Growing up in California, every summer I watched the lush green hills turn gold and often wondered what these landscapes looked like a thousand years ago. Over time, I’ve come to see that what we call “natural change” isn’t really natural at all. Much of it is the legacy of overgrazing, invasive species, and deforestation. It’s the loss of vast herds that once roamed, grazing and fertilizing in cycles. It’s the disappearance of keystone species like beavers, who slowed water, spread it across valleys, and kept landscapes alive. Layer on top of that the carving up of land by roads and cities, and the siphoning of water from where it’s needed to where it’s wanted. Across vast stretches of land, the trajectory is clear: we’re on our way to becoming a desert.
For the better part of a decade, I’ve been increasingly fascinated—borderline obsessed—with the idea of regeneration. When in the woods or in the garden, I’d feel my stress melting away, and I knew I needed to figure out how to spend more time working with nature. Growing up with dyslexia, words on a page often felt like a wall. But my hunger to understand how soil, plants, animals, and human health are connected turned that wall into an open door. That pursuit has paid off. I’ve now read and witnessed enough stories of land rebounding to know one thing: the damage isn’t permanent. With care and support, even the most degraded ground can recover and thrive. Ecosystems can return. Pockets of biodiversity can spread outward, turning scarcity into abundance.
This isn’t about pointing fingers at farmers and ranchers. I’ve now witnessed firsthand how most of them love their land more than anyone, but they’ve been trapped in a system that extracts from them too, forced to shoulder the risk while corporations take the profits. They deserve to be at the center of the story of repair, not pushed to the margins.
I don’t believe in silver bullets or quick fixes, and most importantly, I don’t pretend to have all the answers; however, I do believe in long-term thinking, trial and error, and trusting my gut. I’ve seen the power of learning by doing. In design, we call it prototyping and testing. On the land, it’s about getting your hands dirty and letting the soil, the water, and the life around you be the teacher.
Time Will Tell was born from that belief. After over two decades designing for some of the world’s most recognizable brands and co-founding my design studio, Branch Creative, I chose to direct my energy toward something bigger than any product: the regeneration of the planet. Time Will Tell is our long-term commitment to document the restoration of a single degraded property and to share the process openly through stories. Our hope is to make abstract data palatable through compelling visuals, and document actual transformation with fixed, time-lapse, and aerial cameras. Most importantly, we want to show you the before, as well as every step that follows, so the after is clear. In an era of eroding trust, process and transparency matter now more than ever.
We don’t know exactly what will work, what won’t, or what will surprise us. That’s the point. We’re learning in public, and we’re inviting others along for the ride. Will it work? Time will tell.