October 03, 2026

I TURNED MY EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE INTO ART 💀💔

Heartbreak, horror, dark humor & what happens when an artist starts creating from the life she actually lived.

It’s been a while.

Almost a year, actually.

A lot has happened since I last wrote here.

I could probably spend the next six months trying to update this website until every page perfectly represents who I am now.

New photos.
New words.
New bio.
New everything.

Or…

I could just fucking start.

So hi. 👋

I’m back.

And apparently I brought emotional baggage. 💀✈️

I have a slightly questionable coping mechanism.

I make things.

Give me heartbreak and apparently I’ll build a motel.

Give me emotional baggage and I’ll send myself to baggage claim.

Give me enough red flags and eventually I’ll start a fucking social club. 😂

And somewhere in the middle of creating all of this, I looked at the designs piling up and realized:

Oh shit.

I’m making a collection.

Not because I sat down with a brilliant marketing strategy and decided emotionally exhausted women were trending this season.

Although, judging by my conversations with women lately…

we could probably sell out. 💀

I’m making it because this is what I’ve always done as an artist.

I take things I don’t completely understand yet and turn them into something I can see.

Something I can photograph.

Something I can wear.

Something I can laugh at.

And maybe something another woman will look at and think:

Fuck. Me too.

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU TRAUMA… APPARENTLY MAKE MERCH. 😂

The last few years of my life have given me more creative material than I fucking requested.

I’ve loved.

I’ve lost.

I’ve stayed too long.

I’ve started over.

I’ve carried things that were never mine to carry.

I’ve had moments where the life I thought I was going to have and the life I was actually living looked like two completely different fucking movies.

And through some of the hardest parts, people have told me:

“You’re so strong.”

I know they mean it with love.

But sometimes I’ve wanted to scream:

I DIDN’T WANT ANOTHER FUCKING CHARACTER ARC.

I wanted peace.

I wanted boring.

I wanted one season where the writers didn’t completely lose their minds. 😂

But life didn’t ask for my approval.

So here I am.

48 years old.

Still becoming.

Still creating.

Still occasionally looking back at my own decisions like a woman watching a horror movie:

BABE.

DON’T GO INTO THE FUCKING BASEMENT.

We have discussed this.

💀

MAYBE THAT’S WHY I KEEP COMING BACK TO HORROR.

Because horror movies are ridiculous when you really think about them.

The girl survives absolute carnage.

Everyone has disappeared.

The house is on fire.

Some psychopath has chased her through the woods for 97 minutes.

Her mascara has somehow survived better than most of the supporting cast.

And still…

she’s fucking standing.

Messy.

Exhausted.

Changed forever.

But standing.

The Final Girl.

I understand her a little better these days.

Except mine has icy blonde hair, gold jewelry and would absolutely stop running long enough to take a selfie.

Priorities. 💀📸

SO I STARTED TURNING MY LIFE INTO RIDICULOUS LITTLE WORLDS.

First came:

💔 THE HEARTBREAK MOTEL

Vacancy Since 1978.

A neon motel for bad decisions, broken hearts, questionable check-ins and women who finally realize:

You can love someone deeply and still know you cannot live there anymore.

You can miss the room without checking back in.

Then came:

✈️ EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE CLAIM

Not Everything You Carry Belongs to You.

Because I spent far too much of my life being understanding.

Understanding someone’s wounds.

Understanding their behavior.

Understanding their silence.

Understanding why they couldn’t give me what I needed.

Understanding everybody so fucking well that sometimes…

I forgot to understand myself.

Apparently I had opened a 24/7 emotional baggage service.

No salary.

No holidays.

No fucking weight limit. 😂

And then:

💀 FINAL GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB

Running From Red Flags Since 1978.

Because if I cannot go back and delete some of my questionable decisions…

I can at least give them excellent art direction.

BUT HERE’S THE PART I ACTUALLY CARE ABOUT.

Underneath the horror references, oversized T-shirts, sarcasm, rhinestones and inappropriate jokes…

there’s something I mean very seriously.

I don’t want to create art that pretends women become empowered because one morning they wake up, drink green juice, listen to a podcast and suddenly KNOW THEIR WORTH. ✨

That has not been my experience.

Sometimes empowerment is fucking messy.

Sometimes you know your worth and still miss someone who didn’t treat you accordingly.

Sometimes you know you should leave…

and you stay.

Sometimes you finally leave…

and wonder if you made a mistake.

Sometimes you can know something intellectually for months before your heart finally catches the fuck up.

Sometimes you rebuild your life while simultaneously grieving the life you thought you were going to have.

Sometimes you’re taking care of everybody around you while privately wondering:

Who the fuck is taking care of me?

Humans are complicated.

Women are complicated.

Love is complicated.

Healing is really fucking complicated.

I want my art to have room for that.

AND THAT’S WHY I LAUGH.

Not because none of it hurt.

Because it fucking did.

Dark humor has always done something interesting for me.

It takes something that once had enormous power over you…

and makes it slightly ridiculous.

Heartbreak becomes a motel. 💔

Emotional trauma becomes luggage. 🧳

Red flags become a social club. 🚩

Bad decisions become graphics on an oversized T-shirt.

And suddenly the thing that once swallowed your entire world becomes…

material.

You made something out of it.

You took the story back.

Maybe you even laughed.

There’s something beautifully rebellious about that.

AND THEN THERE’S THE SELFIE. 📸

People hear Level Up Your Selfie and naturally assume it’s about photographs.

Better angles.

Better lighting.

Looking prettier.

But somewhere along the way, those words started meaning something completely different to me.

Because I’ve looked into a camera during so many different versions of my life.

When I felt powerful.

When I felt completely lost.

When I was loved.

When I was heartbroken.

When I knew exactly who I was.

And when I had absolutely no fucking clue.

The face was still mine.

But the woman behind it kept changing.

And maybe leveling up your selfie was never really about creating a better picture of yourself.

Maybe it’s about having the courage to keep looking at yourself while you’re becoming someone new.

Not waiting until you’re healed.

Not waiting until you've lost the weight.

Not waiting until you find the relationship.

Not waiting until your life makes sense.

Not waiting until you become whatever imaginary future version of yourself you’ve decided is finally worthy of being photographed.

Now.

This woman.

This body.

This age.

This chapter.

This beautifully unfinished fucking mess.

Take her picture too.

She existed.

She mattered.

And one day you might look back at her and realize:

Holy shit.

She was becoming me.

MAYBE THAT’S WHAT THE STYLE ALCHEMIST WAS ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO MEAN. ✨

Alchemy is transformation.

Taking one thing and turning it into another.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been doing without realizing it.

Heartbreak → art.

Baggage → fashion.

Aging → imagery.

Chaos → stories.

Pain → dark humor.

A selfie → proof that this version of me existed too.

I’m not interested in pretending the ugly parts never happened.

I want to make something fucking beautiful out of them.

Because that’s what artists do.

Life hands us something we never asked for and eventually we look at it and think:

Okay… what the fuck can I make out of this?

Apparently my answer is oversized vintage horror T-shirts, rhinestones, emotional damage and unnecessarily fabulous selfies.

Could be worse. 😂

AND THIS IS ONLY THE TRAILER. 🎬💀

This isn’t the finished collection.

I’m still creating it.

Still writing it.

Still living some of it.

There will be more rooms.

More baggage.

More Final Girls.