People ask me all the time at markets,
“How did you get into this?”
And every time, it feels like someone opened a door in my chest and ten years of memories come rushing out all at once. It’s such a simple question, but the answer is anything but.
The truth is, this didn’t start with a business idea.
It started a long, long time ago.
I was a collector as a kid.
My dad collected rocks—he was a geologist—and I grew up surrounded by fossils, minerals, and conversations about how things were formed. My grandmother pressed flowers and gardened, carefully saving little bits of beauty between pages. My dad was always making things: wind chimes out of rusty metal he found, mosaics out of rocks and fossils, solutions out of scraps. My granddad, a chemist by trade, was also an artist and an incredible woodworker. He had this quiet genius for figuring out how to make something useful beautiful. I have aunts who are professional artists. There’s a long line of artists and scientists in my family—people curious about how things work and how to create something from what’s already there.
And yet, for a long time, I never thought I was an artist.
When I was in sixth grade, a teacher told me one of my drawings looked like doo-doo. I still remember it vividly. That moment lodged itself deep in me, and I quietly decided that art wasn’t for me. I loved beauty, loved making things, but I wrote myself off early.
Fast forward many years.
I was working as a morning-show talking head in Austin, living a very public life. Every part of me—my thoughts, my struggles, my personal story—was out there on the airwaves. At night, I was doing comedy. I was teaching dance. I was constantly performing, constantly visible, constantly being pulled in different directions.
And I desperately needed somewhere quiet.
At the same time, my life was changing in big, tender ways. I was in eating disorder recovery. I had quit drinking and gotten sober. I was learning how to live inside my body and my mind again. I needed something grounding—something that didn’t require an audience or applause.
That’s when hiking, gardening, and flower pressing quietly found me again.
I started collecting flowers and insects the way I had as a child. Without realizing it, I was building this enormous personal archive of small, beautiful things. And eventually, I wondered if I could turn them into art.
One summer, I was invited to help with my aunt’s adult art camp in New Mexico. Something cracked open there. Watching people create freely, without judgment or expectation, lit a spark I couldn’t ignore. When I came home, I pulled out an old resin kit I’d bought years before and never touched.
This was before resin tutorials were everywhere. Before Instagram reels and step-by-steps. The resin available then was industrial—toxic, incredibly smelly, hard to work with. It wasn’t glamorous. But I wanted to preserve what I was finding. I wanted to hold onto it.
And that’s when the word Remedy kept coming up.
Because that’s what it felt like.
Any time I was anxious, overwhelmed, or stretched too thin, I could sit down and create. I could slow my hands. Focus my eyes. Work with something living and fleeting and turn it into something lasting. Pressing flowers, preserving bits of beauty—it was honestly life-saving for me at the time.
And if I’m being honest, it still is.
Even now, years later, when life feels like too much, I feel incredibly lucky that my work is also my refuge. I can sit in my studio for hours, lost in creating. Over time, the work has evolved. What brings me the most peace right now is making preservation pieces, creating whimsical art, building little worlds I want to live inside.
This year marks our tenth year in business, and it feels like a full circle moment.
Over the past year, we’ve been shedding excess—doing less, but more intentionally. Going back to the roots of why this started in the first place. This is the year I want everything Remedy does to center around memory.
Preserving memories.
Creating memorable experiences.
Honoring the moments that shape us.
Flowers that remind you of summers with your grandmother.
Honeysuckle on the fence when you were eight.
Walks you took as a child.
A bouquet held on one of the most important days of your life.
Even writing that makes my throat tighten.
Because those moments mattered to me. They still do. And working with flowers—preserving them, creating with them—has this incredible ability to bring us back. To ground us. To remind us who we were and who we are becoming.
My hope is that when you walk into my booth, or wander through my website, what you feel isn’t just “products.” I hope it feels like magic. Like memory. Like something familiar and tender and alive.
Because that’s what it is to me.
And it always has been.