My story began with childhood abuse. My earliest memories are steeped in fear and confusion, with only a small handful of joy, and even those moments were fleeting. Most of them came from time spent with my grandparents. Their presence offered a kind of softness I rarely knew, but even then, I understood it was temporary. Love came with conditions, and joy often carried consequences.

Due to the abuse I experienced, at a young age I was placed into the custody of the state of Tennessee.

I yearned for a home. I longed for stability. I stopped counting the number of placements I was moved to once they reached the teens. My suitcase was a large black trash bag, although I never had enough belongings to fill it. After being shuffled from a girls’ group home to foster homes as quickly as my last secondhand shirt was unpacked, I eventually stopped unpacking altogether. That "suitcase" followed me from place to place, dragging behind me as I went. I was too small to carry it, and over time it tore from being pulled across floors and sidewalks. I didn’t miss it. I was relieved to replace it with a new one that didn’t show those embarrassing, stretched-out lines.
Eventually, I grew tall enough to lift it. But the weight of everything else I carried only got heavier.

I was picked on often. I never stayed anywhere long enough to make real friends, and even if I had, I was too insecure to try. The sadness I carried slowly grew into depression. The constant abandonment, from the people who were supposed to love and protect me to the homes that were paid to shelter me, burrowed into my sense of self. Some of those homes were safe, but others weren’t. Some hurt me too. All of it tangled into a deep-rooted fear that I would never be enough for love. That once people saw how hurt the little girl inside me was, they would always leave.

Something inside me kept reaching for the light, whispering that I was meant to survive this. I didn’t understand it then, but I clung to it. Through trauma, foster care, and the long descent into severe depression, that voice stayed. It was distant, but always there.

Eventually, I became tired. Too tired to fake the smiles and face the world. And there came a moment when everything inside me gave up. The quiet voice that once told me I was created with a great purpose ahead of me had faded, drowned out by the storm of pain and depression. The weight of my past, the echos of those who were meant to protect me, the ones a child believes can be trusted, the ache of abandonment, and the unbearable loneliness became too much. I tried to leave this world. I was unconscious for three days before anyone found me. When I woke up, I wasn’t grateful. I was angry. I felt more alone than ever, lost in a world I didn’t feel I belonged in.

And then, something shifted. I started walking into the woods. I didn’t know why or what I was hoping to find, only that something in me needed to move toward the quiet. I had never gone there for comfort before. As a child, the shack we called home sat buried in over thirty acres of tangled woods. Back then, the trees felt suffocating. The branches pressed in like secrets. The brush was thick with fear, not peace.

But this time, it felt different. There was something in the hush of leaves underfoot, in the way the wind moved through the trees, in birdsong that felt like it was speaking only to me. It softened the static in my mind. I could hear my heartbeat again, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t want it to stop.

Nature became my quiet companion. The forest no longer felt haunted. It felt healing. I found calm in the stillness, strength in the trees that bent without breaking. And then, one day, a small group of deer stepped into the clearing where I stood. They moved with such gentleness, pausing to meet my gaze. They were not startled and not afraid. It felt as if they saw something in me I hadn’t yet noticed. Something still alive. Still worth trusting. In their stillness, I felt seen.

I believe nature was given to us as a teacher. A quiet guide to show us how to begin again after the worst of storms. I now encourage others to step outside and learn what has been freely offered, nature’s therapy and timeless wisdom.

That was when I began to feel a pull toward creating. Not to impress or perform, but to process. To exist. Searching for anything to keep me afloat, I stumbled across something simple: a paint-by-numbers kit. It was detailed and tedious, but I stuck with it. Slowly, I began adding my own touches, making my own choices. I started to veer off script. I couldn’t wait to return to it each day. When I finally finished, I felt proud, something I hadn’t felt in years. I looked at what I had made and asked myself, what if I tried this without the numbers?

That small, almost childish exercise cracked something open.

I have always been a writer. Words have long been my way through the dark, my way of making sense of what I couldn’t say aloud. But now, I am also an abstract painter. Something in the act of seeing, of feeling through color and texture, pulled a new voice out of me. One I think had been living there all along, waiting for light. Painting tapped into a part of me I hadn’t known how to reach with language alone. It brought things to the surface that couldn’t be named, only felt.

This is not just my present. It is my future. My art and words are how I live, how I connect, how I heal. They have become my voice. Painting became my therapy, my rebellion, my redemption. It taught me that some things inside us aren’t meant to be spoken. They are meant to be witnessed.

My work is more than color and texture. It is a conversation. Each piece holds a story, a scar, a question. The pain I lived through carved the path to this voice I now use. Without it, I wouldn’t be the artist I am. I wouldn’t have the raw emotional honesty that makes my work what it is. Pieces that speak, even when I can’t.

My paintings are deeply inspired by what I found in nature’s embrace. The stillness that helped me listen. The strength that revealed itself in roots and storms. The transformation I witnessed in every falling leaf and every bloom after winter’s hush. Nature taught me that breaking is part of becoming. It gave me peace, power, and a renewed sense of purpose. That energy lives in every canvas I create.

Through art, I now advocate for mental health awareness. For those who feel too ashamed to ask for help, the way I once did. It should never have gone as far as it did. I will spend my life reminding others that it is okay to reach out, to feel, to fall, and to create something from the pieces.

Now, I cherish the life I almost left behind. I dedicate it to helping others find what might be waiting inside them. Beauty, resilience, and talents they may not yet see. The kind of magic I only discovered after I stopped believing the ones who tried to silence me and started believing in myself.

Art and writing are the breath in my lungs, the fire in my chest. They are how I live, how I love, and how I speak.
When my voice trembles, my canvas roars.

This photo is the actual paint-by-numbers painting, the one that first put a brush in my hand and taught me the feel of acrylic paint. It hangs in my home as a reminder to stay humble. It shows me where I started.