Paper folds into stories.
Wax melts into emotions.

Fold. Melt. Rise.
I didn't actually set out to be "the candle and origami girl."

In another life, I was supposed to be designing skyscrapers. But my architecture degree left me with a permanent itch to build things—only now, my materials are a lot more fragile.

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There’s a weirdly beautiful logic to it, though.

Paper taught me potential. You take a flat, boring square, and with enough patience (and a few precision folds), it becomes a bird. It’s about seeing what’s not there yet.

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Wax taught me grace. It literally has to fall apart and lose its shape to become something that glows. There is something so human in that—the idea that a "melted mess" isn't the end; it's just the middle.

I started seeing the same pattern in both: Collapse. Reshape. Rise. It’s total Phoenix behavior.

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So now, every piece I make is basically a tiny celebration of starting over. It’s less about perfect mythology and more about the reality of paper cuts, spilled wax, and figuring it out as I go.

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I’m still building. Just differently.