About twenty-five years ago, I was reintroduced to art through art therapy after being hospitalized for severe depression.
It was one of the most disorienting seasons of my life.
On the outside, I looked like I was doing all the “right” things. I was newly married. I had a respectable job in advertising. I was checking the boxes of adulthood.
On the inside, I felt profoundly disconnected - from my marriage, from my work, and most painfully, from myself.
There was a quiet but relentless ache in my body that I did not yet know how to name.
One night, in the depths of that despair, I reached a breaking point. And in that breaking, something unexpected happened.
Curled up on the floor, exhausted from holding everything together, I experienced what I can only describe as a moment of grace. It felt as if I was wrapped in love - the kind that does not judge, does not rush, does not demand. In that stillness, I sensed clearly that my life was not over. That I was allowed to ask for help.
And so I did.
With support from my family and physician, I entered the hospital and began receiving care. After a week of inpatient treatment, I transitioned into an outpatient program. It was there that I was reintroduced to art through art therapy.
And everything began to shift.
I had taken art classes in high school and college. But somewhere along the way, I decided I wasn’t “talented enough.” I chose a more practical path. I studied English. I built a career. I became very good at performing competence.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that in abandoning art, I had abandoned one of the most honest parts of myself.
During therapy, I also began speaking about experiences from my childhood that I had never voiced aloud. Pain I had carried quietly for years. Stories my nervous system remembered even when my conscious mind tried to move on.
Not everyone around me was ready to hear those truths. And when the people we love cannot hold our pain, it can feel like a second wound.
So I did what many sensitive, capable women do.
I survived.
I adapted.
I tucked parts of myself away again.
But art remained.
Even when words felt too exposed.
Even when conversations felt unsafe.
Even when my voice trembled.
Painting did not ask me to explain myself.
Color did not require justification.
A blank canvas did not interrupt or doubt me.
When we have lost our voice - whether through trauma, grief, depression, or years of silencing ourselves - the visual arts can become a bridge back to the body.
Art allows emotion to move without having to be translated into perfect language.
Before we can say, “This happened.”
Before we can say, “This hurt.”
Before we can say, “I deserved better.”
We can make a mark.
We can choose a color that feels like anger or longing or hope.
We can create form out of something that once felt formless.
For me, painting became a life raft. It held what I could not yet hold consciously. It allowed me to express rage, sorrow, confusion, and beauty - all without retraumatizing myself through retelling.
Years later, when more healing work was required, I had a foundation. I had already built a relationship with my inner world through art. I had practiced listening.
My breakdown was not the end of me.
It was the moment I stopped pretending I was fine.
It was the moment I chose help.
It was the moment I returned to creativity - not as a hobby, but as medicine.
This space is trauma-aware and honors your pace.
If you are in a season of unraveling, I want you to know: you do not have to explain everything to begin healing.
Sometimes the first step is simply picking up a pencil.
Or a brush.
Or a journal.
Sometimes the breakthrough begins with a single mark.
If this stirred anything tender in you, pause. Take a breath. You are not alone.