I’m a worldbuilder first.

Ever since I was little, I’ve been creating. I used to make comics for my siblings in school notebooks, turning whatever was in my head into little worlds they could step into. What started as something personal slowly became something bigger. I would reimagine endings, invent characters, and build stories that felt more like me — stories where people could belong, feel important, and actually see themselves.

My imagination was always huge. My siblings would ask me to tell them bedtime stories because they said when they closed their eyes, they could vividly see everything I described. Sometimes I’d turn two random objects into a whole story. Sometimes I’d retell books in my own way. Even then, storytelling felt less like a hobby and more like the truest part of me.

As I got older, that relationship with art became more complicated. A lot of my work was lost, taken, thrown away, or kept by other people. I started to feel burnt out. For a while, I stepped away from art completely, even though it was once the thing that made me feel most alive.

But creativity never really left me.

During one of the hardest periods of my life, I found my way back to it. In late 2025, after losing so much and feeling disconnected from myself, I sat down and asked what had ever truly brought me joy. Under all the grief, confusion, and survival, the answer was waiting for me: drawing, storytelling, imagining, building worlds.

So I picked up paper again. What started as a small doodle turned into something much larger. I began creating a universe I would actually want to live in — one built from possibility, difference, beauty, and imagination. At first it was one place. Then it became many. Realms, histories, systems, characters, languages, aesthetics, entire lives. My mind was moving faster than my hand.

That was the return. And in a lot of ways, it was also the real beginning.