Member since August 2026
RADIANCE
Speaker • Musician • Entrepreneur • Storyteller • Creative Strategist
Radiance’s work is rooted in a lifelong fascination with what happens to people when dreams become systems.
She grew up in Mauston, Wisconsin, where her parents invested their small fortune in a big dream: a campground that welcomed more than 15,000 campers into their small-town community. As family farms disappeared and Main Street began to empty, their dream eventually collapsed into bankruptcy. Her family packed what remained into an old Ford pickup and headed west to California in 1984.
They arrived in the early days of the Silicon Valley boom, where Radiance watched family, friends, and the parents of her classmates believe fiercely in their dreams—and, sometimes seemingly overnight, become multimillionaires. From John Denver to Ratt, from the Midwest to Silicon Valley, she grew up at the intersection of profound cultural, technological, and economic transformation.
That journey became the beginning of a life spent at the intersection of creativity, entrepreneurship, innovation, and human experience. As a touring musician, entrepreneur, storyteller, mother, and creative strategist, Radiance has repeatedly found herself inside moments of extraordinary change—from discovering she was pregnant while touring Italy during the G8 summit and witnessing the unrest in Genoa, to raising children outside conventional systems and building ventures that asked what might be possible if we designed differently.
Through Lighthouse Affects, she flipped the conventional industrial touring system upside down. In one initiative, 33 young people ages 13–24—including seven who had experienced repeated stays in critical mental health facilities—entered an environment where art, music, artists, and musicians aligned to cheerlead one another, culminating in a concert that expanded their vision of what was possible when old systems are reimagined around the dignity of humanity, first.
She and her former husband, later invested in SilverBirch Studios, an entire campus and high-end private recording environment designed by Wes LaChot, whose work explored architecture through the MONAD of sound—another experiment in what becomes possible when we dare to build the system differently.
Today, Radiance brings those experiences together through Human Architecture Design—asking the question she has carried for a lifetime:
Who will we flourish inside of what we build?
The grand adventure continues.
Shifting humanity through celebration. Coconut almond chip ice cream. Pineapple on pizza. Humans. My children. Puppies. Kittens. Concerts. Dancing. A really great hug. Belly laughter. Music that moves through your whole body. Human dignity. Maximum grace. Love in action. Yeshua.
THE LEGEND OF THE MAN WHO WROTE HIS NAME
1999 — ENGLAND
The first time I played in England, I had no idea I was about to meet one of the greatest fans I would ever have.
I had just landed on a Tuesday. The rest of the band rolled in on Wednesday. Our first official show was Thursday.
That left us with a free Wednesday afternoon and a desperate need for a rehearsal space.
Our promoter was the guitar player's stepdad, (which probably tells you everything you need to know about our position on the tour schedule).
He took us to a sleepy little country pub.
It was early afternoon. The room was empty, smelling of stale ale and old wood.
We set up our gear in the quiet and began to practice.
After a few songs, the pub owner walked over.
In the most wonderfully thick, melodic English accent, he asked, “Would you mind coming back tomorrow night?”
We stopped playing and looked at him.
He explained that once a month, they let everyone from the local asylum come to the pub for the evening.
For many of them, this would be their first live concert.
He assured us, nurses and doctors came with them, staying by the doors so nobody escaped.
I thought this sounded absolutely fantastic.
The rest of the band was considerably less enthusiastic.
So, we came back the next night.
By the time we walked onstage, the place was packed.
Absolutely wall-to-wall.
People were everywhere: locals, captives, characters clinicians, custodians, clients, caregivers, the barmen and barmaids.
Some sat in wheelchairs. Some couldn't speak. Some couldn't look directly at us.
Some stood with their backs toward the stage, completely lost in the rhythm, clapping wildly to the music.
They were making up their own words to our songs.
They were laughing.
They were singing, even when they couldn't form words.
They were having the absolute time of their lives; an entire room of extraordinary humans celebrating together.
At the back of the stage hung these ancient gas lamps with actual, flickering flames.
One of them was sputtering and leaking.
The pub owner squinted up at it and muttered, “We don't want the drummer to die.”
He told us to crack the window open just an inch.
Not too much, though.
Apparently, we also didn't want anyone escaping into the English night.
(This same high-security protocol applied every time one of us went to the loo.)
There was always someone standing nearby in the hallway.
Just in case.
The whole evening felt beautifully surreal.
Then I noticed the man standing directly at the front of the stage floor, looking up at me, behind the microphone.
He was completely transfixed by the band.
He would get incredibly excited, vibrating with the pure, infectious joy of a gleeful little boy, then suddenly twist away.
He couldn't quite bring himself to face me.
Then he'd peek back around the corner of his own shoulder.
Look up at me.
Smile a million-watt smile.
Turn away again.
During our intermission, his nurse walked over to the edge of the stage.
She leaned in and told me he wanted to write me a love letter.
Someone had handed him a scrap of paper and a shoddy pencil.
He spent the entire twenty-minute intermission huddled over a table, writing with fierce, unbroken concentration.
When he finally walked up and handed it to me, his hands were shaking.
I unfolded the paper.
He had written his name.
Over and over.
And over.
That was his love letter.
His name.
A beautiful, repetitive anthem of his own existence.
Then his nurse asked if we knew a song he might recognize.
“Would you let him come up on stage?” she whispered.
“It would make him a legend back at the asylum.”
Of course we would.
Second song into the final set, we launched into “Summer of ’69.”
The moment the opening guitar riff sliced through the room, he leaped onto the stage.
The entire pub erupted.
People were chanting his name.
Wheelchairs started rolling forward like a mosh pit of pure joy.
Everybody was cheering for him.
It was absolute, glorious pandemonium.
For those few minutes, something changed.
He was the rock star.
He was the frontman.
He was the person everybody had come to see.
The entire band backed him with every ounce of energy we had left.
He didn't know all the words.
We became his backing vocalists, singing them right along with him.
The audience wasn't just watching.
They were part of it.
They were making the moment.
They were celebrating him.
They were celebrating us.
They were celebrating the fact that, for one extraordinary night, we were all in the same room, together.
I never forgot that night.
I've spent a large portion of my life standing on stages, and I think a stage teaches you something fundamental about the human condition.
You can build the most architecturally perfect, beautiful stage in the world.
Eventually, a human being has to stand on it.
I've always loved bringing people onto the stage.
Into the band.
Into the song.
Into the celebration.
Together, we are the performance.
They bring enormous value.
Their laughter.
Their voices.
Their courage.
Their stories.
Their presence.
The audience are welcomed into the experience.
The audience completes it.
That's what makes the show a celebration.
That's what makes us all part of the same concert.
Sometimes, all someone needs is for somebody to make a little room, stretch out a hand, and say:
“Come on up. You're part of this.”
When we make that room, the extraordinary opportunity presents itself.
Someone who had been standing outside the circle suddenly becomes the center of it.
Someone who had been overlooked becomes unforgettable.
THIS is what creates a legendary company
For a few minutes, everybody gets to celebrate, together.
That's what I remember most from that night in England.
Not the institution, or blocking the doors.
Not the rules.
Not even that youthful anthem of hope.
I remember a man who wrote his own name over and over on a piece of paper.
Then I remember a room full of people shouting that name.
I think about that whenever I think about what we build.
As the times are changing
Companies.
Teams.
Organizations.
Look at everything that’s come and gone
Communities.
Institutions.
Every one of them eventually becomes a place where human beings have to stand on their own front porch, executive office, showroom floor.
The question isn't only whether what we’ve envisioned, works.
It's whether the people inside it can still feel seen.
Can still contribute.
Still belong and become, extraordinary.
That's what I mean by Human Architecture Design.
We are not components to be optimized out of the system.
We're the reason for building it.
Maybe that's why, after all these years, I still think about that little pub in England and he is the greatest fan.
For one night, we didn't just put on a show.
We made room.
We brought someone into the band.
We gave him a stage.
He wrote his name.
The entire room celebrated.
We thought we were giving him a place to belong.
Turns out, he was the one reminding the rest of us that we belonged there, too.
HUMAN ARCHITECTURE DESIGN
The Origin Story
ROOTS — 1972
I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, watching my parents pour everything they had into a business dream.
I learned early that people will risk almost everything for a vision.
I also began to observe something less obvious:
Dreams are fragile for the humans inside them.
Decades later, as an international touring musician, mother, and entrepreneur, I found myself inside increasingly sophisticated systems—corporate, creative, financial, and institutional.
I kept noticing the same hamster wheel of exhaustion.
We were getting very good at making systems:
faster. better. cheaper.
Yet somewhere along the way, we began designing the human out of the loop.
THE LABORATORY — 2012–2024
Before the wilderness, I had spent more than a decade helping build a multi-million-dollar, high-end recording studio and creative campus in the Midwest.
We had dreamed it.
Then, remarkably, we built it.
At a time when news was increasingly surfacing about the darkness surrounding the entertainment industry, I wanted to build something different:
a place where artists could create without surrendering their dignity in order to belong.
People flew in from around the world to become part of that space.
Yet something was changing in me.
The dream had come true, while I had changed within the dream.
I was beginning to understand that sometimes a dream can be beautiful and still belong to a version of you that no longer exists.
I had to stop asking what I needed to hold together and instead begin asking who I was becoming.
I had to let go of the life I had built so carefully—to make room for the life I had not yet imagined.
Eventually, I found peace by walking away.
Radiance Media House is my life experiment.
Could I build differently?
Could I enthusiastically step into the unknowns of faith and begin again?
At 54, I discovered that sometimes you have to let the dream you built end before you can discover the one you were actually meant to build.
BREAKING POINT — 2025
This lifelong study was not found in a textbook.
I had spent years studying, participating in, and observing systems—trying to understand the dynamics of what systems could do to human beings.
Then, of course, like a college class in irony, my own life became the human case study.
A little over a year ago, my old life unraveled.
Through the hard lessons of a divorce, alongside the dismantling of everything I had known, I found myself living in a trailer at the edge of a lake.
I was:
isolated. exhausted. disoriented.
I suddenly understood what I had spent years observing in other people:
the symptoms of unrest.
What happens to a human being when the architecture around them stops supporting their humanity?
In that wilderness, I had a profound dream about Yeshua.
He reset something inside me.
Tangible restoration:
clarity. dignity. hope.
That experience reminded me that an external system can strip a human being down through layers of identity, roles, expectations, achievement, and even certainty—until you believe you've reached the bottom.
Perhaps what I experienced as the bottom was, in actuality, the core system.
From that core, there remains something no external system can engineer away:
faith. the human soul. the capacity to surrender to what God is asking of you.
As the scientist in me continues on this grand adventure, I had to become willing to ask:
Was this why I needed to surrender my former life and become willing to turn it completely upside down?
Enduring through the many tears of that season, I recognized something I already knew:
I had been at the bottom before.
I had won.
I had lost.
I had watched the generations before me do the same.
This was an opportunity for a reset—a new data point in a lifetime of learning.
Beneath the emotions was a raw logic:
my body already knew this was worth the journey.
There was more to discover.
More to become.
Through the doorway of faith, I welcomed my old friend:
resilience.
Perhaps this is the invitation for the architect of a true grand adventure:
the willingness to release the conclusions you thought you knew, throw out the old data, and begin again.
I had become the witness.
From that time, I began to learn:
One cannot engineer the human heart out of existence. Nor should we want to.
AHA! — 2026
My emergence from that wilderness was almost absurdly fast.
Glamping in a trailer beside a lake.
Then...
Performing in the evening on the main stage in Times Square.
On Earth Day.
I looked out to see smiling faces, dancing, and thousands of people gathered within the enormous machinery of global human life.
From that stage, my purpose crystallized.
We don't simply need better technology.
We need to ask a more fundamental question:
What kind of human being does our architecture produce?
I have witnessed how a system can be incredibly efficient—and still produce:
disorientation. invisibility. exhaustion. isolation. confusion. powerlessness.
I am here to ask each of you:
What happens when we test the theory: is the inverse also possible?
What are the requirements to deliberately build systems that produce:
clarity. belonging. trust. agency. dignity. curiosity. resilience. stewardship. wonder. hope.
What began as my growth in Emotional Hospitality was now expanding into the engineering of the systems and conditions that allow human beings to remain human:
HUMAN ARCHITECTURE DESIGN
FORWARD: INTO THE NOW, 2027, AND BEYOND
As I move into 2027 and beyond, I'm asking each of us who are dreaming the dream for the generations yet to dream:
Seven Questions
1. Could exceptional, scalable work coexist with the humans creating it?
2. What happens to the humans when a system works?
3. What happens to the humans while we're building it?
4. Could we build systems that don't require people to become less human in order to succeed?
5. What if we designed for clarity, belonging, trust, agency, dignity, curiosity, resilience, stewardship, wonder, and hope—not as afterthoughts, but as intentional outcomes?
6. Could art, technology, entrepreneurship, finance, storytelling, and institutional power actually become more human as they scale?
7. What if the measure of a successful system isn't only what it produces—but what it makes possible for human beings to remain human?
This is your invitation to soulibate.
WHERE I AM NOW
Today, at 54, I stand on stages as both founder and artist.
I bring something unusual into the room:
systems thinking. lived entrepreneurial risk. music. storytelling. humor. and the perspective of someone who has actually been inside the architecture.
I am not here simply to ask questions.
I'm building toward answers.
That's the work and the opportunity before us.
Human Architecture Design asks the questions.
Soulibation creates the space.
THE LEGEND OF THE MAN WHO WROTE HIS NAME
1999 — ENGLAND
The first time I played in England, I had no idea I was about to meet one of the greatest fans I would ever have.
I had just landed on a Tuesday. The rest of the band rolled in on Wednesday. Our first official show was Thursday.
That left us with a free Wednesday afternoon and a desperate need for a rehearsal space.
Our promoter was the guitar player's stepdad, (which probably tells you everything you need to know about our position on the tour schedule).
He took us to a sleepy little country pub.
It was early afternoon. The room was empty, smelling of stale ale and old wood.
We set up our gear in the quiet and began to practice.
After a few songs, the pub owner walked over.
In the most wonderfully thick, melodic English accent, he asked, “Would you mind coming back tomorrow night?”
We stopped playing and looked at him.
He explained that once a month, they let everyone from the local asylum come to the pub for the evening.
For many of them, this would be their first live concert.
He assured us, nurses and doctors came with them, staying by the doors so nobody escaped.
I thought this sounded absolutely fantastic.
The rest of the band was considerably less enthusiastic.
So, we came back the next night.
By the time we walked onstage, the place was packed.
Absolutely wall-to-wall.
People were everywhere: locals, captives, characters clinicians, custodians, clients, caregivers, the barmen and barmaids.
Some sat in wheelchairs. Some couldn't speak. Some couldn't look directly at us.
Some stood with their backs toward the stage, completely lost in the rhythm, clapping wildly to the music.
They were making up their own words to our songs.
They were laughing.
They were singing, even when they couldn't form words.
They were having the absolute time of their lives; an entire room of extraordinary humans celebrating together.
At the back of the stage hung these ancient gas lamps with actual, flickering flames.
One of them was sputtering and leaking.
The pub owner squinted up at it and muttered, “We don't want the drummer to die.”
He told us to crack the window open just an inch.
Not too much, though.
Apparently, we also didn't want anyone escaping into the English night.
(This same high-security protocol applied every time one of us went to the loo.)
There was always someone standing nearby in the hallway.
Just in case.
The whole evening felt beautifully surreal.
Then I noticed the man standing directly at the front of the stage floor, looking up at me, behind the microphone.
He was completely transfixed by the band.
He would get incredibly excited, vibrating with the pure, infectious joy of a gleeful little boy, then suddenly twist away.
He couldn't quite bring himself to face me.
Then he'd peek back around the corner of his own shoulder.
Look up at me.
Smile a million-watt smile.
Turn away again.
During our intermission, his nurse walked over to the edge of the stage.
She leaned in and told me he wanted to write me a love letter.
Someone had handed him a scrap of paper and a shoddy pencil.
He spent the entire twenty-minute intermission huddled over a table, writing with fierce, unbroken concentration.
When he finally walked up and handed it to me, his hands were shaking.
I unfolded the paper.
He had written his name.
Over and over.
And over.
That was his love letter.
His name.
A beautiful, repetitive anthem of his own existence.
Then his nurse asked if we knew a song he might recognize.
“Would you let him come up on stage?” she whispered.
“It would make him a legend back at the asylum.”
Of course we would.
Second song into the final set, we launched into “Summer of ’69.”
The moment the opening guitar riff sliced through the room, he leaped onto the stage.
The entire pub erupted.
People were chanting his name.
Wheelchairs started rolling forward like a mosh pit of pure joy.
Everybody was cheering for him.
It was absolute, glorious pandemonium.
For those few minutes, something changed.
He was the rock star.
He was the frontman.
He was the person everybody had come to see.
The entire band backed him with every ounce of energy we had left.
He didn't know all the words.
We became his backing vocalists, singing them right along with him.
The audience wasn't just watching.
They were part of it.
They were making the moment.
They were celebrating him.
They were celebrating us.
They were celebrating the fact that, for one extraordinary night, we were all in the same room, together.
I never forgot that night.
I've spent a large portion of my life standing on stages, and I think a stage teaches you something fundamental about the human condition.
You can build the most architecturally perfect, beautiful stage in the world.
Eventually, a human being has to stand on it.
I've always loved bringing people onto the stage.
Into the band.
Into the song.
Into the celebration.
Together, we are the performance.
They bring enormous value.
Their laughter.
Their voices.
Their courage.
Their stories.
Their presence.
The audience are welcomed into the experience.
The audience completes it.
That's what makes the show a celebration.
That's what makes us all part of the same concert.
Sometimes, all someone needs is for somebody to make a little room, stretch out a hand, and say:
“Come on up. You're part of this.”
When we make that room, the extraordinary opportunity presents itself.
Someone who had been standing outside the circle suddenly becomes the center of it.
Someone who had been overlooked becomes unforgettable.
THIS is what creates a legendary company
For a few minutes, everybody gets to celebrate, together.
That's what I remember most from that night in England.
Not the institution, or blocking the doors.
Not the rules.
Not even that youthful anthem of hope.
I remember a man who wrote his own name over and over on a piece of paper.
Then I remember a room full of people shouting that name.
I think about that whenever I think about what we build.
As the times are changing
Companies.
Teams.
Organizations.
Look at everything that’s come and gone
Communities.
Institutions.
Every one of them eventually becomes a place where human beings have to stand on their own front porch, executive office, showroom floor.
The question isn't only whether what we’ve envisioned, works.
It's whether the people inside it can still feel seen.
Can still contribute.
Still belong and become, extraordinary.
That's what I mean by Human Architecture Design.
We are not components to be optimized out of the system.
We're the reason for building it.
Maybe that's why, after all these years, I still think about that little pub in England and he is the greatest fan.
For one night, we didn't just put on a show.
We made room.
We brought someone into the band.
We gave him a stage.
He wrote his name.
The entire room celebrated.
We thought we were giving him a place to belong.
Turns out, he was the one reminding the rest of us that we belonged there, too.
HUMAN ARCHITECTURE DESIGN
The Origin Story
ROOTS — 1972
I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, watching my parents pour everything they had into a business dream.
I learned early that people will risk almost everything for a vision.
I also began to observe something less obvious:
Dreams are fragile for the humans inside them.
Decades later, as an international touring musician, mother, and entrepreneur, I found myself inside increasingly sophisticated systems—corporate, creative, financial, and institutional.
I kept noticing the same hamster wheel of exhaustion.
We were getting very good at making systems:
faster. better. cheaper.
Yet somewhere along the way, we began designing the human out of the loop.
THE LABORATORY — 2012–2024
Before the wilderness, I had spent more than a decade helping build a multi-million-dollar, high-end recording studio and creative campus in the Midwest.
We had dreamed it.
Then, remarkably, we built it.
At a time when news was increasingly surfacing about the darkness surrounding the entertainment industry, I wanted to build something different:
a place where artists could create without surrendering their dignity in order to belong.
People flew in from around the world to become part of that space.
Yet something was changing in me.
The dream had come true, while I had changed within the dream.
I was beginning to understand that sometimes a dream can be beautiful and still belong to a version of you that no longer exists.
I had to stop asking what I needed to hold together and instead begin asking who I was becoming.
I had to let go of the life I had built so carefully—to make room for the life I had not yet imagined.
Eventually, I found peace by walking away.
Radiance Media House is my life experiment.
Could I build differently?
Could I enthusiastically step into the unknowns of faith and begin again?
At 54, I discovered that sometimes you have to let the dream you built end before you can discover the one you were actually meant to build.
BREAKING POINT — 2025
This lifelong study was not found in a textbook.
I had spent years studying, participating in, and observing systems—trying to understand the dynamics of what systems could do to human beings.
Then, of course, like a college class in irony, my own life became the human case study.
A little over a year ago, my old life unraveled.
Through the hard lessons of a divorce, alongside the dismantling of everything I had known, I found myself living in a trailer at the edge of a lake.
I was:
isolated. exhausted. disoriented.
I suddenly understood what I had spent years observing in other people:
the symptoms of unrest.
What happens to a human being when the architecture around them stops supporting their humanity?
In that wilderness, I had a profound dream about Yeshua.
He reset something inside me.
Tangible restoration:
clarity. dignity. hope.
That experience reminded me that an external system can strip a human being down through layers of identity, roles, expectations, achievement, and even certainty—until you believe you've reached the bottom.
Perhaps what I experienced as the bottom was, in actuality, the core system.
From that core, there remains something no external system can engineer away:
faith. the human soul. the capacity to surrender to what God is asking of you.
As the scientist in me continues on this grand adventure, I had to become willing to ask:
Was this why I needed to surrender my former life and become willing to turn it completely upside down?
Enduring through the many tears of that season, I recognized something I already knew:
I had been at the bottom before.
I had won.
I had lost.
I had watched the generations before me do the same.
This was an opportunity for a reset—a new data point in a lifetime of learning.
Beneath the emotions was a raw logic:
my body already knew this was worth the journey.
There was more to discover.
More to become.
Through the doorway of faith, I welcomed my old friend:
resilience.
Perhaps this is the invitation for the architect of a true grand adventure:
the willingness to release the conclusions you thought you knew, throw out the old data, and begin again.
I had become the witness.
From that time, I began to learn:
One cannot engineer the human heart out of existence. Nor should we want to.
AHA! — 2026
My emergence from that wilderness was almost absurdly fast.
Glamping in a trailer beside a lake.
Then...
Performing in the evening on the main stage in Times Square.
On Earth Day.
I looked out to see smiling faces, dancing, and thousands of people gathered within the enormous machinery of global human life.
From that stage, my purpose crystallized.
We don't simply need better technology.
We need to ask a more fundamental question:
What kind of human being does our architecture produce?
I have witnessed how a system can be incredibly efficient—and still produce:
disorientation. invisibility. exhaustion. isolation. confusion. powerlessness.
I am here to ask each of you:
What happens when we test the theory: is the inverse also possible?
What are the requirements to deliberately build systems that produce:
clarity. belonging. trust. agency. dignity. curiosity. resilience. stewardship. wonder. hope.
What began as my growth in Emotional Hospitality was now expanding into the engineering of the systems and conditions that allow human beings to remain human:
HUMAN ARCHITECTURE DESIGN
FORWARD: INTO THE NOW, 2027, AND BEYOND
As I move into 2027 and beyond, I'm asking each of us who are dreaming the dream for the generations yet to dream:
Seven Questions
1. Could exceptional, scalable work coexist with the humans creating it?
2. What happens to the humans when a system works?
3. What happens to the humans while we're building it?
4. Could we build systems that don't require people to become less human in order to succeed?
5. What if we designed for clarity, belonging, trust, agency, dignity, curiosity, resilience, stewardship, wonder, and hope—not as afterthoughts, but as intentional outcomes?
6. Could art, technology, entrepreneurship, finance, storytelling, and institutional power actually become more human as they scale?
7. What if the measure of a successful system isn't only what it produces—but what it makes possible for human beings to remain human?
This is your invitation to soulibate.
WHERE I AM NOW
Today, at 54, I stand on stages as both founder and artist.
I bring something unusual into the room:
systems thinking. lived entrepreneurial risk. music. storytelling. humor. and the perspective of someone who has actually been inside the architecture.
I am not here simply to ask questions.
I'm building toward answers.
That's the work and the opportunity before us.
Human Architecture Design asks the questions.
Soulibation creates the space.