The Woman Who Taught Us How to Care

When people ask how Orijin came to be, I start with my mother.

She’s not behind the scenes, exactly. She’s just not trying to be seen. She posts when she wants to. She’s got her HappyRose page, her own rhythm, her own way of teaching without declaring herself a teacher. But if you’ve ever held a bottle of Hibiscus Nectar—or watched someone’s face soften mid-mist—you’ve felt her presence.

She’s a nurse. A certified aromatherapist. A Haitian woman whose life has always been steeped in care. Not the kind that begs for attention, but the kind that lingers. That wraps around you without needing to be named.

I watch her blend oils in a way that doesn't look like chemistry, but is. She steeps her botanicals slowly, adjusts scent by instinct, and tests everything on her own skin first. When something works, she doesn't smile—she exhales. That’s how I know when it's ready.

One day she said to me,

“Aromatherapy is energy. It’s vibration. It’s how you enter a room before you even speak.”

That stuck with me. The idea that care could arrive before words.

We built Orijin in a small circle. My mom, my cousin Tamika, and me. It started in our kitchens. Our hands. Our memories. Mom never pushed for anything too big. She just wanted the formulas to feel right. She wanted them to reflect who we are, where we come from, and how we love.

That’s why the products don’t sting. That’s why we use hydrosols and flower-infused oils instead of masking agents. None of this was borrowed from trends. It came from her. From the way she treats skin as an extension of the spirit.

And then there was a moment I’ll never forget. I was reading her something I’d written, words that tried to explain what Orijin is really about. About Haiti. About grief. About how our rituals were never meant to be flattened into marketing, or lost to the noise.

I read to her:
“Even when the world dismembers us in headlines, we offer something whole. We offer skincare that remembers.”

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there, tears on her face.

So much of what Orijin has become, our intention, our rituals, our refusal to flatten cultural memory into trend, began with her.

This Mother’s Day, I just want to say thank you.

For the hands that taught me how to care.
For the skin wisdom that didn’t come from a brand book, but from lineage.
For believing that beauty can be sacred.
And for reminding me every day that gentleness is a kind of power.

Her fingerprints are on every bottle.
So is her love.

ti bo, 
Ko