I used to think I loved books because I loved stories.
Looking back, I think what I really loved was everything that happened around them.
Growing up, my dad and I had a ritual. Every week we’d go to Borders, I’d pick out a new book, and we’d stop for water ice on the way home. At the time, it just felt like our thing. Years later, I realized those afternoons taught me that stories aren’t just something we consume—they’re something we share. They become traditions, recommendations, inside jokes, and tiny pieces of ourselves that somehow find their way into other people’s lives.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to fandom.
After I finished a book, I didn’t want to leave its world. I wanted the interviews, the behind-the-scenes stories, the fan theories, and the people who noticed the same little details I did. There was something comforting about realizing someone else cared just as much as I did. Long before I had the language for it, I think I was searching for belonging, and looking back, I can see that I’ve built my career chasing that same feeling.
I’ve worked across publishing, entertainment, technology, and consumer brands, but the question underneath my work has never really changed:
How do we create something people genuinely want to be part of?
The things that stay with us are rarely the loudest. They’re the experiences that make us feel understood—a midnight book release, a conversation that changes the way we see something, a partnership that feels surprisingly natural, or a community where we realize we’re not the only ones who care this much.
Curiosity has been the thread through almost every chapter of my life.
In high school, I taught myself HTML and Photoshop because I wanted to have the prettiest Xanga and MySpace page. In college, One Tree Hill introduced me to the idea that book editors existed, so—me being me—I Googled how to become one. As an intern, I kept wandering over to the digital marketing team because I wanted to understand what they were building. Years later, I found myself leading the very brand I’d been so curious about.
I’ve stopped believing careers have to follow a perfect five-year plan because mine has been built by paying attention.
When I think about the people who shaped me most, I don’t remember them because they were the smartest people in the room. I remember them because they made me feel capable. They shared what they knew, invited me into conversations before I felt ready, and challenged me without making me question whether I belonged.
That’s the kind of leader I hope to be, and I love the part of my job where I get to mentor interns and people at the beginning of their careers. I see so much of myself in them—the excitement, the uncertainty, the feeling that everyone else somehow has the map. If someone leaves one of our conversations believing in themselves a little more than they did an hour earlier, that feels like work worth doing.
I still believe stories are one of the best ways we practice empathy. Maybe that’s why the stories I return to again and again aren’t about perfect heroes—they’re about people who don’t have it all figured out but are trying their best anyway. They’re trying to figure out what they stand for and how to do the right thing when the answer isn’t obvious, and I think most of us are doing that too.
If there’s a thread connecting everything I’ve built, from book communities to partnerships to products and experiences, it’s this:
I’m trying to create the kinds of moments that make people feel seen.