Seeing Myself In The Margins
A story of loss, reinvention, and reclaiming the space I once gave away.
I’ve spent so much time telling other people’s stories that I forgot I have one too.
I don’t mean forgotten like misplaced — I mean pushed to the back of the notebook, scribbled in the corners of other people’s brilliance. Always observing, always documenting, always making space.
But lately, I’ve started wondering what it might look like to turn the lens, even just a little.
Maybe it starts with a moment. A room. A dress.
Maybe it’s a memory I haven’t unpacked because I was too busy curating everyone else’s.
Maybe it’s a question I keep asking others that I’ve never asked myself.
This isn’t a full autobiography. It’s more like a footnote with a pulse.
A reminder that behind the caption, the curation, the clean copy, there’s a woman —
born and raised in L.A., shaped by grief, joy, reinvention, and the kind of boldness that doesn’t need to be loud to be known.
I’m writing this to mark the page. Not to center myself, but to trace the margins where I’ve been all along.
Mine begins — or maybe splinters — the day my mother died. I was 22. By 23, I was pregnant with my son. And from that point on, my life wasn’t fully mine anymore. It belonged to the people I loved and provided care for: my father, my little brother, my son, and his father, who I would eventually marry and divorce before our son turned 16.
I graduated from college with a five-year-old and a camera in hand. I was working as an assistant to a well-known photographer, contributing to campaigns for the Sundance Film Festival. I submitted my own work to open calls, and to my surprise — or maybe my deep-down knowing — I was selected to exhibit in Berlin. My images were even published in the exhibition catalog. It felt like momentum.
But freelance work wasn’t predictable, and tension at home escalated. So I pivoted. I thought a job at a fashion brand might be a smart way to stay close to the creative world — meet stylists, models, photographers, maybe grow my portfolio while earning a steady paycheck. What happened instead was a full-fledged career. Over 20 years in fashion and marketing, I climbed, I led, I succeeded. I also learned to live with a quiet dissatisfaction.
In 2014, I left my marriage. I was the sole provider now — the pressure only increased. So I kept building. I launched my own eCommerce and digital marketing agency in 2022. And then, in September 2023, I got laid off — and felt relief.
Not fear. Not failure. Freedom.
For the first time in decades, I had space. Space to breathe, to feel, to ask myself what I really wanted.
Founding my own business had helped create that space. It funded the pivot — bought me the time, the travel, the permission to dream differently. It was a smart move that freed me from the 9–5.
But maybe it wasn’t the right one for my spirit.
Or maybe it was exactly what I needed to find my way here.
And the answer, once I finally had room to ask the question, was art — the world where all of my passions converge: design, fashion, travel, food, culture. Not just lifestyle. Life. I went to Art Basel Miami for a client in December, and I knew instantly: this is where I belong.
But the art world isn’t built to welcome women like me — mid-career, self-taught, full of fire but without the pedigree. So I enrolled in school. At 50. And I started The Intersect — a space where my story could finally catch up to my voice. A space where I could bring everything I’ve carried — the losses, the pivots, the passions — and weave them into something intentional.
Where art isn’t just something I write about, but a language I live in.
Because I don’t just want to be in the room — I want to help reshape it.
To expand who gets to be seen, who gets to tell, and what stories are considered worthy of a wall.
To shift who has access, who feels welcome, who feels like the art world is theirs — whether they’re an artist or an enthusiast.
And to remind anyone watching that it’s never too late to pursue your passions — especially the ones you buried to survive.
This is the beginning of what happens when I stop editing myself out. The margins were never empty. I just hadn’t read my own footnotes yet.
I used to think reinvention was about becoming someone new. But maybe it’s just about finally becoming myself.
This is my reclamation — one post, one exhibition, one margin at a time.
I Am, So glad that you made it to the room. We need you here.