I’ve always been drawn to difficult things. Not because they’re practical. Not because they’re efficient. But because they force you to learn fast, adapt constantly, and push past the point where most people stop. 

That mindset is what led me to build particle accelerators, start manufacturing businesses, spend unhealthy amounts of time in machine shops, and somehow still find time to ski through tight tree lines in Vermont whenever I get the chance. 

I don’t really separate “engineering,” “hobbies,” and “life” — they all blur together into the same idea: pick something ambitious, dive in head first, and figure it out along the way. 

A lot of what I do revolves around building physical things. 

Whether it’s high-voltage accelerator components, vacuum hardware, beamline parts, or carbon fiber molds, I learn best by designing, machining, assembling, breaking, fixing, and repeating the cycle until something finally works. 

That process is rarely clean. I’ve stalled brand-new CNC machines. I’ve scrapped parts that took days to machine. I’ve redesigned the same component five different times because the physics or tolerances demanded it. 

But that’s exactly what I enjoy — the feedback loop between theory and reality. CAD becomes metal. Simulations meet vacuum leaks. And eventually, if you’re persistent enough, a beam turns on. 

Not everything I build shoots particles. 

I co-founded a small carbon fiber manufacturing company focused on automotive components. That meant learning composite processes, CNC mold design, supplier logistics, product photography, e-commerce, and customer-facing engineering — all while balancing physics coursework and accelerator projects. 

What ties it together is the same satisfaction: taking raw materials and turning them into functional hardware with real-world constraints and surface finishes that look beautiful. 

Whether it’s chopped carbon fiber, aluminum billet, or high-voltage electrodes, the goal is always the same — make it precise, repeatable, and reliable. 

I started playing tennis junior year of high school. 

My school was small — about 200 students total — and our athletic department wasn’t exactly stacked with talent. But our coach was exceptional. He took people who had never touched a racquet and turned them into competitive and disciplined players. 

I loved tennis immediately, especially singles. 

It felt like engineering in disguise. Every point was feedback. Every mistake was data. Every rally was a chance to adjust strategy, read body language, refine timing, and improve execution. When rallies stretch past ten shots and everything locks into rhythm, the flow state is unreal — the sound of clean ball contact, the footwork, the timing, the mental chess match. 

I still play whenever I can in college, even though indoor court time is always scarce.

I didn’t climb at all before college. 

During freshman orientation week I wandered into RIT’s climbing barn — which is literally a barn without insulation and questionable heating — because it was free. 

I was instantly hooked. 

Every climb is a puzzle. Not just strength, but sequencing, balance, micro-adjustments, and problem-solving. I’ve spent days staring at a route trying to figure out how to move one hand differently or shift my hips just right to make the next hold possible. 

Over the last few years I’ve climbed from around V2 into consistent V8 territory, and the progression has been incredibly addictive. 

What I love most is how similar it feels to engineering: immediate feedback loops, high skill ceilings, measurable progress, constant iteration, and that same tunnel-vision flow state when everything finally clicks. 

Outside of labs, machine shops, and gyms, you’ll probably find me skiing. 

I started when I was so young I can’t even remember learning. Over the years I realized I don’t care much about groomers or wide open trails. I ski for trees and moguls — tight, technical, chaotic lines where every turn demands full attention. 

Jay Peak completely ruined me in the best way possible. 

The snow, the glades, the steep bumped-up runs — it’s addictive. There’s something about threading through narrow gaps at speed that puts you into a perfect flow state. Everything disappears except line choice, balance, and momentum. 

That same feeling shows up in engineering too.  Flying through narrow tree lines at speed puts you into the same mental state I get during deep engineering sessions: pure focus, constant adjustment, zero mental noise. 

Before accelerators, I was obsessed with racing. 

I started karting when I was about nine years old and immediately fell in love with the precision of it — braking points, apexes, feedback through the chassis, shaving tenths off lap times. Even rental kart tracks became personal time-attack challenges. 

Eventually that interest evolved into cars. 

I now drive a 2019 BMW 440i xDrive Gran Coupe that I’ve slowly turned into my personal project. Exhaust, downpipe, engine and transmission tuning, upgraded sway bars — every modification taught me something about vehicle dynamics, response, and mechanical feedback. 

After upgrading the sway bars, the car transformed. Body roll vanished. Steering sharpened. Cornering suddenly felt gokart-like. That instant cause-and-effect feedback loop is exactly what I enjoy most — make a change, feel the difference immediately, iterate again. 

At the core of everything I do is the same motivation: 

I like building difficult systems that sit just beyond what I fully understand. 

That’s why I build particle accelerators.
That’s why I machine my own hardware.
That’s why I ski technical terrain.
That’s why I climb hard problems.
That’s why I chase perfect tennis rallies. 

I don’t pretend to know everything — but I’m extremely comfortable figuring it out. 

If there’s one consistent theme in my life, it’s this: most of the best things I’ve done started as ideas that sounded unrealistic. 

And those are usually the most fun to chase. 

If you’re here because of accelerators, engineering collaboration, research opportunities, or shared obsession with building difficult things — feel free to reach out. 

I’m always happy to talk physics, machines, climbing beta, tennis strategy, or ski lines.