There's a version of my life where I spent thirty years in education and called it a career. I was capable of it. I had the degrees, the classroom management, the lesson plans, the parent phone calls. I could do the job.

That's exactly the problem.

Doing What You Can vs. Doing What You Love

I went into education because I could — because the path was visible, the need was real, and it felt like a responsible answer to the question every history major eventually faces: now what? For a while, I told myself that was enough.

It wasn't.

I know what it looks like when someone teaches from genuine passion. I've watched those teachers. They don't just explain the material — they light up when the room starts to understand something. The job gives back as much as they put in. For me, it was different. I was giving more than I had every single day, performing an enthusiasm that wasn't really there. And teaching is hard enough when you love it — it's one of the most demanding jobs that exists — but doing it while pretending is a different kind of exhausting. My students deserved better. So did I.

What I Actually Care About

My passion has always been the arts. Making a message into a visual experience. Taking something abstract — an idea, an emotion, a brand identity — and giving it a shape that communicates before a single word is read.

Graphic design is, for me, the perfect marriage of two things I've loved all my life: technology and art. It lets me be precise and creative at the same time, analytical and expressive. I honestly don't know how I went as long as I did without recognizing it as the obvious answer.

Actually, I do know.

The Excuses I Made the First Time

When I was in college for my undergraduate degree, I looked at the arts programs. Really looked. But I was also working two part-time jobs, and I talked myself out of it — convinced myself there was no way I could handle the required studio hours and keep the jobs that were paying for things. Looking back, that was one of the most expensive mental shortcuts I've ever taken. If I could go back and kick myself for it, I would.

The second excuse was geography. I didn't want to leave home. And honestly, there weren't many graphic design opportunities near my hometown back then — or so I told myself. A small-town, practical concern.

Except here's the irony: I'm writing this from my house. Nearly two and a half hours from where I grew up. Because life had other plans and didn't ask for my input before rearranging things.

The Twenties I Mostly Can't Get Back

I blinked, and the majority of my twenties happened. They were shaped by things I didn't choose — personal tragedy, hard stretches, a world that kept upending itself, and a career that quietly drained me day after day. A low-grade, sustained dissatisfaction with the daily routine is its own kind of slow damage. It compounds.

Eventually I sat down and had a real conversation — first with Natalie, then with my parents — about pursuing yet another degree. They never rolled their eyes. But they asked the hard questions, the kind that deserve honest answers:

Can you afford it? Is this one for real? What about everything you already have?

I answered every one of them with the same thing underneath: because I am passionate about this.

That was a new answer for me. And it felt like the right one.

There's a particular kind of feedback you can only get from someone who's been in the game long enough to know what they're looking at.

I had a version of this portfolio that I was proud of. It had hierarchy. It had intention. It had everything I thought a design portfolio should have. I showed it to people who'd been in the design industry for years—not to get validation, but because I specifically asked them to be real with me.

They were.

The feedback wasn't cruel, but it was clear. The design felt dated. The color choices, the layout, the overall feel—it wasn't doing the work justice. It wasn't bad work. It just wasn't presented the way the work deserved.

The Hard Part

Hearing that is uncomfortable. You've spent hours on something. You believe in it. And then someone with thirty years of experience looks at it and essentially says: start over.

But here's what I've learned about feedback like that: it's a gift. The people who've been there, done that, designed that—they're not tearing you down. They're handing you a shortcut. They're saying: here's ten years of mistakes compressed into five minutes of advice. Take it.

What Changed

Everything, essentially. Dark background. Glass panels. A completely different visual language. The phthalo green that's always been part of my work finally got to be the foundation instead of an accent. The typography shifted. The layout shifted. The entire feel of the site shifted.

It's not a tweak. It's a redesign.

What Didn't Change

The work. My voice. The writing. The things that are actually mine didn't change, because they didn't need to. What changed was the frame around them.

The Lesson

If you ask someone to be real with you, be ready for a real answer. And if the real answer is hard to hear, that's usually a sign it's worth listening to. The designers who helped me could have said “looks good, keep going.” They didn't. I'm grateful for that every time I look at this site now.

A Different Kind of Client

Not every project comes from a human client—and sometimes that's exactly the point. For this project, I worked with an AI-generated client brief to simulate a real-world design scenario. The "client" provided everything a real one would: the intended use case, preferred color palette, and the message they wanted the logo to convey. It was practice, but it felt remarkably authentic.

The Brief

The Northpoint Glaciers needed a logo for their hockey team—something that captured cold, icy intensity while projecting strength and aggression. Hockey isn't a gentle sport, and the branding needed to reflect that edge.

First Iteration: Too Soft

My initial design featured glacier peaks with rounded tops, and the two flanking peaks were identical in size and shape. For the background, I went with a gradient that faded from deep blue to bright purple—I thought it would inject some energy into the composition.

The feedback came back clear: not aggressive enough. The rounded peaks felt too friendly, almost approachable. And while the client didn't hate the purple gradient, they felt it undermined the cold, intimidating atmosphere they were after. They wanted ice, not a sunset.

The Revisions

Taking the feedback to heart, I made several key changes. First, I replaced the rounded peaks with sharp, pointed corners—an immediate shift toward aggression. The glacier silhouettes now felt dangerous, like something you wouldn't want to crash into.

Next, I addressed the symmetry issue. The client liked that the center peak was larger, but they wanted more variation in the flanking peaks. I adjusted the heights to create a more dynamic, natural-looking mountain range while maintaining that dominant center glacier.

For the background, the client helpfully provided several alternative color options with hex codes. Having those specifics made testing quick and efficient. The final palette kept things cold and intense—exactly what the brief called for.

Why Practice Matters

Working with a simulated client might sound like just an exercise, but the value was real. I got to experience the full feedback loop: presenting work, receiving criticism, and iterating based on specific direction. That's the reality of professional design work, and there's no substitute for practicing it.

The final logo—and the jersey mockup that followed—represent exactly what the Northpoint Glaciers needed: cold, aggressive, and unmistakably hockey. Sometimes the best way to sharpen your skills is to create the challenges yourself.

The Silent Guide

Hierarchy is one of those design principles that does its best work when you don't notice it. It acts as a silent guide, moving viewers through a composition without them ever consciously realizing they're being led. From the size of a headline pulling your eye to the top of the page, to a bright accent color drawing attention to a call-to-action button—hierarchy is working behind the scenes to make sure the most important information lands first.

Why It Matters

Without clear hierarchy, a design becomes noise. Every element competes for attention equally, and the viewer is left to figure out what matters on their own. That's a problem, because most people won't take the time. They'll glance, get confused, and move on. Strong hierarchy eliminates that friction. It tells your audience: look here first, then here, then here. It transforms chaos into a clear visual narrative.

This is especially critical in design work that needs to communicate quickly—advertisements, web pages, brochures, even business cards. You have seconds to make an impression, and hierarchy determines whether that impression is clear or cluttered.

A Personal Perspective

As someone with ADHD, hierarchy matters to me on a deeper level. My brain processes information differently—sometimes struggling to filter what's important when everything demands attention equally. I know firsthand how overwhelming a poorly organized layout can feel, how easy it is to miss key details when nothing guides your eye.

That experience shapes how I approach every project. When I sit down to design, I imagine every client has a bit of ADHD too. I ask myself: if someone's attention is scattered, will they still get the message? If someone only glances at this for three seconds, will they understand what matters most? This mindset forces me to prioritize ruthlessly and create designs that communicate clearly, even under the worst conditions.

Practical Application

Creating effective hierarchy comes down to a few key tools: size, color, contrast, spacing, and position. Large elements get noticed first. Bright or saturated colors pop against muted backgrounds. High contrast creates visual anchors. Generous white space lets important elements breathe. And elements placed at the top or center of a composition naturally draw more attention than those tucked in corners.

The trick is using these tools intentionally. Not everything can be big, bold, and bright—if it is, nothing stands out. Hierarchy is about making strategic choices, deciding what deserves the spotlight and what plays a supporting role.

The Takeaway

Good design doesn't just look nice—it communicates. And hierarchy is the framework that makes that communication possible. It's the difference between a viewer understanding your message instantly and wandering around the page wondering what they're supposed to look at. When I design, I'm not just arranging elements—I'm choreographing attention. And that's a responsibility I take seriously.

This may sound like I'm giving a speech at the Grammys, but I have a lot of gratitude for the people who helped me find resources, pushed me to pursue my passion, or encouraged me when times got tough.

We all experience ups and downs—but not always in that order. To quote a song from Disney's 1973 film Robin Hood: "Sometimes the ups outnumber the downs, but not in Nottingham." It's easy to feel like you're stuck in your own personal Nottingham. But all it takes is a few good people to help lift you out of it.

Family

I'm not sure I would have ever pursued earning my degree in Graphic Design—especially after already having a B.A. and an M.A.—without my wonderful partner, Natalie, and my parents, Bonnie and Russ. Add in my grandmothers and other family members, and I've been surrounded by people who believed in this path even when I wasn't sure.

Friends

Of course, I have a ton of friends to thank too: Alix, Andrew, Annie, Brandon, Brandon (you know who's who), Colin, Curtis, Dalton, Debbie, Jon, Kate, Kendra, Kim, Liz, Nicole, Rusty, Skip—and so many more. You've all played a part in getting me here.

To Future Employers

And to those future employers out there: you're the last piece of this puzzle. I don't want to use this moment of gratitude to sell myself further—but I will say this: I'm ready. Ready to pursue my passion, ready to bring creativity and dedication to the table. If you're looking for someone who cares deeply about the work they do, let's talk.

The Brief

When the Glitch Buddies team approached me, they had a clear vision but needed help bringing it to life. Their requirements: incorporate the group's favorite colors—green/turquoise and yellow for the founding members—keep it simple, but capture the energetic spirit of their gaming content. They also provided a custom pixelated "G" and "B" graphic as a starting point.

The Logo: Hidden Inspiration

The logo draws inspiration from a classic gaming icon: the "?" block from Super Mario. Look closely and you'll see it—imagine the background box in yellow. I swapped the yellow for a specific shade of blue (if you've read my previous post, you know which one) because it better complemented the other colors in the palette while maintaining that retro gaming connection.

Originally, the client's pixelated graphic spelled out the full "Glitch Buddies" text. For a logo that needs to work at various sizes, I opted to condense it to just "GB"—cleaner, more versatile, and immediately recognizable.

Finding the Right Energy

The next challenge was capturing the group's energy in a simple icon. I watched some of their content and chatted with the team, and then realized I was overthinking it. A lightning bolt—simple, dynamic, universally understood as energy.

But getting it right took iteration. I experimented with blurring the bolt, then pixelating it to match the retro aesthetic, before ultimately landing on a clean, clear-cut icon. None of the free-source images felt right, and I didn't want to commission someone for something I knew I could execute myself. So I built it from scratch in Adobe Illustrator.

The Gradient Background

The background tells its own story. It's a gradient featuring all four crew members' favorite colors: green and yellow at the top—a subtle homage to the two founding members—with purple and blue flowing into the bottom. Every color choice is intentional.

The YouTube Banner: Bringing the Team to Life

The banner extends this visual identity while adding something personal: custom cartoon representations of each team member. Each character was designed with intentional details that reflect who they are.

Kate (far left) is kind and gentle, especially with animals. She often associates herself with foxes, and her favorite color—purple—features prominently in her design. Adam is rarely seen without a beanie; it's become part of his identity. I paired that signature look with his favorite color, green. Andrew brings spirit and energy to everything he does. As an avid gamer, I gave him gaming headphones—though getting the headstrap perspective right without it looking awkward took some problem-solving. His color is yellow. Kaley found her voice through this project and matches Andrew's spirited energy. Her light blue color and lip piercing made it into her cartoon.

At the center sits what brings them all together: the Glitch Buddies name in their original custom font—a shared passion project that unites the team.

Technical Approach

Creating each cartoon character was a detailed process. I used strategic layering and drop shadows throughout to give the illustrations depth—that sense of elements lifting off the page. It's a technique I return to often because it adds dimension without overcomplicating the visual.

The Result

This project reminded me that good design often comes from stepping back. The lightning bolt solution came after I stopped overcomplicating things. The color choices came from listening to the clients. And the cartoon details came from paying attention to who these people actually are. Sometimes the best design decisions are the ones that feel obvious in hindsight.

A Color Worth Knowing

If you've spent any time looking through my portfolio, you've probably noticed a recurring theme: deep, rich greens and blues that feel both elegant and alive. That's the phthalo family at work—and it's become a signature element in my personal projects.

What Makes a Color "Phthalo"?

Phthalo—short for phthalocyanine—refers to a family of synthetic organic pigments discovered in the early 20th century. What makes them special is their molecular structure: phthalocyanine molecules are incredibly stable and produce pigments with exceptionally fine particle sizes. This is where that characteristic smoothness comes from.

Unlike coarser pigments that can feel gritty or uneven when mixed, phthalo pigments blend seamlessly. They have extraordinary tinting strength, meaning a small amount goes a long way, and they maintain their vibrancy even when diluted or mixed with other colors. The result is smooth gradients, clean transitions, and colors that feel almost luminous.

Elegant Yet Vibrant

What draws me to the phthalo family is that rare combination of sophistication and energy. Phthalo green, for instance, has the depth and refinement you'd expect from a traditional color palette, but it carries an intensity that commands attention. It's not muted or passive—it's confident.

That duality fits my design philosophy perfectly. I want work that feels polished and intentional, but never boring. Phthalo colors let me achieve both: they bring elegance to professional projects while adding that spark of vibrancy that makes designs memorable.

A Personal Signature

You'll find phthalo tones woven throughout my personal work—including this very website. It's become part of my visual identity, a thread that connects my projects and reflects my approach to design: bold choices, refined execution, and colors that aren't afraid to stand out.

The Client

Andrew is a close personal friend who's diving headfirst into the world of coding, searching for a career path he's truly passionate about. He needed a logo that was simple enough to feel approachable, but distinctive enough to stand out in a sea of developer portfolios.

The Brief

After reviewing his portfolio site, Andrew gave me a few key details: he wanted his first and last initials incorporated, and he wanted the colors to complement his existing site. Simple requests—but simplicity is often the hardest thing to get right.

The Design Process

I started by applying some color theory principles and experimenting with typography. To give the logo dimensionality, I added a subtle drop shadow that makes the mark appear to lift off the background. I also introduced a dynamic stripe extending from the "C" to add movement and energy to an otherwise static monogram.

The first iteration stretched the letterforms slightly, but something felt off. The purple palette Andrew initially requested wasn't providing the visual punch I knew this logo needed. Rather than settle, I asked Andrew if I could trust my intuition and push the design further.

The Result

That conversation led to the second logo—a refined version with an updated color scheme that brings more contrast and visual interest. The gold and navy palette adds a sense of professionalism while the dynamic elements keep it feeling fresh and modern. It's simple, yet captivating—exactly what Andrew needed to represent his new chapter.