Ten years ago, I was cutting vinyl at a desk tucked into my kids’ playroom.
There wasn’t a studio. There weren’t lasers humming in the attic. There were no licensing contracts, no wholesale accounts, no curated collections inspired by the books that now mean so much to me.
There was just a vinyl cutter, a laptop, and a quiet belief that maybe — just maybe — I could build something of my own.
I didn’t know what zoo&roo would become. I only knew I loved making things.
In the beginning, it was handmade gifts for friends and family. Then pop-up markets. Then local shops. Then slowly (sometimes painfully slowly) growth.
Today, zoo&roo lives in a 750-square-foot attic studio with rainbow walls, two lasers and shelves full of acrylic, leatherette, tumblers, and ideas waiting to come to life.
I’ve gone from experimenting with vinyl to engraving full-wrap 40 oz tumblers. From hoping someone might buy a sticker to seeing my designs in bookstores around the country.
And I will never get over the feeling of spotting my work “in the wild.” It’s surreal. Every single time.
A few years ago, something shifted.
The Pivot
I picked up A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas on a whim — and I was hooked. Like, completely obsessed. It was the series that brought me back to reading after years away. I devoured the books, and then I did what I always do when something inspires me: I started drawing.
Stars. Mountains. Quotes. Symbols that meant something.
On another whim, I reached out to see if I could become licensed to create products inspired by the series. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t have a grand plan. I just asked.
That single email changed everything.
Becoming officially licensed to create merchandise inspired by Sarah J. Maas’s worlds marked the beginning of the bookish pivot of my business. What started as a handmade gift shop slowly transformed into a brand rooted in fantasy, storytelling, and escape.
That series will always hold a special place in my heart because it didn’t just reignite my love of reading. It redirected my entire creative path.
Since then, I’ve learned how to price my work. How to navigate contracts. How to stand my ground. How to say no. How to keep going when things feel uncertain and trust that every hurdle is just another chapter, not the end of the story.
I’ve learned that perfectionism needs boundaries. That creativity needs space. And that community changes everything.
The Details Matter
But some things haven’t changed.
I still design everything myself.
I still obsess over the details.
I scroll through thousands of fonts to find the one that feels exactly right — not almost right. I tweak spacing by fractions until the alignment is just so. I test color palettes over and over, holding acrylic up to light, pairing finishes, rearranging combinations until they feel balanced. I adjust laser settings in tiny increments to get the cleanest engrave possible. I will re-run something if it’s even slightly off.
Perfectionism may need boundaries… but it’s also part of the magic.
Still Rising
Fantasy is my escape when the world feels heavy. And lately, the world feels really heavy. Reading reminds me who I am. It reminds me to fight, to feel, to hope, to rebel. It steadies me. It gives me somewhere to land when real life feels loud or overwhelming.
And somehow that turns into this — a business built around helping other people step into the stories that save them.
If you’ve ever held one of my bookmarks, sipped from one of my tumblers, or stuck one of my stickers on your laptop as a tiny act of rebellion against real life, you know what I mean.
We read to leave reality.
But sometimes we read to survive it.
This anniversary wasn’t just a celebration of ten years in business. It was a celebration of growth, pivots, resilience, and choosing the long road over the easy one.
Ten years of learning things the hard way. The slow way. The uncomfortable way.
Ten years of choosing handmade over fast. Intentional over easy. Magic over mass-produced.
I’m proud of what I’ve built. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.
And I’m not done.
I’m still learning.
Still creating.
Still here.
Still rising.
If you’ve been part of this story — whether since the playroom days or just this year — thank you.
You’re the reason this little idea turned into something real.
Here’s to the next chapter.
— Amy