Quixotically did not begin as a business idea. It began as a need for honesty, for reflection, for something to hold onto during a season of change.
I never set out to build a business. I was laid off, adrift, and unsure what came next. I turned back to journaling, not as a habit, but as a way to carry the grief I was navigating.
As a teenager, I'd journaled online and found a community of girls who loved the same shows and actors I did. Many are still my friends today. I've traveled across the world to meet some of them. Then life got louder, and the journaling stopped.
This time, I discovered leather journal covers. I loved their permanence, the way they aged into themselves. The ones I wanted were far outside my budget, so I taught myself to make them. First for myself. Then for the people I loved.
Journaling led me back to community too, this time at Good Postage, a stationery store in Charlotte, where I fell into journal systems and stationery supplies the way I'd once fallen into fandoms at sixteen. The people there were just as swept up as I was, and that warmth was something I hadn't realized I'd missed. It was their encouragement, their insistence that what I was making deserved to exist beyond my own shelf, that gave me the courage to start Quixotically.
My background is in nonprofit work, where fairness and kindness aren't sentiments, they're practices. So I wanted to build something different: a business where quality and affordability aren't in conflict. Where good, well-made things aren't reserved for people who can already afford them. If I could give these journals away, I would. Since I can't, this is the next best thing: work made with care, priced so it's actually within reach.
Quixotically grew from all of it: the making, the healing, the finding each other. The name has always felt right: quixotic, the instinct to believe in something more, even when it feels impractical.
For the dreamers, the writers, the overthinkers, the quiet rebels. For anyone learning to hold onto hope, even when it feels impractical.