I spend a lot of time asking myself why.
Why paint? Why keep going when the doubts never stop? Why show up when I feel inadequate before I even pick up a brush?
But the truth is, asking why rarely gives me an answer. At best, it gives me a story to hold onto for a while. A comforting explanation, a neat phrase to reassure myself that I’m on the right track.
And yet, most of the time, those stories don’t last. They fall apart under the weight of reality.
Because the truth is awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not neat.
The truth is: I paint because I can’t not paint.
The truth is: I’m never convinced I’m good enough.
The truth is: no one can rescue me from that.
Every canvas forces me back to this. It’s the one place I can’t lie to myself. The work doesn’t care about my excuses. It doesn’t care about the stories I spin to make myself feel better. It just stares back.
So maybe the better question isn’t why.
Maybe the better question is: will I keep showing up anyway?
For me, the answer is yes. Not because I’ve solved the puzzle or found the perfect reason, but because the truth, awkward, uncomfortable, unrescuable is the only place worth standing.