I grew up in a tiny apartment in the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, a space where creativity wasn’t a hobby — it was survival. My mother stitched dresses late into the night, her machine humming like a pulse through the house, while my father painted signboards in bold strokes by day and experimented with hand-lettering by evening. Art was everywhere, not in galleries or showcase rooms, but in the little acts of everyday making. I didn’t grow up thinking of myself as an artist or an entrepreneur. I grew up absorbing what it meant to create something useful, something loved, something that carried a piece of its maker.

When I entered university, I gravitated toward design naturally, almost unconsciously. I wasn’t the best student nor the most confident one, but I had an instinct for noticing craft — the way fabric folds, the way colors breathe, the way a simple handmade object carries emotion. I started helping friends and small creators photograph their products. Most of them were students like me: broke, passionate, talented. They would bring me rings they made in dorm rooms, hand-stitched bags, painted denim jackets, resin earrings that sparkled only when the light hit them perfectly. And they always said the same thing: “I don’t know how to make it look professional.”

That sentence stuck with me. I knew firsthand how talent often gets overshadowed because presentation is everything in the digital world. Large brands have photographers, stylists, copywriters, ad budgets. Small creators have a table lamp, a second-hand camera, and hope. The imbalance frustrated me. It wasn’t a talent problem; it was a tools problem. It wasn’t a creativity gap; it was an accessibility gap.

The idea for Mak Nisy didn’t come in a dramatic lightbulb moment. It grew slowly from the hundreds of small conversations I had with creators who felt invisible online. It grew from the frustration of watching beautiful work buried under poorly lit photos or messy storefronts. It grew from wanting to give creators a stage that respected their craft the way it deserved to be seen.

I built Mak Nisy as the platform I wished existed when my parents were struggling artisans, and when I was a young creator trying to build confidence. I wanted a place where craft didn’t have to fight for attention — where technology amplified it rather than overshadowed it. I wanted to prove that presentation shouldn’t be a luxury; it should be a right for every maker.

Every feature of Mak Nisy is a response to a real struggle I’ve seen. AI-enhanced visuals came from the countless hours creators spent adjusting light on basic cameras. Smart copywriting grew from those late nights where creators didn’t know how to describe their own work. Story-driven storefronts came from my father’s belief that everything handmade has a soul, and that soul deserves to be told.

Mak Nisy isn’t just a brand to me. It’s my way of building a world where creators — small, overlooked, unnoticed — finally get the attention, dignity, and opportunity they’ve always deserved.