I grew up with sketch paper instead of toys. Other kids played with dolls; I was busy drawing floorplans and imagining how to arrange tiny rooms. In my mind, everything existed in 3D—every angle, every texture, every piece of furniture had a story. Paper and pencil were just limits I had to work around.
But here’s the truth: none of that felt like it mattered. I wasn’t raised in a world that said, “You’re talented, keep going.” I was raised in a world where compliments felt like bragging, where you learned to hide. So I hid. I tucked away my ideas, my sketches, my instincts. Even when I got my first taste of the design world (a job shadow in high school), I shrugged it off as boring—though I do still remember the cookies they gave me that day.
Fast-forward years later, I’m in a meeting with Target. I had been designing for them—at that time still trying to prove my worth, still wondering if I belonged. And then a director looked me straight in the eye and said:
"Candice, I can tell you’re holding back. Stop. Just design. Even if you think we wouldn’t produce it—make it. Don’t hold back."
That moment split my career in two. I cried afterward. Not because I was sad, but because I finally felt permission. For the first time, someone told me to stop shrinking and just create.
Design became my escape long before it became my career—my way to survive loneliness, chaos, even heartbreak. But that day, it became something else: my way to be seen. Every project since—whether it’s for West Elm or Bloomingdales, or for a one-of-a-kind commission in someone’s home—is a little act of defiance against the part of me that used to stay hidden.
So here I am. Designing, problem-solving, telling stories through objects. Not waiting for permission anymore from anyone or anything and it's about damn time.