When I look around, I notice things differently than I used to.
This summer has had a different rhythm. My daughter is about to start first grade, and as the school year approaches, I've found myself reflecting on how much the different seasons of motherhood influence the rhythm of my studio.
During the school year, I have more focused time to work on my business. Summer looks different. The days are fuller, routines change, and uninterrupted studio time becomes harder to find. For a while, I found myself feeling like I wasn't doing enough.
But then I started paying attention to what I was measuring.
When I looked around my home, I didn't just see the things that still needed to be done. I saw the energy I had poured into caring for my daughter, preparing meals, cleaning, organizing, and creating spaces that felt peaceful and functional. I realized I had been overlooking the work I was already doing.
Then I would walk into my studio.
For a long time, creating was an escape for me. It was a place where I could slow my mind down, process my thoughts, and simply create. I still have those moments where I lose myself in the flow of painting, but somewhere along the way something changed.
My studio became more than an escape.
It became part of the life I was building.
I don't think that's always easy for people to understand because I genuinely enjoy what I do. Sometimes when we love our work, others can see it as a hobby rather than work. For me, it has become both a creative outlet and a responsibility that I take seriously. I manage our home, and I manage my art practice too. They both require energy, and they both deserve my attention.
One thing I've become better at this summer is speaking up for the time I need. Usually it's after my husband comes home from work. We'll catch up, decide what's for dinner, and then I'll say, "After dinner I need to catch up on some things," or, "I need a little time in the studio."
It's never about escaping my responsibilities.
It's about recognizing that my creative practice is one of them.
I've also learned that different seasons of life have different rhythms.
The volume of what I accomplish during the summer isn't the same as it is during the school year, and I've stopped expecting it to be. Instead, I've tried to stay consistent in a different way.
Almost every day I'm sketching, drawing, or painting something. Even on days when my time is spent photographing artwork, updating my website, writing listings, or sharing my work online, I try to leave enough energy for a little bit of creating. Sometimes that's all I have—a sketch in my sketchbook or a drawing on my iPad—but I've realized those small moments matter because they keep me connected to the reason I started creating in the first place.
As I've reflected on all of this, I've also realized that I've been letting go of another idea I've carried for a long time: that there is one path to becoming a successful artist.
Some of that came from school. Some of it comes from social media. Some of it comes from simply being human. We naturally compare, weigh, and categorize things. We talk about abstract art, surrealism, contemporary art, fine art, and countless other labels. Those conversations have value, but over time I realized I was spending too much energy wondering where I fit instead of listening to what my own work was trying to tell me.
My work has never been about creating a perfect rendition of something beautiful. It's always been about exploring our inner world—our emotions, memories, relationships, and the mystery of the things we don't fully understand. The more I've accepted that, the more comfortable I've become with being different.
When I look around my studio now, I notice things differently than I did a year ago.
I see more confidence in allowing images to evolve instead of trying to control them. I'm becoming more confident in knowing when to stop. I also notice something else that I couldn't see before. Instead of seeing individual paintings, I'm beginning to see groups of work speaking to one another within each collection. My direction hasn't appeared all at once. It has slowly revealed itself by continuing to show up.
As I look around, I also think about my daughter.
I hope she grows up seeing that it's okay to have a voice. I hope she knows it's okay to speak up for something that matters to her, to make space for creativity, and to pursue work that is meaningful, even if it doesn't always look like someone else's path.
Because I've realized that protecting your voice is also protecting your peace.
