Prepare To Be Sick Of Me
Doing the Most…Unapologetically
I feel like I’ve carried this quiet exhaustion from wanting to do entirely too much at once. I could cook, design, craft, curate, and build. Give me twenty minutes with a random thought floating around in my head, and I’d figure out how to turn it into something you could hold in your hands. But just when I got comfortable in one groove, a brand-new medium would catch my eye, and off I went down another rabbit hole.
Naturally, the world had advice:
"You’re trying to do too much."
"Pick one lane, master it, and stay there."
I tried to understand their logic. Truly, I did. But every single time someone told me to stick to one thing, a petty little voice in the back of my mind whispered: “...But I already know how to do that.”
I don’t mean "mastered" in the sense that there was nothing left to learn—nobody ever truly arrives at the end of craft. There is always another technique, a sharper blade, a cleaner line. But mastered enough? Absolutely. Mastered enough to build something stunning, solve a real problem, and have someone look at the finished product and ask, “How much?”
Mastered enough to actually get paid.
And they did pay me. I’ve been paid to cook. Paid to design. Paid to craft custom pieces and curate entire intimate experiences. Turning a passing spark into a finished product before most folks finish saying “You should totally sell those...” has been my signature for as long as I can remember.
Yet for years, I treated my own versatility like a character flaw I needed to fix.
My Lane Requires a Flowchart
I spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to squeeze myself into the traditional idea of success: one neat title, one elevator pitch, one tidy answer when someone asks, “So, what do you do?”
Meanwhile, my actual answer requires a white board and color-coded arrows.
I create curated dining experiences and cater private tables. I make custom apparel, personalized gifts, drinkware, and curated party favors. I design graphics, style branded events, coordinate couples' moments, and take half-baked visions out of people's heads and make them tangible. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I published an 80-plus page transformational journal, built a companion app, and launched a website, because why wouldn't I?
That’s the part we forget when we’re hyper-fixated on the unfinished to-do list. I haven’t just had ideas—I’ve dragged them out of the ether and forced them to exist in the physical world. Some evolved, some got retired to the top shelf, and some served their purpose simply by teaching me what never to do again. But the receipts are everywhere: folders, photo archives, past client invoices, shipped packages, and live digital platforms.
The evidence of my execution has been sitting in plain sight this whole time. So why was I still downplaying my work as "random hobbies"?
Having too many gifts was never the issue. I just hadn't built the right ecosystem to hold them.
And Then There's The Patio Garden
Because apparently, my plate still had room for dirt.
What started as a couple of modest pots on the patio quickly escalated into full container warfare: heirloom tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, squash, okra, collards, and fresh herbs fighting for sun. Suddenly I was staying up late reading about soil microbiomes, calcium uptake, hand pollination, pest cycles, and succession planting.
I’ve celebrated single vegetables like I won a regional award. I’ve performed emergency trauma surgery on wilted stems. I’ve grieved lost seedlings, and yes, I have named every last one of them. At this point, several of my peppers possess distinctly stronger personalities than a few people I’ve met.
Inevitably, the garden started talking to the kitchen. When you create through food, you don’t look at a bell pepper and simply think, "Look, I grew produce!" Your brain is already five moves ahead: "What am I roasting this with, and what sauce does it belong in?"
That’s how Patio to Table took root. The concept is straightforward: grow what I can in my own footprint and bring it directly to the fire. Fresh-clipped herbs folded into compound butters, crisp homegrown greens, and seasonal dinners shaped entirely by whatever the patio yields that week. Down the road, that might look like an intimate, hyper-seasonal dining residency.
For now? I’m letting it just be a concept I’m exploring. I don’t need to rush to file an LLC, register three domains, draft a 40-page deck, and design brand packaging before the first cucumber is even sliced.
Look at me growing. Pun absolutely intended.
I Don't Need Fewer Gifts - I Need Better Systems
The more I step back, the less fragmented my life looks.
The cooking feeds the dining experiences. The crafting sharpens the event design and tablescapes. The design work drives the branding, custom pieces, and visual storytelling. The inner work birthed the journal, and the journal demanded a digital community hub. Now, the dirt on my hands outside feeds the skillet inside.
Nothing was random. I wasn’t collecting scattered side hustles; I was building an ecosystem before I knew to call it one. In an ecosystem, every single element feeds into something else. Nothing has to survive completely on its own, it just needs a clear function.
Trying to starve off parts of who I am just to present a digestible, single-flavor version of myself to the world never worked. I would always end up creating something in secret anyway.
The real shift isn’t picking one thing. It’s deciding how each gift gets to exist:
Some gifts are core business drivers that demand premium rates and firm boundaries.
Some gifts are strategic features that elevate a package rather than being sold as cheap one-offs.
Some gifts are strictly for personal joy, protected from commodification altogether.
And a few items on the resume are technically still doable, but someone is going to have to pull up with an obscene amount of money to make me pull that equipment out of storage.
That is the difference between simply possessing raw talent and actually knowing how to command it.
The Era of "Yeah, I Do That Too"
So now I'm looking back at everything I've learned, created, and built with completely different eyes. Instead of asking myself, "Which one of these am I supposed to choose?" I'm asking better questions.
Which skills align with where my energy is right now?
Which offerings bundle together naturally instead of scattering my focus?
Which projects yield a direct return, and which ones replenish my spirit?
Does this move me closer to the life and peace I’m actively constructing?
That shift in perspective means I am stepping out from behind the curtain and showing the full scope of my work again. No more hiding the portfolio. No more apologizing for the range. When folks hit me with, "Wait... you made that too?"
The answer is simple:
Yep. Yeah, I do that too.
I have zero interest in shrinking my list to fit into a tiny corporate box. I’m not trimming the branches; I’m strengthening the root system.
Prepare to Be Sick of Me
Which brings us directly to the headline: prepare to be sick of me.
I have officially arrived at the season where all the things that were once deemed "too much" are taking center stage.
You’re going to see the plates and the culinary experiments. You’re going to see the custom designs and the intentional gatherings. I’m going to talk openly about the journal, the platform, and the tools I’ve spent months engineering. I’m going to document what’s flourishing on my patio and what happens when it hits a hot pan, right alongside throwback receipts of things you probably had no idea I could build.
I am going to market my services unapologetically. I’m going to tell you to book the table, buy the book, share the work, and hire the vision.
The early years were spent proving to myself that I could do it all. That box is checked. This chapter isn’t about proving capability; it’s about intention, precision, and execution. It’s about leveraging the portfolio of skills I spent a lifetime acquiring and letting them work together in harmony.
The posts are queued, the harvests are coming in, and the vision is clear.
Get comfortable, or look away - because we're only just getting started.
Mbrace Moment
If you've ever been told you're "too much," take a closer look at what that "much" actually is. It might be a body of work you haven't given yourself credit for. You don't have to cut pieces of yourself away to succeed. Give your gifts a structure, a purpose, and a price, and let them work together the way they were always meant to.
