I was supposed to be at work yesterday.
Not just working, but working with my AG students who are so close to production that they deserve every bit of my attention. Instead, I was in bed all day, sick, exhausted, and feeling like my body had finally waved the white flag after months of trying to carry more than it was meant to.
The illness wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was what had been happening in my head leading up to it.
Lately I’ve been carrying around this heavy, morbid feeling that I can’t even fully explain. Insecurity. Doubt. That strange darkness that sneaks in and whispers that nothing you’re doing matters. I can’t point to one single cause because it isn’t just one thing. It’s health problems. Moving. Stress. Feeling behind on everything. Social media nonsense. Work. The endless pile of responsibilities that somehow keeps growing no matter how much you cross off.
Sometimes your mind doesn’t break because of one giant thing.
Sometimes it’s death by a thousand paper cuts.
Yesterday, before I let myself sink any further into that hole, I made a decision.
I walked past the mountain of unpacked moving boxes that has been silently judging me from the living room since we bought this beautiful house. I ignored the voice telling me I should be unpacking something practical.
Instead…
I started digging.
Not for dishes.
Not for paperwork.
For my oil paints.
For brushes.
For canvases.
For a part of myself I realized I had accidentally packed away over a year ago.
And holy shit.
It was like opening a time capsule.
Unfinished paintings everywhere.
Canvases I had completely forgotten existed.
One of them was The Nun.
How… how did I forget I painted that nightmare?
That thing terrified people for months. Friends wouldn’t even look at it when they came over. I laughed the second I pulled it out because apparently my brain had decided, “Yep… that’s not important anymore.”
She went right back up on the wall where she belongs.
I found another painting of a girl on a swing beneath a blooming tree where I’d actually glued real hemp rope onto the canvas. It had come loose during the move, so I repaired it.
Then I found another.
And another.
Finally I set an unfinished sunset on the easel, exactly where it belongs, waiting patiently for me this weekend.
And leaning against the desk…
A completely blank canvas.
I can’t remember the last time a blank canvas made me feel hopeful instead of guilty.
It wasn’t judging me.
It wasn’t asking why I’d been gone so long.
It was simply waiting.
Ready for whatever comes next.
People always jump to medication.
Or therapy.
And don’t misunderstand me—those things save lives. If you need them, use them. There is absolutely no shame in that.
But I’ve realized something about myself.
Sometimes…
I don’t need mood-altering drugs.
I don’t need another self-help book.
I don’t need to analyze every broken thought until I’m exhausted.
Sometimes I just need to remember what I fucking love.
To smell linseed oil.
To get paint under my fingernails.
To lose three hours mixing colors while the rest of the world disappears.
To make something that didn’t exist before I touched the canvas.
Art has never asked me to explain myself.
It has never cared whether I was productive enough.
It has never measured my worth by likes, performance reviews, cholesterol numbers, moving boxes, or whether I managed to answer every email.
It simply waits.
Patiently.
Until I come home.
So this weekend, that’s exactly where you’ll find me.
Not doom-scrolling.
Not apologizing for resting.
Not worrying about everything I haven’t accomplished.
You’ll find me in my little corner of the house, surrounded by half-finished paintings, haunted nuns, sunsets, flowers, and one beautiful blank canvas.
Maybe that’s exactly the therapy I forgot I already owned.
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