I didn’t plan on becoming a skincare founder. 

For over 15 years, I lived a very different life—Wall Street, spreadsheets, the buzz of Manhattan mornings. Born and bred a New Yorker, I knew hustle and pace intimately. But I also knew Turmeric milk at bedtime, my mom oiling my hair every Sunday, Sandalwood and Turmeric face masks on slow afternoons and steeped Chicory with Black Pepper to soothe a stubborn cough. 

I was raised between two worlds: the rhythm of Ayurveda from my Indian heritage and the polished allure of Western beauty. My father’s family in Kerala was an old agricultural family since the 1600s— our ancestral estate home to a garden abundant with medicinal plants and a family Ayurvedic doctor who lived on the grounds, treating us with generations of time-tested knowledge. My father, a quiet botanist with a deep reverence for Ayurveda, spoke often of plants as if they were old friends—each whisper of wisdom gently taking root in me, without my even realizing.  

But none of that felt beautiful when I was a girl growing up in New York, just trying to belong. 

I was teased for oiling my hair, for the soft scent of coconut on my skin. My mother, full of pride, would occasionally send me to school dressed in traditional Indian clothes (yup) —not for culture day, just to share our heritage and bring awareness. But to me, it felt like a spotlight. I wanted to disappear. I longed to be named Tiffany…not Shadoh (although my name is not of Indian heritage). I was called names that mocked my skin, my food, my difference. So I did what many girls in-between cultures do: I distanced myself from what made me... me. 

It took years—and my skin’s quiet rebellion—for me to return to the roots I once tried to bury. 

But this story isn’t just about beauty. It’s about loss. And reconnection. 

A Seed Planted in Grief

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was just eight years old and continued to battle it for years. She was graceful—always radiant in her own quiet way—but I remember how hard it was for her to feel like herself once the chemo began. When she lost her hair, something in her dimmed. She never said it outright, but I saw it in the way her eyes avoided the mirror. 

I was young, but I instinctively turned to care for her the way she once cared for me—massaging her fragile skin with warm oils, gently brushing her scalp, placing cool cucumber slices over her eyes, drawing foot baths and dabbing blush onto her cheeks just to bring back a little color. Those small moments were small, but they were sacred.  

She passed away when I was in my late teens, but those memories stayed with me—like little seeds waiting to bloom. I didn’t know it then but those moments would play a part in the creation of taїla. 

Returning to What Was Always Mine 

In my thirties, my skin began speaking louder than I ever had (I’m pretty loud). Cystic acne. Hives. Unrelenting eczema. My once-resilient skin turned reactive, inflamed and painfully unpredictable. I diligently followed every recommendation—serums in glass vials, creams with words like “natural” and “gentle” stamped across the label. But nothing worked. 

It wasn’t until I started reading the ingredient lists closely—really reading them—that I understood what I had been feeding my skin: sulfates, synthetic preservatives and artificial fragrances. Even in products labeled “clean.” These hidden irritants were disrupting my skin barrier, triggering inflammation and making everything worse. 

A dermatologist offered a prescription for topical steroids, assuring me they’d calm the flare-ups. But I knew that was just masking the symptoms—not healing the root cause. 

That’s when I turned to the one person whose quiet wisdom had always lived within me—my father. He didn’t reach for a prescription. He reached for plants. Together, we crafted an herbal blend the way his ancestors had—using whole botanicals known for their soothing, purifying and regenerative properties. I still remember the scent: earthy, grounding, familiar. My skin softened. The inflammation calmed. I was healing—genuinely, from the inside out. 

And in those quiet rituals—grinding, blending, listening—I remembered everything I had pushed away: the coconut oil body massages before shower, the turmeric and sandalwood paste face masks, the warm oil massaged into my scalp, the moments I cared for my mother when she was ill. The wisdom passed down from my father’s family in Kerala using time-honored plant medicine. 

taïla was born from that remembering. 

taïla Today

taïla is crafted with the same quiet intention that once lived in my mother’s daily tea and my grandmother’s garden. Each formulation is crafted in house in our Brooklyn Lab/Apothecary, where Ayurvedic extracts are prepared by hand using time-honored Vedic methods. We don’t believe in outsourcing to third-party labs—because integrity, transparency and deep connection to our process matter. 

Our ingredients are thoughtfully sourced from farms that honor the land and uphold sustainable, generational practices. 

No shortcuts. No excess. Just purity, purpose and results—rooted in ritual. 

This is skincare that doesn’t just promise glow—it restores balance. It speaks to the skin, yes—but also to memory, to heritage and to the quiet power of rituals passed down, reimagined and made relevant for our time. 

My hope is that when you use taïla, you feel that care. That it becomes your moment to return to yourself. 

                                                                                                  Love + Light,