There was a time in my life when I didn’t yet have the words for what I was feeling.
So I painted.
Long before I began writing a memoir about finding my voice, I was painting spirals - sometimes in my studio, sometimes outside in the park, letting color and movement speak for emotions I couldn’t yet say out loud.
As a child who experienced abuse, abandonment, and neglect, I learned very early that it often felt safer to stay quiet. Invisible, even. When your voice hasn’t been protected, you learn to hide it.
But creativity has a curious way of guiding us back to ourselves.
For me, that path began with art therapy and a long spiritual search that slowly helped me begin to heal. At first the healing didn’t come in sentences or explanations.
It came in paint.
Large canvases filled with color, movement, and spirals became my language. The canvas could hold things I wasn’t ready to speak.
Not everyone understood those early paintings.
In 2009, I attended my first professional critique at RedLine in Denver. I had recently moved to Colorado and was new to the Denver art scene. A generous local artist I had just met invited me to attend.
I arrived carrying two spiral paintings - hopeful, nervous, and more than a little out of my depth.
During the critique, two established artists shared their thoughts. They were respectful, but they did not like the paintings.
What troubled them most was the composition. The spirals radiated outward from the center like mandalas, and they felt the structure didn’t work.
I tried to explain that the paintings were my attempt to recreate a spiritual experience I had seen with my mind’s eye while meditating. But sometimes art speaks in ways that don’t translate easily into critique language.
Afterward, I carried the paintings through the dark parking lot back to my car feeling defeated and misunderstood.
Another artist from the critique walked beside me quietly for a moment and then said something simple.
“I like your paintings.”
I remember wondering if he was just trying to soften the sting of the critique. But his kindness felt sincere, and I chose to receive it.
In the months and years that followed, I took the feedback seriously. I experimented with composition, explored new directions, and continued expanding my spiral vocabulary as a painter.
Most importantly… I kept painting.
Those two “hated” paintings eventually went on to have lives of their own.
One sold during my first solo exhibition in Denver.
The other - a pink and orange spiral titled “A Moment of Suspense” - later received an Honorable Mention ribbon at the Art of the Rockies exhibition in Salida.
I remember seeing that small ribbon hanging beside the painting.
After the RedLine critique, I never imagined that one of those same spirals would one day be recognized in an art show.
That ribbon still means something special to me.
Not because it proves the critique was wrong.
But because it reminds me that recognition sometimes arrives after misunderstanding. That what one room rejects, another room may celebrate. That resilience matters more than approval.
If stories about creativity, healing, and the artist’s journey resonate with you, I share reflections like this in my monthly newsletter, What’s Blooming in the Orchid Garden. You’re warmly invited to join.
Most of all, the ribbon reminds me of something deeper about creativity and voice.
When I began painting spirals, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was trying to survive. I was trying to express something sacred and mysterious that had appeared during a moment of grace in meditation.
Those paintings were my voice before I knew how to speak it.
Over time, something unexpected happened.
As I began sharing my art online, I started writing about the journey. Blog posts became magazine articles. Essays became anthology contributions. Eventually the stories grew into the memoir I’m writing now:
“Wild Orchid Woman: A Memoir of Art, Healing, and Reclaiming Power."
Painting helped me find my voice ON the canvas.
Writing helped me find my voice OFF the canvas.
And what I’ve come to believe is this:
Every woman has a voice waiting to be reclaimed.
Sometimes that voice emerges through painting.
Sometimes through writing.
Sometimes through movement, music, gardening, leadership, or simply speaking a truth that has lived quietly in the heart for years.
Creativity isn’t only about making beautiful things.
It’s about remembering who you are.
So if you’ve ever created something from the depths of your soul - and felt misunderstood or discouraged - please hear this gentle reminder from the Orchid Garden:
Keep going.
The painting someone criticizes today might win a ribbon tomorrow.
The words you are still searching for may someday become the story that helps another person feel less alone.
Your voice may still be becoming.
And that is a beautiful thing.
A note from the Orchid Garden…
If reflections like this speak to you, you’re warmly invited to join my newsletter community.
I share monthly about creativity, healing, and the artist’s journey - along with early updates as I write my forthcoming memoir, “Wild Orchid Woman: A Memoir of Art, Healing, and Reclaiming Power,” scheduled for publication in February 2027.
You can subscribe on the website.
Wander a little further through the garden...