Acrylic breath

We raise our glasses for titles and rings, tilt our heads high at every capitalist checkpoint — a new job, a promotion, the engagement, the launch.

We know how to clap for the milestones they tell us matter.

But rarely do we cheer when the artist inside of us dares to create again, returning for peace rather than profit.

For over two years, it felt strange — almost guilty — to make things that didn’t make money, that didn’t “move the needle.”

It felt weird to embrace painting without attaching shame to it.

We don’t talk enough about that silence — the kind we place on ourselves. The inner whispers asking: Am I good enough? Talented enough? Worthy — if I’m not profitable?

We carry that weight quietly, because this world taught us to measure our worth in output, income, likes, and validation.

But screw that.

I’m done being captive to false, limiting beliefs.

This isn’t my most epic piece — honestly, it was inspired by something I saw in my therapist’s office.

Long story short: this is an encore for the lady in the blue dress — barefoot, glowing, with paint on her fingertips.

She’s back. And she’s inviting anyone who wishes to join, with extra paintbrushes, and no expectations but joy.