Every object has a story, but not every story is strong
enough to build a bridge.

This is mine.

Between purpose and product, there’s a span built not of
marketing, but of silence, loss, learning, and work.

Every cut, stitch, and page I make is part of that bridge — a way to carry
something real from my hands to yours.

When you hold one of my journals, you’re not just holding a
thing.

You’re standing on the bridge between why it was made and what it might become
in your life.

______________________________

I started this company because I lost all my words the day my
best friend was shot and killed by her ex-boyfriend.

There are moments in life when language disappears — when the world goes quiet
and raw. For me, that silence eventually became the place where I started
making things with my hands.
______________________________

Years later, I found my words again.

But nothing I saw in stores or weekend art fairs felt worthy of them — nothing
that had the weight, the rustic elegance, or the permanence I wanted.

So I sat on the floor in the aisles of Borders and Barnes & Noble bookstores after work, reading
books about how to make books and boxes and paper.

Six months later, my company was born — though it didn’t
have a name yet.

My kitchen table was my workbench, and on it I learned to tear paper by hand.

A year later, staring at the broken zipper on my old Mountainsmith fannypack, I
bought a $5,000 saddle sewing machine and taught myself how to sew leather with the intent of making bags and better journals that would never break or loose their words to paper digested with age.

That was almost 30 years ago.
_____________________________

I don’t build things to keep them.
I build them so they can cross the distance between my hands and yours.
If what I make finds its way into your life, it’s no longer just an object — it becomes part of your story, too.
That’s the bridge. And if it holds, it’s because it was built for more than a moment.