A few years ago, I began a creative experiment that looked ridiculous.
I bought a tiny sketchbook. I gathered crayons and markers. And I started scribbling.
Not drawing. Not creating art. Just scribbling. Wild, messy, childlike marks across the page.
At the time, I was reading, “The Mindbody Prescription,” by Dr. John Sarno and exploring the possibility that some of my chronic neck and back pain might be connected to emotions I had spent decades suppressing.
The idea was simple:
Feel the anger. Express the anger. Move the energy.
So each day, I opened my little sketchbook and gave myself permission to make ugly marks on the page.
Permission I didn’t realize I needed.
The Inner Child With a Box of Crayons
I intentionally chose crayons and markers. The same kinds of tools I loved as a child.
There was something powerful about bypassing my adult artist brain and handing the crayons back to the little girl who never felt safe expressing what she really thought and felt.
Sometimes I wrote words first.
Sometimes a memory surfaced.
Sometimes a resentment.
Sometimes grief.
Sometimes shame.
Then I scribbled.
Often with my non-dominant hand.
The goal wasn’t to create something beautiful.
The goal was to allow something true.
Holding Opposites
As the days passed, I began noticing something unexpected. The scribbles weren’t just helping me access anger. They were helping me hold contradictions.
I could feel rage and compassion. Grief and gratitude. Resentment and love.
All at the same time.
I could acknowledge that people had hurt me deeply. And recognize that some of them loved me in the only ways they knew how.
I could honor the reality of my childhood experiences, while also honoring the life I was building now.
The scribbles taught me that healing isn’t choosing one truth over another. Healing is learning to hold them both.
When the Scribbles Got Dark
As deeper emotions surfaced, the pages changed. The colors got darker. The marks became heavier. More aggressive. Less controlled.
For a while, that scared me. The pages weren’t pretty anymore. As an artist, I wanted them to be beautiful. As a human being, I wanted them to make sense.
Instead, they looked chaotic. Angry. Messy. Much like the emotions I had spent a lifetime trying to contain. But something remarkable was happening.
The more willing I became to put those emotions on the page, the less I seemed to be carrying them in my body.
My neck loosened. My back pain diminished. My creative energy returned. Ideas began arriving faster than I could write them down.
More than once, I had to pull my truck over to the side of the road to capture a flood of inspiration before it disappeared. Something was opening.
The Watercolor Lesson
Recently, I revisited the practice. I started with soft watercolor washes. The pages felt peaceful. Safe. Beautiful.
Then I began writing words that had been unspeakable for decades. And eventually the rage release scribbles arrived. The beautiful watercolor disappeared beneath layers of chaotic marks.
At first I hated it. The page felt ruined. The scribbles looked ugly. But then a thought arrived:
“Perhaps the scribbles aren’t the final layer.”
Perhaps they are the compost. The shit. The fertilizer. The material that nourishes something new.
We don’t judge compost for being messy. We trust the process. We trust what it becomes.
What Rage Release Scribbles Taught Me
Today, I no longer see rage release scribbles as an art technique. I see them as a listening practice. A witnessing practice. A way of honoring emotions that were never given a voice.
Sometimes the page becomes art. Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes it becomes collage. Sometimes it stays watercolor.
Sometimes it remains an ugly scribbled mess. And that’s okay. Because the point was never to create a masterpiece.
The point was to tell the truth. To move energy. To make space. To allow my body, my heart, and my inner child to say:
“This happened.”
“This hurt.”
“This matters.”
And perhaps most importantly:
“I survived.”
The scribbles may not be beautiful. But what grows from them often is.
If something in you feels this… you’re not alone.
I share reflections like this, along with creative practices and quiet encouragement for the journey, in my monthly newsletter, What’s Blooming in the Orchid Garden.
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Wander a little further through the garden...