There is a fragile moment in every life that rarely gets named.
The space after survival, before clarity settles.
After the fallout, when you don’t yet understand what comes next.

​

That was the moment everything I had built gave way.
My proverbial house didn’t just catch fire, it burned to the ground.

​

I remember standing in what was left of it.
The embers still hot. The ashes still smoldering.
Knowing I couldn’t go back, because the old story no longer fit.

​

I needed the fire to die down.
The air to clear.
Before I could see the path ahead again.

​

But there was no place waiting for me then.
No map. No guide. No room built for that moment.

​

So I wandered.
I got lost.

​

I stood there, alone, in the middle of the pieces of a life scattered around me,

deciding what still mattered and what I was finally willing to let go of.
And eventually, I walked myself out of the fire, not knowing what was waiting

on the other side.

 

What I didn’t know then was that I was already moving toward a second chance.

​

Today, I’ve made it to my second story.
My chance to begin again.

​

Some parts of me are still healing.
Some truths are still unfolding.
I can still smell the smoke sometimes.

​

That doesn’t disqualify the work.
It’s the reason for it.

​

This studio exists for the people standing in that same space I once stood in.
The ones who are functional on the outside and fractured in ways

they don’t know how to explain.
The ones who survived something and were never taught how to live after.

​

I stayed here because I know that part well.
The living that comes after survival.
The quiet work of figuring out who you are when the emergency is over,

but the ache remains.

​

Somewhere along the way, we all end up in one of these places.

​

Still watching the fire, hoping something might be saved.
Standing in the rubble, unsure what to carry forward.
Or already walking, even though the path ahead hasn’t revealed itself yet.

​

None of those places are wrong.
But each one asks something different of us.

​

This space exists for the people who are still orienting themselves.
Not to rush them forward.
Not to pull them back.
But to stand with them long enough to tell the truth about where they are.

​

Inside this studio, some arrive fragmented.
Some unfinished.
Some still carrying heat.

​

That’s expected here.

​

Every room inside this studio exists for a reason.
Some are built for speaking your truth out loud.
Some are for letting imagination flourish outside the box.
Some are for grief, recovery, or just desperately trying to find your way back to who you are.

​

None of them demand resolution.
They’re meant to give you room to stand long enough to hear yourself think.

​

This isn’t a space for becoming someone new.
It’s a place to learn how to live inside the story you’re already in
with more honesty, more agency, and more room to breathe.

​

If you recognize yourself somewhere in the fire, the rubble, or the walking,
this space was built with you in mind.

​

I’m still here.

The fire behind me.

Standing on the line between the story that burned and the one I haven’t written yet.

​