Blooming Beyond Survival: Reclaiming My Story of Love and Light

Exploring New Narratives of Healing and Becoming

Aug 12, 2025

*This post touches on grief, trauma, abuse, suicidal thoughts, and loss. Please prioritize your wellbeing as you read. If these topics feel overwhelming, it’s okay to pause and come back when you’re ready.

Broken and Stirring: The Early Darkness and Survival as Meaning

Let me begin by saying I was broken—deeply and painfully—for years. There’s no other way to say it. But even in that darkness, something inside me kept stirring. I cried until my face ached, releasing years of hidden pain I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. Yet between those storms, I found refuge in small acts—painting a single flower, writing a few lines, taking slow, meandering walks, or holding onto a fleeting moment of kindness— a smile on the face of a stranger. These fragments of light didn’t erase the darkness, but they softened it, slowly clearing space for the life I have now.

For a long time, I tried to put the burden down—to move on and forget. But survival, I’ve come to learn, isn’t just endurance. It’s a form of meaning. Being stripped bare taught me that what remains beneath the layers is often truer, steadier, and more open than what came before. This rawness is what I strive to share in my writing and art—a quiet resilience that, I hope, can offer something real to others.

Morning Rituals: Finding Anchor in the Everyday

I begin each morning with a quiet ritual of noticing, reducing the space between the outside world and the one within, taking note of what feels good: writing that line with my blue Stabilo point 88 pen on a blank, lineless page in my Moleskine, the way I’ve done for years in the soft-backed kraft cahiers. An anchor.

I like the sound of the pen against the paper, marking evidence of my thoughts. By candlelight, I watch flames flicker in the soft breeze drifting through the open window. My cup of coffee warms my hands as I pause to sip—the weight of the porcelain a quiet comfort in my palms. A delicious sigh of peace. I gaze out, noticing the faint traces of night fading from the sky. I listen for the farthest and nearest sounds: a pigeon cooing, the distant rumble of garbage trucks, footsteps, and the laboured breath of a morning runner. I smile softly at their effort.

And before all this—waking after a full night’s sleep—waking at all. First sounds are always a thank you in the shape of my breath and voice. Breathing in, breathing out. Knowing I am here, in Paris—that I worked for it, that the longing I carried for years finally collapsed into my reality. My sweet cat Pilar pressing her wet nose to my face without my asking, a welcomed intimacy. And of course, painting. Painting flowers—so many that they seem to pour out of my eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. Nourishing my body. Moving my body. Being me. This right here is huge—I did not always like being me.

A Life Interrupted: Trauma and Loss Through the Years

It felt hard to be in my body, hard to be a part of my family, hard to follow the social codes and norms so I became good at pretending. Over time, I became a facsimile of myself—an imitation—without knowing what was true. That disconnect created even more confusion and distance between myself and life.

I have come a long way from the lost girl I once was.

From this vantage point, looking back on the first four decades of my life, I see how trauma and loss repeatedly interrupted my journey of becoming.

I witnessed violence within my childhood home, endured sexual assault as a teenager, lost my mother and best friend in my twenties, and my father in my thirties. In my forties, I faced the death of another close friend—and even a threat on my life.

For so long, I simply tried to be okay—healing from one wound while bracing for the next—all while carrying the heavy weight of it all.

After my father’s death, I slipped into a pattern of intermittent isolation, sometimes pushing away those I cared about—whether intentionally or simply because I didn’t know how to hold on. I felt deeply unworthy of connection. What made it even harder was the exhausting effort I poured into proving my worth—a painful reflection of my relationship with my dad.

I was accused of being manipulative—something I never realized I was—and of being sad, which I undeniably was.

Facing the Hard Truths: Lessons from a Broken Friendship

At a particularly low point, I found myself caught in a tense email exchange with a friend. Though it was clear our relationship was ending, I clung to the hope that if she chose to keep me in her life, it meant there was something good inside me. And I needed to believe that.

She saw things differently—tired of my sadness and manipulation. She said she had stayed because she feared I might be suicidal but ultimately knew she couldn’t control my fate.

Her words broke my heart, but in that rupture she became a kind of soul teacher, forcing me to turn inward and face not only the place in myself that believed love had to be earned, but also the harm I was causing others—a truth about myself that hurt to face.

I spent two messy, necessary years writing, taking my skin off, getting it all out of my body, while working odd jobs, making new bonds — and yes, pissing people off too. I didn’t always know how. I just knew I was trying to survive. And sometimes, when you’re surviving, you hurt people without meaning to. That’s one of the hardest truths I’ve had to face.

A Different Life: Values, Connection, and Redemption

Over time, little by little, my life—and my experience of myself—began to shift toward something softer and more graceful. Life opened up, and I started to trust a little more. With practice, I developed a language of self-compassion that paved the way for healing, forgiveness, and the transformation of my painting. It was during this period that I became fascinated by the laws of impermanence, a theme that gradually revealed itself through my visual work.

For the most part, I accept past and my mistakes.

And largely, I accept that now my life doesn’t look like those of people my age or the ones I grew up with. I am not surrounded by family or large groups of friends. I’m unmarried, childless, without a traditional career path, retirement plan, or savings to boast about. No country house to escape to, no warm southern retreat for the grande vacances like many of my new Parisian peers. What I do have are my values and aspirations. I care fiercely about freedom, creativity, and kindness — to strangers, animals, and myself — even if most other things don’t move me. And love. Love is everything: the universal force that connects us, heals wounds, and holds the world together. To me, it’s the whole damn point. To me, I think that’s why I’m still here.

A recent meeting with an old friend from high school stayed with me. She was visiting Paris with her family and reached out to connect. Of course, I said yes.

Seeing her, sharing where we are now, reminded me how life’s messy, imperfect, and deeply human paths unfold—none of us exactly where we thought we’d be, all of us searching for something real. She laughed in disbelief as she recounted unexpected challenges in her career, and I felt a familiar mix of relief and envy facing uncertainties in my own art business. She spoke openly of her struggles and the unforeseen turns; I saw my own journey reflected in her words and laughter. It was a quiet affirmation that no matter how fragmented we may feel, there is connection—and hope. She also showed me that redemption is for all of us.

That conversation stirred memories—not just of laughter and connection, but of the ways I’ve kept myself small, trapped in cycles of fear and self-sabotage. It’s a pattern I’m slowly learning to see and understand.

From Shadows to Purpose: Standing at the Edge of Transformation

Now, I’m in a new place—one filled with possibility. As I write this, I stand at the edge of fear and blossoming. I have a history of self-sabotaging behaviour, fearful of my own depths and talents—of standing fully in my own light. I recall moments when silence felt safer than speaking my truth. Is this inertia, trauma, or both? Whatever it is, the safe zone I’ve kept myself in is no longer an option.

For years, I carried the shadows of my past—painful patterns I’d vowed not to repeat. Relationships tested my limits and self-worth, keeping me tangled in confusion and instability. But something shifted along the way—a slow, uneven unfolding that brought healing in its own imperfect time. I began to find purpose in writing and painting—enough to give me chills when I say it aloud.

As an artist, it’s easier to see my growth and transformation on the canvas than to offer myself the same grace as a person. But if I were to search for evidence, it would be in my writing. I’ve been working on a memoir for years now, tracing the threads of grief and resilience woven through my life. Words I wrote in 2020 are now taking on new form and texture in 2025—shaped by time, loss, and the slow work of becoming.

Questioning Survival: Starting a New Story

Recently, I’ve noticed a shift in how I relate to my own story. Lately, I find myself wondering how deeply I am attached to the story of survival—this narrative that has carried me for so long. What would it look like to start a new story, a different timeline, where I hold the wisdom of my past but don’t lead with the weight of my past?

I don’t want to dismiss what I’ve been through—no, I want to be a steward of love and healing in some way. But I am curious: what if I simply allowed myself to just be here, now, anew? To tell a different story that includes my past without being defined or limited by it?

Small Acts, Big Meaning: Navigating Fear and Curiosity at Life’s Edge

I ask myself often: What should my life look like? The answer circles back every time—to stop looking outward and turn inward, to notice when my inner world aligns with the outer, when life flows, when the lights turn on.

Perhaps the real key to my place in the larger puzzle isn’t some monumental discovery but the quiet ripples I create in everyday life. It could be as simple as being a mirror for a friend, or making a stranger smile. Small acts of kindness, presence, and connection—these are the threads that weave meaning into the fabric of an uncertain life.

And here I am now, at the edge of a new chapter—no longer hiding in the safe zone I once clung to, but still afraid. Afraid of my own light, of what happens when I fully step into the person I am becoming. Healing hasn’t been a linear path, and it’s far from over. Sometimes the shadows still reach out, whispering old fears and old pain.

There’s a stubborn seed of curiosity, a restless desire to bloom—like morning light stretching across my studio walls: gentle, insistent, messy, imperfect, beautifully uncertain. It’s a feeling I try to capture in each brushstroke, a quiet hope I carry forward.

How to Live a Rich Life: Light, Love, and Healing

I don’t yet have a clear language for how I’m stepping into my own light. There is no road map. All I can do is actively look at when, where, and how I’ve self-sabotaged in the past—and learn to course-correct today.

When I paint flowers pouring out from everywhere, it feels like I’m translating the unspoken parts of myself into something beautiful and real. I can’t always put my experience into words others relate to, but art—making it and sharing it—is how I create connections that feel true and authentic, based on me and nothing else.

There is a reason—though I cannot see it yet—that I am alive. With every fiber of my being, I want to discover what that reason is. This hunger, this fierce curiosity, keeps me moving forward, even when the path feels uncertain or scary. It’s the quiet fire beneath fear, the pulse beneath doubt, calling me to step into my own light—one small act, one brushstroke at a time.

Though healing is never linear, every step forward is a quiet victory. And through it all, love remains—the saving thing. It’s the thread that holds me together, the force pulling me toward the light when the shadows feel overwhelming.

If these reflections resonate with you, I invite you to follow along. And if you find echoes of your own story here, know that you are not alone.

The Living Canvas

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