A dimly lit attic room with a window, a wooden desk with papers, and a chair. 
Editorial Dept; on tap.

My studio grows from a few core beliefs.

The world is loud, but rarely deep. Hot takes, thought leadership, viral threads, newsletters that promise to change your life in five bullet points. Everyone is shouting, performing, optimising for engagement. We are drowning because virality carries no oxygen.

I'm after writing that changes how people see their world. Writing that names something you've felt but never had language for. Writing that—like a good book—resurfaces in that random conversation months later.

We have traded the permanent for the immediate. It's about what we've come to value. We choose the dopamine hit over the slow build. The performance of intimacy over the risk of actually being known. And we wonder why nothing feels substantial anymore. Why everything feel transactional.

Whether it's a founder's origin story or a therapist's practice philosophy, my work exists in opposition to this. Because the antidote to loneliness isn't more connection. It's depth. It's being seen—actually seen—for who you are.

Office desk with a laptop, iMac, notebooks, pens, papers, a mouse, and potted plants near a window with trees outside.
lets get acquainted

What I Offer

I work in two mediums: language and structure. Both are ways of organising attention.

    • Essays and narrative series (ghostwritten or co-authored)

    • Op-eds

    • Case studies and transformation narratives

    • Research-to-public translation

    • Newsletters

    • Website copy

    • Information Architecture: Mapping how a reader moves through your website without getting lost in the clutter.

    • The Visual Threshold: Using whitespace and repetition to create a sense of arrival.

    • The Nervous System of the Site: Ensuring the technology stays quiet, so the work can speak.

The work varies. Sometimes it’s writing: an origin story that clarifies why a practice exists beyond market logic, or an essay that makes a body of ideas feel discovered rather than explained. Sometimes it’s structure: shaping a website so a reader can move through years of work without noise or disorientation. Occasionally, it’s both—language and structure working together to help something complex be encountered slowly.

My rates are fair. Not cheap—this work takes time, and I don't cut corners—but fair for what you're getting.

I'm open to your ideas. If you have a sense of what you need but can't quite articulate it yet, that's fine—half the work is figuring out what you're actually trying to say.

  • Nope, not entirely.

    AI can’t excavate. It can’t sit with your specific experience and find the behavioural economics beneath it. It can’t notice the moment your voice changes when you talk about what actually matters. It can’t tell when you're performing versus when you're telling the truth.

    AI doesn't know what questions to ask when you say "I help people transform." It doesn't know to dig into why you chose that word, what you're really describing, what you're afraid to say directly.

    Put simply: Cartographic attention and intellectual intimacy requires a human nervous system attuned to another human nervous system. It requires noticing what you're not saying. That said, if you simply need words on a page, AI may well be the better choice. It’s quick and efficient.