Before the scroll.
Before the pressure.
Before the noise — there’s this.
A warm cup in your hand.
A measured breath that softens everything.
A quiet return to yourself.
This is not a performance.
Not about results.
It’s about remembering.
You don’t need a plan.
You don’t need to feel ready.
You just need to begin.
Make a mark. Make a mess. Start anywhere.
Let the tea cool. Let the colours rise.
Let your mind wander without asking it for anything in return.
This isn’t a productivity ritual.
It’s a return ritual —
to art, to your art, your words, your truth.
And if you're reading this thinking “but I’m not even an artist” —
you’re exactly who this is for.
This isn’t for the person with a full studio and a finished portfolio.
This isn’t for someone already selling, already exhibiting, already crafting a brand.
This is for the one who hasn’t started.
The one who’s still circling the idea.
The one with a box of unopened paints,
a sketchbook with three awkward, half-filled pages,
an Instagram handle with one post that says “coming soon.”
It’s for the artist who has made things —
but never liked them.
Who looks at their own work and winces.
Who sees every piece as naive — but not in a good way.
Who feels their marks are clumsy, their ideas childish, their instincts somehow wrong.
This is for you, too.
And it’s for the one who keeps making —
but still hasn’t found it yet.
Not the right brush or surface. Not the right paint. Not the right outcomes.
That elusive thing that feels like it came through you, not to you.
The style that doesn’t feel like a borrowed accent.
The process that feels like remembering, not forcing.
If you haven’t found your rhythm yet —
that private current that carries you past self-doubt and into something real —
this is your reminder:
you don’t have to wait for it to arrive before you start.
Start anyway.
And especially — let go of trying to be the artist you think you need to be.
You know the one:
She paints with confidence.
She posts with consistency.
She seems to know exactly what she’s doing.
But what if she started where you are now —
and only found her voice by finally letting go of the version she thought she had to be?
That’s what happened to me.
When I started painting, I craved a certain kind of line —
those loose, raw, beautiful strokes I saw in other artists’ work.
They looked accidental, instinctive —
the kind of marks that made a piece feel nurtured and important.
But when I tried to make them,
everything my hand produced felt wrong.
They looked like high school doodles — rigid, rehearsed, not real.
Not charming. Not expressive. Just… bad.
I didn’t know how to loosen my grip or trust my instincts.
So I did the only thing I could think of:
I closed my eyes.
I let go. I dragged the brush blind.
No planning. No thinking.
And that’s when it happened —
my own version of the very line I’d been chasing.
It wasn’t copied.
It wasn’t right or wrong.
It was better.
It was finally something I could own.
Because it was mine.
That was the moment I realised:
The artist I’d been trying to be had to get out of the way —
so the real one, the one I hadn’t met yet, could show up.
Let that be you.
Not in six months.
Not after you know how to paint.
Not once you know what to paint.
Now.
Let them speak.
Messy. Brave. Honest.
This isn’t sabotage.
It’s the soft beginning of something real.
Because maybe — just maybe — the artist you've been waiting to become…
is already here.
