The future is, as it always has been, an open question. It holds both promise and uncertainty, joy and hardship. Perhaps the key lies in accepting that life will continue to ebb and flow. Stability may never be a permanent fixture, but it doesn’t have to be. What matters is the ability to adapt, to cherish moments of calm, and to remain hopeful in the face of change.

"I am" is not merely a statement of existence; it’s an invitation to explore what it means to be. This project is not about crafting a neat, cohesive narrative of my life. Instead, it’s about embracing the messiness, the contradictions, and the unresolved questions. It’s about finding the threads of continuity in a life that often felt disjointed.

I miss the rush. The excitement. The sense of being in motion and surrounded by energy. I want that feeling again, desperately. I need something—someone, somewhere, something—to reignite the fire in my belly, but I don’t know where to look. I feel ridiculous, wallowing in this unmotivated sadness, waiting for a spark that never seems to come.

I embrace my power.

Still, I am trying to hold onto hope, fragile though it may be. I remind myself that energy does not have to be a warning; it can also be a gift, an opportunity to focus on self-care and wellbeing. Learning to trust these moments, to believe they are not always harbingers of collapse, feels like its own act of resilience.

Art, by its nature, demands reinvention. The canvas of life is always changing, presenting new colors, textures, and inspirations. To grow, I’ve had to stretch beyond what feels comfortable, experimenting with techniques and exploring ideas that challenge me. Sometimes this process is exhilarating; other times, it’s deeply humbling, as I confront my own limitations. But every misstep, every attempt that doesn’t quite land, has been as valuable as my successes. These moments are not failures—they’re stepping stones, each one teaching me something vital about my craft and myself.

I have discovered that my creative journey demands more of me. While painting allows me to process emotions in a way that feels intuitive and safe, writing has emerged as a far more terrifying—and transformative—medium. Writing requires vulnerability of an entirely different kind. To paint is to show the world a fragment of my soul; to write is to strip myself bare. Words demand precision and honesty, forcing me to confront truths that cannot hide behind abstraction. In writing, there is no veil, no protective layer of color or form. I must stand naked in front of an audience, offering my thoughts and feelings in their rawest form to anyone who cares to listen.

When this journey began, it was an ambitious leap into the unknown—a conscious decision to trust myself and believe in my capacity to design the life I envisioned. It wasn’t about following a pre-set path but about crafting something uniquely my own, guided by faith in my abilities and an unwavering commitment to my goals.

Opening myself up to goodness isn’t always easy. It requires an intentional choice to lean toward light rather than shadow, to embrace hope instead of doubt. But when I make that choice, I feel it: good things are attracted to me. They come not because my life is perfect or unscarred, but because I’m willing to notice and nurture them.

Gratitude is transformative—more than just an act, it’s a lens. When I actively notice the blessings that surround me, from the laughter of friends to the moments of quiet contentment, it feels as though joy itself is amplified. The more I dwell in this place of appreciation, the more it feels like the universe conspires to send more good my way, creating a feedback loop of positivity and abundance.