I didn’t start designing stickers because I had some grand plan to build a brand or start a movement. I started because I needed something—anything—to keep my hands busy while my body was falling apart.
When your health plummets and your world shrinks down to heating pads, prescription bottles, and endless waiting rooms, you either disappear… or you fight like hell to stay visible. Designing stickers became my fight.
At first, it was just a hobby. A way to reclaim a tiny sliver of control when everything else felt like it was spiraling. I wasn’t trying to go viral or sell a thousand units—I just wanted to make something that felt true. Something that said, “I’m still here,” even when I could barely get out of bed.
But something shifted.
I started posting the designs. Stickers that were queer, bold, disabled, angry, tired, loud, proud, political, punchy—and a little unhinged (in the best way). And people got it. Not just got it, but felt it. They messaged me things like, “This is exactly how I’ve been feeling,” or “I didn’t know anyone else thought like this.”
That’s when I realized—this isn’t just about me.
It’s about all of us who’ve felt invisible. Who’ve been dismissed because we don’t “look sick enough” or “act disabled enough.” It’s for every queer person who’s had to shrink themselves to stay safe, for every disabled person who’s been told to stay quiet, for every chronically ill babe who’s been gaslit by doctors, coworkers, or even their own families.
Club Bionic Art is my middle finger in sticker form. It’s my soft place to land and my sharpest weapon, all rolled into one.
I didn’t choose to live with chronic pain, disability, and major depressive disorder. But I did choose to make something out of it. Something loud. Something unapologetic. Something that might just help someone else feel seen on their hardest day.
So yeah, maybe it is just a sticker. But if that little vinyl square reminds someone they’re not alone? That they’re still powerful, still worthy, still a f*cking force of nature?
Then that’s not just art.
That’s resistance.
That’s community.
That’s me, still here—still making noise.