The Full Story

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a thing for design. It started early. My Barbie house was never just a toy. It was a blank canvas. I’d spend hours rearranging furniture, cutting art out of magazines to “hang” on the walls, and creating tiny, styled moments that made me feel something. I didn’t know it then, but I was laying the foundation for a life where design would always be humming in the background, even when I was off chasing entirely different things.

In fact, I spent a lot of time not designing. I’ve been in software, programming, and process strategy very left-brain, very structured. But even there, I gravitated toward aesthetic choices, functional flow, and elegant solutions. I’ve always believed that good design isn’t just about how something looks, it's how it works, how it moves, and how it makes you feel.

For a long time, I leaned hard into minimalism. Clean lines, modern curves, simple palettes. It made sense minimalism is safe, universally appealing, and soothing in a world of chaos. But somewhere along the way, I started to feel boxed in. Literal boxes white rooms, matte black fixtures, furniture that looked good but didn’t say anything or start any conversations.

I started traveling more. Travel has a way of breaking your patterns. You walk into a centuries-old Moroccan riad with zellige tile walls and intricate ironwork, and suddenly your all-white kitchen starts to feel... lifeless. You stay in a boutique hotel in Portugal where mid-century chairs coexist with handwoven textiles, and you realize: rules are meant to be broken. You can layer modern forms with old-world textures, vintage pieces with sleek surfaces. And not only can you, it's better when you do.

Now, my design philosophy lives in the mix. I still love modern shapes and clean function, but I’m no longer afraid to pair them with something unexpected. A carved antique mirror next to a modular sofa. A brutalist light fixture in a room full of curved plaster arches. A space where every piece tells a different story but somehow speaks the same language.

I guess you could say my “weirdness” is just curiosity with a passport.

I don't look for the perfect piece. I look for something interesting. I love things that make you pause whether it's a mid-century lamp with a strange patina or a textile I picked up in Oaxaca that found its way into a modern Austin Airbnb. My spaces aren’t sterile; they’re layered, lived-in, and evolving.

Design is storytelling. It's a memory. It’s freedom from boxes. And I’ve never felt more at home than when I’m blending all the pieces of me: tech, travel, texture, and a dash of weirdness.