I grew up in an affluent, predominantly white suburb of Boston — in a Korean immigrant family that didn’t fit the mold. My parents ran a convenience store in a tough neighborhood, 6am to 11pm, no days off. I was the sixth of seven children. Long hours at the store were the norm and there was no room for complaint. By age 8, when I needed to go work at the store but there was no ride available, I figured out how to use public transit to commute an hour to get to the store on my own.

My grades were terrible — not because I lacked intellect, but because there was no room at home to think. I got to Wheaton College and everything changed. Within a year, I was running the campus newspaper. Within two, I turned it from bimonthly to weekly. The spring of my freshman year, at age 18, my parents told me they were done supporting me. When I asked why, they said, “Well, Christine, you always seem to figure things out.”

In that moment, I only saw one path forward: I have no choice but to be exceptional so financial aid will invest in me. I completed a double major in psychology and music magna cum laude and was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa. I was selected to be part of Wheaton’s first White House intern class. I played solo violin recitals, was editor-in-chief of the college newspaper, and was an officer on the student judicial board. I worked as a student manager at the campus library. And even though I was on my own, I signed every work/study paycheck over to my mother because in my estimation, her challenges were legitimately bigger than mine were.

During my senior year at Wheaton I applied for Ph.D. programs but was rejected across the board, likely because I didn’t have proven lab experience. I applied for and was offered a position as a lab manager and research assistant at Brandeis University. I learned that as a full-time employee I could pursue a Master’s degree — only paying the taxes on what the tuition would cost, so I completed the Master’s part-time while working full-time. After three years at Brandeis I applied to Ph.D. programs again and was accepted everywhere. I headed to Queen’s University in Canada, and after racking up loans my first year, I applied for a predoctoral fellowship from the NIH to fund my music perception and cognition research. I won the fellowship — the first ever predoctoral NIH grant in the department’s history — which covered the remaining three years it took to complete my Ph.D. With no postdoctoral appointment listings in the Boston area, I sought out an advisor who would work with me if I could earn my own funding through a postdoctoral fellowship from the NIH. I won the grant and completed a three-year auditory neurology postdoctoral fellowship at Massachusetts General Hospital, MIT, and Harvard Medical School.

I was a good scientist but all signs pointed to the exit as I finished my fellowship. I left academia in 2006 with no plan for what was next. What I did have was confidence that I could figure something out after 15 years of finding solutions with no safety net.

What followed was a new career of building things that didn't exist yet, from scratch — driven by curiosity when I saw a gap and wanted to fill it. A pioneering media brand and community (Boston Mamas) — started at midnight, up with a baby. A book (Minimalist Parenting, with co-author Asha Dornfest). Two podcasts (Edit Your Life and Hello Relationships). Two newsletters (There’s Always A Story and Edit Your Life). Two graphic design businesses (Posh Peacock and Brave New World Designs), the first of which I started after downloading a 30-day Adobe Illustrator trial and realizing I had a knack for vector design. I had also been consulting on social media for small businesses on my own when my friend Morra Aarons-Mele asked whether I would be interested in joining her new company, Women Online, a boutique communications agency to mobilize women to use their megaphones for good. I evolved into the role of creative director, where I designed and executed award-winning campaigns and activations for organizations like the American Cancer Society, Heifer International, and the CDC Injury Center. We pioneered mission-driven influencer strategies before the industry had a name for them.

Along the way, colleagues gave me a name: The Diplomat. Not because I smooth things over. Because my lens and experiences have given me the unique ability to walk into the toughest rooms, make space for complex challenges, then figure out how to build what comes after. That combination of emotional intelligence and deep operational understanding is foundational to how I work.