eau de Toilette Spray, a scent I'd worn continuously for almost two years, now replaced by ZARA Women Red Vanilla Eau De Toilette.

I often find myself attempting to conceal these changes from others, but they are starting to creep into my everyday life. As I've mentioned before, I've started preferring cleaning over writing, opting for neutral fitted blouses and wide-leg slacks instead of my former colorful oversized tees and loose jeans. I now choose light makeup over none at all and have developed a preference for warm, spiced (oriental) scents over sweet, gourmand ones.

I find myself highlighting the things I still cherish, like jazz, while quietly moving past interests I've outgrown, such as silver. However, I realize that eventually, these divergent preferences will fade from my thoughts altogether.

It’s not about clinging to the past, but rather about discovering beauty in this phase of embracing both who I was and who I am becoming—as if I'm observing my own metamorphosis from an outside perspective.

In my last letter, I encouraged contemplation of what unfolds when life progresses naturally. Here's what I've realized: we are witnesses and active participants in life—and even in quiet moments, we continue to evolve.

You can determine when, how, and in what manner this evolution occurs, but you can't resist it—only embrace it. In the book I’m reading, it’s almost as if the character is coming to this realization with me. One of my favorite passages captures this sentiment beautifully:

The point is, embracing anything new is not always easy, but it is a testament to the beauty and inevitability of growth. I'm learning to appreciate the journey of becoming who I am meant to be, knowing that each season brings its own lessons and opportunities for growth.

I’ll see you on the 30th.

Best,

S