I create zines that turn meaningful moments into keepsakes you hold, revisit, and keep.

Hi! I’m Alicia. I’ve spent over 8 years working with zines (small-format publications), alongside a background in facilitation and writing.

Facilitation taught me how to listen beyond what is said.

Writing taught me how to give shape to what is often felt but not named.

Zines & zine greeting cards became the place where those two things meet.

Because my background is in facilitation and writing, I’m just as interested in how stories are gathered as how they are designed and recorded.

Before anything becomes a zine or zine card, I’m listening.

Listening to people reflect on their work, relationships, transitions, and celebrations. Listening to the pauses, the contradictions, the things they almost say but don’t. That’s where the material is.

My body of work combines storytelling and editorial design.

What I care about most is this: meaning is fragile if it isn’t noticed and recorded in some form.

We think we will remember the important things, but memory is selective. It edits, changes, and erases details. Whole emotional textures of our lives disappear simply because nothing holds them in place.

Archiving is a way of resisting that disappearance. Not in a rigid or institutional way, but in a human one.

What fuels my fascination (obsession) with preserving memories, archiving, and paper artifacts that slow us down?

How did I get here?

In January 2021, death tore through my family. My father died. Three months later, my brother—my best friend—followed. Losing two people I loved in such a short span shattered every illusion I carried about stability and survival. Grief exposed the truth: I had spent years moving through life with a chaotic, dysregulated nervous system.

Chaos touched everything—my finances, my career, my health, my sense of self. I fought to understand how to cope, how to heal, how to carry unbearable loss while still repairing the parts of my life that demanded attention.

I stopped chasing constant urgency. I slowed down. I built a life around quiet, intentional moments, and that shift changed everything. I dove into zine-making, but from a different approach than I had before.

Reading and creating zines invited me into a different rhythm. I stopped skimming through my own life and started paying attention to it. Every page asked me to slow down, notice small details, preserve fleeting thoughts, and hold moments that otherwise might disappear beneath speed and distraction. Zines gave shape to memory, grief, reflection, and meaning. Through paper, ink, photographs, notes, and stories, I began creating tangible proof that a life—even a fractured one—still carried beauty, texture, and depth worth keeping.

A zine becomes a small act of preservation. A way of saying: this mattered enough to be noticed, recorded, kept.

It might be a couple’s story. A retreat. A local community group gathering. A card to tell a friend you’ve appreciated your shared moments. A personal turning point in your life. A story you almost forgot to tell.

I work with those moments and shape them into something you can return to.

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