I didn’t grow up dreaming of being a farmer—or a metalworker. But some of my earliest memories are in the garden with my mom—pulling weeds, steering the cart through the garden center, and sowing my first tomato seed. I also remember working with my dad in his shop, sandblasting parts for the cars he restored. Those moments planted something in me, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

After losing my mom in my senior year of high school, I spent nearly a decade in Southwest Michigan trying to build a life around dance. I taught for years, but something always felt just out of reach. Eventually, I moved to Chicago to pursue performance more seriously. Then 2020 hit—and the performing arts world shut down.

What does one do with so much free time? Plant twelve-foot sunflowers in grow bags on a third-floor balcony. Duh.

That small act turned into something bigger. I kept planting—vegetables, herbs, then flowers—until the rooftop of the townhouse I share with my partner Nick became a full-blown garden. I didn’t think I had the time or space to turn it into something real. But I kept planting anyway.

Around that time, I lost my dad too—someone who could fix just about anything. I kept reaching for the phone to ask which drill to buy or what kind of wood to use for a tiny greenhouse, only to remember I couldn’t make that call anymore. So, I started learning that sh*t on my own.

Almost a year later, I found myself in a metal shop, learning how to weld and forge steel into functional art. It felt grounding—like problem-solving and poetry at the same time.

Now, I create custom metalwork for the home and garden while farming flowers on our rooftop and in four small garden plots across the city—just under 1,000 square feet in total. It’s not much, but it’s where I’m starting. Every time I plant a seed or build a new piece of art, I feel like I’m shaping the life I want—one rooted in beauty, sustainability, and care.

What keeps me going is knowing this work came from something real. From loss, yes—but also from love. From sunflowers on balconies and learning to fix what’s broken. That’s what Beau Shi is all about: where beauty takes root, where care becomes form, where something fleeting and something strong can exist side by side.