My journey in design and organizing began in 1998, but everything changed in 2014 when life handed my family its greatest challenge. My parents needed increasing care, and then came the devastating news—my brother was diagnosed with ALS.

What followed were the hardest, yet most rewarding, years of my life. I became a caregiver and advocate — selling my parents' home of 40 years, moving them multiple times as their needs changed, fighting for my brother's medical equipment, adapting his space as ALS stole his mobility. When both parents broke their hips within a month of each other, I moved them again. Then I coordinated the massive relocation of three families from Florida to Indiana, hoping family nearby and affordable housing might ease our burden.

Through all the moves, all the heartbreak, all the sleepless nights spent advocating and arranging and problem-solving, something unexpected happened. In my family's darkest chapter, I discovered my deepest purpose.

Every transition I managed for them—every space I transformed to meet their changing needs—wasn't just about furniture placement or pretty rooms. It was about dignity. It was about creating pockets of peace in the storm. It was about making sure that even when everything else was falling apart, home still felt like home.

That experience broke me open and rebuilt me. I learned that behind every major life transition is a family trying to hold it together, often feeling lost and overwhelmed. I saw how the right support—someone who truly understands both the practical and emotional weight of these moments—can transform an impossible situation into something manageable, even beautiful.

This is why I do what I do. My family's journey taught me that this work is sacred. When I help others navigate their own transitions, I'm not just organizing spaces—I'm honoring their stories and helping them find solid ground when everything feels uncertain.