We think we’re saying it clearly. We think they’re listening closely. But so often, the conversation drifts — between intention and interpretation, between what’s meant and what’s heard. This is a reflection on that space in between — the one that makes or breaks connection.

In a world that demands constant output, the quiet room offers something radical — a space where nothing is asked of you but truth. This is where I go to return to myself, one thread at a time.

What happens when you shrink yourself to be palatable? When you trade truth for approval? This is the story of a woman remembering her wild — not the chaos, but the clarity. She’s not defiant for the sake of noise. She is the wolf. And the wolf is not tame.

If I see one more “I Dissent” tote bag, I might scream. Not because I don’t revere RBG — but because we’ve turned a legacy into a slogan. Dissent isn’t a trend. It’s a burden. A responsibility. A position earned only by asking yourself the hard questions — again and again — until what’s left isn’t performance, but truth.

“You don’t owe the world your palatability. You don’t need to shrink to fit. Be weird. Be wild. Be wonderful. Be exactly who you are, even when the world calls it too much.”

In this fierce, unfiltered letter from mother to daughter, a woman unpacks a lifetime of performance, people-pleasing, and rage—only to find that true belonging begins with being fully, unapologetically yourself.

We didn’t even like each other in school. Isn’t that funny? All that closeness waiting quietly beneath the surface while we judged each other from across the room.

She wasn’t always my person. And I wasn’t hers.

But she became the greatest love story of my life.

Not romantic. Not familial. Deeper. The kind that gathers your broken pieces without flinching and hands them back to you with grace.

Jasmine doesn’t ask to be let in. It climbs. It blooms. And it stays. Just like her.

“A woman who writes has power, and a woman with power is feared.”

The pen trembles not from weakness, but from truth. Writing is exposure — a reclamation of all the parts once silenced, edited, or erased. This is for every woman who writes through fear, who remembers through fire, who speaks even when the world wants her quiet. Write anyway.

They clap for the wings, but never ask what died in me to make them.
Becoming isn’t always beautiful—it’s violent, lonely, unspectacular.
But the fire that survived the unraveling? That’s the real miracle.
This is not a pretty story. It’s a true one.
Don’t look away.

Susan Ferrier doesn’t design for spectacle — she designs for stillness. In her debut collection for Baker | McGuire, she invites us into a world where furniture is personal, scale is emotional, and silence is a form of sensuality. With volcanic forms and ancestral echoes, this 72-piece collection doesn’t just fill rooms — it centres them.

In a world of visual noise, neutral design is a quiet rebellion. Where Beauty Whispers explores how texture, tone, and natural materials create rooms that don’t perform — they hold. This is not minimalism; it’s emotional architecture. A celebration of depth, stillness, and the radical beauty of less.

When we design with legacy in mind, we move past trend and into something lasting. Who Are We Designing For, Really? explores the emotional architecture behind multigenerational homes — where each piece holds memory, every space flexes for life in motion, and good design becomes a quiet witness across time.

What if your home didn’t separate you from the world, but brought you closer to it? Where Does the Outside End? explores the deeper purpose of indoor-outdoor design—not as aesthetics, but as emotional coherence. Because when light moves through a room, and texture bridges indoors and out, we remember what it feels like to live connected.

A sconce doesn’t just illuminate — it whispers. It shapes the mood, the memory, the moment. On Sconces, Shadows, and the Stories We Tell Through Light is an ode to the power of lighting to soften, reveal, and emotionally anchor a space. Because in a world of brightness, the glow that unfolds slowly speaks loudest.

I didn’t start with a polished plan—just a quiet ache that said, “This isn’t it. Build something better.” This is what happens when you say yes to the unknown, before you’re ready, and build clarity on the way up.

This is a personal reflection on faith—written not to challenge anyone’s beliefs, but to honour the quiet, questioning path that shaped my own.
It explores the idea of Zion not as a place of arrival, but as a way of being: still, honest, sacred in its simplicity.
For anyone seeking meaning without performance, and presence without fear.

There was a time I thought becoming meant fixing, softening, achieving. But I was wrong. Wholeness doesn’t arrive through performance. It begins, quietly, with grace.