When I was a little girl, I wished on every shooting star and fallen eyelash for happiness. I believed that from happiness would come the courage to dream.

I grew up in rural Vermont, homeschooled by my mother and life-schooled by my carpenter–blacksmith father. With few material possessions, I learned that true abundance comes from the land. My father built houses, kept bees, and tapped maple trees; we ate what we grew and lived by the rhythm of the seasons. That freedom shaped both my imagination and my sense of purpose.

At eighteen, I moved to New York City, where I made films and performed on stage, exploring the intersection of art, beauty, and human connection. When my father fell ill some years later, I returned home to care for him and found myself drawn back in his workshop; the scent of steel and wood, the pulse of creation. From his wheelchair, he shared his knowledge of craft and gave me the freedom to discover and fail.

As his health declined, my work became an expression of loss, imperfection, and resilience—tempered by softness. Knife making became both meditation and release, a way to process his illness and, eventually, his passing.

The materials I use carry deep personal meaning, and sharing that meaning is part of my story. I hope my knives evoke curiosity while remaining grounded in simplicity—cutting one thing into two, multiplying nourishment.