“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” —Maya Angelou

My direction lives at the intersection of disruption and care. I create spaces that demand more than passive viewing—audiences must leave compelled to act, to question, to engage in the world differently. At the same time, my rehearsal rooms are sacred spaces. They are rooted trust and softness: the radical act of holding one another. I disrupt the audience, but I nurture the creators. The stage isn’t just a reflection of the world. It’s where we begin to heal it.

I am shaped by Black womanhood, and thus, direct for Black people. I center us because we are rarely held with softness, even when the world demands our strength. I am drawn to narratives of survival, resilience, and the quiet ache of being unseen. For me, directing is a way to say we matter.

I build rooms with rhythm as sound is my first language. Growing up as a dancer taught me to find rhythm in words, and music has become a cornerstone of my creative language. I block movement with the beat of the words, I score transitions like scenes in a film. In a world that often divides, music connects—a universal language that speaks directly to our capacity for empathy.

I believe storytelling should reflect the world we live in: not just as it is, but as it could be. We are living in revolutionary times. I bring history into the now, I reframe the classics through our lens, and I ask: What does this moment need from us as storytellers?  

I want my work to feel like both a rupture and a balm: because it is discomfort that leads us to growth, and the aftercare that leads us to healing.