I fell into event planning by accident — tripped and landed in the mud, really.
Three decades later, I’m still dusting myself off and loving it.
Back then, I was working for one of the early online-publishing companies. When they acquired another firm in Cleveland, they shut down the California division, and I suddenly found myself unemployed, newly married, first child on the way, and panicking.
A friend, the director of catering at a hotel, listened to me whine and said, “My catering manager just quit. Come work with me.”
I laughed. “What do I know about catering?”
She said, “I can teach you food. I can’t teach you contracts or people.”
Needing a paycheck, I said yes. Within six months, I learned that brides, their mothers, and chefs were a volatile mix — and that I was not built to referee that trio. But I loved hospitality, so I moved into hotel sales. That job introduced me to professional event planners. I had no idea the industry even existed.
From theater kid to event producer
I spent my childhood in the theater — acting, stage managing, and building sets. Event planning turned out to be a new version of that: someone gives me a script, I cast it, design the set, direct the lighting, and make sure the audience feels something.
That realization changed everything. Once I joined the planning side, my career just exploded.
Over time, I’ve worked with high-profile companies and private clients like Ariana Grande and Nick Jonas.
At this stage of my career, I say no more often than I say yes. I choose clients who share my ethics and understand that my job isn’t to be a servant but to be of service. You hire me for my expertise and unique perspective. If you’re looking for someone to agree with everything, I’m not the right person.
My team jokes that I’m the love child of Martha Stewart and Anthony Bourdain: I can make things exquisitely beautiful and on brand — but I’ll walk out if a client crosses a line. I have opinions. I’m direct. But that’s why people trust me.
I run my pricing like a law or architecture firm: you pay for my intellectual property and my team’s time. Everything else is a pass-through cost.
If we rent furniture or hire a caterer, you’ll see the exact costs. I’d rather a client sign vendor contracts directly than suspect hidden profit margins. My reputation is all I have.
Could I charge six figures for every event? Sure — and sometimes the numbers get there. But I can’t hand someone a million-dollar invoice with a straight face unless the value is real.
I also push clients to incorporate community give-backs into their celebrations. If you’re spending that much money, something good should ripple out from it.
What’s in — and what’s tired
If you describe an event you saw on “Page Six,” I’ll stop you mid-sentence. That was someone else’s idea, for someone else’s story. Let’s find out what moved you and build from there.
Please, no more white-marble bars and faux-mid-century “modern” décor. We had a golden opportunity during the COVID-19 pandemic to reinvent how people gather, but most of the industry reverted to the same old formula: long tables, centerpieces, and predictable menus.
The trend I love most is local, local, local — sourcing food, wine, and design elements from wherever we’re hosting the event. If you’re in Montana, give guests trout, not imported fish. If you’re in Paris, let them taste real French cuisine. People remember authenticity, not sameness.
I’m also obsessed with weaving technology into live experiences without losing humanity. We’ve used holographic greeters that interact with guests, and we can now beam in a keynote speaker from another continent as a life-size hologram onstage. It’s the theater kid in me, still staging illusions that make people feel wonder.
Wellness is another growing focus, but I don’t treat it as a side station. It’s part of the event’s DNA. Perhaps that means a zero-proof bar alongside the cocktail bar or quiet areas where guests can unwind and decompress. Inclusivity matters: no one should feel singled out for drinking — or for not drinking.
The real luxury
For me, luxury isn’t excess — it’s intention. It’s creating moments that feel personal, ethical, and rooted in place.
I’m comfortable financially, and my business supports my family—including my youngest son, who’s autistic and will always need care. That’s what drives me: building something sustainable enough that he’ll be secure when I’m gone.
I don’t need a sports car. What I love is hopping on a plane to Paris with my family, sitting in a café, and knowing that my work lets me do that.
After all these years, I’m still in the theater — just with a bigger budget and a better audience.
