Chapter I
James gave me roots.
I grew up in California, thousands of miles from most of my extended family. Every December, we returned to Jamaica, splitting the holidays between two places that would come to define my understanding of home.
My cousin and I would sneak into the kitchen for late-night snacks whenever we thought no one was looking, only to be greeted with small Styrofoam cups filled with Grape-Nut ice cream.
We played tag across the rooftop, weaving between rows of freshly washed linens drying in the sun, careful not to knock any off the line.
Whenever we wandered over to the bar, the bartender would switch on the blender and make us slushies with nothing more than ice and grenadine.
The other was the Old Wharf Hotel in Treasure Beach.
It was where cousins became lifelong friends. Where birthdays turned into family reunions. Where I learned that home isn't always where you live. Sometimes, it's simply where everyone finds their way back.
One of my clearest memories of Treasure Beach is the small cove just in front of the property.
My cousins and I spent hours there.
Reaching the beach meant gingerly climbing down the rocky cliffside before playing soccer barefoot on the sand and racing into the water.
We learned early to respect the current, never drifting farther than we could find our way back.
At the time, I had no idea my grandfather owned the land surrounding us. He never spoke about it that way. To me, it was simply the place where our family gathered.
One was my grandparents' hotel, Golf View, in Mandeville.
The staff knew us by name, and somewhere along the way, they became our friends.
Years later, my grandfather transformed a piece of the former Old Wharf Hotel into six individual residences—one for himself and one for each of his five children.
Each reflected a different family.
Different interiors.
Different traditions.
Different stories.
— Just as he knew they would.
In hindsight, I don't think he was simply dividing a building.
I think he understood that life's currents would carry each of us in different directions and it was important to know that no matter how far we drifted, we could always find our way back to one another.
As our family grew, we spread across the world.
Different countries.
Different careers.
Different lives.
Yet no matter how much changed, our family gatherings always brought us back to the same piece of land my grandfather had preserved for us.
Not because the land itself was valuable—but because what it held together was.
After he passed away, Treasure Beach took on an entirely new meaning. What had once been the backdrop to my childhood memories became the place where I felt closest to him.
It felt fitting that the community he loved would be the first to honor him, so the evening before his funeral, he was celebrated in Treasure Beach.
A sea of people I had never met gathered to remember a man who had spent a lifetime investing not only in land, but in the people who called it home. Their presence affirmed what I had already come to believe: a person's greatest legacy is not measured by what they own, but by the lives they touch.
Exton Escape became my way of carrying that legacy forward while honoring the community that helped shape our family for generations.
While my grandfather may have sold pieces of the coastline throughout his life, he was intentional about keeping enough so that our family's connection to Treasure Beach would never be lost.
He was planning for something he would never fully see.
Generations who would always find their way home.
Chapter II
Parker gave me purpose
Somewhere deep inside me, I always knew I wanted to build something of my own. What I questioned wasn't the dream—it was whether I was capable of making it a reality.
Then Dean walked into my life.
From the moment I met him I found myself swept into his drive to do more, know more, and build more. Whether it was a popcorn seasoning company or a baby bib business, there never seemed to be limits to his imagination.
I had spent my life watching entrepreneurs just to find out I had fallen in love with one.
I came to know Dean's childhood through the stories of those who knew him best. While most kids spent recess playing games, Dean spent his selling homemade "Pixie Sticks" made from Kool-Aid and sugar. By the end of the school day, the red stains on the palms of half his classmates were evidence that, even then, he had a knack for creating something people wanted.
As an adult, he built a successful career in sales while always finding something new to build on the side. Entrepreneurship wasn't something he pursued. It was simply who he was.
Our home became a place where ideas were always welcome. Business plans were discussed over dinner and dreams weren't dismissed, they were challenged.
We poked holes in each other's pitches, questioned every assumption, and made each other explain exactly how an idea would work. Not to discourage one another, but so that when we finally said yes, we could hit the ground running with confidence, fully aware of the risks.
Years before we were married, Dean asked me what my five-year plan looked like. While he dreamed of a life with passive income or earning equity in the next great startup, my vision for the future was much simpler: a happy marriage and children of my own.
Five years later, it had become my reality.
After our children were born, I chose to stay home with them, which remains one of the greatest privileges of my life. Motherhood filled every part of my heart I had hoped it would. But with it came a deeper understanding of my own parents.
As a child, I knew they worked tirelessly to give us opportunities they never had. But as a mother, I finally understood what drove them—they had come so close to never having us at all. Doctors once told them they would never have children, and in time, they came to accept that the family they longed for might never be theirs. Then, in God's timing, everything changed.
They were blessed with my brother, J.D., and then me. Today, they get to witness something even greater than they once imagined: four grandchildren—David, Jayden, Julian, and Erin.
Through James + Parker, I now have the opportunity to help build the next chapter of a family story that almost never had a beginning.
After our son was born, Dean suggested we buy rental properties in his hometown of Detroit. Together, those first homes grew into a small real estate investment company.
One of the homes we purchased became our first Airbnb, and Dean asked me to design it. I furnished and styled It for just over two thousand dollars, spending most of that budget hunting through thrift stores for pieces that felt thoughtful rather than expensive.
That experience taught me something I still believe today:
"Beautiful spaces aren't defined by the size of the budget. They're defined by the intention behind every decision.”
Dean watched every step of it unfold. He saw me obsess over lighting, materials, furniture placement, how each room felt, and the countless details most people never notice.
As soon as guests checked out, I found myself reading every review with nervous anticipation. Five stars. Then another. Then another.
But what meant the most wasn't the rating. It was knowing I could design a home from California, welcome guests in Michigan, and make complete strangers feel at home without ever meeting them. It confirmed that I wasn't simply designing spaces anymore. I was carrying forward the kind of hospitality I had first witnessed through my grandparents.
Detroit was never the destination. It was the classroom.
The next opportunity came closer to home: my first new build—a 960-square-foot ADU in my parents' backyard. Every detail mattered, from the placement of each electrical outlet to sourcing a reclaimed arched front door. Each decision made the next one a little easier.
Around that time, Dean said something I'll never forget: "Most entrepreneurs spend their lives chasing money. You've found something you would do even if money wasn't the reason."
He recognized a part of me I hadn't fully grown into yet.
A few years later, after my grandfather passed away, my father asked me a question that would change everything.
"Are you still interested in building?"
Not just anywhere.
On the coast of Treasure Beach that had remained in my family for generations.
The same land that had once been nothing more than tall grass stretching toward the sea—a landscape I had loved long before I knew it was part of my family's story.
I said yes.
The first time I stepped onto the construction site, all that stood before me was a foundation and a few concrete walls.
I cried.
Partly because I missed my grandfather.
Partly because, standing there, I felt the weight of everything my grandparents had left behind and everything my parents had worked so hard to make possible.
By my second visit I was standing in what felt like a well oiled machine.
A half dozen craftsmen decades my senior, all bringing to life something that had once been nothing more than an idea.
They looked to me for decisions. For revisions. For direction.
Only months earlier, I had been learning as I went. I drew electrical plans in Microsoft Word, taught myself a free 3D rendering program, and pieced together images from Pinterest—all to communicate what I could not yet draw.
I had no formal architectural training. Yet curiosity proved to be more valuable than credentials, and determination refused to let inexperience become an excuse.
That day my father said something I'll never forget.
He told me that, like his dad, I could see the small details of a place in my mind long before it existed.
Until that moment, I had never thought of it as anything unusual. It was simply the way my brain had always worked.
On the flight home, my father's words stayed with me. They made me realize that maybe what my grandfather had passed down wasn't just land.
It was a way of seeing.
For the first time in my life, the voice that had convinced me I wasn't enough was beginning to lose its hold on me.
The imposter syndrome wasn't defeated overnight—it simply began to retreat.
Exton Escape became a physical reminder that, though my father had always believed in me, he wasn't trying to convince me to believe in myself. He was simply giving me the opportunity to discover it for myself.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking whether I was qualified and simply became the person who was.
Chapter III
Together They Gave Me the Courage to Build
But those of us who could see the full picture understood that behind every one of those dreams stood women whose names were rarely on the sign.
My grandmother. My mother.
They organized. They questioned. They found solutions before problems had the chance to grow.
If the businesses were the visible legacy, these women were the foundation they stood upon.
Without them, there would have been no businesses to build. No risks worth taking.
Growing up, I watched remarkable men turn ideas into reality.
Their names were often the ones attached to the businesses and their ideas shaped what came next.
For years, I wondered if I was meant to play the supporting role, making sure someone else's plan succeeded.
That thought fed my self-doubt, and convinced me I wasn't meant to stand at the front—until I realized I had misunderstood what leadership truly was.
The women I admired most weren't standing in the background. Everything they did wasn't simply support—it was leadership. Just a different kind.
There had always been a thread running through it all:
Managing commercial properties alongside my father.
Designing my first Airbnb in Detroit with Dean.
Slowly teaching myself how to bring ideas to life.
They were never detours. They were preparing me to lead.
For years, I believed I had to choose between supporting and leading, only to realize that my greatest strength came from knowing when to do both.
I inherited my grandfather's vision.
My grandmother's steadiness.
My father's confidence.
My mother's discipline.
My husband's belief.
My children's future.