dma* is not a brand. It is the result of 20 years of starting things, stopping things, overthinking things, and slowly realizing that creating for approval was killing the joy. This is my outlet to make whatever I want, at my own pace, with zero expectations. No trends. No pressure. No need for it to mean anything. Below expectations, on purpose.
Below Expectations
Figured it was time for me to try to write out what this is all about, if I can even synthesize it into words. Because honestly, I have no idea what dma* is.
Over the past 20 years, I have been entrenched in communities that could not be more different from each other. From the metal, screamo, emo scene where the tighter the pants the cooler you were, to early jobs as a caddy quietly aspiring to the country club life. From retail jobs selling high-end ski and snowboard gear, to stupid expensive teak patio furniture, all the way into skate and streetwear.
My brain has been influenced by everything and anything. That mash-up created a constant mindset of:
Can I do that?
Can I do this differently enough to make an impression?
Can I create something that other people would like?
I was always fascinated by creating something for others to share, trying to make my mark. For a long time, I thought that was what mattered. Other people’s impressions, other people’s enjoyment, and approval from outside sources for what I wanted to create.
College was my first real shot at making something. My roommate and I kept noticing what felt like a missed opportunity, crewneck sweaters without pockets. This was well before those options were even remotely common. I remember thinking, why can’t I just make them? So I did.
This was pre-smartphones and pre-Instagram, late MySpace and early Facebook poking days. All I really had were my contacts and friends. I asked around, and about 20-ish people said they wanted one. I put their names in a spreadsheet and asked for sizes and two color choices.
Then I did something wildly inefficient. I ordered two blanks for every order, one to cut up and one for the base. With the support of my mom, I bought my first sewing machine and serger.
Krews with Roos, KWR, was born, my first “brand.” It was a ton of work to create and distribute. There was some additional interest from friends of friends, but college took priority. Time disappeared. Creating faded just as quickly as it showed up.
Two or three years later, I was in a new city with a new group of friends. I was working a job surrounded by some of the biggest skate and snowboard brands at the time. Outside of school and work, life revolved around snowboarding, when Wisconsin allowed it, and skating.
A few of us, friends and coworkers, wanted to create something that fit the scene we were immersed in. That “we can do that too” mentality.
With limited funds and big ideas, we sat around trying to figure out how to create something that felt new while still being realistic about being broke and spending all our money on lift tickets.
Bent Shovel was born, a Midwest snow and streetwear inspired brand. DIY to the core. Limited access to quality snow, mountains, and money shaped everything. The idea that you make do with what you have, even if all you have is a bent shovel.
Arguably, this was the most commercially successful brand I have been part of. We hustled. Leveraged our resources at work and in the community. Weaseled our way into local skate and snow events we probably did not belong at. Built something real.
Real fans. Real followers. Sponsored riders. Gear in local skate shops.
Eventually, I finished college and new career opportunities pulled me from Madison to Chicago. I lost touch with the crew while focusing on starting my career. The brand evolved into something different than what it originally was.
That is not shade. It just stopped resonating with me. And that is okay. That is where my involvement with Bent Shovel ended, and another creative hiatus began as I did what I thought was right, focusing on my job and laying the foundation for a career.
That hiatus lasted almost seven years, the longest creative drought I have had. Limited space, limited tools, limited time, and limited support from the people around me all played a role.
Then things shifted.
A new job brought me back to Madison. I was in a relationship with someone who encouraged my creative outlets. Life slowed down in the best way. I reconnected with old friends, and that itch to create came back strong.
Around the same time, one of the Bent Shovel guys felt the same pull. After a few beers and hours of catching up, we decided to create something new. Something that reflected where we were now.
Slower. More intentional. Focused on enjoying time with friends, family, and the city we call home.
Living at Ease was born. A simple brand built around a slower lifestyle, reflecting on where we had been and where we chose to settle. Madison was the centerpiece, highlighted through iconic symbols like the Capitol, the isthmus, and the Union chairs.
We had great support from friends and family and just had fun making gear for people who wanted it.
Then reality hit.
Life got busy. Creating and distributing became harder. And then we got our first cease and desist letter from UW’s legal team. Turns out the Union chairs are copyrighted.
That was our best-selling item.
That letter pretty much killed the momentum. Wind out of the sails. Doors closed almost as fast as they opened.
That brings us to 2022.
A few years after Living at Ease ended, the itch came back, but my mentality had changed. I was done creating for others. Even though every brand I had worked on was rooted in things I wanted to wear, there was always an underlying effort to make something other people would like.
I was done with that.
I just wanted to create.
I wanted something for me. Something influenced by brands I genuinely admired, like Hidden and Western Hydrodynamic Research. WHR completely changed how I looked at hats with their patented bungee backs. That pushed me to experiment with closures, something different than a strap or snapback.
I landed on the button snap back, a strap fastened with button snaps, often color-matched to the hat. I played with blanks and made something I genuinely liked.
But then I hit a wall.
I had a hat with nothing on the front. No logo. No name. No justification to spend more money on something that did not exist.
So I had this weird, slightly different hat. And that was it.
My wife reminded me that this was just for fun. An outlet. It did not mean anything, and I should stop overthinking it.
It. Doesn’t. Mean. Anything.
That is when it clicked.
It did not matter what it was called. It did not matter what anyone thought. This was mine. It Doesn’t Mean Anything.
IDMA was the original name, later shortened to dma*. Under that name, I made a few hats for myself. A few for friends. And that was enough.
Even then, I was unrealistically hard on myself, setting dumb expectations for something that was supposed to be nothing. Life piled on, stress followed, and I paused everything again.
I was still chasing perfection instead of just creating.
That is a pattern for me.
So I stopped.
Even with encouragement from friends and family. Even with people wanting to buy what I made. I stepped back.
Which brings us to 2025. Life looks different now. Work is busy. I am running a growing side hustle with a friend. And yet something was still missing. I needed my creative outlet. I wanted to make things with zero pressure. Zero expectations.
Below Expectations.
That became the mindset I needed to keep going.
The results do not matter. The process does. Letting go of perfection. Making things I want to wear. Things that represent me.
I have the tools. I have the time. And I am going to keep creating, at my own pace.
This is not about money.
This is not about building a brand.
This is not about trends or selling out drops.
This is the creative outlet I have been chasing since I was 18.
Hell, even writing this is something. I have not written anything like this since college. I do not expect anyone to read it. I am writing it for me.
dma* is a mindset.
dma* is an idea.
dma* is an outlet to create whatever I want to create.
There is nothing else.
Below the expectations of everything I have always chased.