Why the Heart Is More Than a Symbol of Love
January 2026
Share
Returning to the Questions That Wouldn’t Leave Me Alone
In my last Notes from the Studio, I shared that I was feeling called to slow down — not because I was unsure, but because there were questions quietly asking for my attention.
Questions like why I’m so drawn to certain shapes. Why some designs feel inevitable while others fall flat. Why my curiosity has been drifting toward the history of jewelry — the meaning of symbols, stones, and forms — instead of just what looks beautiful in the moment.
For years, I’ve designed largely by instinct. Especially around Valentine’s Day. I love hearts, so I made hearts. I followed what felt good at the bench, and that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
This year, when I began thinking about Valentine’s, something felt different. I paused. I stopped myself from immediately making what I always make — not because I don’t love hearts, but because I wanted to understand why I love them.
I wanted to dig deeper, the way I said I would.
So instead of designing first, I researched. I asked questions. I wanted to know whether the heart had always been tied to romance and relationships — or if it once meant something more.
That’s when this collection quietly began to form.
The Heart Was Never Just About Romance
As I started digging into the history of the heart, one thing became clear very quickly: the heart didn’t begin as a symbol of romance at all.
Long before it appeared on Valentine’s cards or in love letters, the heart represented something much more fundamental. In ancient cultures, it was believed to be the center of truth, courage, memory, and inner life. The heart wasn’t sentimental — it was essential.
In some traditions, the heart was considered more important than the mind. It was where decisions were made. Where integrity lived. Where the soul resided.
Later, in religious and medieval imagery, the heart took on another layer of meaning — particularly in depictions of the Sacred Heart. These images showed a heart surrounded by flame, marked by suffering, yet still open.
Not idealized.
Not untouched.
But enduring.
That understanding changed how I approached every heart I made next.
Fire, the Bench, and the Moment Everything Shifted
There’s a moment at the bench that most people never see.
When metal meets flame, it changes instantly. It darkens. It blackens. It carries the mark of heat before it’s ever polished or refined.
As I began forming the heart shapes for this collection, that moment stopped me. After soldering, before quenching, the hearts turned black in the flame — and instead of rushing past it, I paused.
I loved the way they looked. Marked. Altered. Honest.
Fire, after all, is not just destructive. It’s transformative. In metalsmithing, fire softens, strengthens, and makes form possible. It reveals what the metal can become.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on me.
We are all shaped by fire — by experience, loss, growth, love, and change. Like metal, we don’t come through those moments untouched. The question isn’t whether we’re changed, but what we become afterward.
I realized these hearts weren’t asking to be polished into something perfect. They were asking to remain open — to carry the evidence of having been shaped.
That realization became the foundation of this collection.
What Grows After the Fire
As the heart designs continued to take shape, something else began to appear at the bench.
A flower.
Not a decorative one. Not something delicate or ornamental. What kept emerging was simple, strong, and unmistakable — the wild rose.
Wild roses don’t grow in ideal conditions. They aren’t cultivated or controlled. They grow where they’re planted, where they’re able, and they bloom anyway. Their beauty isn’t about perfection — it’s about resilience.
That felt important.
If the heart had endured the fire, then the wild rose represented what comes after. Not innocence. Not softness for its own sake. But growth that happens because of experience, not in spite of it.
I began placing the rose at the top of the heart — not inside it, not separate from it — almost like a quiet crown. A reminder that something strong and beautiful can emerge from what has been tested.
Suddenly, this wasn’t about Valentine’s Day anymore.
It was about what we carry.
What we endure.
And what we allow ourselves to become.
A Collection That Formed Before It Was Announced
As I worked through these ideas — fire, endurance, growth — I realized something quietly important.
This wasn’t about designing for a holiday.
It was about listening.
Some pieces asked to be created slowly, in response to history and meaning. Others asked to be revisited — designs from the past that suddenly made sense in a new way. What I once felt intuitively, I could now see more clearly.
This collection didn’t arrive all at once. It formed over time, through research, reflection, and moments at the bench that asked me to pause instead of rush.
Because when something is created with intention, it doesn’t need to announce itself loudly. It simply waits until it’s ready to be shared.
This isn’t a reveal.
It’s a beginning.
And when the pieces are ready, they’ll carry the story with them — without needing to explain it.
This feels like the right place to begin. 💕
With love & intention,
Kimberly Story
CEO & Creative Director, Lepa Jewelry