When Your Own Taste Gets in the Way of Running a Good Shop

There's a version of this story where I'm the hero. Where my impeccable taste, my refusal to compromise, and my stubborn commitment to a specific aesthetic turns Donald Garcia Shop into some kind of cultural institution. A place people reference when they want to explain what curation really means.

That version is a fantasy. And chasing it almost cost me real customers.

Let me back up.

The Problem With Loving What You Do Too Much

When you build something around your personal preferences — your eye, your sensibility, your particular way of seeing the world — it feels like an advantage. And honestly, it is, at first. People can smell the difference between a shop run by someone who genuinely loves what they sell versus one that's just moving inventory. That authenticity is magnetic.

But here's the trap nobody warns you about: the longer you run a shop, the more your taste starts to feel like a rule. A law. A standard that everything has to pass before it earns a spot on your shelves. And at some point, you stop asking "is this good?" and start asking "do I like this?" — which are two very different questions.

I've turned down products that would have sold well because they felt off-brand to me personally. I've passed on partnerships because something about the aesthetic didn't match what I had in my head. And some of those calls were right. But some of them were just me being precious about my own preferences in a way that didn't serve anyone.

A Real Example (Because Abstract Lessons Are Easy to Ignore)

A while back, I had the chance to stock a line of organizational tools — think desk accessories, cable management stuff, that kind of thing. Functional, well-made, reasonably priced. The kind of thing a lot of people genuinely need and would actually buy.

I passed on it. My reasoning at the time? It didn't feel elevated enough. It wasn't the kind of thing I'd photograph for the shop. It didn't match the visual language I'd built.

A few months later, I watched a similar product absolutely blow up for another independent shop. Not because it was flashy. Because it was useful and people trusted the shop that recommended it.

That stung. Not because I missed a revenue opportunity — though I did — but because I realized I'd let my aesthetic preferences override my customers' actual needs. I was curating for an imaginary version of my audience instead of the real one.

The Framework I Use Now

After that, I started being more intentional about how I evaluate products. The question I ask now isn't "do I love this?" It's a two-part test:

First: Is this something I'd genuinely recommend to someone I care about?

Not someone with my exact taste. Just someone I respect, who trusts me to point them toward good things. If the answer is yes, it clears the first bar.

Second: Does stocking this compromise the core identity of the shop, or does it just challenge my personal comfort zone?

This is the harder question. There's a real difference between a product that would confuse or mislead my audience about what this shop stands for, and a product that just doesn't match my personal aesthetic. One of those is a legitimate reason to pass. The other is just ego.

A lot of things I used to reject on "taste" grounds were actually fine. They just weren't my taste. And my taste, as much as I love it, is not the point of this shop.

What "Not for Me" Actually Means

I still say no to a lot of things. That hasn't changed. But I've gotten more honest about why I'm saying no.

"Not for me" used to mean: I don't personally love this, so it doesn't belong here.

Now, "not for me" means something more specific. It means: this product conflicts with the values or the purpose of this shop in a way that would genuinely mislead or disappoint the people who've chosen to trust us.

That's a much higher bar. And it keeps me from hiding behind aesthetic preferences when the real issue is that I just haven't warmed up to something yet.

For example, I'm not naturally drawn to maximalist design. Bold patterns, lots of color, visual noise — that's just not where my eye goes. But I've learned to ask whether that's a shop decision or a personal one. Sometimes I stock things I wouldn't put in my own home, because I know they're excellent products and I know people in my audience will love them. That's not a compromise. That's just being a good shop owner.

The Line That Actually Matters

Here's where I do hold firm: quality and integrity. Those aren't preferences — they're the actual foundation of what makes this shop worth anything.

I won't stock something that's cheaply made and overpriced, regardless of how on-trend it looks. I won't recommend something I don't believe in just because it fits the aesthetic. That's where personal standards and business standards are the same thing, and I don't bend on it.

But "this isn't the color palette I prefer" or "this doesn't photograph the way I want it to" — those aren't integrity issues. Those are just me being precious. And the more I've separated those two categories, the better this shop has gotten.

What This Means for You

If you're building anything around your personal taste — a shop, a brand, a creative business — you'll hit this wall eventually. The moment where your aesthetic starts to feel more like a cage than a compass.

When that happens, try asking yourself: am I protecting the identity of what I've built, or am I just protecting my own comfort? Am I serving my audience, or am I curating for an imaginary version of them that looks exactly like me?

Your taste is an asset. But it's not the product. The product is the trust your customers place in you to help them find things that genuinely make their lives better. Keep that front and center, and your taste becomes a tool instead of a trap.

That's what I'm still working on, every time a new product lands on my radar. And honestly, I think that tension — between personal vision and genuine service — is what keeps this shop interesting.