When I was ten, I thought I might be a fashion designer. I had a paper mannequin and a stack of Japanese fashion magazines borrowed from my older cousin, and I spent long afternoons making tiny, ridiculous clothes.

Of course, I was discouraged. Not outright forbidden, just subtly nudged away. A familiar kind of parental logic: “You’ll work long hours,” my mother said, “and never be in charge.” That’s the Asian way of love—curbed dreams in the name of survival.

Still, some dreams pass the test of respectability. My mother approved of Art History — noble, she said. (Kate Middleton studied it.) That led to a decade in New York: working for museums, galleries, artists. Always behind the scenes. Writing, curating, assisting, managing — roles that required me to believe in someone else’s vision. And slowly, without even noticing, I forgot that I had once loved making things.

The anxiety about not making a New York–sized income never really left. As I got older the pressure mounted. I made the tough decision to leave the art world and transition to marketing for tech. I cried for the pain of abandoning an identity I was strongly attached to for a third of my life. And then, like so many others before me — half in earnest, half in escape — I moved to Mexico City.

Soon after I arrived, I heard about a jewelry workshop in the historical center of Mexico City, and I enrolled in a 60-hour foundation course. I work with the lost wax technique. It’s ancient, slow, strangely meditative. I like using my eyes to find harmony in forms that seem, at first, shapeless. It’s a visual logic. A kind of quiet faith.

Mexico City is generous in its offerings. I don’t have a team, but I do have a rhythm. A silver casting workshop. Two gemstone dealers. A bike to get me from one place to the next. Everything I need is right here, within reach.

I want to make most of my pieces “made to order.” That’s the joy of it. The intimacy of conversation, of design unfolding between two people. The work can be exhausting, even infuriating. But what keeps me going are the stories. The quiet ones people carry with them, the ones they choose to share when we’re talking about stones and metal and meaning. I’ve heard more than I would have imagined — and it’s made this small thing I do feel vast, like it holds a hundred lives inside it.

So thank you — for your stories, your patience, your curiosity. For being part of CHNITA. For allowing me to revisit my childhood dream.