Thoughts: 11.24.24

This year has been a long, strange fever—unfurling in fits and starts. Or perhaps it isn’t the year but the years, a chain of them, tangled and knotted since the pandemic slipped away. I have been wandering through the marrow of a lonely darkness—a quiet wilderness where soul-searching becomes less a choice and more a demand.

Now, standing at the precipice of fifty, I feel the clock tick with an almost human impatience. A whisper at the base of my spine: There is still so much left undone. Somewhere along the way, I abandoned my hunger for the glaring, blinding heat of the spotlight. I traded its burn for the quiet balm of meaning and fulfillment. But fulfillment is a trickster, isn’t it? Even when my cup seemed brimming, it always left a hollow echo in its wake.

I know now it wasn’t the spotlight I needed. It was something deeper, a light that doesn’t scorch but beckons—a sanctuary to share, to offer, to shelter those who have come to trust me. Lofty words, I know. But when you’ve spent so long navigating the ink-black dark, the smallest flicker of truth becomes impossible to ignore.

The truth is this: I believe in the work that I do. It has the power to touch lives. It creates spaces that whisper of safety, hope, and healing. The work I do is as fundamental to me as breathing, and the signs around me are urging me to press forward, move through the storm of self-doubt and continue.

What is my mission?
To take the raw sinew of art, therapy, and healing and weave them into something whole, something alive. To create and to heal, to let both acts intertwine like roots growing through the cracks of broken stone. One step at a time.