One of my most upsetting moments as a young adult artist was a negative critique I received from my faculty advisor in the Art Department at Pomona College. The critique wasn’t brutal or unfair, it was a simple observation that my choice of media and rendering styles lacked cohesion and didn’t fit the intended tone of the piece. What made it acutely painful was that the drawing in question depicted an unresolved traumatic moment in my personal history, priming me for an intense emotional reaction.

Twenty years later in my personal and professional development, I can see this experience for what it was: an earnest (if clumsy) attempt to use art to heal myself.

The loss of my childhood home to the Eaton Fire last year rekindled my art practice in an unexpected way. In spite of the unparalleled busyness of my life as a toddler mom, therapist and business owner who was now also navigating a huge upheaval in my family, the inspiration struck and I found myself carving out space from literally nothing to heed it.