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Learning to Choose Myself



Lately, I have been thinking about how much of our lives is shaped by the stories we tell ourselves. Not necessarily the stories that are true, but the stories we have repeated so many times that we no longer question them.


Perception is a curious thing. It quietly influences the way we move through the world, the opportunities we notice, the risks we take, and the value we assign to ourselves. Over time, certain beliefs can become so familiar that they feel like facts, even when they are nothing more than old narratives we have carried with us for years.


Looking back, I can see that many of these narratives were formed very early in life. Like many people, I learned to appear stronger than I felt, and over time I became accustomed to needing very little from others—or at least convincing myself that I didn't.


Perhaps that is one of the reasons why art became such an important part of my life.


When I think about it now, I wonder if my relationship with art began long before I ever considered becoming an artist. Art offered something that I could not always find elsewhere. It was a place of comfort, a space where I could retreat when the world felt confusing, and where emotions could exist without needing to be explained. It became a refuge, a quiet nest, a place where I could disappear and, at the same time, be found.


As the years passed, that refuge slowly became a vocation. What began as a place of protection became a language, a way of understanding myself and communicating with others. Looking back, I realize that many of the themes that appear in my work today—memory, identity, beauty, what is hidden beneath the surface—have been present for much longer than I understood.


What fascinates me now is how often our perception of ourselves continues to influence our lives long after the original circumstances have disappeared. We carry old stories into new situations. We look at ourselves through lenses that may no longer be accurate, yet we rarely stop to question them.


For a long time, I carried the feeling that I was waiting to be chosen. Chosen by a gallery, a collector, an opportunity, or simply by life itself. It is a subtle feeling, one that can exist quietly beneath ambition and hard work. From the outside, everything may appear confident and purposeful, while internally there is still a small voice wondering whether it is enough.


And then, unexpectedly, something happens that challenges those assumptions.


A collector connects deeply with a painting.


A curator reaches out.


A conversation opens an unexpected door.


Someone shares how much a piece of work has meant to them.

In those moments, I am reminded that the world may not see me in the same way I sometimes see myself.


That realization is both liberating and uncomfortable.


Liberating because it suggests that many of the limits we carry are not limits at all, but perceptions.


Uncomfortable because it forces us to question how much of our lives has been shaped by stories that no longer belong to us.


The older I get, the more I believe that confidence is not about thinking highly of yourself. It is about seeing yourself clearly. It is about letting go of outdated narratives and allowing yourself to be exactly who you are, without constantly measuring your worth through the approval of others.


Perhaps that is what healing really is. Not becoming a different person. Not rewriting the past. Not pretending that certain experiences never happened. Perhaps it is simply recognizing that we are allowed to outgrow the stories that once defined us.


For much of my life, I thought the goal was to be chosen. To be noticed. To be validated by the right people. But lately I have begun to wonder if the real work is something else entirely.


Perhaps the real work is learning to choose ourselves.


To trust our voice.


To trust our instincts.



To trust the work we create and the life we are building.


And to understand that our value has never depended on being selected, approved, or confirmed by someone else.

Perhaps the greatest act of courage is not waiting to be chosen.

It is choosing yourself first.


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