I began my career fascinated by the influence of the built environment on human health and well-being. As an architecture student, I became captivated by the idea that the spaces we inhabit quietly shape how we think, feel, heal, and connect. While sustainability and environmental stewardship were becoming central to architectural practice, I found myself asking a different question: How might the built environment more intentionally support the health of the people within it?

That curiosity naturally expanded beyond architecture into the emerging relationship between design, data, and healthcare. I became fascinated by the role designers might play in helping people collect, visualize, and better understand their own health data—not simply as information, but as a meaningful tool for reflection, prevention, and participation in care. I imagined a future in which thoughtfully designed personal health data could complement the medical record, empowering individuals while providing clinicians with richer, more longitudinal insights into health.

At the time, I believed my greatest contribution would come through the thoughtful integration of technical expertise, creativity, and human-centered design. From working in the studio of one of the 21st century's most influential architects to designing award-winning public architecture, I experienced firsthand how design could shape behavior, experience, and well-being across many different scales.

Yet over time, I noticed something unexpected.

While I loved the craft of design, my greatest impact rarely came from the objects or environments themselves. It came from curating—bringing together the right people, perspectives, disciplines, partners, and conditions so that extraordinary ideas and unexpected collaborations could emerge.

That realization gradually transformed my practice. Design became less about creating artifacts and more about creating experiences. Workshops evolved into carefully curated ecosystems where industry, academia, patients, clinicians, entrepreneurs, designers, and students could learn from one another. The environment, the challenge, the people, and the relationships all became part of the design itself.

This work eventually led me to Stanford Medicine X, where I discovered a professional community that reflected how I naturally worked. Rather than separating disciplines, it intentionally brought them together. Rather than designing for people, it invited us to design with them. It affirmed something I had been moving toward for years: that meaningful innovation emerges through relationships, shared curiosity, and diverse lived experiences.

Inspired by that philosophy, I sought to cultivate similar communities in Colorado through the Inworks Innovation Initiative at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus. There I had the opportunity to build interdisciplinary partnerships, create immersive learning experiences, and foster a culture where clinicians, researchers, patients, students, designers, engineers, and industry partners could work alongside one another to explore new possibilities for health and healthcare. Along the way, I witnessed that thoughtful design is far more than aesthetics or usability. At its best, it becomes a form of care—shaping how clinicians learn, how teams collaborate, and, at times, influencing patient care itself.