10 Years in Apalachicola: How This Place Shaped My Work as a Jewelry Designer
Ten years ago, I didn’t move to Apalachicola with a master plan for my business. I moved because I needed space - literal space, creative space, and the kind of breathing room that’s hard to find when your life is built around hustle.
At the time, my husband Cutler and I had been living in San Diego for nine years. We moved there for his PhD at UC San Diego. He finished, graduated, and started applying for academic jobs - so we naturally found ourselves taking stock of what was next.
San Diego was (and is) beautiful. It’s laid back, vibrant, and always full of things to do. But it was also getting more and more expensive. Rent kept rising - our apartment, my studio space - and the idea of owning a home with a yard felt out of reach. At the same time, I was in a big growth season: I had an amazing studio outside our apartment, I was apprenticing with an incredible bench jeweler, and I was building out my online engagement ring and wedding band collections while taking custom appointments.
In other words: my life was full. And somewhere under all of that fullness, I was craving something quieter and more sustainable.
The moment that changed everything
The turning point came after our wedding. We got married on a lake in Virginia near my (rather large) family, and because so many friends traveled in, we made it a week-long celebration. It was an incredible time - but by the end of the week, Cutler and I had one of those funny realizations couples have after a big event: we hadn’t actually seen much of each other.
On the drive to Atlanta to catch our flight home, we made a spontaneous decision. With the help of friends, we found a cheap rental on St. George Island and stayed for about a week to decompress. We ate an unreasonable amount of Gulf shrimp, explored, and - most memorably - experienced a kind of spaciousness I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
The beaches felt open. Quiet. Like there was room to exist.
When we returned to San Diego, we couldn’t shake that feeling. I advocated for trying something bold but simple: spending a year on St. George Island to reset from the past decade, save money, and let me focus full-time on my jewelry.
What I didn’t expect was that the move wouldn’t slow my business down - it would clarify it.
A new creative rhythm (and a clearer life)
When we first arrived, I set up my studio and began my days with a walk on the beach with my dog Leon. That small routine shifted everything. I used to describe it as “detoxing” - no freeways, no traffic, no constant commuting. I could finally catch my breath.
And the creative benefits were immediate. I still worked hard - making pieces, photographing, editing, listing, shipping, emailing customers, posting on social - but the work felt focused instead of frantic. In San Diego, I was constantly on the go. I had a scooter and I was always moving between jobs, studios, and obligations. Here, for the first time, I was doing what I’d been building toward: making and selling my jewelry as my job.
The practical side mattered too. Our rent was half of what it had been. That one change created the financial breathing room I needed to take my work seriously, and to trust that my business could support me.
My first Apalachicola “this is it” moment
We lived on the island for a few months, and then we started looking for something less isolating. That’s when Apalachicola came into the picture.
When I think about my early memories of Apalachicola, I don’t think about a single landmark; I think about a rhythm.
My online sales took off after we moved, and at the time I was selling on Etsy. Fridays became my shipping day. Cutler would get out of work early and drop off packages, and then we’d walk a few doors down to Oyster City Brewing Company for a pint or two.
That brewery was hot in the summer (no A/C), smelled like spent grain, and somehow felt like the center of the universe. It was rustic, friendly, and full of community. Dogs wandered around. Golf carts were double-parked. When a summer thunderstorm rolled in, everyone would huddle inside and ride it out together. It felt like being let into a secret club, and it was one of the first places I truly felt connected to the town.
That sense of belonging matters more than people realize when you’re building a creative business. Jewelry might be made at a bench, but it’s sustained by relationships.
How Apalachicola shows up in my work
Over time, this place began to shape my design instincts in very specific ways.
Water became a daily influence. I’ve always been drawn to blue gemstones, but living here gave that attraction a stronger meaning. Blue isn’t just “pretty” - it’s tied to the water I see every day. The mood, the movement, the depth.
My wave and cloud motifs clicked into place. I’ve long loved dramatic skies - towering cumulus and cumulonimbus clouds - and this area delivers them in a way that feels theatrical and constant. Those shapes and rhythms are deeply embedded in my visual vocabulary now.
Pearls became more than a material; they became a story. Apalachicola’s history is rooted in oysters, and that context made pearls feel inevitable. I’ve always loved large baroque South Sea pearls, but being here expanded my curiosity into all types: freshwater, keshi, irregular shapes and subtle lusters. Even the weird local detail makes me smile: oysters here can form pearls, but without nacre, they look a bit like round teeth. Strange, yes. But also a perfect reminder that natural beauty isn’t always polished, and that’s part of the point.
And then there’s the most literal example:
The souvenir charms. I wanted my own charm line for years, but buying catalog charms and reselling them was never an option for me. I knew the originals needed to be hand-carved, and I also knew I didn’t have that skill. So I collaborated with my friend Tara Magboo, who carved the originals based on my photos and notes. Letting go of the pressure to do every single step myself didn’t dilute the work - it made it possible. That collection exists because I chose vision over doing it all by myself.
The business shift I never saw coming: a showroom
Another surprise: I didn’t expect to open a showroom.
I was burned out on retail and loved running an online business. But custom requests started coming in, and I learned quickly that working from home is great… until it isn’t. I needed a studio outside the house for my mental health, and I needed to be around people more.
So I rented a tiny space. And then, in 2018, I opened my first location on Commerce Street: small, no display windows. It was honestly a leap of faith. People had to take a chance and walk in. And they did. That experience gave me the confidence to pursue a true brick-and-mortar presence.
Then Hurricane Michael hit, the first location flooded, and I moved to a higher spot, another unexpected turn that ended up strengthening the business.
Today, I’ve become a “must visit” stop for people who return to the area year after year: vacationers, seasonal residents, and collectors who follow my work over time. I still feel a little shock (in the best way) when someone tells me they remember the first shop.
Artist, designer, maker - evolving without losing the soul
This ten-year chapter has also been an internal shift: becoming more comfortable embracing my role as a designer while still honoring my maker roots.
When I left San Diego, my hands-on stone setting education paused, and my mentor Javi began setting stones for me. Coming from a fine art and craft background where “making” carries so much weight, that was emotionally complicated. I still have moments where impostor syndrome pops up.
But here’s what I know now: my maker background makes me a stronger designer. And as my ideas have grown, delegation hasn’t pulled me away from the work; it’s helped me bring more of it to life, at a higher level, with the quality it deserves.
What success means now
I’m still defining success (and probably always will be). But living here has clarified something important: success isn’t only about revenue. It’s also about what I’m making and selling - whether it reflects my taste, my standards, and the direction I want to grow.
It’s also about boundaries. In a small town, people come in asking for repairs, resizing, watch batteries - everything. Learning to say no has been a muscle I’ve had to build, especially as I move toward “fewer and finer.” That vision requires focus and protection of my time.
And maybe the most meaningful form of success? Seeing someone out at dinner wearing my wave earrings, a charm-loaded chain, or a bold one-of-a-kind piece with a stone I love. That never gets old.