How finding my voice was not a journey but a leap

Most people don’t say this out loud, but it sits there in the studio:

I don’t have anything to say.

So we do what seems responsible.

We make something that can’t be criticized too easily.
We choose the color that won’t offend.
We make the mark that looks “right.”
We keep adjusting until it looks acceptable.

Not because we’re trying to be perfect.

Because we’ve learned that being ordinary is safer than being specific.

And slowly, without noticing, the work goes quiet.

Polite.

Here’s what I’ve seen again and again:

It’s rarely a lack of skill.

It’s a lack of trust.

Not trusting that what you’ve lived through counts.
Not trusting that your taste is valid.
Not trusting that your sense of color is yours.
Not trusting that your story has any weight.

And the painting becomes something you can stand behind—
but not something you can stand inside.

For years, I did the same.

Then one day I stopped trying to be normal.

I decided to be me.

It felt like a leap of faith.

And it changed the work completely.