Where It Begins Again

The sun's been getting stronger lately, slipping through the windows earlier each morning. Yesterday, I woke up at 5:30 AM yesterday to finish framing everything and hung the last of my paintings in the gallery. Most of the big things are done. Today, I felt the need to text my ex to tell him how it all went. After all, he was there for me when this whole work for the art show began. I sent him a few pictures and a voice note. I think I just needed to hear myself think — or feel like someone else was hearing me.

I’ve received a lot of kindness lately. Messages, encouragement, people reaching out. It’s moving, but it also catches me off guard. I don’t always know what to do with support. I’ve received a lot of kindness recently. People cheering me on, celebrating the work. It moves me — and makes me uncomfortable. I’m still learning how to accept support without feeling like I owe something back.

That evening, I found myself at his place again, rushing through dinner, half-present. I had tried to make an elderflower cordial that afternoon, but I rushed the recipe and am no longer sure it will come out right. It was such a small thing, but this is the background theme of my life at the moment: Piling on unnecessary tasks when what I really need is rest.

We had a little argument that night. Not about anything specific — more about what hadn’t been said. I didn’t ask for help, but I resented doing everything myself. When he offered, I didn’t know how to accept it without feeling guilty. That tension lived between us all evening.

Later, we talked outside. It was slow and awkward, but something softened. We admitted we weren’t communicating well. That helped. But it didn’t change the deeper issue: I keep stretching myself too thin.

When other people are around, especially ones I don’t know well, I turn into a manager of moods — smoothing things over, reading the room, making sure no one feels uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the person I’m with checks out. He vanishes from conversations and returns when it’s convenient. I try not to take it personally, but it’s hard. I end up overcompensating — again.

But there are small moments that throw me off: when he helps without being asked, or when he notices something I’ve missed. There’s care there. It just gets buried. I keep wondering if I’m staying because I see something real or because I’m afraid to be alone again.

What I do know is that I’ve stopped painting. Not entirely, but enough that I feel it. Another artist asked me recently, “If today is the first day of your first-ever art show, what are you doing here?” Here = on a date instead of being present at the art show.

That question made me freeze. I’ve used relationships as a distraction before — emotional entanglement as a form of avoidance. I don’t want to do that again.

One night, we did a short meditation together. Just 20 minutes, sitting in silence. It helped. The kind of help I always forget exists. Afterward, things were better—not fixed, but definitely lighter.

This morning, I wrote three pages in my journal. My body still hurts from spending a whole day taping the backs of my paintings and hanging them, and I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. I keep wanting to eat something to fill the restlessness. But instead, I sat with it. For once, I didn’t run from the discomfort. That felt like a small win.

The truth is, I let myself forget again that I was an artist.

I let myself go back into my comfort zone: being a caretaker, a planner, an overthinker. How can I burn this into my brain?

Maybe that’s the point... I accept that the future doesn’t show up as a clear plan or a grand revelation. It comes in pieces that don't fit together.

My duty is to make my quiet choices, show up to the page and canvas. To keep remembering every day who I am and where I'm going.

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