How I Stayed an Artist

As a child, I drew constantly. My parents' favorite way to socialize was dinners out with friends, leaving me with hours at a restaurant table while they discussed school board issues and theology. Sometimes I brought a book, but since I liked to listen to them (especially to my dad), my favorite boredom buster was a pen and the paper placemat.

By the time I was a teen, any evening not spent exploring the new world wide web or chatting with friends on AOL messenger was spent drawing. (Or I'd draw while pages loaded because OMG it took forever and a day if there were a lot of images on that black and lime green geocities Brendan Fraser fan page.)

Support for my hobby was spotty. My unartistic parents kindly bought me paints, canvases, and colored pencils; however, each finished piece was met with "helpful advice" from every adult I showed it to. While I understand that there was no malintent, teenage girls are already subject to enough criticism about their perceived shortcomings.

Then I went to college. A liberal arts college. An arts college. The biggest major overall was education -- I, myself, was majoring in English education -- but the biggest major represented on campus was art. It seemed like half of my friends, including my new roommate, were art majors. It made me feel like a fraud. I'd completely bought into the toxic idea that in order to enjoy something, you had to be great at it. I compared myself to others and decided it would be best to stop drawing and focus on other avenues of art I enjoyed.

What I didn't realize was that I didn't choose one art over another. I had chosen toxic thinking over joy. My writing went nowhere, and I read that as failure, too. I put myself into this impossible box with only one avenue of escape: smashing success.

When I became a mother in 2017, I'd had enough of toxic thinking. I started to relax and just let myself enjoy things. I started pour painting, which I'll talk about more in another post. In February of 2020, I taught myself decoupage, and glammed up our dresser that I loathed. (One day, I'll finally get the emerald green paint on it.) I woke up every day, looking at this dresser I'd redesigned, and it made me so happy that I'd done that.

Then lockdown happened. After staring at my house for days on end, I decided to use paint and glue to create faux stained glass on the bathroom cabinet. It filled me with joy.

When Halloween rolled around, I spent all October binging the Harry Potter audiobooks while turning my house into a magical Halloween wonderland for my daughter.

My output amazed me. More so, the joy it gave me left me gobsmacked. Was it this easy to be happy? Could I just draw my way to peace?

I braved a 2020 outing to Michael's where I bought myself a set of Windsor & Newton pencils and charcoal, a sketchbook, and a kneaded eraser. My heart raced like I was falling in love. I guess I was.

That December, I signed up for an art subscription box, which provided me with a little art community and a stream of supplies. I've been drawing, sketching, and painting nearly every day since.

My work hangs on our walls, lines our shelves, and decorates my work-from-home office. Every time I see it, I'm filled with joy. I made that. My creativity brought something to life. And even when life makes me feel overwhelmed and depressed, what pours out of my fingertips is beauty, because that's who I am at my core.