About

Coach • Advisor • Architect

My early decades as an architect taught me to see deeply — to work with complexity, to listen for what wants to emerge, and to create space for possibilities not yet visible. That way of seeing continues to shape how I accompany people today.

My coaching practice supports individuals and leaders from many fields who sense themselves at an inflection point — a transition, a reorientation, or a quiet awareness that familiar ways of being no longer fit. Whether the shift is professional or deeply personal, the work begins with presence, reflection, and enough spaciousness for a new way forward to take shape.

This is the sensibility of a quiet studio — a space set apart from urgency and noise. A place to look closely, hear what has been waiting beneath the surface, and explore identity, purpose, and direction with care and curiosity.

If this metaphor resonates, we may have something to explore together.

The Quiet Studio

A metaphor for the work

Over the years, I’ve noticed a common pattern among the leaders and professionals I work with: the familiar no longer feels fully familiar. Something deeper is shifting - often quietly, sometimes insistently. The reflection below describes the terrain many of us find ourselves navigating.

On Ships, Icebergs, and the Courage to Leap

We live inside systems that feel as inevitable as the great ocean liners of the early 20th century. Their decks are polished, their engines confident, their leaders certain that more power, more speed, and more growth will carry us safely forward.

Until they don’t.

Most of us know the feeling:
We’re working harder, improving processes - rearranging deckchairs - hoping that incremental refinements will shield us from what we sense but rarely name. The familiar begins to shift. The horizon changes.

When I use the old Titanic metaphor, I’m not just speaking about organizations or economies. I’m also speaking about us - leaders, teams, and individuals coming to terms with what’s no longer working.

Some choose to leap.
Some choose to stay.
Some aren’t sure yet which is the braver act.

In my mind’s eye, this is where my work lives.

I imagine myself in a small boat alongside the ship - steady, quiet, drama-free. A place where those who leap can land safely, catch their breath, and orient toward a future they actually want.

And for those who choose to stay aboard - which is often the harder path - I imagine helping them reconnect to an inner compass: something sturdier than external metrics, more reliable than organizational weather. Something that allows them to navigate with clarity, integrity, and purpose as conditions shift.

We can avoid many things in life.
We cannot avoid the need to learn - and unlearn - when the world changes around us.

The question is not whether the ship will hit the iceberg.
The question is: Who will you be when it does?

My practice is shaped by the sensibility of a quiet studio - a space set apart from urgency and noise. A place to slow down, look closely, and hear what has been waiting beneath the surface. A place where identity, purpose, and direction can be explored with care, curiosity, and enough spaciousness for something new to emerge.