“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” — Leonardo da Vinci
There are certain quotes that quietly follow us through life. We don’t simply admire them; we carry them with us. They shape the way we think, influence the choices we make, and over time, become part of who we are.
For me, that quote has always been, “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”
For years, I believed I understood exactly what it meant. It reflected everything I had dedicated my life to helping others create: peaceful homes, uncluttered spaces, and lives that felt less overwhelming and more intentional. I still believe deeply in those things. I know from both my personal experience and my work that our surroundings matter. A home that supports us rather than drains us can be a wonderful source of comfort and peace.
As my birthday approaches this week, however, I’ve found myself reflecting on that quote in a way I never have before. Perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts that comes with growing older. We don’t necessarily discover new truths; sometimes we simply begin to understand familiar ones more deeply.
This past year has been one of the most meaningful of my life. While writing a book that I thought was about clutter, I discovered it was really about women. I thought I was writing about the things women keep, but as the chapters unfolded, I realized I was actually writing about the things women carry.
Not just the physical things we can see, but the invisible burdens we rarely talk about—the pressure to hold everything together, the guilt of believing we should always be doing more, the responsibility of caring for others while quietly placing ourselves at the bottom of the list, and the exhausting belief that somehow we still aren’t enough.
As women began reading portions of the manuscript and sharing their thoughts with me, one comment surfaced again and again.
“I thought it was just me.”
Those six simple words stayed with me because they revealed something much deeper than I had expected.
What so many of us are searching for isn’t another planner, another organizing system, or another way to become more productive. What we’re really searching for is to feel understood, to know we’re not alone, and to stop believing we have to have everything figured out.
That realization led me to ask myself an important question:
What have I really been helping women find all these years?
Yes, I’ve helped them create calmer homes. Yes, I’ve shared practical tools that make life feel less overwhelming. But perhaps something much deeper has been happening all along.
Perhaps what I have really been offering is permission.
Permission to stop striving for perfection.
Permission to rest without guilt.
Permission to create healthy boundaries.
Permission to remember that we were never meant to carry life alone.
Life has also taught me that not every relationship unfolds the way we hope it will, including some of our family relationships. Some grow deeper over time, while others quietly teach us the importance of acceptance, healthy boundaries, and letting go of expectations. I’ve learned that we can love people, wish them well, and still accept that not every relationship will become what we hoped it might be. There is a quiet kind of freedom that comes when we stop asking people to give us what they are unable to give and instead begin living the life that is ours to live. Protecting our peace isn’t an act of rejection; sometimes it is simply an act of wisdom. Choosing peace doesn’t harden the heart. It simply allows it to carry less.
For many years, I believed simplicity was about letting go of things. Today, I believe it’s even more about letting go of the burdens we were never meant to carry: perfection, comparison, guilt, and the quiet expectation that we must somehow be everything to everyone.
Looking back on another year of life, I realize that my wishes have become much simpler than they once were. I don’t wish for a busier calendar or another accomplishment to add to my résumé. I wish for deeper conversations, genuine friendships, quiet mornings, meaningful work, laughter that comes easily, and the wisdom to remember that life isn’t waiting somewhere in the future. It is already here.
Most of all, I wish to continue creating what I have come to call simplicity of the heart.
A heart that carries less.
A heart that worries less.
A heart that no longer measures its worth by how much it accomplishes.
A heart with room for joy, compassion, curiosity, and hope.
Perhaps that is what Leonardo da Vinci understood all along.
Or perhaps each of us spends a lifetime discovering what those words mean in our own way.
As I begin another year, I find myself deeply grateful—not because I have all the answers, but because I continue to learn that the simplest things are often the ones that matter most.
A peaceful heart.
Meaningful work.
People who love us well.
Time to breathe.
Time to notice.
Time to simply be.
Perhaps that is the ultimate sophistication after all.
And perhaps the greatest simplicity we will ever create isn’t found in our homes, but in our hearts.
As you go about your day, I hope you’ll take a quiet moment to ask yourself one question:
What would simplicity of the heart look like in your own life?
