How I Became a Professional Organizer

July 24, 2026

People often ask me how I became a Professional Home Organizer.

In some ways, I’ve always been organized. In other ways, I’ve had to learn the skills to get organized—and stay organized. I’m not naturally one of those Type A people whose hair is always perfectly styled, whose fingernails are always polished, and whose house is ready for a magazine photoshoot at a moment’s notice. I think being both an artist and an animal lover has a lot to do with that. I’d rather spend my time making art, riding horses, or playing with my dogs than making everything look perfect.

What I value isn’t perfection. I value being prepared. I value knowing where my things are, creating systems that work, and having a home that supports the life I want to live rather than one that simply looks impressive.

Here’s where it all began.

In 1988, at the age of seven, my parents enrolled me at the Junior Equitation School in Virginia, an old-school riding academy that my mom had attended as a child. If you know anything about the horse world, Virginia was one of the epicenters of equestrian sport at the time. The school was run by Jane Marshall Dillon, whose students included Olympians Kathy Kusner and Joe Fargis.

Mrs. Dillon ran an incredibly disciplined program, and parents weren’t allowed to help. From a young age, we learned accountability, preparation, independence, and the value of hard work. If you forgot something, you figured it out. If you weren’t prepared, there were consequences. Looking back, many of the organizational habits I rely on today began in that barn.

Fast forward to college. I started in Drexel University’s Architecture program because I wanted to design healing homes. I became fascinated by the way spaces influence how people feel—whether it was beach houses that captured the restorative energy of the ocean, churches that inspired awe, or homes designed around spiritual traditions. I dreamed of creating homes that helped ordinary people feel calmer, healthier, and more at peace.

Then, during my sophomore year, I wandered into a small glassblowing studio called Hot Soup.

I was mesmerized.

The glow of molten glass, the fluid movement of the material, and the choreography of the glassblowers captivated me. I transferred to University of the Arts, switched my major to Crafts, while quietly holding onto the idea that someday I’d still find a way to help people create healing homes.

Glassblowing demanded many of the same skills I had learned in the horse world. You have to stay completely present while simultaneously thinking several steps ahead. Every tool must be in the right place before you need it. Glass remembers everything, and it is remarkably unforgiving. Heat it too much or too little, hesitate at the wrong moment, or lose focus, and the piece can crack—or worse, create serious safety hazards. That constant balance of planning, adaptability, and precision became second nature.

After college, I moved to Seattle to work for Chihuly, where I had the privilege of working alongside some of the world’s finest glass artists. Production work sharpened my understanding of efficiency, timing, teamwork, and managing large, complex projects. At the same time, I continued developing my own artwork and eventually decided to pursue a Master of Fine Arts at Rhode Island School of Design (RISD).

Graduate school challenged me in ways I never expected.

It wasn’t just about analyzing other people’s artwork and learning to discuss it thoughtfully. We had to apply the same level of scrutiny to our own work. Every project moved through multiple iterations, and we had to justify every decision we made along the way.

The workload was intentionally impossible. We were assigned more than anyone could realistically complete, forcing us to decide what deserved meticulous attention and what simply needed to be finished well enough to move forward. That may sound strange, but it became one of the most valuable lessons of my education. It taught me discernment, discipline, and the ability to prioritize what mattered most.

Perhaps the greatest lesson RISD gave me was learning how to figure things out. “I don’t know how” was never considered a stopping point. We researched, experimented, visited museums, interviewed experts, built prototypes, and kept asking questions until we found a solution. One professor often reminded us that the best outcome we could hope for was failure—not because failure itself was desirable, but because meaningful growth only happens when we’re willing to take creative risks.

Graduate school didn’t just make me a better artist. It made me a better problem solver. It gave me the rigor, curiosity, and resilience that I now bring to every organizing project.

After graduate school, life threw me several unexpected curveballs.

I moved back to Washington, then to California just a few months later. I experienced a painful breakup, got married, got divorced, and eventually found myself planning yet another move back to Seattle.

While I was living in California, I hired a life coach. It was 2015, and I had never even heard of life coaching before. One day he encouraged me to visit Seattle before committing to another move, just to make sure it still felt like home.

That trip changed everything.

Two of my closest friends were preparing for the arrival of their first babies. They were nesting—decluttering, organizing, and thoughtfully preparing their homes for this new chapter of life. Their excitement was contagious.

That’s when it clicked.

I realized I already had the skills to help people do exactly this.

Years of moving across the country had taught me logistics, packing, unpacking, and making difficult decisions about what to keep. Glassblowing had taught me preparation and thinking several steps ahead. Working at Chihuly had taught me project management. Graduate school had strengthened my critical thinking and problem-solving abilities. Riding horses had instilled accountability and discipline.

For years I had wanted to help people create healing homes.

I finally realized organizing was the way I was meant to do it.

Back in California, I began interviewing professional organizers. They introduced me to the National Association of Professional Organizers (now the National Association of Productivity and Organizing Professionals, or NAPO). I attended a regional conference in the Bay Area, and within hours I knew I had found my people. They were thoughtful, generous, highly conscientious, and genuinely wanted to help others.

At the end of 2015, I moved back to Seattle and officially launched my organizing business.

Not long afterward, someone introduced me to The Health Coach Institute. I had only recently learned what a life coach was, and now I was discovering health coaching. I enrolled in their six-month certification program and later completed their year-long Holistic MBA. The coaching skills transformed not only how I worked with clients but also how I approached my own life and business. Wanting to continue learning, I later completed training through the Institute for Integrative Nutrition (IIN).

It was during my studies at IIN that I encountered an idea that deeply resonated with me—one that I’ve continued to develop, expand, and make my own. That philosophy has become one of the foundations of how I approach organizing.

Looking back, it’s easy to see how every chapter of my life prepared me for this work. Horses taught me discipline and preparedness. Glassblowing taught me planning, precision, and adaptability. Graduate school taught me critical thinking and how to solve problems I didn’t yet know how to solve. Coaching taught me how people change. Organizing became the place where all of those experiences came together.

Today, when I walk into someone’s home, I’m not just seeing clutter. I’m seeing systems, habits, emotions, priorities, and opportunities. My background has shaped the way I approach organizing, and over the years I’ve developed a philosophy that goes far beyond matching bins and color-coded labels.