Learning how to make lenticular prints was harder than I expected. Layering, alignment, resolution—it was all trial and error.

I spent my savings on paper and tools, turned my dorm desk into a little lab. I stayed up all night tweaking images, failing again and again. But something in me just didn’t want to give up.

Then one late night, I finally got it right. The photo shifted perfectly—two images of us, alive in motion.

That weekend, I gave it to her. She looked at it quietly for a long time, then turned to me and smiled. Her eyes lit up.

And in that moment, I thought: Maybe I should keep doing this—not just for her, but for something more.

At first, I only made pieces for friends. Then strangers started reaching out.

One message said, “I heard you can make lenticular frames. This is a photo of me and my mom. Could you help me preserve it?”

That’s when I realized—this wasn’t about prints anymore. It was about memories people didn’t want to let go of.

Some said, “She’s no longer here.” Others shared photos of long-distance relationships, grandparents, old homes.

I handled every image with care. I wasn’t just designing—I was preserving time for someone else.

That year, I received my first handwritten thank-you note. It read, “Thank you for helping me keep this alive.”

I sat there for a long time after reading it, saying nothing.

In 2023, I graduated—and decided to truly commit.

I teamed up with my best friend Ryan. We rented a tiny space, pushed two desks together, and covered the walls with failed test prints.

No investors, no deadlines. Just the two of us, showing up every morning with one goal: Make each frame right.

We tested new materials, explored better textures, and built a simple order process. No team, no delegation—just us, taking turns editing, packaging, and printing.

We didn’t set KPIs. But before shipping out each order, we always asked one another:

“Do you think this will move them?”

We never went viral, never exploded. But we never stopped.

In 2024, we launched a humble website. In 2025, we’re still here—just the two of us, in our small workspace, editing photos, proofing prints, packing by hand.

We’ve seen so many emotions flow through the images—birthdays, reunions, losses, quiet moments no one else ever saw.

Every piece we make isn’t just a product. It’s a memory someone chose to entrust us with.

So we go slow. No shortcuts. No templates.

One frame at a time, we’re trying to hold on to all the things that matter.

And if you have a memory worth keeping—we’d be honored to help you preserve it.