I grew up on a sheep farm thirty kilometres south of Gore, in a village known more for cheese than architecture. Our family home, affectionately called the Grottage, was a drafty, loveable mess — the kind of place that rained more inside than out.

At five years old, I was already looking for better shelter — building huts from branches, bark, and mud that somehow stayed drier than my little yellow bedroom. That curiosity led me across the world to Washington State, where I trained as an architect, and eventually back home to start Alki — a Chinook word meaning toward the future.

It’s a word full of hope. A reminder that we design not for perfection, but for direction.

A reminder that we design not for perfection, but for direction.

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We use the word sustainability often —sometimes too often. It’s been stretched so wide it’s lost its shape.

The Oxford definition of sustain simply means to allow something to continue. But it doesn’t tell us what we’re sustaining. Are we sustaining health, or harm?

Sustainability isn't a product  — it’s a mindset.

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The truth is, we can’t purchase our way to sustainability. It’s not a product or a brand — it’s a mindset. One that acknowledges that every decision — every material, every orientation, every light fitting — has an impact somewhere else on that seesaw.

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So what do we do, when the challenges feel too complex to fix? When councils feel bureaucratic, when materials cost too much, and when change feels impossibly slow?

We start paying it forward.

We use what we know, where we are, with what we have. We build homes that tread lighter on the land and last longer in time. We share what works and what doesn’t. We mentor, collaborate, experiment— and we plant the seeds of ideas that might grow long after we’re gone.

We plant seeds we may never sit in the shade of, knowing someone else will.

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Because the truth is, architecture — and life — is rarely about immediate results. It’s about stewardship. Planting seeds we may never sit in the shade of, knowing someone else will.

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Paying it forward isn’t an abstract concept. It can look like:

Choosing natural materials that sequester carbon instead of emitting it — StrawSIPs, hemp, clay, cork, and timber.

Designing for density and efficiency — less sprawl, less waste, more shared green spaces.

Building simpler forms — fewer corners, less material, less labour, more performance.

Considering cradle-to-cradle design —materials that can be reused, not just recycled.

Educating clients and communities through story, empathy, and example — showing that comfort, beauty, and conscience can coexist.

These are small shifts, but collectively, they start to tip the seesaw back toward balance.

Performance, at its core, isn’t about numbers on a spreadsheet — it’s about care.

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