What it Means to be an Artist

​What It Means to Be an Artist
People often ask what I do.
I’m an artist.
Not because it’s my job, but because it’s who I am.
Some people are dentists. Some are teachers. Some are accountants. Those are professions.
Being an artist has never felt like a profession to me. It feels more like breathing.

I’ve been creating for as long as I can remember.
As a child, I created imaginary worlds. As a teenager, I wrote music. In college, I filled sketchbooks. Later it was furniture, poetry, stories, and eventually a novel.
But through every season of my life, one thing has remained.
I’ve always painted.
Paint on my clothes.
Paint on my hands.
Paint somewhere in my life.
Creating isn’t something I schedule between meetings. It’s how I understand the world.
Without it, my mind folds inward.
My thoughts become too loud. My emotions become too heavy. I don’t just carry my own feelings—I seem to absorb the joy, grief, fear, and hope of the people I love and, sometimes, of the world around me.
Creating gives those feelings somewhere to go.
It’s how I make sense of them before they consume me.
Some people might call me a dreamer. Others might say I’m a hopeless romantic.
Maybe they’re right.
I know my mind can shift in an instant. Some days I lose myself in doubt, wondering where the color went. Wondering where hope is hiding. Other days I feel completely alive, as though every brushstroke, every sentence, every idea is exactly where it’s meant to be.
I’ve learned that both versions are part of me.
So if you see me and my eyes seem distant…
I may be searching for my way back.
If my words feel quiet…
I’m still here.
If I seem lost…
I may be.
But I’m still here.
Still creating.
Still looking for color.
Still believing that somewhere beneath the paint, the words, the stories, and the mess of being human, there is something worth sharing.
Because that is what being an artist means to me.