There have been many times in my life when circumstances could have knocked me down and made me want to stay there.
I've experienced my share of adversity, and I've learned that sometimes the hardest part isn't what happens to us. It's what we believe about ourselves and where we're going when those things happen.
Over the past year, I've had to practice this more than I expected.
When I initially agreed to attend an artist residency in Mérida, Mexico, I was excited about what it could mean for my work. The owner of the gallery who offered me the residency told me there would be opportunities to show my work in Mérida and Mexico City. I would also have opportunities to connect with researchers studying the history of the land and Mayan civilization. The possibility of showing my work internationally was especially appealing.
I had been fortunate enough to receive Emerging Artist awards in St. Petersburg, Florida over several years, and I could have stayed comfortably within that familiar world. But after living in Florida for eight years without much opportunity to travel, selling my house gave me the freedom to make a different choice. I saw the residency as a sign to move forward.
At the beginning, I was told there were no requirements for how many paintings I needed to complete. The plan was to spend three months there and see where the work took me. About a month and a half into the residency, that changed. I was told that if I wanted to show my work, I would need to complete 15 paintings.
I was devastated. Fifteen paintings in three months is an enormous amount of work, especially while simultaneously exploring, researching, developing an entirely new body of work, and continuing to work on projects for my advertising clients. If I had known that requirement from the beginning, I'm not sure I would have agreed to the residency.
But I had already made the commitment, so I made a new plan. I negotiated an extension of my stay to six months and decided to give myself the time I needed to complete the 15 paintings.
And then I worked.
I painted day and night. I pushed myself harder than I ever had before while also exploring the Yucatán, learning about its history and culture, and allowing the places I was experiencing to influence the work.
By the end of six months, I had not only completed the 15 paintings required for the show. I had completed 18.
I was exhausted, but I was also incredibly proud. I had created an entire body of work in a style that felt distinctly my own. With every painting, I had refined my point of view and discovered more about what I wanted to say through watercolor.
I was excited to see what would happen next.
So I reached out to the gallery to ask when I could expect the exhibition.
And then there was silence.
No response.
I was heartbroken. I remember thinking, What was all of this for?
The residency had turned out to be almost nothing like I had expected it to be. The exhibition I had been working toward wasn't happening, and I also hadn't had the opportunity to connect with researchers as I had been told I would. Instead, I had to do that research myself, meet people, and make those connections on my own.
Unfortunately, I've also learned that not every opportunity is what it appears to be. Sometimes organizations or galleries present themselves as places that will support an artist's growth, but the reality can be very different. Learning to recognize that has been part of this journey too.
For a while, it was difficult not to feel like everything I had done had been for nothing.
But eventually, I started looking at it differently.
This is something I've learned to practice over the years. When life feels unfair, I try to move beyond the question of why this happened to me and ask two different questions: What did I gain from this? And what can I learn from it?
The answers were much bigger than I initially realized.
I had 18 paintings. I had a series. I had discovered a visual language that felt like my own. I had spent six months immersed in a place that profoundly influenced the work I was creating.
I had also learned something about myself. I had lived alone in a foreign country where I didn't know anyone. I had adapted, made friends, and found a community where I felt appreciated and supported for who I was.
And I realized something I hadn't expected. If I hadn't gone to that residency, I probably never would have started this watercolor series.
The thing that felt like a failure had actually given me something I couldn't have gotten any other way.
Once I was able to accept the heartbreak and move through it, I started wondering what would happen if I kept going. I felt like this series had more to say. I wanted to see how the work would change in a new environment, so I decided to spend the next four months in Panama. I wanted some time to recover from the intensity of those six months in Mexico, explore somewhere completely new, and give myself space to think about what I wanted my life and my work to become.
I didn't have a plan beyond that. I had never been to Panama, I didn't know anyone here, and I didn't know what would happen after I reached 30 paintings. I just felt a strong pull to keep going, so I followed it.
And once again, something unexpected happened.
Being here has given me a kind of clarity I don't think I could have found by staying where I was comfortable. I've had time to listen to myself, to explore new ideas, and to think deeply about the work I want to create moving forward.
As I begin painting number 30, I'm also making lists of galleries where I can present this work and arranging meetings for when I return to Mexico. I'm more hopeful now that the right venue will reveal itself, and that the people who most resonate with the message and the work I'm creating will find their way to it.
And this time, I feel different.
I'm hopeful, not because I know exactly what is going to happen, but because I no longer need to know.
The gallery that originally brought me to Mexico didn't become the opportunity I thought it would. But without that disappointment, I don't know if I would have created these 30 paintings. I don't know if I would have discovered this series. I don't know if I would have come to Panama. And I don't know if I would feel as connected to my purpose as I do now.
Sometimes the path we think we're supposed to follow closes in front of us. It can feel like rejection. It can feel like failure. It can feel like we've made the wrong choice.
But maybe the closed door isn't always a sign that we did something wrong. Maybe sometimes it is simply an invitation to look somewhere else.
I've learned that I don't have to understand everything while I'm in the middle of it. I can be disappointed. I can be angry. I can grieve what I thought was going to happen. And then, when I'm ready, I can ask myself what I gained, what I can learn, and what is still possible.
That shift in perspective has changed a lot for me.
Because there is often something happening beneath the chaos that we can't see yet.
The calm isn't necessarily found in knowing that everything will work out exactly the way we want. Maybe the calm comes from trusting ourselves enough to keep moving even when we don't know what comes next.
Every time you get back up after falling and brush yourself off, you are showing yourself that you can trust yourself to keep going. Each time, you learn something about your own strength and resilience. And sometimes, without even realizing it, you become an example for someone else who is struggling through their own fall.
Life is hard and complicated. Things will happen that we never expected and can't control. But I believe there will always be another path.
We just have to be willing to look for it.
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