How fifteen years of collecting, creating, and becoming led me to Catalogue.
There was a period in my life when I found myself questioning nearly everything about the direction I was going.
We had recently purchased a home that, under unfortunate circumstances, we would eventually have to sell. I had a newborn, I was navigating postpartum, and somewhere between the responsibilities of motherhood and the uncertainty of what came next, I felt increasingly disconnected from myself.
Not necessarily from who I was as a mother or a wife, but from the part of me that had always needed to create.
I was creatively unfulfilled, overwhelmed, and, if I'm being completely open, quite lonely. I kept asking myself what I was going to do with all the ideas I had. What could I build that would actually last? Something I wouldn't enthusiastically pick up only to put down a few months later. Something that had enough heart in it to sustain me through the inevitable challenges of life.
More than anything, I wanted clarity.
Evening after evening, while lying in a dark room with my newborn, I began looking back through the things I had collected over the years. And I mean everything. Books, magazines, stationery, old notes, photographs, stickers, napkins, little tags, letterpressed pieces from my time working in a print shop. Things I'd saved from school, things I'd tucked away from different jobs, and things that had traveled with me through more moves than I could count.
I even went through my Pinterest boards, scrolling through years of images I'd saved without giving much thought to why. I was looking for a pattern. What had I consistently loved? What had I held on to? Of all the things that had come and gone in my life, what had stayed? And somewhere in that rather ordinary collection of paper, images, and memories, I began to recognize something. I had been collecting pieces of the same dream for years.
About fifteen years ago, when I was in school studying graphic design, I had an idea for a magazine. I was supposed to be looking for internships, but instead, I found myself imagining a publication that would introduce people to the interesting places and creative individuals in their own communities. Designers, studios, independent businesses, talented professionals, beautiful spaces, and all the little places worth discovering. A sort of catalogue of people and things worth knowing. I remember bringing the idea to one of my professors. Her response was that I couldn't possibly take on something like that myself. It hurt, but the frustrating part was that I understood what she meant. At the time, creating and sustaining an independent magazine required resources, connections, technical knowledge, and a level of experience I simply didn't have. I had the idea, but I didn't yet have the ability to bring all its moving parts together.
So I put it aside. Not because I stopped loving it, but because life moved forward, as it does. I continued studying design, working, learning, building relationships, and finding my way through different creative opportunities. What I didn't realize was that the idea had never really gone anywhere. It had simply become part of everything else I was doing. Around that same period, I had developed a habit of researching editors at magazines I admired, finding their email addresses, and writing to them. Not with some elaborate pitch. Mostly, I wanted to ask questions, learn from people whose work interested me, and understand how I might find my way into the editorial world.
One of those people was the editor at ELLE.
To my surprise, she wrote back. She offered advice, encouraged me to apply for an opportunity, and even shared her personal collection of bookmarked websites, inspiration, and creative resources. I remember thinking it was the coolest thing anyone could have sent me. Here was someone working in an industry I admired, taking the time to share a little piece of her world with someone she didn't know. That exchange stayed with me. It showed me that reaching out with genuine curiosity could open conversations I might otherwise never have had, and that generosity could be just as influential as opportunity itself. Perhaps most importantly, it made me feel that I had something to offer, even before I'd figured out exactly what that something was.
Looking back, I can see how much that experience shaped the way I think about connecting people today. Sometimes all it takes is one person opening a door, sharing what they know, or making someone feel that their ideas are worth exploring.
Fast-forward fifteen years. I had accumulated professional experience, developed creative skills, worked across different industries, built relationships, and learned an enormous amount about what it takes to bring ideas to life. And yet, when I began considering the possibility of creating my own publication, I felt strangely like a beginner again. There is something uncomfortable about that. You know what you're capable of. You know how much work you've done to get where you are. You have experience and perspective that your younger self couldn't have imagined. But the moment you step into something new, all of that can suddenly feel invisible. You're introducing yourself again, explaining what you're building, trying to make something meaningful while wondering whether the people around you are thinking, Here she goes, starting something else. I certainly had those thoughts.
I've always had ideas. I've explored different creative directions, started projects, changed course, and followed opportunities that interested me. But this time felt different. For the first time in a very long time, I wasn't searching for another idea. I was searching for the time and space to pursue one I finally understood. And that brought its own frustration, because finding clarity doesn't magically create more hours in the day. It doesn't remove the responsibilities of motherhood, the demands of work, or the unexpected circumstances that have a way of interrupting even our best intentions. Life continued happening, over and over again, while I was trying to build something that mattered deeply to me. I knew where I wanted to go. I just couldn't always move toward it at the pace I wanted. I've come to think of that feeling as being lost in the right direction. You might not know exactly how you're going to get there. You might take longer than expected, change your approach, or find yourself having to stop and begin again. But underneath all that uncertainty, there's something steady. You know why you're going.
Back in that room with my newborn, I began connecting the pieces. The magazine I'd imagined in school. The people I'd reached out to. The years spent working in creative roles. The little collections of things I'd loved enough to save. They weren't random interests or disconnected chapters. They were a record of what had consistently mattered to me. And the world had changed, too. The tools and technology available today, including AI, have made certain parts of building an independent publication more accessible than they were fifteen years ago. Things that once would have required a much larger team or resources beyond my reach could now be approached differently. That didn't mean the work would be easy, or that technology could replace the experience and judgment required to create something worthwhile. But it meant that the idea I'd once put aside no longer felt quite so impossible.
And suddenly, Catalogue made sense.
Not just as a magazine, but as a place for the things I'd spent years caring about: interesting people, creative work, beautiful discoveries, thoughtful conversations, and the experiences that shape who we become. I remember lying there with my baby, feeling as though the sky had suddenly filled with stars. I think I even cried a little.
For years, I've had a framed poster with a message about shining your own light, following your own path, and not worrying about the darkness. I'd carried it with me for nearly a decade. And in that moment, the words felt different. I wasn't looking for another direction anymore. I had found one that felt like my own. One of the reasons becoming is such an important part of Catalogue is that I've come to understand how complicated the process really is. We tend to speak about reinvention as though it's a clean transition from one version of ourselves to another. We leave a job, start a business, become mothers, move somewhere new, or decide to pursue something we've always wanted. And from the outside, it can look like a fresh beginning.
We bring our previous experiences with us. Our disappointments, relationships, interests, unfinished ideas, and everything we've learned along the way. Sometimes the very circumstances that make it difficult to create something are also the very ones that give us a reason to create it.
Motherhood has taught me that in ways I never could have anticipated. There are seasons when your time is not entirely your own. When the things you want to pursue must coexist with the needs of the people you love. When progress happens in small, interrupted moments rather than long, uninterrupted stretches of inspiration.
It can be frustrating to know what you're capable of and still feel unable to give something your full attention. But I've also started to wonder whether the weight of those experiences changes what we eventually create. Whether something becomes more meaningful because of everything it took to get there. I don't think difficulty automatically makes something valuable. And I certainly don't believe we need to struggle to earn the right to pursue what matters to us. But I do believe that the lives we've lived influence the things we're capable of making. The young girl who imagined a magazine fifteen years ago had enthusiasm and curiosity. The woman building Catalogue today still has those things. But she also has experience, perspective, relationships, responsibilities, and a much clearer understanding of what she wants the work to mean. She's not starting with nothing. She's starting with everything that came before.
Catalogue is still becoming. There are ideas I haven't brought to life yet, stories I want to tell, people I hope to introduce, and an entire world I want to build around this publication. Some days I feel incredibly certain of where it's going. Other days I'm reminded how much I still have to learn. I still have responsibilities to juggle. I still wish I had more time. I still occasionally wonder what people think when they see me pursuing another creative endeavor. But there's a difference now. For the first time, I can look back at the different chapters of my life and see how they connect. The years weren't wasted because I hadn't arrived at this point sooner. The jobs, the ideas, the projects that didn't last, the people I met, the things I collected, and even the seasons when I felt uncertain about who I was becoming all contributed something. I think that's what makes starting over at this stage of life so strange. From the outside, it can look like you're beginning again. And in some ways, you are. But you aren't the same person who stood at the beginning fifteen years ago. You have an entire life behind you now.
And perhaps the most reassuring thing about starting over is realizing that none of it has to be left behind.
