I don’t facilitate from a single place.

I come to this work through multiple lives that continue to coexist—sometimes in tension, often in conversation.

I’m a queer and disabled creative person who has spent years making art and listening closely: to music, to stories, to the ways people try to say what doesn’t easily fit into form. That sensibility carries into how I read—attuned not just to what’s on the page, but to what’s underneath it, around it, resisting it.

I’m also someone who is deeply relational. I live with animals, I think in terms of care, and I understand creative work as something that happens alongside the rest of a life—not outside of it. Family, however it’s defined, matters here. So does the reality that writing is often shaped by everything else we’re holding.

My academic training is in English and history, but more importantly, it’s interdisciplinary in practice. I don’t approach stories as isolated artifacts. I read them through cultural production, theory, history, and lived experience. That means I’m as interested in how a story works as I am in what it’s doing in the world.

I’ve taught at the university level, which means I know how to structure learning, guide discussion, and support people through complex material. But I also made a conscious decision to leave that system. Not because the work stopped mattering—but because I wanted to do it differently.

What I offer now is an alternative: rigorous, thoughtful engagement without institutional constraints. Space for depth without the pressure to perform expertise in narrow or standardized ways.

I’m also a writer. I know what it means to be inside a project—to doubt it, to return to it, to try to understand what it wants. I don’t approach your work from a distance. I approach it as someone who is also in it.

Outside of that, I’m a language learner and a lifelong student. I’m always in the position of not fully knowing, of reaching, of translating between contexts. That experience shapes how I listen and how I work with writers across different backgrounds and forms.

And I’m living as an immigrant in Europe, which means I’m constantly aware of what it means to move between systems, cultures, and ways of understanding. That perspective—of partial belonging, of negotiation, of adaptation—also informs how I think about stories of becoming.

All of this comes into the room when I facilitate.

Not as a list of identities, but as a way of reading, responding, and holding space for complex work.

Because for many of us, especially those working in and through queer and disabled experiences, storytelling isn’t just about craft.

It’s about making something legible without reducing it.
It’s about being witnessed without being simplified.
It’s about finding forms that can hold what our lives actually feel like.

That’s the space I try to build.