How Tatcha became one of North America’s top beauty brands—acquired by Unilever for an estimated $500 million

Tatcha, a skincare line inspired by traditional Japanese beauty rituals, is one of the best-performing beauty brands in North America.

While Asian beauty brands now command a significant share of the global market (41% compared to 20% in North America), the company was repeatedly told by retailers and agencies that there was no demand or interest in the U.S. when it launched.

Undeterred, founder Vicky Tsai grew the company every year at a minimum rate of 40% until its eighth year when it reached 85%. Then, Tatcha was acquired for an estimated $500 million by Unilever—one of the world's largest consumer goods companies.

To Vicky, each step of the journey felt like a high-wire act. The former Wall Street trader and Procter & Gamble brand manager, with a Harvard MBA, was constantly questioned about her ability to lead as CEO.

Vicky was forced to step down without cause but was later asked to resume her position. She is among many other women and minorities who are offered leadership roles only when companies are struggling—a phenomenon known as the “glass cliff.”

With Vicky back at the helm, Tatcha doubled its performance and became one of Unilever Prestige’s top-three strongest-performing ventures.

This is the story of how Vicky’s panic to heal her dermatitis led to travelling to Kyoto, how a geisha introduced her to centuries-old remedies that healed her skin, and how she launched Tatcha from her one-bedroom apartment and grew it from her parents' garage.

Entrepreneurial roots

In 1977, Vicky’s parents immigrated from Taiwan to the U.S. Two years later, they had Vicky in Missouri, then raised her in New Jersey.

The Tsais moved again when Vicky was 14-year-old to Texas. It was a big change for Vicky, as she was one of the few minorities at her high school

Often feeling out of place, she spent most of her free time at a beauty shop owned by her mother, who had previously left her corporate career to start a number of businesses. The experience taught Vicky that starting a venture is never a question of whether you can do it; it’s just a matter of how.

After high school, she attended UT Austin before transferring to Wellesley. She would then move to New York and work as a trader on Wall Street.

It was scary and intimidating. Vicky was the only woman on the floor, and she struggled to make sense of all the jargon. She reminded herself that she was just as smart as her peers and that if she worked hard and asked the right questions, she could figure things out. It didn’t take very long, but at that point, she realized Wall Street wasn’t for her.

When the World Trade Center was attacked, Vicky was in a meeting inside a connected building. There were no windows, but she could feel the rumble from the first plane.

By the time the meeting ended, Vicky heard sounds coming from the second plane. She had no idea what was happening, but her instincts told her to leave. So, she walked down seven flights of stairs to exit the building.

From outside on the sidewalk, Vicky could see crowds of people flowing out of buildings. Then, some began to jump.

In the aftermath, Vicky had to return to that scene every single day while her husband, Eric, became sick with an autoimmune disease.

“At that time, I didn’t know anything about ikigai, a Japanese concept that means ‘a reason for being,’” Vicky recalled. “But I knew that if I was going to spend the hours that I’m awake working and not with my family and not playing, I wanted my work to mean something.”

Experiment gone wrong

Eventually, Vicky left New York and moved to Boston to attend Harvard Business School. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do next but knew she needed to broaden her skill set.

“It’s kind of a scary feeling to have gone through college, gone through your first career choice, and then be like, ‘I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up,”” Vicky admitted.

Vicky ended up getting an internship with Procter & Gamble, working on its acquired Japanese beauty brand, SK-II. She treated her skin like a science experiment, trying SK-II and its competitors’ products to craft a strategy. Unfortunately, it led to developing acute dermatitis.

Her entire face would bleed, blister, and scale–including her eyelids and lips. It made her so insecure during job interviews that she would pull her hair over her face and wear glasses, hoping no one would notice the condition.

Still, she landed a position that didn’t require her to try more products. And it would ultimately lead to discovering something that would heal her skin—and her soul.

Climbing the corporate ladder

After graduating from Harvard, Vicky moved to Seattle to work for Starbucks as a brand manager.

She was tasked with launching a consumer product business in China before the Beijing Olympics. She had no manager, a tight budget, and a year and a half to get the job done—despite it normally taking three years.

Having to sprint to the finish line, Vicky traveled to Asia every few weeks. She would stay in the office until nearly midnight and worked with zero days off—even when she broke her arm.

While challenging, the experience taught her a lot about the different sides of business. Operations, supply chains, marketing strategy, and IP. It also led to discovering a product that managed the extreme oil on her skin.

At the time, Vicky used Aquaphor as a moisturizer, an ointment designed to treat and prevent diaper rash and other skin irritations. It was the only product that didn’t irritate her skin, but it left it looking greasy.

So, a co-worker introduced her to Japanese blotting papers called aburatorigami. Unlike the cotton ones in the U.S., they’re made with abaca leaves hammered with gold flakes. When pressed on the skin, it lifts oil without taking any moisture or disrupting makeup.

Vicky would stock up on the blotting papers each time she flew through Japan to China for work—up until she realized Starbucks was no longer the place for her.

Trusting her instincts

Despite all the challenges at Starbucks, Vicky’s project in China was a success. She was praised for her efforts and even asked by then-CEO Howard Schultz to present to the board of directors.

Shortly after, Vicky had her annual performance review. Her absentee manager gave her a standard rating: meets expectations. They could not explain why beyond judging her leadership as weak.

Vicky was mortified. Although she had a lot of admiration for the company and Howard, her instincts once again told her it was time to leave.

She then moved from Seattle to San Francisco to lead marketing for a startup called GoodGuide. It aimed to become a comprehensive resource for evaluating consumer products based on their health, environmental, and social performance.

When Howard found out, he got in touch with her and asked to meet. He wanted to know what kind of job would make her return to Starbucks. Not wanting to call out her manager, Vicky insisted that she just didn’t fit.

Eventually, she felt that while she respected GoodGuide’s aspirations, it wasn’t the right place for her either.

“One day, I woke up, and these words came out of my mouth: ‘I choose happiness,’” Vicky recalled. “It was a voice that I had been suppressing for so long. As the kid of immigrants, everything is about duty and making your parents’ sacrifices worthwhile and following this path.”

After Vicky handed in her resignation letter, she carried the one thing that she owed to her car—a Herman Miller chair. For a moment, she felt happy. But as she wrestled with putting the chair inside her car, she broke down. Everyone in the office could see her crying from the window. It wasn’t the exit she had imagined.

Turning point

When Vicky got home, she questioned what to do with her life.

She was alone in San Francisco as her husband had yet to move from Seattle. They were paying off a mortgage and business school debt, totaling around $600,000. And now, Vicky was stuck on a lease for an apartment in the city. She felt that she had really made a mess for herself.

To make ends meet, Vicky worked four jobs. She took on consulting gigs and helped her landlord rent out apartments in the Marina. Sometimes, she’d run into her former classmates from business school.

“Is this your apartment?” they’d ask. When Vicky told them no, they’d look at her with pity and confusion but she didn’t mind.

Before long, Vicky would find herself packing her bags again.

When Vicky ran out of aburatorigami, she called up her former colleague at Starbucks and asked where she could find more. That’s when Vicky learned about an artisan gold-leaf workshop in Japan.

Vicky was intrigued. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a pull to visit the country. And although she was pregnant, she trusted her instincts once again.

A fated meeting

A couple of hours outside of Kyoto, Vicky found the gold-leaf workshop.

Out of curiosity, she asked the artisans how aburatorigami were invented. They didn’t know its origins but suggested introducing her to a geisha who might have the answer—Kyoka

Vicky took them up on the offer and went to a teahouse to meet with Kyoka. She was immediately taken aback. It was a hot summer day, yet her complexion was flawless.

Kyoka didn’t know exactly how the blotting papers came to be. She and other geishas had simply known for a long time that it could create a smooth base before applying makeup. However, she did share the traditional beauty rituals they followed to keep their skin healthy.

In Japan, the focus has traditionally been on restoring the skin to its natural state, achieved with just a few products made from natural ingredients like rice powder and camellia oil.

In contrast, the Western approach typically emphasizes addressing specific concerns, often relying on multiple products with strong chemicals such as benzoyl peroxide and AHAs. While effective in some cases, these ingredients can damage the skin barrier if overused.

Still struggling with dermatitis, Vicky headed to an apothecary to find the products that Kyoko mentioned. There, she saw one geisha after another grab bell jars full of powders, oils, and waxes. Like Kyoka, all of them had flawless skin, so she felt comfortable trying whatever they bought.

Fortunately for Vicky, these products helped heal her dermatitis within weeks, allowing her to finally stop using the steroids and antibiotics she had relied on for three years.

Before leaving Japan, Vicky went back to visit the artisans at the gold-leaf workshop. She hoped to have a steady supply of their blotting papers and asked if she could bring them to the U.S. Their answer was no.

“How many would I have to buy to get you interested?” Vicky asked.

“Ten thousand,” the artisans told her.

Without hesitation, she agreed. The order would cost her over $30,000, and she had no idea how she was going to afford it.

When she returned to her hotel, she called Eric and told him about her plans.

“How are you going to pay for them?” he asked.

Vicky didn’t know. As she thought about it, she looked around the room and then down at the engagement ring on her hand.

“I’ll sell my ring,” she decided.

Inspired to start a brand

A few months later, the Japanese blotting papers arrived in crates in San Francisco.

Having more than she needed for a steady supply, Vicky started thinking about how she could share them with other women.

“I saw this vision in my head of sharing these beautiful little treasures that I found in Japan with other women like me, who were looking for something that was real, beautiful, and safe,” she explained. “And so I thought, maybe I can create a way to keep sharing these things that I'm finding.”

It was then that Vicky decided to start a brand called Tatcha. The name was meant to represent tatehana, a form of ikebana, and the calming sensation of an exhale. It was inspired by friends Stanley Hainsworth, who would become a co-founder, and Nami Onodera, who would later serve as the director of culture.

To protect the brand’s intentions, Vicky decided to finance it on her own rather than raise money from venture capitalists.

“I wasn't interested in creating something for money or for growth,” she emphasized. “I was interested in creating something worth loving and that I would wanna spend the waking hours of my life doing.”

With no savings left, Vicky continued to work four jobs. She also sold whatever she could—her car and furniture—and turned to credit cards. When one maxed out, she’d roll it over to another to buy herself time.

By then, Vicky was nine months pregnant. She couldn’t afford maternity clothes, so she’d pull the drawstrings out of her sweatpants, holding them as she walked to keep them on.

‘No demand or interest in Asian beauty’

From Vicky’s one-bedroom apartment, she prepared to launch Tatcha.

She was confident that the product’s story and design would resonate with potential partners—retailers and PR agencies. Nearly all of them had the same response: “There’s no demand or interest in Asian beauty in the U.S. It’s not aspirational.”

Many encouraged Vicky to abandon her idea. They pointed out that brands Shiseido, SK-II, and Shu Uemura struggled to take off in the U.S.—despite one being backed by Procter & Gamble and another by L'Oréal.

It felt like high school all over again for Vicky, but the rejection only fueled her passion for Tatcha. She was determined to bring a different perspective of beauty to the U.S.

In hopes of getting the word out, Vicky headed to the library, flipped through magazines, and wrote down the names and addresses of editors and makeup artists. Then, she sent them packages of the blotting papers with handwritten letters. Before long, her efforts paid off.

Tatcha gained press in magazines Oprah, Martha Stewart, and Marie Claire, and caught the attention of British retailer Space NK—which became its first distribution partner.

That same year, it launched in stores on the same day Vicky’s daughter was born. By then, she had also brought on another co-founder, fellow Harvard alumnus Brad Murray, who believed in the company so much that he quit his job to join full-time.

While there was much to celebrate, Vicky continued to struggle. The little revenue she made went back into the brand, and she could barely spare any time off. She returned to work the day after giving birth and had to travel a few weeks later. Then, she found herself at a crossroads. 

Two companies made offers to acquire Tatcha. Vicky wasn’t even thinking about selling the brand, but it was tempting. The amounts proposed were just enough to pay off her $800,000 debt. Along with maxing out all of her credit cards, she had borrowed from her parents' retirement fund and from other family and friends.

As Vicky weighed the deals, a mentor and beauty veteran behind one of them told her:

“You have lucked into a brand that has the potential to be one of the greats. And if you love it, like you love your child, then you’ll give it to a mother who knows how to raise it because you do not have what it takes. You don’t have the money. You don’t have the know-how. You don’t have the team.”

Vicky began to worry that she had taken on more than she could handle and might never be able to repay the money she had borrowed. So, she heeded the warning and made the difficult decision to let go of Tatcha.

Luck in disguise

As the term sheets were being finalized, Vicky received unexpected news—the company had decided to pull out. They didn’t provide an explanation, but it came soon after the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami devastated Japan. 

Vicky carried on. She would also build on her vision of sharing the treasures she found in Japan with other women.

While the blotting papers grew in demand, Vicky started working on expanding Tatcha to include skincare products. The idea came to her when she struggled to find more of the products she discovered at the apothecary in the U.S.. She searched through countless stores and online but had no luck. So, she decided to return to Japan and develop her own formulas.

When she asked locals about the products, many looked at her like she was crazy. Some even laughed. They told her the products were considered "old-fashioned," the kinds of things their great-grandmothers used, and insisted that nobody used or liked them.

Having experienced the magic of the products, Vicky remained determined to recreate them for other women. No manufacturing lab was willing to work with her, so she had to find her own scientists. By chance, they ended up being some of Japan's most famous.

Vicky and Tatcha's scientists dived deep into research. They interviewed dozens of geishas and read old texts, including the oldest beauty book written in 1813: Miyakofuzoku Kewaiden. Their findings led them to discover three superfoods credited with the Japanese's long lifespans—and flawless skin: Uji green tea, Okinawa mozuku algae, and Akita rice.

"Like many other cultures, hundreds of years ago, when women found that their skin was dry or patchy or breaking out, they went to what's within reach,” Vicky explained. “And what's within reach is in the kitchen. So the basis of the Japanese diet is the basis of their beauty."

Inspired by this ancient ritual, Tatcha’s scientists created Hadasei-3: a formula that blends Uji green tea, Okinawa mozuku algae, and Akita rice into an antioxidant complex. It served as the cornerstone of Tatcha’s first skincare collection, which included a cleanser, exfoliant, serum, and moisturizer.

The trade-off

Tatcha launched its product line exclusively in the U.S., online and at Barneys.

The company hit the holy grail of press. It was featured in Vogue, The New York Times, and Elle. Yet, it only sold one serum, even after accidentally setting all the product prices to $0 on the website.

So, Vicky decided to try her luck with QVC. At the time, she and her family had moved into her parents' house in San Francisco. Boxes filled up every room, and payroll was coming up. She had to make it work and begged for a meeting.

After the fourth try, the network gave her the chance to appear in three segments in one day. By the end, the products had sold out.

Having started to achieve profitability, Tatcha secured funding from a private equity firm. Vicky felt she could finally breathe a sigh of relief, but the new backing came with more pressure.

The partners insisted that she hire a real CEO. To Vicky, it was a gut punch. At the time, Tatcha’s growth rate had been 85 percent. When she questioned the reason, she was told, “If your ego is so big that you need to be CEO, then we can have that conversation.”

Vicky decided to step down and brought in new leadership. For the next three years, she put herself in a box—focusing entirely on product development.

Owning her success

Two years later, Tatcha was acquired for an estimated half a billion dollars by Unilever—one of the world’s largest consumer goods companies.

By then, the brand had turned down many offers, as it hadn’t been looking to sell. What made this time different was Unilever's commitment to being purpose-driven and the leadership of Vasiliki Petrou, the CEO of its beauty brand division.

The two first met years earlier when Tatcha was looking to raise capital. Vicky didn’t expect anything to come from their meeting but hoped to collaborate with Vasiliki someday. They stayed in touch, often sharing their thoughts on being women in business, and eventually, the idea of a partnership came up.

"I decided that, while I would love to run this myself independently forever, I know that's not possible,” Vicky highlighted. “So I would rather get it into a forever home where it can be protected, and I can stay with it."

While Tatcha continued to operate independently, it faced challenges that worsened when the COVID-19 pandemic caused supply chain issues. That’s when Vicky was asked to return as CEO to turn the company around.

“Some said, ‘Don't put her back in as CEO; she doesn't have what it takes.” Vicky revealed. “This business is too complicated for her. She's intimidated by it.’ The second time around, I thought, ‘Why don't I show you how it's done? Take a seat.’”

A household name

What Vicky initially thought was the worst period for Tatcha turned out to be a gift.

Assessing what had happened to the company gave her the opportunity to double down on building a brand that lasts. It also gave her a chance to show up as a leader in a way that was authentically her.

“In the 10 years I spent leading Tatcha, I never felt comfortable or worthy of being called the CEO,” Vicky admitted. “I came up with the title of 'chief treasure hunter' to throw people off and hid that I had gone to Harvard Business School to avoid seeming boastful. 

She added: “Like a lot of Asian Americans, I was raised with the belief that being successful meant working hard and keeping our head down, but this has contributed to our invisibility and the misperception that we are not fit to lead. When I was asked to come back as CEO the second time around, I came back with confidence that I am uniquely qualified to run the company I built from scratch.”

Today, Tatcha boasts a cult following that spans generations, celebrities, and the beauty industry—from Oprah to Selena Gomez and Daniel Martin. Among its many sought-after iconic products include its rice wash cleanser, water cream moisturizer, and silk canvas protective primer balm.

Notably, the company this year doubled its performance and became one of Unilever Prestige's top three strongest-performing ventures. And throughout its success, it has donated a percentage of every product sold to Room to Read, a nonprofit that helps children in historically low-income communities develop literacy skills.

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