KRAVEN
The Birth of Kraven
Yesterday
When I was young, growing up gay in a conservative Latin family in a small town in Puerto Rico was not easy. I escaped into my imagination, creating worlds where I could be free, powerful, and fully myself. I carried a notebook everywhere, constantly writing down ideas — something I have continued doing ever since.
I threw myself into everything I could: plays, radio, television, movies, theater. I was moving at full speed. Then, while attending art school, my first boyfriend, a friend from school, and I were assigned to make a short film for a production class. I wrote the script, we rehearsed it, and I named the main character Kraven.
But the film was never made. At the time, I was also performing in a major play in the capital, driving every night to rehearsals and returning for school the next day. I missed too many classes and was eventually expelled from art school.
What felt like a door closing ended up opening a much bigger one.
Through that play, I met actors, directors, and people who began inviting me into television and film productions. I also met someone with connections to Puerto Rico’s State Department who encouraged me to take seriously something that, until then, existed mostly in my imagination.
By then, I already knew what I wanted to create, even if I didn’t yet have a name for it. I envisioned an entertainment company centered on queer stories and talent — a place where people like me would not have to escape into imaginary worlds to feel powerful, but could see themselves represented, celebrated, and given the opportunity to shine as who they truly were.
I was only seventeen. I had no idea how to register a company, how to run one, or what building something like that would actually require. I was encouraged to follow the dream and to make the company I envisioned real.
So I did what any seventeen-year-old starting a company would do: I asked my best friend, Gisele, to be my Vice President. She had always been the person who rarely said no to one of my crazy ideas, and this one was no different.
Then I had to give the company a name.
I thought back to that unfinished film and to the first character I had created: Kraven. I decided that would become the name of the company so that, no matter how far I went or how much things changed, I would never forget where it all began. And if I ever became lost along the way, the name itself could remind me how to find my way back to the dream.
It wasn’t until decades later that I discovered Marvel already had a character named Kraven.
Oops.
In 2004, Kraven Entertainment was registered for the first time in Puerto Rico.
I had no idea where it would lead.
But the first domino had fallen.
I was far too young to really understand what I was doing. I had a registered company and a head full of ideas, but no roadmap. I was writing concepts, searching for queer talent, asking people to read my first scripts, and even approached an LGBTQ+ center asking for office space so I could begin figuring out how to produce my first movie. They actually gave me a small space for about a week — until reality caught up with me and I realized I had a dream, but very little understanding of how to build it yet.So I kept moving. I continued performing in plays and taking every opportunity I could find connected to entertainment, learning wherever I could and trying to get closer to the world I imagined for myself.Eventually, though, Puerto Rico began to feel too small. I had explored so many of the opportunities available to me, and I started to feel that if I wanted to discover what else was possible, I would have to leave the island and step into a much larger world.
Caso cerrado
yesterday
After I moved from Puerto Rico to Orlando, I worked many different jobs, trying to figure out what came next. Then one day, I answered a Craigslist ad advertising a “job” at Telemundo.
It wasn’t exactly what I expected.
I ended up acting in a staged court-style television show called Caso Cerrado. What began in front of the camera eventually led me behind it, producing cases for the show. I became one of the first people there to develop queer cases and stories, bringing representation into a space where I rarely saw people like us. Eventually, I was told to turn it down a little.
I was incredibly young, working in an intense environment surrounded by people who often seemed angry and unhappy. I was yelled at, disrespected, controlled, and given very little time for myself. My bosses were a lesbian couple, and despite how difficult that experience became, I will always be grateful that they gave me an opportunity to enter the industry.
Through them, I didn't only work on Caso Cerrado. I also had opportunities to work on several telenovelas being filmed in Miami — helping with casting, organizing extras, working behind the scenes, and sometimes even appearing as an extra myself. I was learning how television was made from every angle I could.
But eventually, I grew tired of being treated without respect.
One day, I had enough. I got into my car, and drove toward New York. After roughly 23 hours on the road, exhausted and unsure of what I was even going to do once I arrived, I stopped at the last rest area before entering the city.
Sitting alone in the car with everything i own, I pulled out a picture from one of the boxes. The picture was the original Kraven logo from 2004.
And suddenly, I remembered why I had left Puerto Rico in the first place. I hadn't left home to spend my life building someone else's dream.
I had left to build mine.
I didn't know how I was going to do it. I didn't know where I was going to live or what would happen next. But in that car, looking at the name I had created years earlier, I found my way back to the dream.
Caso Cerrado, Telemundo, Miami — that chapter had given me experience, taught me how stories were produced, and showed me the kind of storyteller and leader I did and did not want to become.
And then, that domino fell.
Kraven Magazine
yesterday
New York was supposed to be the place where I finally chased the dream, but survival quickly took over. I worked wherever I could — as a server, at the TJ Fridays in Times Square, and at another retail store — barely making enough to cover my expenses.
At the same time, I found myself in a toxic relationship that became emotionally and physically abusive. Eventually, everything collapsed. One day, my ex destroyed my apartment and was arrested. I was standing in the middle of the aftermath with very little money, nowhere certain to go, and a dream that suddenly felt impossible to reach.
Then my best friend from Orlando called.
Four hours later, I was on a flight back to Florida.
When I arrived, he handed me the keys to a car, gave me some money, and told me something I needed to hear: Go to Miami. Remember what you have already done. Remember what you are capable of doing.
So I went.
What was supposed to be a weekend trip became another beginning. I applied for a server position and was hired almost immediately. Another friend gave me an affordable place to stay, and for the first time in a while, I could breathe.
And when I could breathe, I started dreaming again.
During my shifts, I would hide behind the doors whenever I had a few quiet minutes, pull out my notebook, and start writing. Ideas. Budgets. Projections. How much money I would need. What I could create. What Kraven could become.
Around that time, I became fascinated by O, The Oprah Magazine. It made me realize how powerful a publication could be when it was more than entertainment — when it encouraged people to think differently, feel better about themselves, and become the best version of who they could be.
And I kept wondering: Where was that for us?
There were queer publications, but so many of the ones I encountered at the time were heavily sexualized. They weren't always publications you would find sitting alongside mainstream magazines in every waiting room, bookstore, hotel, or public space. I wanted something different — a queer publication that could celebrate who we were without reducing us to sexuality. Something beautiful, aspirational, intelligent, creative, and uplifting. A magazine that could make us feel seen while pushing us to dream bigger.
I still don't remember the exact moment when I decided, I'm going to start a magazine.
Somehow, between serving tables, hiding behind restaurant doors with my notebook, and trying to rebuild my life, the idea appeared.
Kraven had found its first form.
And another domino began to fall.
The First Magazines
Once I had the idea for the magazine, I started working on it everywhere I could.
The person I was seeing at the time was studying art, and he would help me sneak into his art school so I could use the computers and begin experimenting with design software. I didn't know how to design a magazine yet, so I started teaching myself — playing with layouts, learning the programs, and slowly trying to turn what I could see in my imagination into something that could exist on a page.
And I talked about the idea constantly. At work. At the beach. With friends. With strangers. Everywhere I went, I talked about Kraven.
I was always writing in my notebook during my shifts until my boss would sometimes take it away from me and say, “You're a server. Go back to the floor.”
So I would go back to the floor. But every day after work, I went back to the dream.
In the extreme heat and humidity of Miami, I started going door to door trying to sell advertising for a magazine that didn't even exist yet. I had no finished publication, no reputation, and very little money. I was essentially asking people to believe in something they couldn't see.
Then my coworker and friend Nery started helping me. She called businesses, came with me door to door, and believed in what I was trying to build. Her living room eventually became my first office.
At one point, I put together a team of about six people. We would meet at a bar in Wilton Manors and talk about everything we were going to create. But when the excitement met the reality of how much work it would actually take, one by one, they backed away.
Nery never officially became part of the company, but she stayed beside me, helping however she could so I could keep chasing the vision.
As the launch date got closer, I was still short on money. I started finding creative ways to make connections. Sometimes I would get into high-profile events pretending to be a photographer, and once inside, I would put the camera down, become a guest, meet people, and tell them about Kraven.
Little by little, one connection led to another.
Eventually, I found someone willing to lend me the remaining money I needed. Today, that amount might seem small compared with the cost of the projects I produce, but back then it felt enormous. It was the money that could finally take Kraven out of my notebook and put it into people's hands.
I gathered models, photographers, and creatives who were willing to take a chance on the idea. For that first issue, I brought together around twelve models and two photographers for an incredible shoot.
And then, for the first time, I held Kraven Magazine in my hands. The dream wasn't a dream anymore. Maybe it wasn't the final destination. Maybe it wasn't what Kraven would be forever. But after years of carrying a name, a logo, and an idea from one place to another, Kraven had finally become something real.
After three or four issues of Kraven Magazine, I fell in love with a flight attendant. After months of dating, I made the decision to move to San Francisco.
He was supposed to pick me up at the airport. He never came. The night before, the last thing I had heard from him was, “I love you.” But when I arrived in San Francisco, he disappeared from my life.
I was heartbroken, alone in a new city, and once again forced to figure out what came next. So I started rebuilding myself.
I woke up early. I went to the gym. I attended networking events. I met people. I explored the city. I kept moving, even when I didn't know exactly where I was going. My goal became simple: to be reborn into something new.
And as I began rebuilding myself, I began rebuilding Kraven with me.
I no longer wanted the magazine to remain what it had been in Miami. I wanted it to become international. Better. Bigger. More ambitious. I searched for new writers, photographers, artists, and people who could help me expand the vision beyond anything I had attempted before.
Slowly, a new team began to form. A new version of the magazine began to take shape.
Looking back, I think this was when the Kraven I had always imagined truly began to emerge — not from a perfect plan, but from the broken pieces of everything that had come before.
San Francisco became more than another city. It became a new home. And in many ways, it was the place where I believe I was reborn — and Kraven was reborn with me.
And then the fun truly began.
My first writer in San Francisco eventually became my business partner, and together we produced more than 25 issues of Kraven Magazine over the next five years.
For the first time, I felt completely free to create. I directed most of our editorial shoots, producing work in San Francisco, Vancouver, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, and beyond. I connected with writers and creatives from South Africa, Vietnam, Europe, Canada, and different parts of the world. These collective minds, each bringing their own experiences, perspectives, and voices, became the soul of the magazine.
Kraven was becoming what I had imagined years earlier: something larger than me. But behind everything we were creating, my personal life was becoming increasingly difficult.
Surviving in an expensive city while trying to finance an independent magazine was already challenging. Then, during a vulnerable period in my life, I was introduced to drugs and entered one of the darkest chapters I had experienced.
It became harder to fight for the magazine while I was also fighting for myself. At one point, I was living in a hoarder house infested with rats and bedbugs, trying to hold together this ambitious vision while my own life felt increasingly unstable.
The resources were disappearing. The energy was disappearing. And eventually, I had to accept something I did not want to accept:
The time had come to let the magazine go.
After everything it had taken to create it, closing Kraven Magazine felt like another dream coming to an end. But in the final issue, something completely unexpected happened.
One of our writers contributed an article about the lack of LGBTQ+ representation in the comic book industry.
I didn't know it yet, but as one domino was falling, it was about to strike the one that would change everything.
Magazine Archive
Explore some of our editorials
The Last Kraven Magazines
The Comics
yesterday
After one of Kraven Magazine’s writers, Raad, wrote an article about the lack of meaningful LGBTQ+ representation in the comic book industry, I started thinking more deeply about what representation could look like if it came from within our own community. At the time, I was living in San Francisco and walking through the Castro almost every day, surrounded by people whose courage, struggles, resilience, and contributions felt heroic in ways that were rarely reflected in the superhero stories I had grown up loving. It made me realize that perhaps we couldn’t simply wait for someone else to represent us; maybe the stories I wanted to see had to come from within our own community.
I also knew that creating something new in the comic book industry would not be easy. I would be competing for attention in a saturated market filled with extraordinary artists and creators, while billion-dollar studios had already spent generations building some of the most recognizable characters in popular culture. The odds were intimidating, but they did not make the idea impossible.
After a lot of work, sacrifice, and the support of people who believed in the project, the first concept eventually became a single 18-page episode introducing a transgender superhero.
Pages from the original pilot of 2014
Never released publicly, only a handful of people who ordered the Collector Edition during the presale were able to receive a copy of the original, previously unpublished pilot.
The pilot, however, was never released. I had printed copies sitting at home and even received an order from Barnes & Noble—an opportunity that, as a self-published creator trying to introduce a completely new superhero story, should have felt like a dream. But despite having the books, the order, and an opportunity to put the project in front of readers, something in me knew it wasn't ready. I canceled the order, packed the copies away, and went back to work.
Over the next five years, I searched for more artists, expanded the characters and their world, and wrote and rewrote the story as the original idea continued to evolve. Eventually, those years of work became Class6, but its opportunity to finally reach readers arrived at one of the most uncertain moments imaginable. During the pandemic, when doors around the world were closing, Waiyen, my partner at the time and co-founder of Kraven Comics, suggested that we turn to Kickstarter. Instead of launching through the traditional path I had once imagined, we asked the community to help us bring these heroes into the world.
And they did. The community came together and paved the way for us to publish the first half of the story, combining the first six episodes into one book. It had taken five years and the work of more than seven artists to get there. The first printing consisted of 3,000 copies, and once those copies were gone, that original edition was never printed again.
Looking back, Class6 represents a very specific moment in Kraven's history. It was the first time these heroes existed together in a finished book, but it was still only the beginning of what they would eventually become. What started as an attempt to create a queer superhero series was about to evolve into something much larger:
The Queen's Heroes Universe
today
By then, Class6 was beginning to find its audience.
After a few producers discovered the project during Palm Springs Pride, two separate conversations began — one around the possibility of live action and another around animation. Over the next two years, I worked with both producers while the project continued to grow. We began appearing in queer media and local television, traveling to events, meeting readers, and slowly building an audience around these characters.
Eventually, we sold through our inventory and reached the point where I needed to print more books. That should have been the obvious next step. But something had changed.
I had learned more. I had evolved as a storyteller, and the project had evolved with me. Looking at the earlier episodes, I no longer felt that simply reprinting the same work represented where the story was going. I could see everything I wanted to improve — the writing, the pacing, the world, the characters, the scale of what this could become.
So instead of ordering another print run, I stopped everything. I decided I would finish the entire season first.
Until then, we had been releasing smaller episodes individually. Now I wanted to take all of those chapters, complete the story, rebuild what needed to be rebuilt, and eventually release it as one massive graphic novel.
It sounded absurd. Several people told me not to do it. So, naturally, I did it.
Around that time, one of the producers I had been speaking with pointed out something I had never really considered: the name Class6 could eventually create problems because it sounded too close to terminology already associated with other major comic properties, particularly the X-Men universe.
At first, the idea of changing the name felt almost impossible. Class6 had been with me for years. It was printed on the books, attached to the characters, and connected to everything we had already built.
But once I started looking for a new name, the answer eventually became obvious. One night, after lighting a joint and staring at the characters, I looked at Izaar.
She was the one who brought them together. The connection between them. The mother of humanity. Their guide, their protector, and in many ways, the reason these heroes would ever become a team at all.
She was the Queen. And they were her heroes: The Queen’s Heroes.
From the moment I said it, I loved it. A new name meant the project needed a new visual identity too. I began working with my artists on uniforms, symbols, and different concepts for what this new version of the team should look like. We went through several designs until eventually I chose the uniform and a logo.
The uniforms were already being drawn into the new pages. The logo had already begun appearing throughout the artwork.
But something about it still didn’t feel right.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. This happens to me often when I am deep inside a project — my body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to stop. I begin seeing patterns, images, pages, shapes, and possibilities almost as if they are still moving in front of me.
That night, I kept seeing the phoenix. Phoenix had always been one of my favorite X-Men characters because she represented both extraordinary power and contradiction — creation and destruction, good and danger existing within the same person. But what stayed with me most was the idea of rising.
And that was what these heroes were doing.
They came from communities that had been judged, rejected, attacked, or seen as something dangerous simply because of who they were or what they had survived. Yet they continued to rise. To resist. To unite. To fight for their rights, their survival, and eventually for a humanity that had not always fought for them.
So I got out of bed. I started sketching, writing notes, and trying to explain everything I was seeing. Then I sent the ideas to my artist, knowing her phone would be on silent because we lived in completely different time zones.
When I woke up the next morning, several new sketches were waiting for me. Changing the symbol would cost more money. Pages that were already finished would have to be corrected. Artwork containing the previous logo would need to be changed, setting production back again.
But this time, I didn’t care. For the first time, everything felt connected. I had found the name, the uniform, and the symbol.
Now I had to make sure the story was worthy of them. That became the hardest part.
I began sending different versions of the book to reviewers, taking their notes, rewriting, and then sending the next version to someone else. Some told me it was too long. Others pointed out conversations that could be shortened or scenes that could move faster. So I went back into the pages.
I divided the story into episodes and parts. I cut dialogue. I rewrote scenes. I would step away for weeks, return with fresh eyes, read everything again, and cut even more.
I wanted the book to feel cinematic. I wanted the artwork to speak. I wanted moments where a character’s expression, a landscape, or a single image could communicate what paragraphs of dialogue once tried to explain.
Creating The Queen’s Heroes was not simply about finishing Class6.
It was about tearing apart something I had already spent years building and having the courage to build it again.
The project had evolved. Now I had to evolve with it.
But my imagination has never been very good at knowing when to stop.
Even after cutting scenes, reducing dialogue, and trying to make the graphic novel more cinematic, I kept thinking of new moments I wanted to include. The book had already grown by more than a hundred pages because I kept writing, expanding, and finding new ways to deepen the characters and the world.
There were also scenes I loved that simply no longer fit into the comic. Some were too long. Some would have required too many additional pages. Others came from notes and ideas I had written down while completely rewriting the first six episodes — nearly 270 pages of material that had already evolved far beyond its original version.
So I kept the notes. I kept the scenes. I kept writing.
Then one day, while sitting in an airport lounge, I had an emotional scene stuck in my head. I knew I would probably never produce it as part of the graphic novel, so for once I allowed myself to write without thinking about page counts, artwork, production costs, or how many panels the scene would require.
I just wrote, and I loved it.
Without the limitations of the comic, the characters could stay in the moment longer. I could explore what they were thinking, what they were afraid to say, and everything happening between the panels.
One scene became another. Then another. By the time the creative rush slowed down, I had written around twenty-two pages. I looked at what I had created and realized something. These weren’t deleted scenes.
They were the beginning of a novel.
Even though Waiyen and I were no longer together, he had been there through so much of the project’s evolution that I immediately texted him:
“I have an idea! I’m going to write a novel adaptation.”
And just like that, what had begun as an attempt to remove material from the graphic novel created an entirely new way to tell the story.
The novel allowed me to go where the comic couldn’t — deeper into the characters, the mythology, the relationships, and the emotional moments that existed beyond what could fit on an illustrated page. It also gave the new writing a chance to live alongside a different kind of visual experience. Rather than simply being pages of text, the novel adaptation will include original black-and-white interior illustrations created by my penciler, allowing images from this expanded version of the story to exist in their own form.
I thought I would write it alongside the final stages of the graphic novel. I had no idea it would become another journey of its own.
Nearly four years later, I am still writing it, dedicating time to it every week and slowly bringing it toward completion. My hope is to finish it by the end of the year, though knowing me, it may carry me into January.
What began as one scene I couldn’t get out of my head became another book.
And another domino had fallen.
The game collection
Today
Once I decided The Queen’s Heroes would exist not only as a graphic novel, but also as a novel adaptation, I started imagining how the two books might look together.
I wanted them to feel like they belonged to the same world, so I began thinking about placing them inside a beautiful presentation box. Then I looked at the empty space left behind when the books were removed and thought: This is such a nice box. It should do something more.
What if there were a surprise printed inside?
What if the bottom of the box became a game?
At first, I imagined something simple — a small extra experience hidden inside the packaging. It was supposed to be a quick, silly surprise at the bottom of the box.
I remember constantly showing Waiyen what I was working on and talking him through the ideas as they developed. The concept was there, but I was still treating the board itself like a small bonus rather than a real game.
He didn’t like it. He looked at what I had created and told me he knew I could do better. And, annoyingly, I knew he was right. So I went back to the drawing board.
What was supposed to be a simple surprise suddenly became something I wanted to take seriously. And, as usually happens with me, the idea refused to stay small.
I started writing rules, sketching concepts, inventing mechanics, and thinking about how the characters, conflicts, alliances, and choices from The Queen’s Heroes could exist in a completely different medium.
Before long, the little game at the bottom of the box had become a full tabletop board game.
For months, I worked between finishing the graphic novel, writing the novel, and developing the game. In the beginning, I tested it by myself, moving between different seats and pretending to be different players just to understand whether the mechanics actually worked.
Eventually, I had enough of a concept to begin designing the board. That process alone took nearly a year. Then came the moment I had been waiting for: the first real playtest. I invited my neighbors to play.
And it worked. There was still plenty to refine — but people understood it, interacted with it, competed, laughed, argued over decisions, and wanted to keep playing.
For the first time, I could see that this was no longer just another strange idea I had added to my notebook. It was a game.
And once again, something that had started as a tiny detail inside another project had grown into an entirely new one.
Another domino had fallen.
When the first physical sample of the board game arrived, I was excited to finally see something I had spent so long imagining sitting in front of me.
But when I opened the box, something bothered me. Underneath the board, there was empty space. And apparently, I have a problem with empty space.
I started thinking about what else could live inside the box. Rather than creating another large game, I wanted to take some of the elements people enjoyed most during our playtests — the interaction, strategy, deception, conversations, and tactile pieces — and turn them into smaller experiences that could be played independently.
So one by one, I began creating mini games.
Some became competitive. Others became social. Some asked players to deceive one another, while others were built around conversations and questions connected to the same themes at the heart of The Queen’s Heroes.
Before I knew it, the board game was no longer one game. It had become a collection. Eventually, almost every space inside the box had a purpose. Almost. There was still one empty spot.
By that point, I was completely burned out from designing games, so I had absolutely no intention of creating another one.
Then, while I was in Mexico, I pull out custom puzzle featuring artwork of the heroes. I hadn't ordered it as a product. I simply wanted one for myself. But someone I met early in Mexico City saw the box and suggested we put it together.
We started putting it together, and we had a great time. At one point, he looked at it and said he would actually buy something like this.
And immediately, something clicked in my head. There was still that empty space in the game box. I grabbed the puzzle pieces and tried fitting them into it. They fit almost perfectly.
It felt as if that space had been waiting for them the entire time. And just like that, the final piece of the collection appeared — not because I had planned it, but because one idea had once again led directly into another.
What began as a surprise printed at the bottom of a box had now become a complete collection of five games and one puzzle.
Something I never imagined myself creating had become another extension of The Queen’s Heroes universe.
Today, I continue testing the games wherever I go, introducing them to new players, watching how people interact with them, and refining the experience through different focus groups. The goal is to have the collection ready for production and launch it alongside the novel during the first part of 2027.
I never set out to become a game designer. I simply saw an empty space and wondered what else could fit inside it.
Another domino had fallen.
The Expansive Universe
Tomorrow
From Dreams to Reality
How long does it take to turn a dream into something real?
For more than five years, filmmaker Gabriel Guitierrez has followed me as I attempt to transform an ambitious creative vision into something tangible—while uncovering the more than two decades of experiences, sacrifices, failures, relationships, and unexpected moments that brought me to this point.
The documentary moves between the journey happening in real time and the story that came before it: from my earliest creative ambitions and the birth of Kraven, to a 19-page comic that would eventually evolve into The Queen’s Heroes, and from years of uncertainty to the creation of graphic novels, games, stories, and an expanding universe built by artists around the world.
Because the cameras have been there for more than five years, the audience doesn’t simply hear about the struggle after the fact—they watch my vision change, projects fail and evolve, doors open and close, relationships shape the journey, and ideas that once seemed impossible slowly become real.
But my story doesn’t end with what I have already created. I’m still dreaming.
As I look toward the future, From Dreams to Reality becomes a portrait of what it means to spend most of your life trying to build something much larger than a single comic or company—and what happens when the world you imagined for so long finally begins to take shape around you.
Currently in production, with an anticipated release in early 2027.
IN DEVELOPMENT
LOAS of KRAVEN
In the 1680s, English colonizers arrive on the western coast of Africa in search of land, power, and people to enslave. There, they discover a civilization that has remained hidden from the outside world for generations—a kingdom led by women, protected by warriors unlike any they have encountered before.
The colonizers believe they have found another people to conquer. They are wrong.
But their attempt to enslave the Loas ignites a conflict that will expose secrets, awaken old enemies, and ultimately bring one of the most powerful kingdoms in history to the edge of collapse.
LOAS is an epic saga about colonization, slavery, power, survival, and the consequences of one civilization believing it has the right to own another.
From the creator
THANK YOU!
Thanks for taking the time to explore the journey that led us here. I look forward to continuing to create and bringing to life the many projects still on the vision board. In many ways, I feel like I’m just getting started.
