Have you ever noticed that right before something changes your life forever, the world goes still?
Like one of those scenes where time freezes – the main character steps outside the moment to say something prophetic.
I was in Las Vegas. A city I once called home, back when I was booking DJs, throwing parties, and chasing the high of nightlife.
But I had “graduated” into corporate. I was there to produce a large-scale conference on the Strip (the kind of event I now actively avoid).
Fluorescent lights blazed overhead, slot machines clinked in every direction, and tourists swirled past with drinks in hand. Sensory overload in every direction.
I was walking across the casino floor, on my way to set up the suite for a speaker who was about to arrive.
And then – just for a millisecond – everything went eerily still.
My body moved before my brain did. I grabbed my colleague’s arm and told her to run.
Screams of “Shooter” trailing behind me.
Most events are built like machines.
A run of show filled with content. A checklist of logistics.
A timeline of speakers, sessions, meals, and transitions – all designed to run smoothly and on schedule.
Vessels for information overload, aiming to pack as much “value” as possible into every possible minute.
Leaving little room to breathe…
Hundreds of people were scattering in every direction in the casino, desperate for safety.
There was no clear path. No sense of where the danger was coming from.
Somehow, a cluster of strangers gathered with me – twelve in total, all panicked, looking for a way out…
Or a way to hide.
I had a key to the hotel suite I’d been preparing for the speaker… maybe it could give us shelter.
I led them to the door and pressed the key card.
It unlocked with a soft electronic ping.
(I can still hear that sound in my dreams.)
We poured inside,
Turned off the lights,
Barricaded the door and huddled together
Waiting for whatever was coming next.
We live in the most connected era in human history. A world where you can reach anyone, anywhere, at any time – Zoom, WhatsApp, Facebook galore.
We’re more accessible than ever, but we’re starved for closeness.
Scrolling for connection.
Swiping for partnership.
Surrounded, but not seen.
Lonelier than ever.
That night, October 1, 2017, would become one of the deadliest mass shootings in American history. #VegasStrong.
While I was physically unscathed, I walked away from in-person events afterwards.
I got a “safe” job – curating experiences remotely, from behind a laptop screen.
An artificial way to stay close to the work without stepping foot on an event floor.
But as the trauma softened, a hunger for unfiltered human connection began to surface.
The kind you can’t feel through screens.
The kind you feel in your body – in the energy, in the presence of others.
A sixth sense that can’t be explained, only experienced.
So I launched The Bon Soir – a creative studio for strategic gatherings.
At first, I just wanted to create memorable in-person experiences for people who valued them.
Maybe it was my proximity to Silicon Valley, or maybe just the circles I ran in, but soon, founders building our future started reaching out.
Then investors. Fund managers.
They were tired of cookie-cutter formats: The crowded panels, the noisy happy hours, the shallow networking.
That’s when I stopped calling myself an event planner and started becoming a strategist, a storyteller, a creator.
I began thinking in energy. Designing for presence.
From the lighting and soundscape to how guests enter a room, every detail was chosen with intention.
This isn’t content assembly. It’s choreography.
I started small – intimate dinners and offsites.
Now I create global summits, multi-day retreats.
Whether it’s 1,000 guests or 10, the ethos is the same: Design moments that bring people back to each other.
Replacing information overload with resonance.
Trading noise for nuance.
Building containers where people feel safe to drop the performance, be seen, and bond on a deeper level.
I don’t always remember that night. But it’s never far from me.
It lives in how I listen. How I design. How I gather people.
I’m not just producing events.
I’m creating spaces that restore what technology has worn down:
Human presence.
The quiet, immeasurable power of being seen.