Thoughts, truths, and stories from a curated life.
There’s something ancient in the handmade.
Something your body remembers, even if your mind has forgotten.
The weight of a ceramic mug, still warm from firing.
The brushstroke that doesn’t follow rules.
The cedar grain in a hand-built chair, whispering of trees and time.
In a world obsessed with convenience, handmade is a beautiful rebellion.
I’ve always known I was creative.
Even as a child, I was building, crafting, painting. Finding joy in creating with my hands. That was my happiest place. Not because anyone told me it mattered, but because something in me needed to create. It was never about learning to be an artist. It was always about remembering that I already was.
Spring isn’t just a season, it’s a soft invitation to begin again. To open the windows, shake out the dust, and make space for something new to take root. If you’re like me, the urge to clear and clean hits hard this time of year. After months (or years, let’s be honest) of accumulation, clutter, and life happening at full speed, the mess starts to weigh on the spirit.
There was a time I questioned whether beauty really mattered.
With everything going on in the world, it felt small. Frivolous, even. But I’ve come to learn something that changed everything:
