Late last year, I signed up for LinkedIn Premium. I haven’t noticed any dramatic changes. My profile views didn’t skyrocket. I may see slightly more information about who’s looking at my page, but nothing earth-shattering.

What I did do, though, was quietly sneak something into my skills section.

“Tetris Master.”

Recently, I worked up the nerve to venture into the attic where most of my life has been packed away. I’m in the process of transitioning everything from the locked-away tower of the attic into a storage unit where I can actually access what doesn’t fit in my immediate living space. On my first trip up, I was hunting for old sketchbooks. One oversized newsprint pad. Whatever art supplies might still exist. What did I find?

Two weeks ago, I traveled to NYC to attend a design workshop hosted by Allan Peters, based on his book Logos That Last, at the Museum of Arts and Design. This was the first time I’d attended something like this, and all I can say is that I can’t wait to do more.

I’ve spent a long time working through fear. I carried a sense of judgment around my early career and college choices, even though there was nothing objectively wrong with them. I did well. I worked in my field. I built experience. Still, my path wasn’t linear, and that made me feel unready.

Last month, I had the chance to experience a gallery opening in NYC. The Ki Smith Gallery was nothing like my usual First Fridays in Philadelphia. The moment I walked into the room, there was a noticeable shift in the air. Not in a bad way. Just different. You could tell immediately that this was a tight-knit group of people, many of them deeply rooted in the punk scene and its history.

For years, I avoided digital illustration because I physically could not do it well. The tools never worked for me. In middle school, there was one left-handed mouse setup in the entire computer lab. Guess who never got to use it? The habit stuck and by the time I wanted a career in digital art, the limitation was already baked in.

Recently, I’ve noticed how much I value silence. Not just quiet moments, but intentional silence. The kind I seek out on purpose. Noise-canceling headphones. A corner seat in a café. Painting when the world around me settles. Silence has become the place where my creativity feels strongest.

Trying to balance being present in the moment and documenting the moment is chaos on a whole different level. I’m not sure why I thought I could casually take a few photos and still float through the event like a normal host and guest. No one asked me to be the photographer. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t assigned.

It was a classic Felicia move:

“I’ll just get some setup shots.”

Then the morning of the wedding:

“Actually… I should be the photographer.”

My brother got married last month and in true Sullivan fashion, it was an epic backyard wedding. Two weeks after Halloween, no less. Talk about a whirlwind.

Everything was done in-house. The flowers, the décor, the tent, the video, the mood… all of it. Somewhere between arranging twenty vases of fall flowers (complete with ladybugs), editing together a 10-minute video filled with family memories & words of wisdom, and building a dreamy barnyard-meets-wedding photo op, I realized again: these events basically function as a second full-time job.

There’s this thing that happens when you get an idea. It’s fast—just a flash of an image across your mind—but it’s enough to stop you in your tracks and make you go, “Oh.”

I call it the O-factor.

Lately, I’ve been exploring LinkedIn Premium. Not for job hunting or visibility specifically, but for the LinkedIn Learning portion. To solidify my credibility as a designer and show that I’m always learning, even after a decade in the field. I want my profile to reflect what I already know and what I’m still learning. That balance feels important to me, it’s both proof of experience and a reminder that curiosity is part of mastery. Especially in today’s age where technology changes faster than you have time to implement it.

Creating for yourself is tough. Especially in a world where everything and everyone is stealing your time. This is the first season since starting A Creative Diary where I’ve really felt it… that slow pull of my time belonging to everyone else. It’s been hard to sit, breathe, and make something purely for myself.

As designers, we’re not just here to make things look good or push pixels around where you think you want them. We’re here to make them work. Every font choice, every layout, every grid has intention and research behind it. But intention without information? That’s a shot in the dark.

Is AI making us lazy? Is it “cheating”? I don’t buy it. Tools don’t erase taste, judgment, or originality. They don’t give you a point of view. They don’t decide when to push, when to break a rule, or when to leave white space on purpose. People do.

I had every intention of diving headfirst into Inktober this year. I started off strong, sketchbook open and pens ready. The first week felt good, freeing, even. And then I made the mistake of scrolling through social media. Suddenly, there were endless posts about “planning months ahead” and “finishing drawings in advance.” It completely took the wind out of my sails.

There’s a phrase that floats around in the design world: “Your portfolio isn’t for you.”

And yes, I get it. Your portfolio is meant to showcase your skills, your range, your results. It’s a marketing tool, not a diary.

But here’s my take: Your portfolio should still be about you.

Because if your work doesn’t reflect who you are, then what’s the point of building a site at all?

If you’ve ever poured your whole self into a project, you know the mix of excitement and nerves that comes with letting it out into the world.

For me, that project was the McCaffrey’s Catering Book, a 32-page print piece that has been a year in the making. This was never meant to be just another brochure. It was meant to feel like an experience.

The Pumpkin Parlor is part hobby, part side hustle, and entirely me. It’s a place where I can take one of my favorite creative outlets (pumpkin carving) and turn it into something tangible. Something people can hold, enjoy, and bring into their homes. I carve both real and foam pumpkins (I don’t discriminate), but this venture focuses on foam, because they live forever. These pieces are meant to be keepsakes. Little seasonal sculptures made with love, a steady hand, and a lot of spooky joy.

I know this isn’t new news but one of the main points of having this blog is to talk about stuff like this. So, if you didn’t already know… Recently, Cracker Barrel attempted a rebrand. Not a total transformation, but a refresh meant to bring the company closer to today’s audience. And the internet lost its damn mind.

It was honestly pretty terrifying BUT:

It’s a resurrection. A reclamation. My creative self finally stepping back into the light.

This site began as a portfolio refresh. A “check the box” project. But like most things in my life, it evolved into something more:

A safe space. A creative archive. A visual diary. A resurrected version of myself, unburied and no longer afraid to be seen.