You never forget your first — not because it was perfect, but because it rearranged you.
Mine began on a runway so short it felt like a dare. The propellers whined, the air was thick, and when we touched down in St. Barts I was smiling so hard my face hurt. Not because I knew what was coming — but because my body did. That low, electric recognition: this matters.
I was there to inspect villas.
Officially.
Unofficially, I was stepping into a life I didn't yet have language for.
Everything felt heightened. The salt in the air. The way light moved across hills. The intimacy of arriving somewhere that didn't ask you to explain yourself. I wanted to see everything — not out of obligation, but hunger. Beaches, restaurants, trails, terraces. I wanted to feel places long enough to understand them.
The first villa was beautiful in the way first loves often are — overwhelming, slightly unreal, demanding your full attention. I remember standing still, letting the space speak. The way the doors opened to the outside. The way privacy felt less like isolation and more like permission.
That was the moment I understood something no brochure ever explains:
Luxury isn't excess. It's resonance.
We moved through the island quickly and slowly at the same time. Days blurred into salt and sun and conversation. Nights softened everything. I learned how a place reveals itself when you stop trying to conquer it and let it hold you instead.
At the time, I thought I was learning inventory.
In hindsight, I was learning discernment.
I was learning how light matters.
How silence matters.
How a villa can either impress you — or change your nervous system.
There's a particular kind of confidence that comes from being trusted with beautiful things. I didn't know it then, but that trip calibrated me. After that, I couldn't unsee what worked and what didn't. I couldn't pretend that all luxury was created equal. Some spaces perform. Others contain.
St. Barts was my first, but it wasn't the last. It was the beginning of a long education in feeling — in how people actually want to live when no one is watching. What they crave beneath the bookings and the bragging rights.
I've returned to the island since.
Different villas. Different seasons. A different woman.
But that first time still lives in my body.
Because firsts do that. They set the bar quietly. They teach you what you'll never settle for again. They show you what's possible — not just in travel, but in the way you move through the world afterward.
You never forget your first.
Not when it teaches you how to see.