About 10 years ago, I was on my yoga mat in child’s pose… and I was furious. Not just irritated. Not just upset. A blazing, white-hot rage.
I was angry at my then-husband. At my family. At the culture I had been shaped by.
I hated my life.
And I blamed everything outside of me. My past, my circumstances, the trauma I had endured, the work I believed I was forced to do, the weight of my finances.
I felt like a victim. And more than that… I felt powerless. But underneath the anger, there was something else:
I was tired.
This kind of rage doesn’t just live in your thoughts, it lives in your body. It pulses through your veins. It settles into your tissues. And I could feel it consuming me.
Something has always happened for me on the yoga mat. After the stretching… after the breath… after the stillness… I hear it.
A voice.
It sounds like my own voice, but softer. Quieter. Wiser. Not the harsh, critical tone I was used to, but something kind.
That night, the voice said:
Stop blaming everyone else. Take responsibility for your life.
For everything.
I wasn’t ready to forgive. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to make peace with what I believed had been done to me, the experiences that shaped my choices, the job I felt trapped in, the debt, the creative disconnection.
But I was ready, to be ready.
Ready to stop pointing outward. Ready to turn inward. Because the truth was, even if I had been driven by codependency, by people-pleasing, by survival… I had still actively participated in the life I was living. And in that realization, something shifted. Because if I was responsible…
Then I was also powerful.
I could no longer tell the story that someone else was holding me back. Or keeping me small. And without that story…
I was free.
Free from waiting. Free from needing permission. Free from seeking validation. There was nothing left to do but choose.
As the late poet Mary Oliver so beautifully wrote… I could live my “one wild and precious life.” And this time… I could live it for me.
Life didn’t suddenly slow down. I was still driving a truck. Still working long hours to pay off a mountain of debt. Still navigating exhaustion. There wasn’t always time or energy to paint or write.
But something inside me had changed:
I remembered who I was. An artist.
Even in the middle of a busy, messy, imperfect life… I was still creating. Because being an artist isn’t just about what you make on canvas. It’s about how you choose to live. Regardless of what has happened in the past, the future is still unwritten.
A blank page.
And the pen?
It’s in your hand.
If reflections like this speak to something in you…
I share more each week here on my blog, where I explore creativity, healing, and what it really looks like to create boldly and live beautifully.
You’re always welcome there.
Wander a little further through the garden...