I hadn’t thought about painting in years — not really — until I visited my parents and saw a framed pastel I’d made as a teenager. It stopped me. The softness. The color. I stood there and remembered what it felt like to make something just because it felt good to.
That was the beginning of returning to art — not just as something I enjoyed, but as something that helped me heal.
Before painting found me again, I was a teacher. Then a flight attendant — flying on a whim to New York City just for dinner, living moment to moment.
Everything changed when I adopted Kota, a rescue pup with a tough start. She was reactive and unpredictable — the kind of dog who might have been written off. But I chose to fight for her. And she changed me.
When traditional trainers weren’t helping, I became certified in positive reinforcement training. We trained for half-marathons together. We hiked. We snowshoed. I learned how to stay still. And that shifted everything.
Training led to dog walking. Walking led to photographing the dogs I spent time with. And photography turned into a full-time career — one where I captured the quiet love between animals and their people. For nearly a decade, I photographed hundreds of dogs. That work grounded me in presence, in light, and in love. And I still carry that tenderness into everything I make.
Like so many people, I went through big changes during the pandemic. Some of it was personal. Some of it was grief. And a lot of it just made me slow down and ask: What do I want to create, just for me?
I picked up a pastel and started again.
It was quiet. Personal. I didn’t plan to show it to anyone. I just wanted to sit with color. To see where it would take me.
Now, I paint almost every day.
I work in soft pastels — no tools, just my fingers. I layer slowly by hand until what’s in front of me starts to feel like what I saw in my heart.
My work is rooted in nature, memory, and emotion. Landscapes with a certain light. Animals that carry presence. The seasons I’ve always loved — especially the quiet ones. I live north of Boston, and I walk every day. The way the trees lean in October, the hush of first snow, the pinks that show up in spring when you’re really paying attention — these are the things that ask to be painted.
Many of my originals are sent with a small gemstone — a quiet offering, something you can hold. It’s my way of saying: This meant something to me. Maybe it will to you, too.
I’m still learning how to talk about my art. But I know how it feels when someone sees a piece and says, “That reminds me of home.” Or, “That looks like how I felt.” That’s when I know I’ve shared something real.
Thanks for being here.
