There are five senses we are born with, and sometimes I find myself wondering—which of them is truly the most essential?
If we look at the very beginning of life, the answer is not as obvious as we might think.
A newborn baby cannot yet see the world clearly. Its vision is limited to a narrow distance—just enough to make out the face of the mother when held close.
Beyond that, everything dissolves into soft, overlapping shapes. Hearing, too, is still developing, slightly muted, as if the world remains underwater.
And yet, within hours of being born, a baby can already distinguish its mother—not by sight, but by scent.
Even before vision becomes reliable, even before the world comes into focus, smell is already at work. It guides the baby toward nourishment. It forms the first bond. It becomes a way of recognizing, of orienting, of surviving.
In that sense, smell is not secondary. It is foundational.
As we grow, our other senses begin to take the lead. Sight helps us navigate space, recognize faces, and avoid danger. Hearing allows us to communicate and remain aware of what surrounds us. Smell remains with us, quietly supporting—alerting us to something burning, or to food that has gone bad. It continues to protect us, but rarely asks for our attention.
And as life becomes more comfortable, we begin to spend time and attention to elevate our senses.
We train our eyes—to appreciate beauty and subtlety.
We train our ears—to enjoy music and nuance.
We refine our sense of touch—choosing softer fabrics, better textures, greater comfort.
We indulge our sense of taste—seeking richer and more complex flavors.
Gradually, our choices become shaped not only by necessity, but by preference.
Some of us spend more to enjoy better food, pursuing depth and complexity in taste.
Some choose finer materials—cotton over polyester, or the quiet comfort of silk or cashmere against the skin.
Some choose to pay for access to the music they enjoy, or to films and series they return to over time.
Others invest in art—acquiring pieces they feel drawn to, simply to live with them and quietly take them in.
In different ways, we learn how to please the eyes, the ears, the skin, the tongue. But when it comes to smell, the question feels less clear.
It seems we have taken this sense for granted.
In different ways, we learn how to please the eyes, the ears, the skin, the tongue.
But when it comes to smell, the question feels less clear.
It seems we have taken this sense for granted.
What would be the equivalent, for scent, of a carefully chosen bottle of vintage wine—opened with intention?
Or a silk bedsheet, or a soft cotton shirt against the skin?
Or access to the music we return to, again and again?
Or a piece of art we have patiently searched for and pursued—sometimes through auctions—before finally making it our own?
Perhaps a fine perfume from a luxury house comes to mind. But beyond that, the answer feels less clear.
I don’t yet have a clear answer.
But perhaps the question itself is where it begins.