I’ve been sitting in the tension lately. That gnawing, restless feeling of not being “good enough.” The voice that sneaks in at the edges of my work and whispers, This isn’t worth anything. No one will care. And then, just as quickly, another voice jumps in, all bravado and ego, shouting, Why isn’t everyone paying attention to this yet? It’s exhausting—this push and pull between trying to trust my own creative instincts and still craving someone else’s validation.
I know better by now. I know how much suffering comes from chasing approval, from trying to control something that was never mine to hold in the first place. But knowing doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t quiet the noise. The only thing that does is making. Making art is my way through, my only reliable way to claw back to myself.
This piece started in an Ugly Art class—a painting I’d abandoned because it felt like nothing. Just layers of paint thrown down with the intention of letting go. But there it sat, waiting. I picked it up again on a day when the shame narratives were loud. I didn’t have a clear plan, just an ache to touch something deeper, to find whatever was hiding in the layers.
I started with red paint—smeared, scraped, scribbled. It felt like blood. Like fire. Like raw, open wounds. I didn’t overthink it, just let my hands work, trying to find a rhythm that felt alive. I could feel something starting to emerge, but I didn’t know what. That’s how it always is for me—this blind groping toward something ineffable. The voice in my head said, This is garbage. You’re wasting your time. Another voice shot back, Just shut up and keep going.
Once the reds felt alive, I moved on to the black webbing. I drew it with ink, letting it flow in these jagged, organic patterns. It felt both chaotic and deliberate, like I was trying to weave together all the tangled mess inside me. The webbing started to take shape, and I thought, This feels like shame. Like being trapped. But there was something else, too—something breaking through.
The collage layers came last. Ripping, cutting, tearing—there was something cathartic about it. I added the fragments to the piece like jagged puzzle pieces, forcing them to fit into the chaos. And then the fist. That hand breaking through felt so right, so necessary. A part of me claiming space, reaching for something bigger, something beyond the tangle.
When I stepped back, it hit me: This piece was everything I’d been feeling. The shame. The restlessness. The deep yearning to be seen. The refusal to disappear. The webbing was the voice that tells me I’m not good enough, that I should just stop. But the light breaking through? That’s the part of me that knows better. That trusts. That keeps going, even when it’s hard. The fist? That’s me, defiant and tender, breaking through the noise.
The final piece is called Breaking Through. A hand reaches upward, emerging from a fractured, web-like structure of deep reds and blacks. Breaking Through captures a moment of resistance and release—a raw expression of striving toward light from within darkness. The jagged edges and layered fragments mirror the struggle of breaking free from entanglement, while the hand at its center embodies hope, strength, and determination.
This piece explores themes of perseverance, vulnerability, and the act of reclaiming oneself. It invites viewers to witness the beauty in struggle and the power of reaching for freedom, even when the world feels unyielding.
It also reminded me of something I read recently from
:
"The person I’m becoming is still struggling to get her form down right. But she’s experimenting. She’s listening to the feedback of her environment. She’s trying."
That’s how I felt in the middle of this piece—like I was experimenting, struggling, trying to figure out what I was becoming. And the thing is, I’m still trying. I’m still working out my form. But in those moments of creation, I get closer to her. Closer to the person I’m becoming, the one who knows how to hold the tension without being consumed by it.
I’m sharing this because maybe you’ve been sitting in your own tangle lately.
Maybe the voices in your head are loud, too.
Maybe there’s something raw and alive inside you waiting to break through.
What would happen if you let it?
What would happen if you made something just for you?
Till next time, you’re amazing.
xoxo,
