I’m a Bermuda-born, New York-raised development producer, storyteller, and builder of things that once only lived in my imagination. I moved to the U.S.A from Bermuda at 14—wide-eyed, stubborn, and full of dreams I didn’t yet know how to name.

Although I always had friends, for much of my life, I felt a little bit lost. I didn’t fit the mold, and I struggled in systems designed to measure success by rules I didn’t believe in. School often felt like a fog. I struggled to focus—not because I lacked intelligence, but because I couldn’t connect to what I was being taught.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I cared—deeply—about the things that lit me up: history, English, storytelling. I loved old stories, layered stories, real stories. I loved learning them, writing them, sharing them. If a topic sparked something in me, I’d dive in obsessively. I just wanted to learn it my way—the way that worked for my brain. Looking back, that was the beginning of everything.

As a kid, I was always drifting into my own imagination. I’d stare out the window for hours, letting words and rhythms circle around in my head. I once let down my entire softball team playing outfield because I was too lost in the idea for a children’s book, repeating the rhymes that had come to me over and over until I could get to my notebook and scribble them down. (I got kicked off the team, but I did write the book.)

Looking back, I can see that the signs were there all along. I hosted family meetings like boardroom pitches, with hand-drawn posters that quickly turned into PowerPoints. At nine, I built a full presentation—pricing, pros and cons included—to convince my parents to take me to Colonial Williamsburg, because I was deep in a Laura Ingalls Wilder phase and needed a place to dress like her without judgment. (Don’t ask—it was a weird phase.) Btw, it worked. We went on the trip. It was epic.

By age 11 I was spending Saturdays baking more cookies than my wooden island cottage oven could handle, and Sundays hauling them in a wheelbarrow door to door to sell. I created elaborate games and productions for my friends, pulled them into my wild ideas, probably drove them crazy. But when something took root in me, it had to come out.

That creative spark never left—but somewhere along the way, the world got heavier. By my teenage years, my open mind and curious nature, which once felt like superpowers, started getting me into trouble. I bounced from high school to high school, caring less about each one than the last. Lost doesn’t even begin to cover it. I drifted too far into my own mind and almost didn’t make it back. I didn’t fit the mold, and eventually, I stopped trying to. I was still full of ideas, but I didn’t know where to put them—or how to turn them into something that felt like mine. My brain felt like both a gift and a burden. I was constantly searching for a world that spoke my language——for some version of reality where my inner life wasn’t something to hide, but something that made sense.

I didn’t know it then, but those years were quietly shaping the voice I’d one day bet everything on.

Anyway, that’s a story for another time—and I’m getting off track.

Ahem—clears throat, regains composure.

Moving on. Where was I?

Oh, yeah. So…. by 18, the thought of college—of more classrooms and more subjects I couldn’t connect to—felt suffocating. So I didn’t go. I became financially independent and started figuring things out the only way I knew how: by working, hustling, creating, trying, failing, and trying again. I worked every job I could get my hands on—from nannying to waitressing to dog walking, or all three at once (which was most of my twenties)—just to keep a roof over my head while I learned what it took to build a life doing what I loved.

I couldn’t figure out how to utilize my natural skillset, so I started where I could. I interned, volunteered, busted my ass, and followed my instincts. My first real break came in New York’s comedy scene, producing live shows and scouting talent. From there, I moved into development work—helping shape creative concepts, build decks, write scripts, and bring creative projects to life.

That’s when I realized something: the process I used to develop creative ideas—refining vision, building structure, shaping narrative—could be applied to just about anything. The same instincts that helped me bring stories to life could also fuel growth, strategy, and brand identity in business.

It’s funny—for years, I told myself I didn’t know what I was good at—wondering who I was, searching for a clear answer. But in truth, I’ve known all along. I’m an idea person. I see stories before they exist, and once I do, I have to bring them to life—on paper, on screen, or out loud. It’s what I’ve always done: take what’s in my head and turn it into something tangible, something that will live beyond me. Plus, creativity has always lived in me like an urgency. When I get an idea, it doesn’t sit quietly. It needs space. It needs form. It needs out. It needs to be seen by the world. Sharing an original idea—breaking the mold or paving your own course, especially when you’re the one directing—isn’t easy. It’s actually really scary. But I’ve learned to chase the ideas that won’t leave me alone—the ones that feel electric, necessary, alive. And somewhere in the background, I’ve got that quote, “If it doesn’t scare you, it’s not worth doing,” playing on loop in my head like a broken music box. It’s equal parts terrifying and motivating (which feels about right).

I owe so much of who I am to where I come from. I was raised by a family of fierce dreamers—entrepreneurs who didn’t just go against the mold, they broke it entirely. My grandmother is one of my greatest inspirations. She had dreams people laughed at. But she laughed louder—and laughed her way to the bank. She taught me that with drive, resilience and mental strength, you can go anywhere.

My father, who spent his life building a brand around his greatest passion, taught me that success comes when you chase the thing that makes you feel alive. He always told me, “When you do what you love, it won’t feel like work—and that’s when true success happens.”
(Spoiler alert: He was right).

I’m now 30, and in the past several years, I’ve been honored to work alongside artists, creators, award-winning directors and producers, business owners, and entrepreneurs to develop other people’s dreams as well—helping bridge the gap between dreaming and doing.

The people I work with are usually a lot like me. Visionaries. Restless minds. The kind of people who’ve been told they’re unrealistic, too ambitious, too much. But they know better. They know their ideas are worth something. They’ve got grit, tenacity, and just enough fire to keep going long after most people would quit. And even in the moments when they’re staring failure in the face, I’ll be right there—reminding them it’s not the end of the story — It’s just a plot twist on the way to something great.

Do YOU have a big idea that won’t leave you alone?

Let’s chat.