My mum is Indonesian, my dad Australian. Our home was a blend of traditions—spicy sambal on toast, prayers said softly in Bahasa, and summer camping trips in the Flinders. From an early age, I learned how to move between cultures with grace, and I think that’s shaped the way I live: minimal but warm, quiet but deeply connected.

When I was 19, I spent a month volunteering at a permaculture retreat in Ubud. I helped plant vegetables, learned to compost, and practiced yoga every morning surrounded by mist and birdsong. It was the first time I felt what it meant to live in rhythm with nature. That trip ignited my love for sustainability—and helped me understand that the way we live is as important as what we do.

My first full-time marketing job in the city was everything I thought I wanted—until it wasn’t. Between back-to-back campaigns and freelance event gigs on the side, I hit a wall. I didn’t want to admit it at first. But stepping away and choosing to work part-time remotely gave me a new lens. I started drawing again. Stretching every morning. Saying no more often. My home now needs to reflect that—it’s not just where I rest; it’s how I protect my energy.

It started as an idea on a Google doc, and two months later, we had yoga teachers, local artists, even a composting workshop. People came together, shared stories, breathed in sync. It reminded me that good design isn’t just about beauty—it’s about creating the conditions for connection. I want my home to do that too: not grand, but intentional. Not closed off, but layered with meaning.

I’m not always drawn to churches or steeples. My spiritual moments come when I’m watching wind move through tall grass or when soft sunlight hits the floor just right. Faith, for me, is quiet—woven into routine. That’s why I crave space for reflection: a warm corner for journaling, a small garden, a room that changes with the light.