Toward the Sun

On hope, roses, and the morning that changed how I see my work

It was my second year as a surface pattern designer.

I was sending pitches every week — carefully crafted emails, collection sheets, hopeful subject lines — and hearing almost nothing back. That particular kind of silence is its own weight. You start to wonder if you're invisible.

Every morning during that season, I walked to a specific spot in my garden and prayed. Not dramatically. Just quietly, the way you do when you're not sure what else to do.

One August morning, the sunlight came through differently. It lit up my rose bush in a way that stopped me. And I noticed something I had never paid attention to before — every single rose was leaning toward the light. Not straining. Not desperate. Just quietly, naturally turning toward where the warmth was coming from.

I thought: that's what I'm doing too.

I went inside and painted it.

The mandala sun came intuitively — it felt sacred rather than decorative, the way that particular morning light felt sacred. The spider web appeared almost by accident, catching the light between the stems, and I almost painted over it. I left it in because unexpected things deserve to stay.

I called it Toward the Sun.

I didn't know then that the licensing yeses were coming. Loomwell. RJR. The collections that would follow. I just knew that morning leaning toward the light — with hope, without guarantees — was enough.

It still is.