I have made art in every corner of my life, in every place I’ve ever been. I’ve lived by instinct, by the pull of unfamiliar streets and the weight of a backpack, making things with my hands in small apartments, on train station benches, and in borrowed rooms where the light hit just right. For years, I let the world shape me—new landscapes, new faces, the thrill of never knowing what came next.

There is a shift that happens — when movement gives way to stillness, when the idea of home is no longer something to run from but something to build. In recent years, I’ve done just that. With a space to call my own, I’ve found solace in the quiet, in the rhythm of creation that does not require departure. My work has stretched and deepened, reflecting both the vastness of the world and the intimacy of belonging.

I move between mediums—pen, acrylic paint, embroidery floss—letting each tell its own version of the story. My artwork manifests small sanctuaries, places where it is safe to feel, to sit with emotion rather than outrun it. My embroideries embody feeling — texture, the tactile embrace of a soft hand to hold or a head on your shoulder. The illustrations help visualize the space to daydream of more. I exist in the space between comfort and adventure, between home and the road, between staying and leaving. And in that space, I create.