“Did it hurt when the shark bit your arm?”

 “It did, but it didn’t bite it all off so I can still use it.”

I’ve been asked about my scars for as long as I can remember. 

Have you ever tried explaining what a scar is to a first grader? It's a near-impossible task. We could barely talk, let alone pronounce Meningococcal Meningitis. 

Naturally, I began making up stories. By the time I was 10 years old, I had survived shark attacks, snake bites, and done some hardcore parkour stunts off the Empire State Building.

Yeah, I was a pretty badass 10-year-old.

I’ve spent most of my life answering questions about the things people notice before I even speak: The jarring chunk taken out of my arm, my half-missing eyebrow, or the way my elbow bends out of place.

When you grow up with visible scars, you adapt to make people comfortable. I learned to spin a story, crack a joke, and have a great day. 

That was the earliest version of the creative I am now. Transforming something uncomfortable into something comforting. That realization became the foundation of the work I do now.

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