After 20 years in software, I find myself at an interesting inflection point. Projects blur together over a career this long, not because they weren't meaningful, but because the next challenge always arrives before you've had time to appreciate the last one. I've built industrial automation systems, deployed infrastructure to air-gapped government environments, and written the kind of Python pipelines that quietly save someone three hours every day. Most of it never made it into a portfolio. Most of it never made it anywhere.

That changes here.

I had the honor of attending an intimate sit-down with Hayes Carll and about a dozen other fans. It was one of those rare evenings where the room feels smaller than it is, and the conversation goes somewhere real. One of the questions asked was about the origins of "Help Me Remember," a song that gives me tingles every time I hear it. It's written about a person with Alzheimer's asking someone to help them recall their own life, and it had always hit close to home watching my grandparents fight that disease. But sitting ten feet from Hayes as he played it that night, something shifted. He said it plainly: "Sometimes we all need someone to help us remember." I'd heard the song a hundred times. That night it meant something different.

It changed the way I thought about documentation. Not the kind you find in a README, but the kind that captures why something mattered, what made it hard, and what you'd do differently. The kind that gets lost to history when you move on to the next thing, which in software is always sooner than you'd like.

This site is my attempt to fix that. The projects here are real things I built, with real constraints, real failures, and real learnings. The blog is where I think out loud about systems, decisions, and the long tail of consequences that simple design choices can have. The links page is what I'm reading and watching right now.

I've always risen to the occasion. This is where I start keeping score.