Stories. I love that word. I could say it over and over, and never get tired of hearing it. Stories mean so many things to me personally. Stories are like veins that run through my body, giving me life to do what I do. I fell in love with stories, because of those who told me stories.

Clear as day, I can remember sitting cuddled up as a child next to my mother as she read to me in her soothing motherly voice, book after book in the hazy afternoon sun, until she, not I, fell asleep.


My brother and I caught up in some space quest deep within a lego pile, where we built our valiant ships, while we listened to a british voice narrate, The Lord of the Rings.


Drenched in sweat under the full sun on my grandpa’s farm as we worked hard, each item carried a story. That saw my grandpa and his brother used by hand to cut down an entire forest. That farm co-op board, was once a basketball backboard. Stories were more than just entertainment.


Stories were moments to connect to another human.
Stories were invitations to other worlds.
Stories were memories of how to navigate life.


You wonder why I became a storyteller? How could I not, when surrounded by such a rich storytelling environment? The picture above was taken during one of my first short films. A group of best friends telling stories. Some things never change.

The stories they tell, are not just tall tales, but roadmaps for my soul. They shaped me and who I would become and still am. My soul was made to tell stories because the stories they tell, were stories they lived.

Now I get to be the one who tells stories, and in time, my stories will become the ones they tell.