The last two years have been a strange blur. I’ve been caught up in a job that, while necessary, slowly drained my creative energy. I didn’t realize how much of myself I had put on pause until I looked up and noticed how far I’d drifted from my art, my stories, and the parts of me that used to feel alive.

Creativity used to come easily—it was my outlet, my passion, my lifeline. But in the daily grind of surviving, meeting deadlines, and fulfilling responsibilities that didn’t nourish me, my imagination got quieter. I stopped sketching regularly. I stopped writing. I stopped dreaming.

And now, unexpectedly, that chapter has ended. I lost my job.

It’s a terrifying thing, not knowing what comes next. But also—there’s a sense of strange relief. Like I finally have space to breathe again. It’s forcing me to come back to what I know, to what’s always been part of me: my art. My stories.

So here I am—starting over. I’ve opened up art commissions to help support myself financially. It’s nerve-wracking to put myself out there again, but it feels right. I’m also finally working on my creative projects again—writing, drawing, daydreaming, creating just for me. It’s a slow process, and I’m trying to be patient with myself. But this time, I want to build something that feels true.

This moment is equal parts scary and hopeful. I don't know how everything will turn out, but I’m showing up. That counts for something.