Therese (Mom)

I have always been drawn to creating.

Baking, crocheting, knitting—though I rarely seem to finish what I start—and painting. Especially painting. Lately, it’s become something close to an obsession, and yet, it doesn’t come easily.

I sit in front of a blank canvas and instead of freedom, I feel pressure. I chase perfection. I second-guess every stroke. More often than not, I end up painting over everything and starting again, as if I can somehow get it “right” the next time. But recently, I’ve started to understand what’s really happening…It’s not about technique.

It’s about control.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting the process. I stopped allowing myself to simply feel my way through the work. Instead, I try to manage it, fix it, perfect it—until the joy quietly slips away. Then there’s time. I try to claim Sundays as mine. I set everything up—the easel, the canvases, the paints. My space is beautiful (a gift from my husband), ready and waiting. But even then, something always pulls at me. Laundry. Dishes. The endless list of things that feel urgent. Things that can wait—but somehow don’t.

And I let them win.

I step away. I lose the moment. And with it, the fragile thread of focus. Frustration follows close behind. The truth is, I rarely allow myself to simply be. But on the days when I do—when I let go, even just a little—something shifts. The work flows. My mind quiets, and I feel aligned in a way that’s hard to describe but impossible to ignore. There’s joy in it. Pride, too. Not because the piece is perfect, but because it’s honest.

Because I showed up.

In those moments, painting feels like more than a hobby. It feels like healing. Like journaling, but without words. A place where I can exist without explanation. Without judgment. Or at least… without as much judgment. Because if I’m being honest, the harshest voice in the room is my own. I am my toughest critic. I deflect compliments. I hesitate to share my work because I’m afraid—afraid it won’t be good enough, that no one will like it, that somehow it will confirm the doubts I already carry. And maybe that’s where the real work begins.

Not on the canvas. But within me. Learning to let go. To create without needing approval. To finish something—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine. To believe that what I make has value simply because it came from me. Maybe the art isn’t just what I paint.

Maybe the art… is learning to trust myself.