Art found me young and never let go. I won my first competitions in foster care — a little girl discovering that what she made mattered. By high school, I was painting on canvas, wood, graduation caps — anything that would hold color. In 2020, I became a tattoo artist, and everything clicked. My favorite work lives where tattooing and painting collide — rich color, seamless blending, gradients that glow. Every piece feels like I’m painting, just on skin.

I find my inspiration in my emotions — the deep, unruly, inconvenient ones. For most of my life, feeling so intensely felt like a curse. I was too much, too honest for a world that rewards composure. But somewhere on the road to healing, I stopped trying to change that. The part of me that can’t help but be real is the whole reason I create. Art is where my feelings finally have permission to exist — no apology. Just truth.

A piece of land — private, peaceful, protected. A forever home built with intention, rooted deep enough to pass down through generations. And a portion would go toward finding someone we love who was taken from us. That search doesn’t stop. Whatever’s left? Probably a car. But the land and the love come first.