Becoming More Yourself

For years I thought becoming a better artist meant improving my technique. I eventually realized the real work had very little to do with painting at all. It was about becoming more honest, more curious, and more fully myself.

If someone had asked me ten years ago what it meant to become a successful artist, my answer probably would have revolved around skill. Paint better. Develop a recognizable style. Exhibit in more galleries. Sell more work. Build a larger audience. While none of those things are inherently wrong, I've come to realize they were never the real destination.

Looking back, I don't think my artistic journey has been about becoming a better painter. I think it's been about becoming more myself.

For a long time, I believed creativity was something I had to earn. If I worked hard enough, learned enough, and found the "right" style, perhaps one day I would finally feel like a legitimate artist. Instead, something unexpected happened. The moments when my work began to resonate most deeply with others were often the moments when I stopped trying to create what I thought people wanted and started paying attention to what genuinely fascinated me. That shift changed everything.

Today, my paintings are built from thousands of individual marks. Each one is unique, insignificant on its own, yet essential to the larger composition. I've come to think people are much the same. We're often taught to admire polished outcomes, but life is really constructed from ordinary moments: quiet conversations, small decisions, tiny acts of courage, and the accumulation of experiences that slowly shape who we become.

Perhaps that's why repetition has become such an important part of my practice. Each mark is an act of presence. Each layer asks for patience. Every finished painting reminds me that meaningful things are rarely created all at once.

One of the greatest gifts I've given myself recently has been permission to create more slowly. Like many artists, I felt the pressure to constantly share my work, keep up with algorithms, and remain visible online. It wasn't necessarily unhealthy, but eventually I realized I was spending almost as much energy documenting the work as I was making it. So I stepped back. Not because I'd lost inspiration, but because I wanted to hear my own thoughts again before hearing everyone else's.

That season of quiet has been surprisingly productive. I've painted, I've written, and I've allowed ideas to develop before asking whether they would perform well online. In doing so, I rediscovered something I think many creatives eventually learn: authenticity doesn't arrive because we finally figure out who we're supposed to be. It arrives when we stop editing ourselves into someone more acceptable.

That lesson extends far beyond the studio. It's influenced how I approach relationships, business, motherhood, and even success itself. I no longer measure success only by exhibitions or sales, although I'm grateful for both. I measure it by whether the work feels honest. Whether it asks real questions. Whether it reflects the person I actually am rather than the version I thought people expected to see.

Ironically, the more personal my work has become, the more universal it seems to feel. Collectors often tell me they see their own stories reflected in the paintings. Interior designers describe how the work changes the atmosphere of a space. Art consultants speak about the emotional response clients have when they encounter it. Those conversations continually remind me that authenticity has a way of creating connection, not because everyone shares the same experience, but because honesty gives others permission to bring their own experiences into the work.

Perhaps that's what art has always been doing. Not presenting finished answers, but offering a place where someone can recognize a little more of themselves.

I'm still evolving, and I hope I always am. There are paintings I haven't made yet, questions I haven't asked yet, and perspectives I haven't considered yet. That no longer feels frustrating. It feels exciting. I've stopped believing the destination is becoming a better artist. The destination, if there is one at all, is simply becoming more yourself. And I suspect that's a journey that never really ends.