The Architect of Elsewhere

There once was a boy who was born with a compass in his chest—not the kind that pointed north, but one that pulsed anytime he was near somethingtrue. He didn’t know what to make of it as a child, only that certain places, people, or ideas made it beat louder—like a song only he could hear.

He grew up in a world that prized sameness, silence, safety. But he always felt the tug of “somewhere else.” Somewhere with more color, more courage, more yes. He drew cities in the margins of his notebooks. He wrote stories under blankets with a flashlight. He dreamed in layers—space, texture, emotion, scent. Even then, he was designing not just rooms, but realms.

As he got older, the world tried to convince him to quiet that inner compass. Get stable. Be small. Be safe. But he couldn’t. He tried. It nearly killed him.

Instead, he broke apart and built himself again. Stone by stone. Story by story. He chose sobriety, chose truth, chose the wild grace of starting over. And in that space between undoing and reimagining, something miraculous happened: he found his voice—and it wasn’t timid. It roared like jazz in a Paris alley or a storm rolling through the hills of Andalusia.

He built R Haus—a name that meant more than a brand. It was a sanctuary for boldness. A structure where design was a language and hospitality was an art form. He made salons that felt like temples. Retreats that felt like rebirths. Podcasts that made people feel. And he wrote—about the ache, the joy, the near misses and the holy yeses. He turned pain into blueprints. He turned hope into atmosphere.

People started to follow his work—not because it was trendy, but because it was true. Every project whispered: “You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to want more. You’re allowed to come home to yourself.”

And the compass in his chest? Still pulsing. Not because he found the final destination, but because he finally realized—He was the somewhere else all along.