Mobile, responsive, wearables, voice, and now AI — I've gotten to design through every one of these shifts. Not because I chase trends, but because a new medium comes with real, unanswered questions, and I like being part of figuring them out. I ask early and often, use whatever research method the problem calls for, and stay curious about what each new tool makes possible.
I was Charlotte AI's first designer, and the role changed shape three times over two years — each chapter asking something new of me. Getting the foundation right early is a big part of why it held up as it scaled.
The Adversary Check promptbook, start to finish — a recreation rebuilt in code, not a screen capture. Click into it any time to take over.
The only designer on Charlotte from prototype through our first internal release — working closely with product to define how it interpreted a request and shaped a trustworthy response back.
Joined by a second designer, we onboarded dozens of beta customers, shipped improvements from what we learned daily, and kept a steady rhythm with engineering. Launch day was smooth because of it.
As the team grew to four, my role shifted from shipping features to defining scope, setting the style guide, and keeping every team integrating AI across Falcon on one coherent set of patterns.
Four years at Disney taught me that the hardest interface is the one that spans a screen and a physical place — a band on a wrist, a voice in a resort room, a paid upgrade inside a system guests already knew by heart. Every decision had to survive real park conditions: crowds, noise, spotty connectivity, kids in tow, and a guest's attention already stretched thin. For some of them, this was the only trip to the park they'd ever take, planned for months or years — so we held everything to one standard: Distinctly Disney.
It had to feel magical and effortless. And every idea still had to clear legal review before it shipped — a constant balance between what guests wanted and what was actually approvable, which meant getting good at iterating fast toward the version that worked for everyone. It could never take away from the moment. Only add to it.
I came onto MagicBand+ after a prototype had already sold leadership on the idea — my first job was archaeology: interviewing the team to find what execs had actually bought into, then turning the features hinted at in that prototype into something real. The scope kept growing. What began as a Disney World launch expanded to Disneyland — the first bands there — with no existing system to build on, so I worked across product, ops, and engineering to define one from scratch.
Pairing a MagicBand+ from the native app.
Amazon built the physical band. I worked with their team regularly on firmware, sensors, and haptics — testing prototypes myself and feeding back what guests would feel.
Setup, band management, and customization lived inside the Disney World and Disneyland native apps, alongside in-park games designed for guests wearing them.
Interviews shaped what to build. In-park testing with real bands confirmed it worked — sensor placement, game responsiveness, all of it.
I was brought onto Hey Disney as the MagicBand+ subject matter expert — to shape how connectivity between the two would work, and find where MagicBand+ could add to the in-room experience, like games resort guests could play together through the device. From there, my role expanded: contributing design for the device's screen, helping refine the tool that shaped the voice's actual sound, and rewriting responses so they felt Distinctly Disney instead of robotic. Underneath all of it sat a harder question: how do you make something that's listening feel safe and trustworthy, especially with kids in the room?
Hey Disney devices, each surfacing a different in-room experience.
I helped refine the tool that shaped the voice's actual sound, and rewrote responses that had started out reading like a machine wrote them.
An always-available device in a family's resort room raises real questions. I worked through permissions, onboarding, and disclosure so guests felt in control, not surveilled.
Once the core experience worked, the team grew to take it forward, and I moved back to MagicBand+ full time.
Lightning Lane is the paid evolution of FastPass+, and for most of its life it was one of the most closely-guarded projects at Disney — secrecy that shaped how we worked as much as what we built. We couldn't tip our hand, so research meant getting creative: crafty, indirect ways to test ideas with guests who had no idea what they were actually helping shape.
Before I could design anything new, I had to untangle what already existed. FastPass+ turned out to be layers of business rules built up over years, and they weren't the same for everyone — resort guests, day guests, cast members, Disney Vacation Club members and more. Documenting all of it, while designing the new rules Lightning Lane would add on top, was a massive undertaking on its own. What began as a Disney World product later expanded to Disneyland, and I helped define the three product tiers and designed the original naming and identity — renamed Lightning Lane, with new iconography, shortly before launch.
Booking a Lightning Lane pass in the app — and using it in the park.
We couldn't reveal what we were building, so research meant getting creative — crafty, indirect ways to test ideas with guests who had no idea what they were actually helping shape.
FastPass+ turned out to be layers of business rules built up over years — different for resort guests, day guests, cast members, Disney Vacation Club members, and more. Mapping all of it, while designing new rules on top, was its own massive undertaking.
I led different design across native apps and web, each with different ecommerce back-ends, ensuring it all stayed cohesive.
The rest is a conversation. The tradeoffs across three very different products — a wearable, a voice device, a paid evolution of a system millions of guests already knew — that's the part worth talking through.
Ask me about it →
A voice-first companion for people going through cancer treatment. You talk to Scout the way you'd talk to a friend, and it quietly keeps track of the things you'd otherwise have to hold in your head — meds, symptoms, mood, appointments — then turns them into something clear enough to hand your care team.
Everything about it is shaped by one constraint: it has to be easy on the days when nothing else is. No rating scales, no checklists, no forms to fill in when screens are already too much.
If you're building or adding to a design team and want someone who's spent a career bringing clarity to ambiguity, I'd like to hear from you.