The quiet transformation that happens when we create
I never set out to make art that heals. But over time, I realized the act of creating—of sitting with silence, of letting something inside me take form—was doing something deep. Something restorative.
Art, for me, is a way to listen.
It helps me reach things I don’t always have words for—memories, emotions, places I carry. Some are personal. Others feel inherited. When I draw the faces of women, I think of stories, conversations, the longings passed down. One face becomes many.
Healing through art doesn’t shout. It’s slow. Layered. Like my brushstrokes. Like the forms that repeat quietly through my work.
And then there’s storytelling. Every piece holds a thread of something I need to say—even if I don’t fully understand it.
A bell without a visible tower.
A desert that holds geometry.
A face that becomes many.
When someone tells me my painting reminded them of a dream, a place they’ve never been, or someone they love—I know the story has moved beyond me. That’s when art becomes more than personal. It becomes shared.
Art doesn’t have to be perfect to be healing.
It just has to be honest.
And when it is, it becomes a form of prayer.
Quiet. Real. Full of presence.
