James.My first name, and my Dad's middle name.

I was born in West Caldwell, New Jersey, on Pleasant Avenue — and it was. My elementary school was a red brick schoolhouse a short walk down the street, the same school where my grandmother had once taught. It was a charmed childhood. I was a bit of a dork, the kind of kid whose best friends were his teachers. I got bullied, but it never really landed — my home life was too good for it to take hold. I grew up sandwiched between an older and a younger sister, close to my cousins, part of an incredibly diverse family across just about every dimension a family can be diverse.

My mother is Parsi, a Zoroastrian, and my father is American. But I grew up identifying as a white boy, mostly shaped by my father's side. The other half of who I am would take me decades to fully discover.

When it came time for high school, the obvious choice was the private school where my dad taught — which made me a teacher's brat and let my happily dorky existence continue. I did well in class and threw myself into everything outside of it, but I spent most of my time in the arts wing, throwing ceramics and living in my own world. Socializing felt almost like an experiment back then: at some point I decided to give it a real try, and it worked. I made friends, joined the newspaper, found a first girlfriend.

College was Pratt Institute. Design excited me more than any of the liberal arts schools I'd looked at — and I'll admit there was some rebellion in it, a turn away from the Ivy path so many of my classmates were chasing. I came in thinking I'd do graphic design, because that's all I knew existed. Then they saw my three-dimensional portfolio and told me I should study industrial design. I'd never heard of it. It cracked the world open: the realization that everything around us is the result of someone's decisions about how it should look, work, and feel. I was in love. I spent four years catching up on the drawing skills I didn't have and learning to apply my mind in creative ways.

After Pratt, I traveled — Amsterdam, Taiwan, working as a tour guide and a designer, just loving the freedom and adventure of moving through different cultures. When I came back to the U.S., I was looking for something meaningful. I joined Habitat for Humanity in Central Arizona through AmeriCorps. There was a thread there: my grandfather, who'd taught me as a boy to work with wood and build things with my hands. In Arizona I was given remarkable opportunities to do cutting-edge work in sustainability, and I found my passion. It has always been about people — about creating better habitats for us to thrive in.

But I was restless. I've always been on a personal journey. My parents introduced me to yoga when I was a kid, and I'd kept practicing, especially during my Arizona years. After a stint with Energy Inspectors and then a year at the Cadmus Group back east — work I found unfulfilling — I went to India to earn my yoga teaching certification. On that same trip, I converted to Zoroastrianism, finally claiming the heritage I'd grown up adjacent to but never inside of. And, as it happened, I met my wife along the way. That trip was transformational. It launched me into my family years.

But not before Yale. I earned my master's there, and it was another enriching, wonderful chapter — a chance to fill the gaps in my education around writing and statistics, and above all the freedom to experiment, research, and learn. All of it circled one core question: how do we transform our built world to be better for both people and the planet?

The problem is clear. We've designed buildings in a way this planet can't sustain. They burn through too many resources and too much energy, and they aren't healthy for us — psychologically or physically. And the maddening part is that we know how to do better. One of my earliest quotes in a newspaper was that "green building" is just a marketing term — really it's the evolution of our craft. We used to build better. Then economics took over, and we started making things that weren't good for people.

So after start-ups and media organizations, always hunting for the lever that could make change truly transformative, I've landed at the National Building Museum as Director of Future Cities. Studying system science at Yale taught me something that has shaped everything since: it isn't policy or economics that ultimately changes a system. It's culture. It's paradigm. It's the narrative — what the system is oriented toward. As long as our built world is driven entirely by market forces, or even by policy alone, we won't get where we need to go. We need a culture of building — one that understands the built environment as essential. Fundamental to human life. It's our habitat. It's the thing that shapes our existence. And at the National Building Museum, I finally have a place to carry that message out into the world.

Meanwhile, my spirituality keeps deepening year over year. I'm meditating more than ever, finding a deeper well of peace. The Zoroastrian teaching I keep returning to is the simplest one: good thoughts, good words, good deeds. It's the language that best expresses what I've always felt inside.

This is the first time I've put out my shingle this way. I'm excited for the chance to meet new people, build a community, and mobilize a movement — to create human spaces where we can thrive.