Kits are in the catalog today. A Kit is a coordinated bundle of working parts — the skill that captures information, the record it fills, the dashboard that draws it, the routines that keep it fresh, and a specialist agent who owns the subject — installed in one tap and working from the first conversation. Sixty-two of them ship today, across every area of a life — money, health, people, home, learning, leisure, purpose and work.

This entry is both the announcement and the journal of how they came to exist. The story runs bottom-up: primitives first, then surfaces, then the compositions people made from them, and only then the realisation that the best compositions could be authored once and installed whole. Along the way the work forced two larger reframes onto the platform itself — one about what the platform is, and one about what its own interface should be built on.

The problem Kits answer is older than Kits. A composable system has a discovery problem: every screen starts blank, and a blank screen never tells you what it could be. Composability rewards the person who already knows what to ask for — precisely the person who needed the least help. The most useful thing to put on an empty shelf turns out to be a shelf of examples, and the most honest example is one that works the moment it arrives.

Start from the primitives

None of this began with bundles. It began with primitives — deliberately small, deliberately composable, and grounded in what the industry has been learning about how to run language models well.

The vocabulary will be familiar to anyone building agents at the moment. We hold two words apart on purpose: an assistant is the singular thing you talk to; agents are the specialists it stands up — and what separates the second from the first is tools, the means to act rather than only answer. An agent needs a durable identity that survives any single conversation — the agent-building community has taken to keeping that identity in a file it calls a soul — because a self rebuilt from scratch each session gives you a different colleague every morning. And an agent needs skills: reusable instruction packs loaded only when a task calls for them, a discipline the context window imposes and one since formalised as an open standard. Identity, skills, tools. The context window is a budget, and every one of these conventions is a way of spending it well.

Our versions of the three live as data rather than files — an agent is a record with an identity and a style, a skill is a record an agent is granted, and an earlier entry in this log argues that storage decision in full. All three were built as primitives: small, separately useful, and designed to be combined.

Surfaces for processes

Around the primitives grew the surfaces that let them do sustained work. Workflows: multi-stage processes described in conversation, with approval gates where a person wants to stay in the loop. Routines: single jobs on a schedule — the Monday sweep, the evening check. Dashboards: live pictures of any data a person can name, redrawing themselves as it changes. And beneath all of it, two things the product had from the start: a memory that accumulates across every conversation, and the vault — a real document home the assistant reads and writes alongside its owner. The vault gave us the last primitive almost for free: datasets, tables that live as documents, filled from ordinary conversation — say what happened, and a typed row lands in a record you own and a dashboard can draw.

By midsummer, then, the platform's answer to "what can it do?" was: anything you can compose. Describe a specialist and it exists. Describe a process and it runs. Point a dashboard at a record and it stays current. These wire together into arrangements of real complexity, all by talking — and dogfooding the product ourselves, we composed them constantly.

The compositions repeated

Watching our own compositions, a pattern emerged: the good ones repeat. A subscriptions tracker is roughly the same shape for everyone — a sweep that reads a year of receipts, a record of what renews and when, a board totalling the monthly cost, a nudge before the big renewals. So is a meetings register, a habits log, a household-bills picture. The composition is general even though every row in it is personal.

That observation is the whole idea of a Kit: author the composition once, properly, and let it be installed whole. The install copies every member into the user's own collection — indistinguishable afterwards from pieces they made by hand — and rewires the connections between them so the routine feeds their dashboard, the agent holds their skills, the skills write to their records. From there it is theirs to reshape by asking, and the pieces keep improving: when the catalog version of something gets better, an untouched copy can fast-forward in one tap, while an edited copy is shown the difference and never overwritten.

One decision here cost us a feature and was right anyway: a Kit member cannot be installed alone. A routine that feeds a dashboard you don't have is dead weight; an agent without its skills is a name. The pieces of a Kit mean something because of each other, so the install is all-or-nothing — and a gate in our build pipeline holds the listings to the same standard, refusing any Kit page that names a connector, a permission, or a piece the install cannot actually deliver.

What the parts added up to

The first reframe arrived in late August, while we were working out what an installed Kit should feel like. We wrote the platform's parts in a column: long-lived actors with identities. Installable capabilities. A scheduler. Multi-stage pipelines. Structured storage. A filesystem. Windows onto live data. Notifications. Durable state. Drivers for the outside world. Metering. Accounts. Read the column back and it is the parts inventory of an operating system. We had built an agentic OS without ever setting out to, and Kits are its applications: each one composes the platform's general machinery into one specific, opinionated program.

The frame earned its keep immediately, because it settled a real design question: what happens to a Kit after it is installed? An application deserves to be a place — somewhere you open, with the Kit's own front door, its dashboard up front, its parts gathered. But the app frame usually implies partition, and partition would have broken something we consider load-bearing: every installed piece is an ordinary primitive, visible on the ordinary screens, exactly as if the user had made it by hand. So the design for the Kit view is a lens, not a partition — opening a Kit filters the world to its pieces; leaving it un-filters; nothing moves and nothing hides. The system never conceals a piece from where it also belongs. The user can.

The SDK made it literal

The second reframe came from a parallel track. We had been designing for businesses that want 1Presence capability inside their own products — their interfaces, our engine underneath. Working out what a Kit's own screens should be built on collided with that track in the best way: our first answer was a small internal toolkit for Kit surfaces, and it survived less than a day. The objection that killed it: a Kit's surfaces touch everything — agent definitions, dashboard definitions and their live state, workflow and routine definitions, runs and their history, records, the vault. Any gap a Kit page hit would be exactly the gap a third-party developer would hit. Scoping the toolkit to Kits was mistaking the first customer for the product.

So the thing became a general UI SDK: headless hooks over the platform's primary primitives, with everything host-specific — where the auth token comes from, how navigation works, where a chat opens — injected from outside, so the hooks never learn which app they are running in. It is extraction, not invention: our web app already contained this layer, grown organically; the SDK is that layer given a boundary and a rule that it grows only by consumption, one real need at a time. Our own Kit surfaces will be its first customer, which means that by the time a partner builds on it, every hook will have been exercised by the product itself — and the list of things a foreign host must supply will be a typed interface with a working reference implementation, rather than a guess in a design document.

Which is the quiet sense in which Kits are apps, not just app-like: they are built on the same surface we will hand to people building outside our walls.

Leaving the way you came

If Kits install like apps, they have to leave like apps. Removing one has always removed its working parts while leaving your data alone — the safe default, and the wrong thing to be stuck with. So removal can now take everything the Kit recorded with it, if you choose: every record, conversation, run and file it produced, enumerated from provenance on the server, grouped and counted and drillable before anything happens, with a running total of what is about to go. What removal cannot sweep is said plainly in the same dialog rather than glossed. Nothing about an install should be a one-way door.

The shelf, today

Sixty-two Kits open the catalog, shelved by the same eight areas of a life the catalog itself is arranged by. Writing them taught us one more thing worth recording: for Kits about a person's own life, the hard part of the specification is rarely the data — it is manner. The weight Kit charts the smoothed trend precisely so a single morning's number is never the headline; the habits Kit never congratulates a streak and never remarks on a broken one, because a person who feels counted stops mentioning things. Behaviour is part of the bundle.

Money.

Income & Outgoings — a weekly sweep reads your email for what actually moved — salary in, spending out, renewals — and a ledger keeps the record; the first sweep looks back a year, so the dashboard is charted from history the day it arrives.
Bills & Utilities — two years of bills are already in your inbox; this turns them into charts, watches the due dates, and quietly marks bills paid when a bank statement lands in your vault. Its keeper is called Bursar, which still makes us smile.
Subscriptions & Renewals — builds the full inventory from a year of receipts, then keeps watch: price rises, big renewals ahead, and the things you have paid for for months without once mentioning.
Markets & Investing — a research desk for the investing you already do in your head: a watchlist kept from conversation, weekly sentiment reads, deep-dive briefs that argue the case both ways. Evidence, never advice — nothing here touches an account or places a trade.
Mortgages & Loans — every mortgage and loan on one board: what you owe, what each truly costs, when the fix runs out and where the balance is heading — with your credit standing tracked beside it. A rate watch stays silent until a fix-end window opens, and the remortgage brief argues both ways with sourced rates. Never a recommendation.
Assets & Holdings — everything you own on one honest board — property, shares, funds, coins, cash — the quoted holdings priced weekly from the open web with a source and date on every figure, and your own estimates always shown as estimates. Install Mortgages & Loans too and it nets what you owe against what you hold.
Savings & Goals — each goal in your own words — the emergency fund, the trip, the deposit — with how much, by when and where it is kept. Say a balance the way you'd tell a friend and the board draws what you've set aside and whether the pace gets you there. It speaks up only when a goal slips or lands.
Property & Tenancy — for the accidental landlord and the deliberate one: who is in each place and on what terms, whether this period's rent has come in, the certificates and the dates they lapse, the repairs still open. It warns sixty days before a certificate or a fixed term runs out, and never contacts a tenant.
Tax Season — the year assembled before the deadline. Say which return is open and what kinds of income are in play, and each month it reads your email for exactly those documents and files them into one pack, showing what is still missing. It gathers and sorts; it never tells you what to claim.
Expenses & Receipts — every receipt filed the moment it lands. The first sweep reads six months of email for the rail fare, the hotel, the client lunch; from then on a photo of a paper receipt joins the book, and a monthly report sheet lists what is still to claim, with where each receipt is.
Invoicing & Getting Paid — cashflow dies in the gap between sent and paid, and most of that gap is in your sent mail. A year of it becomes the book: what you are owed, how late, and which invoices are ready for a chase — each chase written into your drafts in your own voice, never sent for you.
Startup Finance & Runway — runway maths without the napkin: what is in the bank, what a month actually costs, and how many months that leaves. It closes the books on the first of the month and never states a runway without naming the assumptions behind it.

Health.

Health & Lookout — the flagship of the shelf. It begins with a proper sit-down about your health history, offered one area at a time, resumable weeks later mid-sentence. One keeper, Willow, holds the record and never assesses; a second, Rowan, reads the whole of it and watches for what it adds up to — a pattern worth a doctor's attention, a screening now due — always showing the reasoning, never diagnosing, and handing you the whole story to take along when something deserves a professional.
Training & Recovery — for runners, riders and swimmers: the shape of your training week from sessions mentioned in passing; connect Strava and the whole season charts itself from history.
Weight & Body — the trend, not the noise: a smoothed line from a number said in the morning, the rate you are actually moving at, and whether that gets you where you said you wanted to be. It has no opinions about your body, and a week off is a week off.
Strength & Lifting — say "squat 3×5 at 120, felt like an 8" on the walk out of the gym and the set is logged, the volume adds up, and the board answers the only question that matters: are the numbers actually going up? It never programmes for you, and every estimated one-rep max says which formula produced it.
Nutrition & Macros — describe what you ate the way you'd tell a friend and get honest calories and macros against a budget you set together. Nothing to weigh, no barcodes; every estimate says it is one, and the evening close gives you the day in one line of arithmetic, never a verdict.
Sleep — the first number that explains all the others. Say how the night went, or let it read a wearable that already knows, and the board draws the shape of your nights: how long, how regular, when you tend to go down and get up. Nothing here scores a night.
Supplement Stack — what you take, why you started, whether you actually took it, and when you'll run out. "Took everything" or "skipped the magnesium" builds the grid, and a Monday refill watch warns a fortnight ahead. It has no view on whether any of it works — your own reasons sit beside what you have noticed.
Talk It Through — a private, steady place for the things that are easier said to someone with all the time in the world. Linden listens the way a patient friend does, and remembers. It is not therapy and never pretends to be: when something needs a professional, he says so and says who.

People.

Keep in Touch — the friendships that matter don't end, they drift. A year of email and calendar rebuilds the book of everyone you've actually been in touch with; you say how often you'd like to be, and the board shows who is drifting past that, with two names a week to pick up. Nothing here contacts anyone.
Birthdays & Occasions — never again the late-night petrol-station card. Every date that matters, with the warning you want and a budget if you like; gift ideas dropped into chat all year wait against the right person, and a card arrives at least two weeks out with the ideas you cleverly noted in March.
Children & Milestones — one record per child, from the first weigh-in onward: every measurement drawn against the published growth reference for their age, every immunisation and appointment with what the clinician said, the firsts in your own words, and each school report kept whole. It draws the chart and names its source; the reading of it is a conversation with your health visitor or GP.
Family & School — the trip letter, the costume for Thursday, the club that moved to Wednesdays. It reads the school's own senders every weekday morning, files every date and every ask against the child it is for, and sends the week ahead on Sunday evening, per child. It keeps the logistics and says nothing about how a child is doing.
Pets & Vet Care — one record per animal: every jab, treatment, visit and thing you noticed, with what it cost and what the insurer paid back. The board shows what is due and overdue and each animal's weight over time; before an appointment, a brief. Nothing here diagnoses.

Home.

Home & Upkeep — houses don't send reminders; this one does. The boiler service, the gutter clear, the seasonal checks — plus the book of trades you trust, one glance away.
Meals & Groceries — "what's for dinner?" answered once a week instead of seven times. Say the meals your household actually eats and the week is planned onto a calendar you can read from the fridge, with one grocery list grouped by aisle that ticks off as you say "got the milk". Nothing here has an opinion about what you eat.
Vehicle — the inspection, the tax, the insurance, the servicing, and what each vehicle actually costs a month — one glance instead of four reminder apps and a glovebox. Mention a fill-up or a service in passing and the cost log grows; a Monday sweep reads what the insurer and the garage have sent and warns you thirty days out.
Garden & Plants — the windowsill, the pots, the beds, the allotment: what's thirsty, what wants sowing this fortnight, and which corner you haven't properly looked at since June. Hand it a photo and the plant is named, with the confidence actually held; a warning arrives when a frost is coming for something tender.
Documents & Renewals — the passport that expires the month before the trip. One board of every document that matters, each with the date it runs out and the warning you want, red long before it bites. It never renews or applies for anything, and it never keeps the number.
Warranties & Big Purchases — the washing machine that dies at month twenty-three of a twenty-four-month warranty, and the receipt already to hand. Two years of order confirmations become the board; when something fails, the claim is drafted from the receipt and what you tell it, yours to send.

Learning.

Reading & Learning — what you're in, what's queued, what you made of what you finished — and a scout who knows what you are trying to learn and returns weekly with a considered handful, never a firehose.
Habits & Streaks — name the handful of things you are trying to do more of; mention them in passing and the chains grow. In the evening it asks only about the ones you haven't mentioned — once, and never twice.
Studies & Deadlines — the term at a glance: every module, deadline and mark so far, and where that puts you — with a study companion who keeps you to the plan, quizzes you before the exam, and never once does the work for you.
Courses & Admissions — the options you're weighing, the applications made, the offers held and every deadline between them, with someone to think it through who checks facts rather than remembering them. It never writes your statement and never tells you whether a course is worth the money.

Leisure.

Trips & Getaways — every flight, stay, train and hire you've ever been sent is already in your inbox. A year of confirmations becomes your trips, the itinerary draws itself from the bookings, and the gaps — a night with no stay, a connection too tight — are flagged before you're standing in them.
Events & Tickets — the gig you booked in January and forgot by June. Every live ticket on one register, what's this weekend, and which ones aren't in the diary yet. The day before, one brief with the ticket to hand. It never holds a barcode.
Media Log — the series you loved and couldn't name six months later. What you watch, play and listen to, kept from ordinary conversation, with your verdicts in your own words. Nothing here recommends, scores or spoils anything.

Purpose.

Journal & Reflections — one considered question each evening, answered in your own words; over months, a picture nobody else could draw. Nothing is scored, and a night you skip is simply a night you skip.
Goals & Coaching — a coach in your corner. It begins with a proper life audit, one area at a time, and the goals that survive it are written in your own words, no more than three in focus at once. Every Monday, one steady question — never the language of being behind, and retiring a goal with honour is a normal thing to do here.

Work, at your own desk.

Morning & Inbox — a short list instead of a full inbox: an overnight sweep sets aside what actually needs you, and a two-handed workflow reads what deserves a reply and leaves drafts in your voice for you to look over.
Meetings & Actions — walks you into every meeting briefed, and keeps the two registers meetings leak: who owes what by when, and what was decided and why. Ageing commitments come back once a week with a polite nudge already drafted.
Waiting On — the inverse of a todo list: everything other people owe you, reconstructed from your own sent mail, aged, and chase-ready.
Dev Flow — everything between you and merged before you open a tab: the reviews you owe, your pull requests going stale, and a log of incidents and decisions caught as they are mentioned.
Job Search — job hunting is a pipeline you run on yourself, and most of it is already in your inbox. Three months of email rebuilds the live pipeline; a daily sweep moves each application forward from the evidence, never a guess, and a one-page brief arrives before each interview, with its sources.
Projects & Deadlines — every project's real state, not the state from the last status meeting. Each milestone drawn as a run on a timeline, and every Monday what is at risk this week, written up before the deadline does it for you.
Consulting Practice — nine clients, no assistant, and the thing that makes a session good is remembering what they said last time. Each weekday, a brief per session — last time, what they committed to, what has come up since — and on Fridays where delivery stands against what you sold. Nothing learned in one room is ever carried into another.
Team Pulse — you were heads-down for two days and the team carried on without you. It reads only the channels you name, never a DM, and keeps one board of what actually needs you: mentions waiting on your answer, questions nobody picked up, decisions made while you were away. It reads and reports; it never posts.
OKRs & Goals — objectives set in January, remembered in December — or this. Key results with the figure now, the target and the owner's confidence; one Friday card asks only about the ones nobody mentioned that week, and the quarter's roll-up scores every result with the arithmetic shown.
Contracts & Compliance — the auto-renewal you meant to cancel. Every contract you're bound by with its term end and notice period, and the date by which you actually have to decide, warned at ninety, sixty and thirty days. It gives no legal advice, and always says a worked-out date should be checked against the contract itself.

Work, running the business.

Client CRM — a year of email and calendar rebuilds the book of every client you actually spoke to; you say what each is worth and how often they expect to hear from you, and the board shows who has gone quiet past that, highest value first. Nothing here writes to a CRM.
Sales Pipeline & Forecast — a pipeline is only as honest as the last time you updated it. Six months of proposals and quotes rebuild the book; the forecast is the sum of value times the probability you gave, never optimism, and every Friday the week is totalled and what moved is said.
Customer Success & Renewals — a renewal is decided months before its date, in silence and short replies. What renews in the next ninety days, which accounts have gone quiet, and each account's story in your own words, arriving as a card at ninety, sixty and thirty days out. It never puts a number on churn.
Support Desk & Calls — a support queue without the helpdesk subscription: every ask by email, phone or text in one aged queue, with the calls and what was said on them beside it, read hourly. Two hands draft the replies owed — one picks, one writes into your drafts — and nothing is ever sent for you.
Hiring — candidates lose interest at the speed of your process. Three months of email and calendar rebuild the pipeline; the board shows the funnel, who has been waiting in each stage and for how long, and whose feedback is owed. Nothing here scores a person.
Marketing Campaigns — which channel actually pays for itself, on one screen. The first pull reads everything your analytics property still remembers, campaign by campaign, and keeps the trend going long after the reporting window has forgotten it.
Site & Search — how your site is doing in search, week by week, from Search Console and your analytics property — so a slide is a Monday card rather than a quarterly surprise. When a number moves inside the ordinary wobble it says so rather than calling it a trend.
Content Studio — ideas rot in drafts. Every piece on one table with its stage, owner and date, the whole belt from ideas in to pieces out with what you dropped counted honestly, and a Monday note on what has sat at one stage too long. It never writes a piece unless you ask.
Social Presence — consistency beats virality, and what kills consistency is losing track. What you actually posted against what you meant to, in your own words, with a queue of drafts in your voice. It never posts, and where a platform reports nothing back, the board says so rather than guessing.
Channel Watch — the channel's week without opening the studio: each upload on a register with that week's views, likes and comments, taken as readings every Monday so the lines are built from what it saw itself. What it cannot see — watch time, retention, revenue — it does not pretend to.
Fundraising — a raise is a pipeline with worse odds and higher stakes. A year of email and calendar puts every investor conversation on one register; the board shows the funnel, who has gone quiet, the warm intros still to land, and the data room item by item. It never says whether a raise will close.
Board & Investor Reporting — the monthly update that writes its own first draft. It reads the Kits you already run — the cash and runway, the weighted pipeline — and drafts a section for each thing your update needs, every figure naming what it rests on. It drafts; you edit; you send.

Each installs in a tap, and leaves as cleanly as it came — records and all, if that is what you choose. Where this points next is already sketched: an installed Kit opening into a place of its own, its screens scoped to its pieces, drawn on the same SDK — with the health Kit the natural first through the door.

Installing a Corner of Your Life