Painting found me later than you might expect. I wasn't the kid who grew up with a brush permanently in hand — creativity was something I discovered for myself, in my own time. And once I found it, it felt like coming alive in a way I hadn't before.

​

Then life happened, the way it does for so many of us. Family, and work.  A family health concern upended everything I thought I knew — sent me packing up and starting over somewhere new. This unexpected event has ultimately brought me so much joy.  Caring for my mom has given me the chance to really learn about who she is.  All of the stories, wisdom..  Once I had moved, I found myself unhealthy in ways I couldn't ignore, quietly navigating depression, and searching for something that belonged only to me.

​

I started small. I picked up a needle and thread, losing myself in the slow, steady rhythm of embroidery. Stitch by stitch, something in me began to soften. And somewhere along that path, my paintbrushes found their way back into my hands.

​

Returning to painting felt like coming home to a version of myself I'd almost forgotten. It has given me a freedom I'd never quite experienced before — no rules, no pressure, just color and canvas and the honest work of showing up for myself. Painting has become my healing and my meditation, the place where I process, release, and rediscover joy.

​

If you've ever lost touch with the thing that makes you feel most like you, I hope my story reminds you it's never too late to pick it back up. I'm so glad you're here.

​

​