I used to look at groups of women—ten or fifteen of them all gathered around a table, laughing, swapping stories, filling the space with energy—and feel a pang of sadness. I longed for that sense of belonging, the ease of being part of something larger, of always having a group to return to.
But over time, I began to notice something important. What I have in my life isn’t quantity—it’s depth.
I have three incredible women I graduated from my MBA program with. We still meet once a quarter for dinner. No agenda, no need to impress—just conversation that runs deep and honest. And then there’s Rose, my partner and co-author of Beauty from Chaos. Our connection has shaped not just my writing, but the way I move through the world. Add to that a few family members with whom I share meaningful time, and I’ve realized something: these relationships, while fewer in number, are rich, grounding, and lasting.
Sure, there are moments when I see those big groups of women together and still feel that tug of longing. But I’ve come to understand—it’s not the crowd I want. It’s depth.
And that longing for depth doesn’t stop with relationships. It carries into my art.
I don’t want to create something that’s simply pretty on a wall. I want each piece to mean something—to hold the kind of presence that invites you to pause, reflect, and connect with your own inner journey. My art is not about surface beauty—it’s about transformation, stillness, and truth. Just like the relationships I treasure, my paintings are made to last, to be returned to again and again, revealing new layers each time.
If you’ve ever looked around at the noise of the world and thought, I don’t want more—I want deeper, then you already understand what my work is about. Whether in friendship, family, or art, it’s the depth that sustains us.
Because when you find depth, you don’t just see beauty—you feel it.
