I keep coming back to one thing -
that moment when something
ordinary suddenly becomes possible
[This time]
I didn't want to write another About section telling you I am hardworking, curious, and collaborative. I've used those words for years to describe my work. This time, I wanted to tell you about the things that existed long before the résumé did.
As a child, my father and I had very important questions to solve. Could a balloon make a boat run? Could we make a parachute for my doll?
I think that's where it began - the sense that curiosity doesn't require extraordinary circumstances. It just requires being open enough to notice the ordinary and ask: what else could this be?
That question followed me into how I think about empathy, too.
I have come to think of empathy less as understanding someone and more as temporarily stepping outside your own reality. I have spent years designing for people I may never meet. Now, as I move toward designing for children, that ability matters more than ever.
How do you create a world for someone whose world isn't your own? You begin by being willing to leave your own for a while - and that willingness is, I think, where empathy actually starts.
The same instinct shows up even earlier, in how my brother and I spent our summers.
My father rarely got summer holidays, so my brother and I invented ours. One day we were dacoits and police. The next, our living room was a car-racing arena. Nothing around us had changed - we had simply changed what it could be.
That's what wonder means to me: finding possibility in what's already there.
And perhaps that's why I keep finding my way back to children - still chasing that little moment when something ordinary suddenly becomes possible.
Thank you.