Before I became a mother, a doctor, and an entrepreneur, I was simply a girl who loved the feeling of a carefree Saturday.

As life grew busier, so did my responsibilities. My days became filled with working, running a business, raising a family, caring for others, and chasing goals. Like many children of immigrant parents, I grew up believing that success came from working harder than everyone else.

My parents came to this country with very little. They sacrificed their comfort, worked long hours, and poured everything they had into creating a better future for their children. Watching them taught me resilience, gratitude, and ambition—but it also planted another belief deep within me: that taking time for yourself was almost selfish.

So I worked.

Longer hours.
Less sleep.
More responsibilities.
Always thinking about the next goal.

My obsession became building a legacy and creating a comfortable life so my children would never have to struggle the way my parents once did. I wanted to make them proud. I wanted every sacrifice they made to mean something.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot about myself.

Coffee dates with friends became events that had to be planned months in advance. Movie nights disappeared. Painting, traveling, or simply wandering through a bookstore became distant memories. Self-care wasn't something I practiced—it became something I admired from afar.

I reached a point where I realized I had lost the person I used to be.

As my children grew older, something shifted.

I realized that the greatest lesson I could teach them wasn't simply how to work hard. It was how to live well.

I want my children to see that ambition and rest can exist together. That chasing your dreams doesn't mean sacrificing your happiness. That caring for yourself isn't selfish—it allows you to show up as a better parent, partner, friend, and human being.

That's where Saturday, 1990 was born.

Not just as a collection, but as a reminder.

A reminder of slower mornings.
Of hot girl walks with no destination.
Of coffee dates that turn into long conversations.
Of spontaneous road trips.

Of unplanned travels.
Of painting simply because it brings joy.
Of exploring a new city.
Of laughing until your stomach hurts.
Of choosing presence over productivity, even if only for a day.

Saturday became more than a day of the week. It became a symbol of balance, nostalgia, and permission to pause.

The older I get, the more I realize that life isn't measured by how busy we are. It's measured by the moments we remember—the simple ones that make us feel alive.

If you're constantly giving pieces of yourself to your work, your family, your business, or everyone around you, I hope this serves as your reminder that you deserve to receive something too.

Take the trip.

Call your friends.

Go for the walk.

Drink the coffee while it's still hot.

Read the book.

Watch the sunset.

Rest without feeling guilty.

Find your Saturday again.

Because sometimes the most productive thing you can do is simply enjoy being present.