Anxiety is not my friend, but it has been my constant companion since I can remember. Sometimes it works in my favor by motivating me to do things I may not really want to accomplish but are in my long-term best interest (client work, planning, etc.). But most of the time, it takes me down rabbit holes and into rumination spirals that do me no good whatsoever.

I learned late Tuesday that I had an appointment with Rudy (the robot guide) for my bronchoscopy on Friday. That gave my anxiety three days to ramp up and cause me great stress and worry. But I was determined to fight back and not let the anxiety win.

A robot-assisted bronchoscopy involves general anesthesia, intubation, and threading a bronchoscope and surgical tools through my airway and deep into my lung. It’s not a walk in the park, nor is it major surgery. But it is still a procedure that warrants an operating room. Given that, of course, my anxiety immediately had to prepare me for everything that could go wrong:

They don’t get to the nodule because it is so deep in my lobe

They nick something, resulting in a pneumothorax (collapsed lung)

Something really bad happens, and I die (and of course my anxiety cannot name that “something bad” but tells me I need to worry anyway)

All of these thoughts entered my mind many times between Tuesday and Friday. I was successful at shutting them down quickly, but sometimes, they persisted and caused me great stress and what I call FIMS (fear in my stomach). Luckily, and because I have been working on managing my anxiety over the last few years, the incidents were short-lived.

I woke up at 5 am on Friday, tired from not sleeping very well. I knew I would be “sleeping” during the procedure, so it was all good. I showered with the antibacterial soap I was instructed to use, did not apply any lotion as instructed, but luckily was allowed to use deodorant. I was told I could brush my teeth but was not allowed to swallow. Who in the world does that? I guess people do, or they would not have to tell you not to.

No metal on your body meant I needed to take out my nose ring, which is not an easy task. The last time I took it out, I lost one part of it in the bathroom, and it took me what felt like forever to find it. Luckily, it was an uneventful extraction.

I was not allowed to eat or drink after midnight, so my morning routine was quite easy, and I was ready to go with 30 minutes to spare. Rich fed and walked Botti while I was keeping myself calm on the couch. I was reading the news, which is truly counterintuitive to keeping myself in a calm space, but I did it anyway.

Between news stories, I noticed the date on my phone and realized it was the 19th of the month. My mom died on this day, 11 months earlier, and next month on the 19th, it will be a full year. As soon as that thought entered my mind, I felt the FIMS and thought to myself, “I could die today, too.” As irrational as the thought was, it still affected my entire body. I felt that fear in every cell. But, because I refuse to let anxiety rule me anymore, I squashed it quicker than I would have a year ago. But …

The number 19 was my favorite number when I was younger (10 was a close second)

I spoke to my biological mom for the first time on November 19, 1993.

My mom died on July 19, 2025

So now, 19 is not as special as it used to be. But today was also Juneteenth, a day of historical celebration, and reading a couple of articles about it made me feel much better.

Yet, a small level of anxiety still lingered under the surface as we drove to the hospital.

We arrived and were sent to the wrong place before being sent to the correct one. Then, at the proper area, it took four people to complete my check-in due to a “new system.” During the wait that seemed to last forever, more anxiety:

Oh no, is this a sign, and not a good sign?

When they tell the story of my death, will this part be foreshadowing?

And other unsettling thoughts.

Finally, I was told to sit in the waiting room, and as soon as I got comfortable, I was called back. Once in pre-op, Carla laid out my lovely purple paper gown and equally lovely non-slip gray socks, then left while I changed into my bronchoscopy attire. She came back with warm blankets, which is one of the best parts of these procedures.

Shortly after Carla left, Mike, my nurse, came in and began explaining what would happen. Since uncertainty is my kryptonite, knowing what was coming helped calm the bit of nerves I was still experiencing.

After a failed attempt to get the IV into my right arm, undaunted, Mike was quickly successful with my left arm. During our time together, we chatted about kayaking and his desire to paddle a lake near where I lived. He said it was a private lake, but believed he found a public launch. I told him about watching fireworks while kayaking at Kensington Park, and he thought it would be cool to do that.

Mike left the room to get Rich from the waiting room, so he could sit with me while I waited for the anesthesiologist and respiratory fellow to come by. Soon after Rich arrived, Dr. Lee, the anesthesiologist, came by for a quick chat, making sure I understood I would be “put to sleep” during the procedure. I understood and resisted making a joke about him having a magical bag of potions that would make me a sleeping beauty. He was nice, but I don’t think he would have appreciated my humor in that moment.

My procedure was supposed to start at 8:30 am, and at 8:40, I assumed they were running late and resisted the urge to assign more meaning to it. After a bit more waiting, the respiratory fellow came in, explained how the procedure would go, and asked if I had any questions. I did not, and she seemed good with my lack of inquiry. Then another anesthesiologist (I assume the assistant or similar; she did not say exactly) came in with the procedure nurse, and they started prepping me to move to the “Bronch Room,” as they called it. As they began to wheel me out of the pre-op room, I kissed Rich goodbye as I could feel my anxiety starting to awaken from its slumber.

The entire time I was in pre-op, my heart rate was in the low 70s, which meant I was succeeding in keeping my anxiety to a minimum. No longer with my Fitbit, I could not verify that my heart rate was increasing, but my body told me it surely was.

As they rolled me down the hallway, into an elevator, and then another set of hallways, they were discussing my “induction” and whether they needed to call Dr. Lee before doing it or not. I wanted in on the conversation and asked what “induction” was, and they said “putting me to sleep.” I said okay and was happy I got to be part of the discussion.

They wheeled me into the room, and as they moved the equipment out of the way so the bed would fit through, I said, “Oh, a tight fit,” because, well, that is what I do in these situations. Rely on humor to get me through.

The nurse on the far side of the procedure table welcomed me, and I smiled at her widely. She seemed astonished that I was smiling and said it was amazing. In that moment, I realized that I had succeeded in keeping my anxiety level so low I was actually, genuinely, happy to greet her. Wow.

I slid over to the procedure table with the nurse’s help, and once I was in position, I realized how hard it felt. I told myself it would not matter as I would be asleep very soon. It was cold in the room, and my teeth began to chatter. The nurse asked if I wanted a warm blanket, and I enthusiastically said yes. Even with the warm blanket and me breathing the oxygen they were giving me deeply and calmly, my teeth continued to chatter, and I could feel the anxiety circling. But I was in control, and I could feel it.

Then Dr. F came by to say hello. He had a gentle, kind face and long curly hair. I don’t think I had been given any drugs at that point that would have possibly skewed my impression of him, but I thought he looked like a very cool hippie who would take such good care of me. I was very much at ease, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in recovery.

My recovery nurse was very kind and caring. In those first few moments after coming out of anesthesia, as my nurse asked what I needed and how I felt, I understood and greatly appreciated the caring and professionalism of the team who were part of my procedure. I was feeling very grateful for the care and that the procedure was behind me. Those feelings then led me to analysis mode as I started to think about the anxiety I was feeling and fighting for the last few days.

I have known this for a long time, and the work I have done on myself has been enormous, allowing me to get through this procedure and all that is ahead of me with grace and confidence that those around me will take good care of me. Surrendering seems counterintuitive to someone who has fought her whole life, but I know that I cannot go about this cancer thing alone. I need a team of professionals to help me, but they cannot help me if I don’t trust them, and I cannot trust them unless I surrender.

I am not sure whether the trust comes before or after the surrender, but I know the surrender is mandatory. Everyone on my team is a trained professional, full of empathy and care, who is tasked with helping me through this process.

Two radiology techs came by to take an X-ray of my chest, and I chatted with them as they took a couple of shots of my chest. When the techs left, my recovery nurse came to check on me again, and I thanked her for being so caring and kind, and she genuinely appreciated my comment. I meant it, and I felt she sensed that.

Then, Rich came in, and it was so good to see his face. I was very much awake at that point and feeling good. I knew that as soon as the results from my chest x-ray showed the absence of a pneumothorax, which I was pretty sure it would, I’d soon be going home.

I was wheeled out of the hospital by another kind person who seemed genuinely happy with his job. As I stepped into the car, I felt a great wave of relief that this phase of my second cancer journey was over. Now comes more waiting, but only for less than a week. On Thursday, I meet my radiation oncologist for the first time and learn what plans he has for the utter and complete death of the unwelcome nodule in my lung.

Victoria

I find it a bit strange that when the initial thought that I could die sooner than I would have liked begins to settle into my brain and body, my only thoughts, regrets, and fears are how Rich, Dawson, and Botti will be affected by my passing. I try not to think too hard about it, and if I do, the emotions are just too much for me.

Yeah, we all die eventually; that’s not a revelation. But the moment you realize that your death could be so much sooner than you imagined, well, I don’t think you can ever adequately plan for that. The first time it happened in 2025, when I was told that I had lung cancer, my freak-out was huge and lasted for days.

So many thoughts…

I don’t want to die.

I’m not ready; I have more to do.

Dawson can’t lose his mom.

Rich will be alone.

And Botti, how will he know I didn’t leave him on purpose?

And of course, there was the self-blaming, because how can there be a crisis in my life without it?

I caused this by smoking. (Yes, true, but not helpful, right?)

I deserve this for something I did, I am sure

The world will be better without me

The battle between denial and blame raged on for nearly a week. It was a process I knew I had to find my way through to reach the truth on the other side.

I told myself I had lived a good life up to that point. It was a life filled with exploration, learning, loving, laughing, and living in ways I never thought I would. As I reminded myself of these things, I found myself feeling exceptionally grateful for the life I was able to live. And then, surprisingly, once I truly expressed and internalized the gratitude, I was able to start down the path of acceptance. If I were going to die, I told myself, I was going to find a way to be at peace about it. That is the only way I wanted to leave the world.

Over the next week or so, thoughts on what acceptance looked like ran through my mind. I was creating a framework of dying that would allow me to die with peace and wrap those who loved me in that peace as well. I would:

• Say the things that needed to be said to the people who needed to hear them.

• Spend time with those whom I love.

• Share as much of the wisdom I have been collecting for nearly 60 years with Dawson, with the time I had left

• Make sure Rich knew how very much I loved him

• Play and snuggle with Botti as much as I could

• Get my affairs in order so Rich and Dawson would not have so much to do

• Tell Rich my celebration of life song is “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen (because everyone needs a song to leave to)

• Spend as much time outdoors as possible

• Write and paint until I can’t

• Fill my heart with love and gratitude every day (within reason, of course, as some days will most surely suck)

In the end, I did not have to face my death. My lung cancer was localized to the tumor with no spread whatsoever. I had an upper right lobectomy, and with that, I was cancer-free.

I was ecstatic that my framework for death could be filed away, at least for the foreseeable future.

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But shortly after my surgery recovery, my mom, who had been suffering from COPD for 8 years, passed away. It was sudden, but it was not unexpected. She was dying, although she did not admit that to anyone, especially herself. As the COPD began to take even more of her lung capacity and with it her independence, she became more angry and unhappy, and at the same time, her anxiety skyrocketed. She was difficult to be around, and she began to treat those who loved her with meanness. It was sad to experience, and there was nothing I could do.

And then she was gone, in a blaze of glory, leaving me and others who loved her in a wake of frustration and even anger. She refused to accept that she was dying, so she did not say her goodbyes, impart any wisdom, leave any wishes or plans, show us all the love she had in her heart for us, or spend quality time with us, simply enjoying our company.

Watching her slip away and fight her reality made a lasting impression on me, and I was extremely grateful I created my death framework, ensuring I would not go down the same path.

Fast forward a year, and I found myself in the same “oh shit, I could die” place. On the second 6-month CT scan of my lungs, a new nodule was found.

From my journal shortly after digesting the news:

Well, my second 6-month CT scan shows a “solid nodule, 1.3 cm, in my lower right lobe.” What the fuck? It has only been a year, and there is another one?

I am trying not to freak out. I have 12 days until my appointment. Hopefully, I will see my results before that. I don’t want to lose any more lung. That will severely affect my day-to-day living. I am scared, and pretty sure I am going to die from this.

I am waiting for the doctor to release the scan results so I can see them for myself. Are the lymph nodes involved? It is smooth or just solid. My last one was spiculated.

WTF!!!!!!!

This shit is going to kill me.

Life has already been sure cruel and hard. Now, even more so. I always thought my karma was good, but that must not be true. No one gets out unharmed, that is for sure. For some, that harm is more than for others. All the walking, working out, and good eating did not matter. Here I am a year later with more possible cancer. Well, maybe I should not have smoked for 30 years.

I am strong, but I don’t want this at all. After a year of horrible sleep due to first the lung cancer surgery and then the twice-removed basal cell carcinoma on my chest, I may have to recover from yet another surgery. And lose significant lung function? I don’t want to die, but yeah, maybe that is a better option. Living at any cost is not living.

On a bright note, my Zeelool order is coming today.

I really don’t care if I die. I do care what happens to Dawson and to Rich. Watching me die will be difficult, and going through life without a mother will be so hard on Dawson. Rich will eventually be okay; he is a survivor, and he will have Botti to keep him company. But Dawson, I am not so sure. Let’s hope it does not come to that any time soon, but I have to be prepared in case it does.

This is so gut-wrenching for me. I am so tired of fighting each and every day of my life, and now I have to fight FOR my life as well, again? I am not sure I have it in me. The first lung cancer was hard enough, and I did all that I could to make it look like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. A huge, painful, scary deal. I am already so very tired, and now this. Why?

I was angry with my surgeon’s office for not posting the CT results. I needed to know whether the nodule was spiculated (as last time) and whether any lymph nodes were involved. The answers would have let me know if I was dealing with cancer or a benign nodule.

Luckily, the following Tuesday, I had a follow-up with my primary doctor, and I was fairly certain she would have my results. But that was four days away, and I had to deal with my thoughts in the meantime. So, I spent those days in the same denial, blame, and fear of dying space as last year, because, why not?

From my journal:

I am super sad today. I feel like I cannot make any plans or think of the future until I know what the nodule on my lung is.

I am painting with Anita today, but I don’t feel too inspired. Maybe I will when the time gets closer.

This just sucks, not knowing. I am going to try hard to put it out of my mind for a bit. We’ll see if I can achieve that.

I just want to know. I hate the waiting.

After days of worrying, I found out that the nodule was mildly spiculated, which probably meant cancer, but there were no lymph nodes involved, which probably meant no spread. But I did not know for sure. Luckily for me, a PET scan was scheduled for Friday, only three days away. I was excited to get the scan done so quickly, but I also knew I would not see the results until I saw my surgeon, Dr. B, in over a week. Again, my brain had far too much time to think.

From my journal, written during my PET scan:

I’m sitting in a cold room, waiting for the radioactive sugar water to spread through my body. My anxiety tells me it can feel the magical water flowing through my veins, and the other part of my brain that craves calm tells my anxiety to fuck off. I fear a fight may ensue.

As someone who may again have the unwanted guest of cancer camped out in her chest, I really don’t want my anxiety to win this fight, which it so frequently does. Instead, I want to find joy and peace in as many things as I can, because the idea of having lung cancer twice in one year is almost more than I can take.

Half an hour into my radioactive juice dispersant process, I discover a lever on the right side of my somewhat comfortable chair. Levers scream to be pulled, so when I did, the chair magically reclined, and a footrest settled itself under my calves, making for a much more comfortable wait.

A moment of joy in the midst of swirling anxiety.

After the scan was over, I settled into the long, week-plus wait, eagerly anticipating my scan results. I had been here before, but it was different this time. I found myself obsessed with the possibility that I was never going to beat this cancer thing since it came back so quickly. My mind raced ahead to my death nearly daily. I saw myself going through surgeries, chemo, radiation, and any other treatment they could throw at me. My future looked bleak, and I was spiraling into a depression. I dug deep and held on, waiting anxiously.

From my journal during those days:

I find myself thinking I cannot breathe, my heart rate is high, and other fucked up things, when, in reality, it’s my anxiety. I keep thinking that this nodule is going to kill me and that my body is full of cancer, and I have no hope. I am doing this to myself and cannot seem to stop. I distract myself with work or a task and get a moment’s rest from the chaotic thoughts of death, and then before I know it, they are back. I hope I am not like this until my appointment with Dr. B., which is a week from tomorrow. Eight days. I don’t want to feel like this for eight days.

Oh, and the tears. They hover just below the surface, and as they bubble up throughout the day, I push them back into the dark. Maybe I should let them see the light. Maybe I should feel the pain, the uncertainty, and the fear. Maybe. We’ll see.

And then, an anxiety-reducing miracle happened. From my journal:

My PET scan results were dropped into my portal yesterday, which surprised me. Now, I don’t have to wait until next Wednesday to know if my nodule is cancerous and whether it has spread. It is, and it has not. I am dealing with a very similar situation to last time, except I think the solution will be a wedge resection instead of a lobectomy. Well, at least I hope.

Now, I can stop catastrophizing about my imminent death, which I have been doing for days now.

Uncertainty is my kryptonite.

Now I know, and my anxiety has dropped about 80%.

But I still will need surgery, and I still don’t know where my lung function is. I have my PFT tomorrow, and maybe the results will arrive in my portal before next Wednesday. We’ll see. And then, the next question is whether I will have a wedge resection or something else. That, I know, I will need to wait for until my appointment with Dr. B.

But having the knowledge that cancer was localized did not erase all my worry. The time between seeing my PET scan results and my appointment with Dr. B. was 8 days, and my anxiety and worry ebbed and flowed for each of those days.

From my journal:

I am super sad today. Woke up this way. I think the closer my visit with Dr. B gets, the more real my new lung cancer situation feels to me.

I am hoping for a wedge resection and a more speedy recovery. I am hoping I can kayak and play pickleball this summer, but more importantly, I want to be able to walk my 2 miles in the morning sooner rather than later. I really love my morning walks.

I am assuming this is the reason for my sadness, but I don’t know for sure.

Since my surgeon scheduled a PFT (pulmonary function test), I had a feeling he would be leaning toward surgery to treat the nodule. It would be similar yet different from the lobectomy, and although I did not have an appointment with him for over a week, I started to mentally prepare myself for a big surgery. I was adamant that I didn’t want to lose any more lung function. Although my breathing felt “normal” once I recovered from my lobectomy, I knew that would not be the case the second time around. That terrified me more than the surgery itself. I was walking three miles a day, doing strength training, starting to play pickleball, and looking forward to finally getting back in the kayak. I did not want any of that to change. And most of all, I did not want to follow in my mom’s footsteps. I know I am not going to get COPD, but any further reduction in lung function would make me feel that I was going to have a tough time as she did. But, after all my worrying, I knew that if it meant not dying in the next few years, I would gladly accept the outcome.

Dr. B. day finally arrived. From my journal:

My visit with Dr. B. did not go as planned. I went in expecting to receive a surgery date and left knowing surgery probably was not going to be an option. I am relieved and excited. I don’t need to stop working out, walking, or riding my bike, and I can start kayaking and playing pickleball.

And, most importantly, I will not lose lung function. Well, not as much as I would have with surgery.

I am seeing my pulmonologist on Tuesday, and then he will schedule me for a bronchoscopy to biopsy the nodule in my lower right lobe. It is located fairly deep in the tissue. Dr. B. thinks it can be reached with a robot-assisted bronchoscopy.

Although the nodule lit up during my PET scan, meaning it most likely is cancer, they still want to do the biopsy to confirm. And I think they want more information about it than a tissue sample alone can provide. I completely agree.

So, the most likely treatment will be radiation. After the biopsy, I will be referred to a radiation oncologist for evaluation. Well, at least that is what I know at this point. After meeting with the pulmonologist, that could change.

Oh, and my PFT results were very, very good. Better than they should be for someone who sacrificed her upper right lobe.

My last biopsy was fairly uneventful, if you ignore that I was not given enough sedative and I could feel the needle going into my body. I have a high threshold for pain, so it was not as bad as it could have been.

My new nodule, however, will not be as easy to biopsy. There was talk of “not being able to reach it,” “well, an external approach may be risky,” and my favorite, “let’s see if we can find a path to get there.” I am not going to lie; I am a bit unsettled about it.

From my journal:

For nearly the last week, I have not thought too much about the cancerous nodule in my lung. I was ecstatic to not be having surgery, and I let myself bask in that light for as long as I could.

But now, today, after my appointment with Dr. F., my pulmonologist, my situation is at the forefront of my mind.

The robot-guided bronchoscopy will be difficult, and they may not be able to reach the nodule. That bothers me quite a bit. I understand the need for it: to know if the cancer is a secondary-primary or a recurrence. That knowledge is critical for my treatment.

I hope they are able to get to it, and that the procedure is a non-event for me. Most likely, it will happen next week.

Within a week or so, I will be put under general anesthesia, intubated, and, guided by a robot I am going to call Rudy for some reason. The other Dr. F (my Dr. F’s partner) will guide something (a camera and tool to sample with, I am guessing) down into my lung to get a piece of my nodule’s tissue.

No problem. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

So that is where I am. Waiting. Waiting to be scheduled for my robot-assisted bronchoscopy. I am holding the fear, holding on to hope, and trying not to freak out. I will have time for that later.

Victoria

From my journal on Mother’s Day 2026:

Mother’s Day. It’s fucking Mother’s Day. I really wish I had the power to cancel this event, but I do not. And that would not be fair to all the children who want to celebrate their mothers.

The Witch has been physically gone from this world since 2008, but was gone for me since 1995, when she disowned me. But yet, she invaded my dreams last night. Why? I don’t remember the details, but she was there. And I know that means something, whether I like it or not.

But it’s the biological mom I have not felt like celebrating in quite some time. I don’t know when it started, but after being so very close for twenty years, my mom and I began to drift apart around 2017 or 2018. Mom was diagnosed with COPD in 2017 and lung cancer in 2019. During those times, I was knee-deep in my gluten-free business, and we did not spend a ton of time together, but we did see each other often. And, we spoke on the phone regularly. I think the sicker she got, the further apart we became. And then, there was a huge blowup between the four of us (Rich, me, my Mom, and her husband) in late 2019 that took too many months to resolve.

Three years later, Rich and I left for our full-time RV adventure. That’s when things really changed. She was distraught that we were gone, and every phone call with her had nothing to do with me. She would spend 20 minutes straight talking about herself and would rarely ask how I was doing. She did, however, have so much stress and anxiety about our nomadic lifestyle that she would constantly tell me how worried she was about the weather near us, our safety on travel days, and more. She was not content keeping that anxiety to herself but instead put it on me, as if I was responsible for it. That was unfair, and because of that, I was hesitant to answer the phone whenever she called. That lasted for nearly 2 years. Then, we found ourselves in the same city once again, and somehow, we did not get much closer. She became sicker, withdrew into herself, and as life became hard to live, she became bitter and even mean. Then, last year, a week after her 80th birthday, she died. And I was so very sad to lose her. To lose what we once had.

But then, I was angry. So very angry.

A month or so after her death, I learned that the man she said was my biological father, the man whose name was listed as my father on my “real” birth certificate, was not my father at all. Well, actually, as soon as my DNA came back 49% Ashkenazi Jew back in 2018, I “knew,” but guess my brain did not want me to accept it because I found many ways to explain it away. I pretended the lineage came from deeper in my dad’s family, and I came up with other ideas that had no basis in logic whatsoever. And, over 7 years, no DNA matches to my “real dad” were ever made. My Mom saw the results, too, and egged me on to figure out how it was possible. I believe she fully knew that my dad was not my dad and kept it to herself.

I guess after her death, when I looked at the DNA data again, my brain felt it was safe for me to accept the truth. And once I did, I wanted answers. But it was too late. She was gone, and she took my answers with her.

I am so mad at her. So very, very mad. But I have always been mad at her on some level, right? Yes, I have always felt anger about her giving me up for adoption. But we spent 30 years together, and I should be grateful for that, right? Yeah, well, she said early on in our relationship, “I don’t have to say I am sorry about what I did. It was the only choice I had,” even after hearing about my horrible childhood. A childhood she and my father, whoever the hell he is, put into motion.

So yeah, Mother’s Day is challenging.

This is how it typically starts. I write in my journal about whatever is causing me emotions or stress. Many times it is a rant, like above. Rants are so critical for me. I let the emotions out without trying to minimize or dismiss them, which is what I usually do when feelings rear their ugly heads. And then, after the rant is written, I sit with emotions for a while, stew on them even, and either fight them or make the decision to meet them head-on. When I choose the latter, I head to the canvas. After working within this pattern for a couple of years, I know this is the best method for me to express the emotions that so easily get caught up in not only my head but also my body. And if I don’t give the emotions and outlet for release, they turn more deeply inward and cause so much more pain, inside and out.

Rich and I had plans to take his mom to the casino and lunch today, so painting was probably not on the agenda. I had to figure out what to do with all the feelings weaving in and out of my mind. I resorted to a familiar tactic: distraction and denial.

I got myself ready for the day and told myself that putting money into a machine that will most likely not return it will be something I would enjoy. And at the very least, I will be eating at one of my favorite Greek restaurants. All good, right?

On the drive downtown, my aunt sent a text for Mother’s Day, saying she “hoped I would feel my Mom’s presence today” and that “she does often.” Well, I don’t feel her presence ever, and I didn’t expect I would that day, but I thought, well, maybe I will today, and I committed to being open-minded.

After valet parking and printing a new loyalty card (of course, I lost my old one, although I have no idea why I even need one), we all headed to the nickel video poker machines. Rich and his mom headed one direction, and I headed the other. As I sat down at the machine and fed it my money, I thought to myself, hey, you’re doing pretty good with the emotions, as I mentally patted myself on the back.

The machine was not playing nicely (translation: it took more money than it paid out), so I decided to find another machine. My aunt’s text kept running in my head, and part of me did want to “feel her presence” today, so I headed to a row of old slot machines, the same ones my Mom and I would play when we went “up the hill” to the casinos in Colorado.

I sat down at a Double Diamond machine and fed it money. When I was younger, and I guess more risk-averse, I played the 25-cent machines and always chose “Max Bet.” It’s that choice that got me $500 down the first time my Mom and I played in 1995. Losing that kind of money to a slot machine freaked me out, so I kept playing frantically, determined to win it all back. And amazingly, I did! But now that I am older, I would rather spend less money and more time at the machine than increase my chances of winning. Now, I play the 5-cent machines and bet a whopping 15-cents per play.

As I sat there playing and hoping for a sign of my Mom’s presence, none came. Although I thought about my Mom a lot, I did not feel anything but the frustration of watching my money slowly slip away, and a strong urge to find a bathroom.

And that was okay. I’m not really the type of person who would assume I would feel, hear, or see the spirits of dead people. I do, however, believe it is entirely possible that others do.

After the three of us determined we were done with gambling, we headed to the Golden Fleece for a delicious Greek lunch. The food did not disappoint, and my MIL said it was the best Mother’s Day ever. The lamb shank she ordered was bigger than her head, and I am sure that was the fuel for her “greatest ever” comments. It made me so very happy to see her happy.

It was an hour-long drive back to Rich’s mom’s place, and as I sat in the back seat, enjoying the urban scenery of Detroit and its surrounding suburbs, I was replaying the day in my head. I think part of me wanted to “feel” my Mom, but the other part of me had no interest in such an experience. I was deeply conflicted and a bit worried I would find myself in a rabbit hole later in the evening. But then my son called to wish me Happy Mother’s Day, and it was the distraction I needed.

Us not being together on this day is its own brand of pain, but hearing his voice always makes my day better. We chatted for a bit, and by the time we dropped Rich’s mom off at her place, I was in a better headspace.

Rich was tired from the day’s activities (and all the driving), so he made himself comfortable on the couch and closed his eyes. As soon as I heard the familiar sound of snoring, I knew I had a few hours to myself.

I walked past the easel on the way to my desk and paused as the thought, “I should paint,” entered my mind. I had tons of emotions swirling in my head and body, held in stasis because I did not want to experience them on this day of moms, which probably needed to be expressed. And, without painting, I could not finish the rant/essay I started earlier in the day.

I made the decision to paint and went upstairs to change into my painting clothes. While putting on my painting overalls, I asked myself how I felt about my moms on this day of celebration. Well, it was a quick answer: angry! And then I asked myself what color that was, and my answer was fire. Red hot fire.

But there was no way I would make them the focus of my painting. This was about me, not them. My loss of a true mother, loss of a happy childhood, and loss of myself. Just so much loss. So the question is, what color is my loss? I would not have thought this, but green came to mind as soon as I asked the question. Go figure. And then adding red, well, that makes it Christmas, The Witch’s and my Mom’s favorite holiday. Damn.

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So I set out to paint, knowing green was my starting color and red, or maybe reddish pink, would be involved. I would know more when the paint hit the canvas, and I was curious to see what this painting had in store for me.

I always paint to music, and it is as much a part of my painting as the actual paints are. Rich was sleeping, so blasting my tunes was not an option. I had to use my AirPods instead. Hearing the music “in my ears” makes me feel it is being played just for me, and it seems to integrate itself into my brain as I listen. It is a very cool experience.

So, what to listen to for an emotionally charged painting about my moms? Well, both of them loved Barbra Streisand (as do I), so I chose the album that was very much the soundtrack of my late teen years: Yentl. Yes, I know, weird. I was seventeen when it came out, and I went to see the movie with The Witch, who cried the entire way through the movie while mumbling something about missing her beloved father. If only she had one tenth of that love for me.

Nonetheless, the music and themes from that movie embodied me in ways I still do not understand. And I knew, to find the truth, to process the pain of my moms, I needed to paint to the music of Yentl.

So I did.

I added various greens to my palette along with raw umber and white. I hit play on my phone, and the first song on the album, Where Is It Written, began to play. As soon as I heard the first notes, the floodgate opened, and intense memories and emotions overwhelmed me as I put the first strokes of green on the canvas. It was magical and terrifying at the same time.

I was angry and sad, and I put that all on the canvas with every stroke of my paint spatula. When I first saw the movie and heard Yentl’s music, it spoke to me in a way no other music had. The lyrics echoed my lifelong struggle to understand who I was, what I wanted, and why I felt so lonely and unloved.

“Tell me where, where is it written what it is I’m meant to be? That I can dare to have the chance to pick the fruit of every tree, or have my share of every sweet imagined possibility. Just tell me where, tell me where.”

As I heard the words that brought me hope over 40 years ago, I took every bit of pain and anger I felt toward The Witch and put them on the canvas, as the word ‘why’ circled in my brain. I will never know why, but back then, understanding why was the fuel that set me on my path into adulthood. I had to figure out why two women, one who discarded me and the other who tormented me, would do such a thing to me. Did I deserve it? I surely felt that way, and I have spent my entire life trying to atone for it.

After I attacked the canvas with the dark green, I used a darker green to add some depth and interest.

Another song on the album, Papa Can You Hear Me, is the one that gutted The Witch in the theater. She had lost her dad a year or so before that. Up to that point in my life, the only father I knew was my adoptive one, The Tree, and he was not a father in any way, shape, or form. I only understood this song emotionally, through the eyes of Yentl, not through my own longing for a lost father. But, nonetheless, hearing the song while painting intensified my feelings, and all that emotion was put onto the canvas.

I moved through the album as I moved through my painting. I listened, I remembered, I cried, and most importantly, I processed emotions that had been buried inside me for years.

When No Wonder played (a song about trying to understand why you are not as worthy as others), I was immediately taken back to my late teens and felt the pain of trying to belong, as I did way too often back then. It was a powerful moment that played out between my memory, the canvas, and the beautiful words singing in my ears. And in those moments, I realized I no longer feel that way about myself. Sure, I’m still a weirdo who seems to stand out where others fit in, but I am proud of it now, and know my weirdness makes me unique and is a large part of who I am. And, finally, after nearly 60 years, I am beginning to like who I am.

I added a beautiful, almost fluorescent light green to the canvas, filling in the spaces around the darker greens. The color made me smile, even as tears ran down my face. Although the thoughts and emotions brought me pain, I felt in the entirety of my body that this painting session was releasing something that had been buried in me for a very long time. I could feel the past release and leave my body. I was healing. Finally.

I continued adding white, light green, darker green, and even some really dark green paint to the canvas. I was getting closer to the “resolution” phase of the process that every painting takes me to once all the emotion is expressed. Now I am ready to leave the tension behind, and mark-making allows me to start down the path to a better place.

I started my mark-making by adding circles of varying shades of green and white. I was nearing the end of the second side of the album as I began adding more marks with a circle stencil, and then, even though I was not sure it would work out, I used a leaf stencil to add leaves to various areas of the canvas. I was very happy to be happy with how they turned out. Now, it was time to bring in the moms.

And right on cue, A Piece of Sky started playing. My favorite song on the album is hopeful and helped me through some really tough times in my life.

I mixed a reddish-pink and grabbed a star-like piece of jewelry glued to a stick. I dipped the star in the paint and then pressed it on the canvas, leaving a cool star-like mark, thick with paint. I loved how pink worked with the green on the canvas and knew I wanted to add even more pink.

Now, as I listen to the lyrics of my anthem song, I realize it is no longer a song about what is possible for me, but a song that describes how I have lived my life so far.

I have realized amazing things because I had the courage to fly.

I found the pleasures where danger lies.

I have a voice now.

I have a choice now.

And with all there was, I didn’t settle for just a piece of sky.

I feel so much gratitude for my enduring quest for healing, and I am amazed by this realization. I would never have arrived here without my paint-and-write process.

Yentl was over, and I moved to Glee music I had not listened to in years and finished the painting. I added “scratches” using the pastry cutter, and as I stood staring at them, I felt something was missing. Two moms need two sets of scratches, so I added another set of scratches to signify scratching my way back twice. And I just realized I missed doing that to one set of scratches. Let’s see if anyone notices.

After the painting was done, I felt in every part of my body that this was a significant emotional journey that I had never experienced before. I felt changed, and, more importantly, healed.

I was surprised that the painting session brought up more of The Witch than my Mom, but I guess I had more to process and release about her than I realized. But I do feel the process of writing, painting, and then writing again, also included my Mom. I will not delude myself by saying I have processed all there is to process when it comes to my Mom—not even close. But, I can say, I am beginning to reframe our thirty years together in a way that honors what I did get from her, and not just what I didn’t. I am still very mad at her about the dad thing, but I know in time, and with more writing and painting, I will process that as well.

One of the biggest takeaways from painting and writing about The Deep Pain of Moms Lost is that I emotionally realized that they are both gone now. I no longer need to carry the weight of trying to please them in exchange for their love. I am free from that weight, and because of that, I can head down the path of healing with more conviction and confidence.

After years of chasing whys, I now know that it is a rare thing to really understand one’s past, especially the motivations of others. I still want to understand it, but now I don’t feel like my life or my happiness depends on it. And that realization is all the freedom I need, for now.

The Deep Pain of Moms Lost is available as an original painting and fine art prints.

Thank you for being on the journey with me.

Victoria

In my memoir, Perpetual Conflict, I delved into what I then called “My Process,” in an attempt to understand it. And, at the time, that exploration brought me a bit closer to knowing why it occurs. But it still happens, and when it happened last week, I wanted to understand it more deeply, so I started writing about it. And because there cannot be understanding without writing and painting, I set out to express the emotions of My Process onto the canvas.

The foundation of My Process is that I feel (mostly subconsciously, but sometimes consciously) that I am not worthy of a place in this world. To be able to think or feel that and still remain on this earth, I must find proof every day that I am indeed worthy. The “proof” can come in many forms:

• Producing work that is of value to others

• Making money with said work

• Being able to support myself

• People who like me

• People who are happy with me and my work or actions

• Making no mistakes

• Maintaining that no other human is ever mad at me or can accuse me of being wrong, or doing something that would hurt another.

• Other humans that genuinely care about me, although I do think I really believe they exist.

• Societal expectations: living in a respectable home, driving a respectable car, wearing stylish clothes, looking okay for my age, etc. It may not matter as much as it used to, but it is still in the mix.

All is good and somewhat calm in my world if the above conditions are met, each and every day. When one of the conditions is unmet, it can and usually does become a trigger that sets off a series of cascading events.

First, the trigger:

By another person:

• Does not like my work

• Is unkind to me

• Betrays me

• Doesn’t consider my feelings or needs

• Assumes I will do what they want, even if it is not what I want

• Does not take care of me in the way I take care of them

• Does not value me

By myself:

• I make a mistake

• Feel I did not do my best

• Feel shame about something I said or did

• Act too much like the real me in work or social situations

• Tuesday (or any day) sometimes

Then, because I failed to keep all the conditions met, I must atone for my sins, and that comes in the form of punishment. And once the storm of punishment unleashes, there is no going back. I have no choice but to ride out this process to its conclusion. It’s like a roller coaster you cannot exit until you are no longer upside down or going 55 miles per hour. It’s a painful process, and it causes me great mental harm, which in turn reinforces my lack of worth in this world. I have been doing it as long as I can remember, and I no longer wish to remain powerless against it. The only way I can defeat My Process is to understand it on both an intellectual and emotional level. So, let’s get started.

Immediately after the trigger, I feel a wall of emotions overtake my body as I am slowly pulled toward the rabbit hole forming in front of me. As I retreat from my safe, calm, happy reality, I feel parts of myself being pushed so far into the darkness that I fear I will never get them back. As I am pulled deeper into the rabbit hole, I begin to lose the ability to see the situation rationally, and my contempt for myself grows exponentially. Then, waves of anger, each stronger than its predecessor, wash over me, and it feels as if every cell in my body is at war with my soul. It’s as if my own body is trying to rid itself of my inherent unworthiness.

I live in that anger for hours to days and relive the unmet condition constantly, hoping that I can find evidence that I am truly worthy, but at this stage, I rarely do.

Internally, my thoughts about myself are nasty, biting, and horrible:

You brought this on yourself
You don’t deserve happiness
You are not a good person
You have to pay for this
You are not allowed to have anything that makes you happy
You must suffer

Externally, it is obvious I am not in a good place:

• I retreat into myself and don’t talk much

• When I do talk, it is quite monotone, and I only answer questions

• My eyes express the deep sadness that has overtaken me

• Tears well up in my eyes sporadically

• I can feel the anger pumping through my veins, and the sadness washing over my skin

• Both my thoughts and my physical condition drive me deeper into the rabbit hole until I arrive at the punishment stage. Here, everything I want, need, love, or desire is stripped from me so that maybe, next time, I will not let a condition fall.

• I bury myself in my work, rarely stopping or allowing myself even a smile, unless I have a Zoom call. To even suggest I am not “happy” to others would unleash a punishment that would make what I normally endure joyful.

• I tell myself I don’t deserve food, free time, happiness, or anything positive in my life.

• I agree to remove all joy from my life until further notice.

When the punishment phase is in full force, I tend to seek out additional evidence to support the hypothesis that I am unworthy of love, joy, and life. Just in case what caused it was not enough. Got to be sure, right?

Whether it is rehashing something from my past that fits the unworthy narrative, or actively looking for a new reason I suck, I gladly continue my punishment, trapped in a recurring cycle of hatred solely designed to generate new punishments for me. Even if I want to exit the ride, I can’t. It’s as if I am under a spell, and my departure relies on finding a mythical and invisible potion. The more I try to find the potion, the more futile my search becomes. I stay trapped in this rabbit hole of my own making until something pulls me out. It could be a significant distraction, talking with Rich, or it can just go away after a few days. Most of the time, My Process lasts for days and is over in mere minutes. It’s crazy, really.

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So, what causes My Process, and why the hell do I keep doing it to myself?

I started writing this essay before I started painting, and I knew that to really understand My Process, I would need to put paint on the canvas for the truth to reveal itself.

With every painting, I start with a color and then go from there. For My Process Is My Pain, I knew I needed to use black and blue. It’s the colors that immediately come to mind when I think of punishment. And, The Witch (woman who raised me) would threaten me by claiming those were the colors I would be if I did not do as she said. So, I started with Payne’s Grey, which is kinda black, and kinda blue.

As I laid down the strokes of darkness, I felt the anger and the energy behind it. It moved from my torso to my arms, through my hands, and onto the canvas. My anger is vast and deep, and I know, even with this painting, I was only scratching the surface. Once the “black” was down, I needed to add its partner, blue, which, in this duo, brings lightness to a dark time. As I was adding the blue, The Witch popped into my head to try to sway the painting in her direction, because that is what she always did: make everything about her.

She was trying to get some representation in the piece since she was the original architect of My Process. When I realized she was in my head, my first instinct was to acknowledge her and give her a place on the canvas. I remembered that red was her favorite color, so I chose to add a dark pink to the canvas.

But I did not do it for her. Instead, I added the pink so she would be surrounded by the black and blue and hopefully understand the pain and suffering she caused. It was a vengeful act that would have fallen on deaf ears. Even if she were alive and standing right next to me, she would never understand, and certainly would not feel any remorse or even a sliver of empathy.

Adding marks to my painting is my way of creating resolution to the painful layers already placed on the canvas. I added circles like I normally do (they make me smile), and then I added my final marks with a pastry cutter, representing me, scratching back to myself.

As with most of my trauma, The Witch is the origin story. She loved punishing me, and she did so often. I don’t recall doing that much wrong in my youth, and I don’t think I actually did. It wasn’t about actually doing or being wrong. It was about control. She had to control me, but because of my inquisitive nature, I wasn’t an easy task for her. So she found a process that worked: punishment.

She would spank me with a wooden carving board sporting the Lord’s Prayer, make me stand in the corner for hours, and ground me for months at a time. When she punished me, I would cry, and cry hard. Then I would plead my case, and then cry some more. Throughout it all, she remained stoic and determined to continue the punishment. If her intent was to break me, well, she succeeded.

I don’t think she intended or even imagined that her process would become my own. But, because her punishment of me was so very traumatic and went on for so long (my entire childhood), it became a part of who I am.

The enormity of what I just wrote has caused me to pause and swallow hard. The person charged with my care and well-being abused me enough to cause me to adopt an abusive mindset for myself. That is horrible, unthinkable, and feels like a place I can never return from. How could I? It’s who I am. It’s who I was made to be.

Her hatred for me is now my own hatred for myself. Now that’s beyond fucked up, and a very, very hard thing to accept.

But, I must accept it if I want to retire My Process for good. But acceptance is only the beginning. How do you excise a part of yourself that has existed your whole life? I am not even sure where to start. My Process feels almost more physical than emotional. What do you do with that?

So now I have more questions than answers, but that is a win nonetheless. Without the awareness exploring this has caused, I would not be on the path to eventually burying My Process. And even though I cannot tell you how, where, or when at this time, I am certain I will defeat The Witch and give her back her own damn process.

Where do I start this huge emotional undertaking?

The scratches. I start with the scratches.

They represent the dismantling not only of My Process but also of the anvil of unworthiness that weighs me down and makes me susceptible to The Witch’s continued control.

With each scratch, no matter how shallow or short, I will be fighting back, regaining my autonomy, and uncovering the person I was born to be.

Now that makes me happy.

Thanks for sitting in the rabbit hole with me today.

My Process Is My Pain is 36” x 60” and available as an original painting and fine art prints.

Check out my painting process video on YouTube:

Victoria

I was born with a lazy eye that does not see well enough to be of any use, and another eye that is extremely nearsighted. So, for the first six years of my life, I did not see the world as others saw it. Everything was blurry, all the time. One of my strongest memories of those times was when I wanted to watch television. Our living room was arranged so that the seating left you 6-8 feet away from the TV. Everyone else seemed to see the TV just fine, but the only way I could see it was to sit on the floor less than a foot away. Even though it was still slightly blurry, I was thrilled to see what I could. But, each and every time I sat in my TV watching spot, the Witch (the woman who raised me) would yell at me, “You’re going to ruin your eyes sitting that close.” I’m not sure how she didn’t know they were already ruined.

Until they weren’t.

Fall 1973

Today is the day. I am so excited and can’t wait to get ready, get in the car, and start my journey. I don’t think I can get there soon enough, I thought, excitedly. A couple of weeks earlier, as the doctor was examining my eyes, he stated, “I think she is ready for some glasses.” The Witch reluctantly agreed (it would mean spending money on my well-being), and I was asked to pick out frames. And today, I picked up those glasses.

We checked in at the front desk, and we were asked to take a seat in the waiting room. I did not want to wait, but almost as soon as I sat down, a woman came and led us back to the room with all the glasses. She told me to sit on one side of the table, and she sat on the other side. There was a mirror on my side, and I was excited to finally look in it and see myself clearly. The woman could tell how excited I was and smiled broadly as she took my new glasses out of their case. They looked new and sparkly, but she cleaned them with a brightly-colored cloth nonetheless. As soon as she guided the glasses over my ears and I focused my eyes, I was so taken aback by what I saw that I nearly jumped out of my seat.

My world was no longer blurry. I could see things clearly! I could see every expression on the woman’s face in front of me. I could see her smile, her teeth, her eyeshadow, everything! I looked over at the Witch, and although she wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t frowning either.

This is the best day ever, I thought to myself. In those first moments when the world was so clear to me, I began to realize how much I had been missing. I didn’t linger in that loss long, and I knew, from this moment on, I would always see the world clearly.

As we left the office and made our way to the car, I couldn’t stop looking at everything around me. So much so, I nearly tripped over myself. I spent the car ride home enamored by all the sights that just an hour ago were so blurry I didn’t even bother to look.

I didn’t think I would encounter another miraculous discovery day like that one again in my life.

But I was wrong.

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Today, I saw the world more clearly, again. But this time, it didn’t have anything to do with my eyes. This time, my clarity came from within and will significantly change the trajectory of my life. My hard-fought, nearly 60 years in the making, revelation:

Prior to this miraculous realization, I understood that the word no was an appropriate response to questions and requests for others to use, but never for myself.

Until now.

I have finally given myself permission to join the no club, and am allowed to say it whenever I want.

And I feel like a kid on Christmas morning!

No.
No.
No.
And more no.

I just love saying no!

So, what happened to cause this dramatic shift?

Although the outcome was very dramatic, the cause was quiet and unassuming.

Shortly after my recent article about shame, Breaking the Death Grip of Shame, a book about shame, The Unshaming Way, by David Bedrick, was suggested as a great resource for overcoming shame. Since I made a promise in that article to keep working on my shame issues, I didn’t think twice about ordering the book. It was delivered shortly after, and I dug in as soon as I could, eager to get some guidance on erradicating my life-long shame.

I have read and worked the exercise in so many self-help books in my lifetime that I have lost count. Some helped a little, some helped a lot, and some were no help at all. So, going into this book, I had no expectations whatsoever.

As soon as I got halfway through chapter one and had tears in my eyes, I knew this book was going to help me in some way. Seeing so much of myself in the author’s words soothed my shame and anxiety and made me feel seen more than I have been seen by a book. But I stayed steadfast in my “no expectations” stance as I read further.

Shame happens when something is said or done to us that questions our place in the world, and nobody is there to defend us. Innocuous childhood learning moments were treated as punishable offenses by the Witch. As she screamed at me, called me names, and told me I was worthless, no one was there to refute her. I tried and tried to defend myself, but that only made her angrier. So, I internalized that there was something wrong with me.

Incidents like these may have faded from my memory if they were few and far between. But, they were not. They were woven into the fabric of my childhood and used as weapons against me.

My shame was pervasive, and it became a lens rather than a feeling. I internalized the Witch’s words and actions as “something is wrong with me,” and this became the main force shaping how I see the world.

I learned that shame can only survive in the darkness, and it can be dissolved when it is witnessed without judgment. The witness can be myself, a therapist, or another safe relationship.

I processed what I read for days and didn’t work on anything specific to try to unashame myself. I thought deeply about my shame, its origins, and how it manifests in my life today. In a way, I guess I was witnessing it as well.

One of the main components of shame is our inner critic. This “person” maintains the shame status quo until we decide to tell it to shut the fuck up (STFU). I have told my inner critic (Bleak Victoria) to STFU numerous times over the years, but she just tells me to STFU, and guess who is always the one to abide? So, I was not very confident that challenging her would make any dent in my huge pile of shame.

And, my inner critic is mean as hell. The contempt she has for me is palatable, and when she is at her worst, she makes me feel so ashamed of myself that I don’t think I deserve anything good in life. I find it hard to believe that I can be so mean and uncaring to myself. I would never say those things to another human being, but to myself, well, I don’t even hesitate.

I had finished chapter five on the self-critic, which made me think more deeply about it, but I still did not feel like I was “working” the book.

But then, a few days later, there was a client. She is a lovely woman, but after working with her for a few weeks, I realized I wasn’t bringing my best energy or my best work to the project. Something wasn’t aligned, and I could feel it.

I read her latest email and thought to myself, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” and I felt the weight of that sentence in every cell of my body.

And then, it hit me. Like a freight train I never saw or heard coming.

And then my shoulders fell, my body felt lighter, and I began to cry. Not ugly crying, but gentle tears of relief. I finally realized I had the power to say no to things, people, events, and jobs I did not want in my life. My body and soul had been trying to tell me for years, but I was not ready to listen. I was scared, I thought, but I was wrong.

It wasn’t fear that obscured this truth from me. It was the brainwashing of my childhood:

Being told I was worthless when I made a mistake
Enduring her wrath when she thought I was not putting her needs before my own
Constantly being reminded that her life was so much better before me
Making sure I “knew my place” in life

It was like I was being controlled by the Witch for all these years without the slightest idea it was happening. And that realization does scare me. How in the world could I have been so blind for so long?

I was living my life for others because I was raised to believe that my wants, needs, and desires were always secondary to everyone else’s. And then, one day, I didn’t believe that anymore.

It was a long time coming, but better late than never.

So now, I wake up every day and ask myself what I really want. Yes, I still have to work, but I do not have to take on projects that don’t resonate with me. I don’t have to work with clients who do not respect my talent and expertise. And I never, ever, ever have to do something I don’t want to again.

But then, there is reality. Change is never easy, and typically messy. There will be times I feel the pull to put others first.

But I am committed to staying the course.

I am committed to no.

Victoria

Betrayal cuts like a freshly sharpened knife and is one of the most painful things a human can endure. Shame comes close, but betrayal, well, that’s in its own league of pain and suffering.

To me, betrayal is not only an act, but also a feeling. One or more humans perpetrate the betrayal (the act), and then one or more humans feel the effects of the action (the feeling).

And when you are one of the humans on the receiving end, as I have been too many times, the act itself is less concerning than the feelings it leaves behind. Pain that cannot seem to find its bottom gives way to uncertainty about your entire being and your place in this world.

It just hurts.
So very deeply.
In every part of my body and mind.

After some time, the pain from the intense sting of betrayal begins to lessen, and in its place, doubt quickly moves in. It takes many forms:

What did I do to deserve this?
I should have seen this coming!
I will never let this happen again!
I hate people!

I see grief in those statements, but betrayal isn’t just about grief; it’s also about safety. I am both grieving the act, feeling the intense emotions, and bargaining my way to safety. The “logic” seems plausible:

If I change my behavior, I will be safe.
If I am more vigilant, I’ll see danger coming.
If I close myself off, I will be protected.
If I consider all humans bad, I will be shielded.

But when high levels of emotion are involved, nothing ever goes as planned.

A year ago, I wrote about a major betrayal in my business, and here I am, still bitterly hurt by the actions of one individual. Whenever I am reminded of the person or the act, I slide back into the pain.

And I hate, with all my being, that this has a hold on me, controls me, even, and that I am again writing about it in an attempt to understand it and, hopefully, expel it from my mind.

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I’ve been told that I think deeply, and I don’t see that as a flaw. I’m proud of my ability to think and understand. And because of that, my first instinct is to try to figure out the “why” of the perpetrator’s action. I just don’t understand betrayal and some people’s ability to engage in it and then go about their day. The emotional carnage they leave in their wake is, unbeknownst to them, theirs. But maybe they should know what they did?

Well, my thinly veiled attempt to do that with last year’s writing may have shed a bit of light for them, but in the end, I realized that’s not the point. It’s not my job to convince them that they did something wrong, or make them regret what they did and swear to never do it again. Although I wish I could make that happen, I don’t have that power.

What I can do is heal myself. And to do that, I have to understand why betrayal hurts me so deeply.

As I trace back through my life from last year’s betrayal, I see many other betrayals. I don’t recall ever inquiring about betrayals in my life, so this is very new and enlightening for me.

The path wasn’t linear, and after traveling back in my mind as far as I could remember, I discovered betrayal started for me at birth and continued from there.

• Being given up for adoption at birth

• The Witch’s (the woman who raised me) hatred of me

• Being cheated on by my boyfriend (who I loved immensely) when I was 19

• My biological mom (after I found her) refused to apologize for giving me up for adoption

• The ex-office-mate who left me high and dry when she closed her business

• My ex, who tried to control me and make me think I was the damaged one

• The business partner who was instrumental in the closure of our gluten-free business

These are people who have betrayed me, but I have also betrayed myself my entire life.

• Hiding my true self to “fit in”

• Being exceptionally self-critical of myself

• Distrusting myself at every turn for much of my life

• Making choices based on a lack of self-worth

• Going above and beyond for people because I cannot set good boundaries

The list is probably longer, but it’s long enough to see the pattern of betrayal in my life. And add to that, my multiple birth defects (my body betrayed me, too), and it’s fairly clear to see why betrayal cuts me to the core.

I don’t know how to disseminate the feeling of betrayal, and maybe I never will. I think I can live with that, but I know I “feel” each and every betrayal in my list despite some of them occurring nearly 60 years ago.

And now, as I write this, I feel shame for feeling betrayed. It’s as if I want to blame myself for the betrayal, as if I caused it. But maybe betrayal is just part of being human. Or maybe, I simply won the betrayal lottery?

Whatever the reason, I am left with two paths: keep reliving the pain of the betrayals, or find a way to diminish their power, and eventually, move beyond them.

This week, I purchased a book about shame and look forward to reading it, and hopefully, gaining some wisdom to help me heal and experience less shame in my life. Maybe I need to look for a book about betrayal as well. However, I did a quick Amazon search and most, if not all, of the books on betrayal are centered on the topic of infidelity. I will keep searching.

I have never investigated betrayal in my life, and now that I have, I realize I have internalized it and used it on myself, which is very messed up. But, completely understandable given my history.

The multitude of decisions I have made in my life because I did not believe in myself, lacked confidence and self-worth, or didn’t feel I was worthy is staggering. I did not realize until this moment that every decision I made that was based on fear was a betrayal of myself.

Will my healing path guide me to a place where I can forgive myself for such tragic transgressions? I hope so, but I am unconvinced at this moment.

I am still working on the question I posed to myself in this post about shame, and now I need to inquire more about betrayal with this question:

What will it take to let go of the intense feelings of betrayal from my past?

I am not sure when I will have the strength to answer this question, but I know, someday, I will be ready. I have to be if I want to truly heal.

If I am lucky, I have about 20 or so years left on this earth. I would very much like to leave it from a place of healing and forgiveness.

I owe that to myself, and all the selves that came before and will come after, this iteration. Because I don’t want to be the one who betrays me anymore.

Thanks for being on the journey.

Victoria

After experiencing intense shame caused by a failed painting (read about it here), I got back on the “easel” and created this painting, Breaking the Death Grip of Shame, which I love. For now, it feels like me. And for now, there is no shame in it.

Shame has been my constant companion since I can remember. There is an entire chapter dedicated to it in my book, Perpetual Conflict, and it seems to creep into every aspect of my professional and personal life.

For something that has such a strong hold on me, I don’t know much about shame. So, I have set out to discover what it is and why it likes me so much.

Merriam-Webster defines shame as:

“a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety”

Brené Brown, in a post from 2013, defines shame as:

“as the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging—something we’ve experienced, done, or failed to do makes us unworthy of connection.”

I prefer Brown’s definition as it dives right into the heart of my own experience of shame throughout my life.

My shame is activated when I do, say, create, or cause something that could be considered wrong, incompetent, inappropriate, unkind, stupid, tone deaf, or uncaring. Which makes sense given the Merriam-Webster definition. But using Brené Brown’s shame framework, I already believe I am flawed and unworthy of love and belonging, so I assume that when I feel shame, I am reinforcing that feeling.

In my book, I listed many experiences in my life that created shame in an attempt to regain ownership of them and excise the shame from my being. It worked, for a bit, but when I was writing that chapter, I did not understand shame as much as I do now. And let’s be clear, I am not claiming to have a hugely better understanding, but it’s much improved.

I have had many shame moments since I wrote that chapter, and each one has helped me learn a bit more about my shame. I feel each of us experiences shame slightly differently, and the triggers of shame are widely different. For me, it is always making a mistake, or to be more exact, thinking I made a mistake. In that distinction, between thinking I made a mistake and actually making a mistake is the key to my shame.

Am I really wrong, incompetent, inappropriate, unkind, stupid, tone deaf, or uncaring very often? Sometimes, yes, but my mind thinks I am that way much, much more than I could ever be in reality. And when I think I have acted in one of those seven ways, I feel immense shame that typically leads to feelings of unworthiness, dished out in biblical proportions. Once unworthy feelings arrive, their sheer strength leaves me incapable of stopping them from pulling me into a deep rabbit hole, and then, straight into the pit of despair. Once I’m in that dark pit, a feedback loop dictates to me with strong conviction and judgment the many reasons I don’t deserve to take up space in this world.

I’ve spent years trying to stay out of the pit, without ever questioning why it’s always there waiting for me. Well, let’s start asking some questions.

Does my shame make me unworthy, or am I unworthy by default, and the shame I routinely feel is designed to keep me feeling that unworthiness?

Oh, geez, yes.

I start from a place of unworthiness every day of my life. I don’t consciously recognize it, but I know in my bones it’s here and has been since I can remember.

The pit of shame exists to keep me feeling unworthy. If I dare to believe I am inherently worthy by the sheer act of “being a full-alive human,” I am punished by being dragged to the pit, when I berate myself until I accept that I am, in fact, unworthy.

To prevent these unwanted trips to the pit, I strive every day to find a way to prove my worthiness. I am an overachiever in everything I do, I am hyperaware of everything that goes on around me, people’s feelings, moods, and words, I overthink even the smallest decisions, and do more than I should in nearly every endeavor, all so that I can avoid getting close to the edge of the pit of shame.

But here’s the interesting part: I don’t need to engage in one of the seven acts to find myself in the pit of shame. No, it’s much easier to get there than that. I just have to think I have done something wrong. And therein lies the issue, and also, gloriously, the solution.

I alone cause my shame. No one is putting me in the pit anymore. I’m walking myself there. There, I said it. And it feels good to own it.

I only have shame because I think I deserve it. The woman who raised me deemed me unworthy and demanded I prove otherwise to justify my existence. She didn’t bestow this unworthiness on me because I did something to deserve it; she did it because she hated me and wanted me to hate myself too. Sadly, she was a very unhappy person and probably had little love for herself.

She is long gone, but the damage she inflicted has lasted a lifetime. Now, nearly sixty years later, I am still shaming myself. And, it’s a vicious cycle that plays out every day.

• I wake up inherently unworthy

• I go about my day and overachieve to try to prove I am indeed worthy

• Most days, it’s enough, and the day ends uneventfully.

• But some days, I fail to prove my worthiness, and I end up in the pit of shame.

As sad and hopeless as this may sound, it is such a wonderful revelation. Because I am causing this cycle, I am the one who can change it. If 99% of my shame is caused by me thinking I am unworthy, then I can surely start thinking I am worthy instead, right?

If I had a dollar for every time someone said “just smile more, think happy thoughts, just stop thinking those things, etc., well, I’d be much richer than I am today. And, if those platitudes actually work, and changing how one thinks is that easy, I would not be writing about shame, would I?

So, what’s my best path toward a life where self-shaming is not my default position?

At this stage, I really don’t have a good answer. But what I do know is that I must embark on a path of self-discovery. And to do that, I will start with one question:

Do I really believe I am inherently unworthy?

I cannot easily answer that question without considerable introspection, so I will leave it here for now. This question will come up each time I paint and write over the next few weeks, and hopefully I will find an answer. And when I do, of course, I will share it with you.

And for some reason, writing about all of this does not bring me any shame. That, in itself, feels like a win.

Thanks for being on the journey.

Victoria

I am not sure what this is, but it flowed out of me after “the incident” while I was playing in my art journal.

Since the moment I picked up a paintbrush, I have been a doubter. I didn’t just doubt one aspect of painting, but I doubted EVERYTHING associated with painting, myself included.

I had no belief that I could:

• Teach myself how to paint

• Paint something that actually resembled what I was painting

• Figure out things to paint

• Someday call myself an artist

• Paint things people would want to buy

Now, six years into my painting journey, I still have doubts. They’re not the same as previous doubts, but I still have more doubts than one person should be allowed to carry.

My updated list of doubts:

• I successfully taught myself to paint, but I still feel I missed some lessons (but aren’t we all always learning?)

• I can paint objects, but not in a photo-realistic manner, which makes me feel like I can’t do it at all. (I may be a bit too hard on myself here)

• Although I don’t have any issues figuring out what to paint, I still think I am not creative enough. (a voice in my head I did not put there)

• Yes, I now call myself an artist, but I still have huge imposter syndrome at least 75% of the time. (It used to be 100%, so I am making progress!)

• And after 14 art shows, I still don’t paint things people want to buy 🙁, but a better way to put it is that my work isn’t resonating with the world the way I’d hoped. (Yes, I got tons of great feedback, but the ultimate resonance is selling, and even though I sold paintings, it was not as much as I had hoped)

Since I love to paint and share my creations with the world AND want people to love (and buy) my art, I feel I must tackle the doubts and do some serious inquiry to determine my path forward. Do I need to embark on an art style change, an attitude change, both, or something completely different?

What direction do I need to take to achieve my own happiness in painting and make others happy (and sell paintings, too)?

What I do know is that I do like my abstract paintings, but they are not resonating enough to result in sales. Now, I can, and have, reasoned this away by saying, “Oh, well, I just have not found my people yet,” but every time it comes out of my mouth, I hear the word “bullshit” in my head. I am inclined to believe that whisper word.

So, that begs the question, what is wrong with my art? Or, better put, why aren’t people buying my art? Well, actually, the best question is what is missing from my art.

My best guess is that there is too much going on in most of my abstract paintings, which makes them look chaotic. I have been told that by some. I have also been told that I resolve all the emotion in the painting, so there is not enough emotional tension left to attract viewers and buyers. And, one man looked over my booth in Louisville quite intently and stated, “I bet these are triggering for most people, and it will take a very special buyer to make the commitment.” Well, if that is true, maybe there is a bit to the “haven’t found my person yet?” question.

It has been suggested that I employ larger blocks of color, guide the eye through the canvas, provide resting places for the viewer, and not make all my marks evenly dispersed across the canvas. I am not sure I agree with this “critique,” but I do want to sell art.

So let’s assume I can make these changes, but then what? Will it magically result in more resonance and sales? There is no way to know until I pursue the path, which feels like a very unfortunate and unkind crapshoot.

I have to remind myself that I turned away from representational art in favor of abstract art out of frustration with my supposed inability to paint “things.” Well, upon further reflection of my art, I think I quit painting representational art too soon and did not give myself a chance to find my lane.

Both types of art frustrate me in different ways, so I am trying to peel away the layers of these thoughts and feelings to get to my truth.

What makes me happy?

What lights me up?

What do I love to paint?

To answer these questions as honestly as possible, I asked myself which style of painting I would do if there were no criticism and every piece would be happily purchased and end up in a loving, forever home.

My quick answer was both, of course, but before I could truly answer the question, I had to understand how I see the world, how I like to create, and what is most visually and emotionally important to me.

After some pretty deep introspection, I realize that I’m not a chaos-first painter, which, in my mind, is what abstract art (or at least my abstract art) is all about. Since my eye is wired for structure, the chaos I create unsettles me and demands structure.

Because I see compositions as complete systems, not fragments, I’m sensitive to imbalance and instinctively resolve tension rather than leave it raw. That wiring made me strong in book design, but in abstract painting, it created stress.

What feels authentic now is structured symbolism: a clear subject, intentional composition, and expressive disruption around a strong spine. I don’t want to dissolve the structure. I want to bend it.

And that assessment leads me back to representational art. But…

There is a part of me that wants to try to “correct” my abstract painting, and because I am not a quitter (well, I quit representational but were just gonna ignore that for now), I have to at least try.

And try I did.

I had the idea of adding modeling paste to the canvas before I started painting to create texture and visual interest. Since I love circles so much, I created swirled circles and flowing lines.

I thought for days about how I would begin to paint the canvas in a way that was not like my current style. I was nervous to start, and when I did, I was very hesitant. And I should have been. Here is the progression of the painting:

The WIP progression depicts a mind lost and descending deeper into the abyss, culminating in a fit of rage and a violently stabbed canvas.

The most horrific thing I have ever painted resulted in my stabbing and ripping the canvas. It felt good, but then I felt remorse for my anger-induced actions. Not only did I ruin a large canvas, but I ruined a great palette knife.

The shame arrived quickly and sucked me in. Bleak Victoria took the opportunity to hit me hard:

I can’t believe I made such horrible choices.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I really do suck at this painting thing.

I will never paint again.

Failure of this magnitude is strong enough to knock me down and hold me there for a while. I fight to not be overtaken by the grief of failure, and in the end, here I am, writing instead of being balled up on the floor crying my eyes out. Don’t get me wrong, that scenario sounds very good right now. But I know better; that hole is deep, and I refuse to point even a toe in that direction.

Rich was surprised that I would consider sharing this shit show of a painting with the world, but I am committed to sharing the good, the bad, and, although painful for me, the ugly. It means more to me to be honest than to be slightly humiliated. As long as I own my failure, it is mine to do with as I want.

I am going to rip the rest of the canvas from the wood frame, roll it up, place it in a garbage bag, and put it out with the trash tomorrow. Then, I will try to forget this incident (I will refer to it as the “unfortunate texture event of 2026) even occurred. I am not denying it happened, but I don’t need to be reminded of it either.

So, now that I am putting this abomination behind me, I’ll share the ironic discovery I made this morning before the “incident” went down:

I see my art, and all art, as a whole rather than pieces. Others see the parts of the painting, and because of this, most will critique a painting on how the eye moves through the pieces. I am most concerned about the totality of the piece and the emotions it conveys. Yes, that makes me a bit different, but I don’t care.

My abstract work neither depicts a single emotion nor leaves the viewer with much tension to sit with. What it does portray is a process. A very human process that can be compared to an argument, a story arc, or even the process of introspection.

Storm ~ Exploration ~ Resolution ~ Reflection ~ Sharing

• My paintings begin in emotional chaos—layers of color, movement, and raw energy—the “storm.”

• As I work, those layers become the conversation, back and forth, trying to find a path forward from the emotional state—the “exploration.”

• Then, as I add marks, the organization of the surface develops until the painting begins to move toward greater harmony. I stop when the argument on the canvas has been settled, and the calm feels earned—the “resolution.”

• When the painting is complete, I step back, stare, and take it all in—the “reflection.”

• And finally, I write about the process to understand the emotional journey I experienced while painting—the “sharing.”

Given this amazing revelation, the painting failure was even more pronounced and could have called into question everything I wrote above. But it didn’t, thankfully. I am stronger than that. I can turn an immense failure into a moment of truth that makes me a better person.

The painting was supposed to quiet my doubts and bolster my confidence. On its face, it appears to have done just the opposite. But, when I dig a bit deeper, I realize, it indeed did both and so much more.

Now, what will I paint next? Abstract or representational? Well, see!

Thanks for joining me on this journey.

Victoria

I never know where creative inspiration is going to reveal itself to me. And, I was greatly surprised when I used the colors of a chair in my studio to inspire my latest painting, aptly titled, Ode to the Chair.

Now this chair is not fancy in any way. We found it, and its sibling, at Goodwill last year for about $50 for the pair. How can you pass that up?

I do love the colors. Shades of brown and a lovely blueish teal, which translated to Burnt Umber, Raw Umber, Burnt Siena, and more. I find myself staring at it often, mesmerized by the swirls.

Duh, I love circles and swirls! How did I not connect this before? Well, now I have.

For this painting, I decided to create a video of my process. I am not new to video creation, but I am new to painting video creation. I wasn’t nervous, but I was concerned it would turn out to be a pile of crap by the time I was done. Of course I did.

And was it? Of course it was not. Someday, I will shake the need to catastrophize everything.

As I started the painting, I reminded myself that I had two goals:

• Quiet the chorus of thoughts in my head so I could hear my intuition.

• Have fun.

Oh, and I guess a third goal would be not to mentally beat myself up as much as I normally do.

I wasn’t sure if I would be “performing” for the camera or would get into my groove and not let anything deter my creativity. Knowing the camera is there add and element of performance, for sure. I think any human would feel that. But I also knew much of the video would be sped up, which made me feel just a bit less self-conscious. However, I feel I must admit these things that make me cringe a bit, but I am steadfast in my desire to be “real.”

• I do not like how I look with my hair up. However, I also do not like getting paint in my hair or hair on my canvas.

• I am really starting to look like my 59 years, and I don’t like seeing that. Well, the more I see, the more I will get used to it.

• I have no makeup on, and that makes me cringe somewhat, too. Again, repetition will bring acceptance.

• And lastly, I don’t like how my body looks “squishy” around my back, but I will get over that.

Other than all those things, I feel like I was very much in the flow for this painting, but a small part of me kept thinking about the rolling camera.

I have been watching other artists, either via videos, shows, or their websites, for over five years now, and I have been constantly comparing myself to them. I know. Not a good thing to do, but hey, I did it anyway.

If I were watching them to gain knowledge of techniques (which I am on some level), that would be healthy and good as long as I did not adopt their style as my own. But mostly, I think I use those videos as a way to reinforce in myself that I am different, that my art is different, which translates into a lack of confidence and trust in myself.

All the comparisons I have sought out have caused me to spend many hours trying to reconcile the fact that my paintings do not look like anything else I have seen, yet. On the one hand, this makes me happy that I am unique, and on the other hand, it terrifies me that I will never fit in. Even though I desperately want to be unique and different, I find myself questioning whether my style is “worthy,” and I find myself berating myself for not “fitting in” far too often. It’s a vicious cycle.

I am working on breaking that cycle.

Lately, I have been analyzing this cycle, and I have discovered that accessing and expressing my creativity is critical to me. I want to know what I can create, not what I can emulate.

So that means I have to come to terms with being an outlier. Which, for the most part, I have been my whole life, even though I have fought intently.

I am at the point now that I know I must concede, accept, and make peace with who I really am.

And because of that, I am not going to fit in everywhere. People are not going to rush to my website or booth to buy my work. And you know what? That’s okay. Really.

If my underlying goal or drive is to coax out of myself the most creativity I can conjure up, then of course, I cannot want to be “mainstream” or liked by everyone.

And that’s okay, I think. I have not yet arrived at complete acceptance. But I will.

I cannot be anyone other than Victoria. And, at the end of the day, if I don’t like who I am or what I produce, I can make changes. What I can’t do is try to be someone I am not. If I do, I will not be creative or very happy. For much of my life, I was the Victoria others needed me to be, and I will not go back.

Stepping into your own unique creative space is not easy, nor is it a linear path. I have been working my way in this direction for five years, and now that I am closer to “here,” I am feeling the creativity bubble up inside me. It needs to be released onto the canvas, and finally, I think I am ready to let it flow.

My first “recorded” painting, Ode to the Chair, makes me very happy when I look at it. Doing the voice-over for the video allowed me to revisit the processes, and I really enjoyed it. It gave me the opportunity to immerse myself in my own work, looking from the outside, and seeing the amazingness I was creating. It’s a wonderful perspective that has changed how I look at my painting.

If you’d like to see how this painting came together, the video is below…

After this experience, I’m learning that my creativity doesn’t require certainty. It requires permission. Permission to be seen, to be imperfect, to be different, and to keep going anyway.

This painting gave me that permission. And for the first time in a long while, I’m not rushing to the next thing or judging what I’ve done. I’m simply letting it be what it is, and letting myself be who I am while I make it.

I’m excited to see where the next painting takes me—and I’m grateful you’re here for the journey.

I know there are people far smarter than me who can explain exactly where thoughts end and emotions begin, but for the sake of this essay, I don’t really care. What matters is the noise and how hard it is to hear anything else beneath it.

Reading the above paragraph gives you a bit of insight into my “war.” So many thoughts, some conflicting, some agreeing, and all of the thoughts causing me to feel whether I want to or not. Oh, the feelings. Oh, the thoughts. Oh, the stress and weariness of it all. I do sometimes wish I could turn it all off. But when I think that, my immediate thought (concern/fear) is “it would be so quiet” and I don’t think I could handle that.

After I started painting in 2020, I became keenly aware of this never-ending war of words and emotions. At the time, I did not understand it, but now, I see that it’s what fuels my art. And as much as I think I may want to find peace and end the war, it’s what drives my creativity, so I am learning to accept it and use it to my advantage.

With this painting, The Dance of Thoughts and Feelings, I wanted to be able to guide what I was thinking and feeling onto the canvas in a way that would result in something that did not resemble chaos, what it feels like much of the time in my head. Actually, all my work is the depiction of the chaos in my head and my never-ending quest to understand it.

For this piece, I wanted to restrict my color palette even more than I usually do, so I chose only two colors, Payne’s Gray and Quinacridone Magenta, and Titanium White. My goal was to one, stay calm and out of the chaos, and two, to create as many “colors” as I could with only two colors, and white, can’t forget the white.

I used a painting spatula as I laid down the first layer of Payne’s Gray. My strokes were strong, fast, and well, a bit chaotic. I love the emotion and intensity I experience with every stroke of the first layer. After I was satisfied with my start, I added white with my spatula in the same way I had added the gray. The strokes were less exaggerated, but still carried heavy emotions behind them. I used another spatula with “teeth” to add more texture to the paint on the canvas. I do love the “scraped” effect it creates.

After the first couple of layers, the thoughts began filling the space in my head.

Should I have added another color by now?
Are the strokes too chaotic?
Is there enough visual interest?
Oh crap, how are my values?
Why do I have all these damn questions?
WTF?

Although there were way too many thoughts in my head, at least the thoughts were concentrated on my painting process rather than self-condemnation.

However, that came soon enough.

The thoughts caused anxiety.
The anxiety caused fear.
The fear caused a “pile-on.”
The pile-on caused a loss of confidence and a rabbit hole to emerge.

But I had no intention of hanging out with rabbits that day.

Instead, I cleared my head (not sure how, but I did) and decided to ask the painting what it wanted or needed. It spoke to me: pink. I need pink, please. Never one to disappoint, I grabbed the Quinacridone Magenta and squirted it onto my palette.

My first strokes of pink were “full strength” with just a bit of water added. Then, I added more pink strokes with my paint spatula (I cannot say enough how much I love this tool), and then added more water and some white to the magenta, and continued to add the emotive and expressive pink strokes.

Then some more Paynes Gray, both full strength and lightened with white. I took a step back, then sat down, and stared at what I had created.

And, the voices began again. They were mostly constructive, but a few unwanted thoughts crept in.

You didn’t do anything different here.
This is boring.
Really, just two colors?

I did my best to ignore the thoughts and also hoped my emotions would not begin to overwhelm me as they do when such thoughts bounce around my head.

And, when I looked at what I was creating, I loved it. The depth of the layers, the drips, the texture, everything. To me, the canvas was glowing with powerful emotions. The Paynes Gray depicted the thoughts, some bad, some good, and the pink represented the emotions, some bad, some good. And the white, well, it was glue holding the thoughts and emotions together on the canvas.

I let myself sit in a rare moment of painting joy and then asked the canvas again what it needed.

More texture, it said, please.

I grabbed my jar of cause modeling paste, mixed it with Paynes Gray, and slapped it on the canvas in several areas where the gray already resided. I loved the texture and the tactile nature of the “blobs of coarse paint” that now dotted my canvas.

Again, more painting joy. I could get used to this, I thought happily.

While still high on my joy, I added a bit more pink, gray, and white, and decided I was done for the day. For some reason, my doneness signaled the thought committee, and they chimed in, and unfortunately, I engaged them with answers.

Why are you stopping? I want to let it sit before I do more. I think it could be done.

Done? Done? Are you crazy? It’s way too simple to be done.

Where are the marks? Where’s the interest? Where’s the cleverness? Geez, where’s the appeal? I don’t think you are even close to done.

So, there I was staring at my canvas thinking I shit the bed and should just give up painting, yet again. Those damn thoughts! I could feel the anxiety and fear in my body, and I really thought I was going to find myself surrounded by rabbits.

But I resisted. Thankfully.

For days, and then weeks, I stared at the canvas, and every time I did, I asked it what it needed. It was not speaking back to me, so I stayed away. Then, last weekend, I decided I was going to finish it AND create a video.

Creating art videos is something I have wanted to do for a while, and I told myself I would do it that day. I did not care how I looked or how the video turned out. I just needed to get it, and the painting completed.

In the end, I decided my painting did need some additional paint, both pink and gray, and also some of my mark-making. The swirling marks add to the painting’s chaos but also strangely ground it. I love the movement and the color and how I am energized each time I set eyes on it.

After analyzing my painting experience and doing some journaling, I realize that I don’t want to work hard when I paint. I have done that all day, every day for 34 years as a graphic designer. With my art, I want my mind and heart to guide me without me second-guessing, analyzing, or judging myself along the way.

I can see myself finding more joy in painting, though I haven’t achieved it yet. I know the rules of composition, color, and value like the back of my hand, so I don’t need to constantly worry that my work isn’t following good form. And I have to remember that it’s okay to break the rules—but only if you know what they are. More importantly, I need to trust myself implicitly. When I do, I paint more intuitively, with far less “noise” dragging me down and draining my joy.

My new goal is to paint without overthinking, without forcing, and without interrogating every decision. When I do this, I get closer to my artistic truth. The noise in my head will never disappear, but in time, I believe it will quiet just enough for me to hear my intuition—and trust that what emerges on the canvas is exactly what needs to be there.

The canvas speaks to me. I’m learning how to listen.

So, yesterday, I decided to “go for it,” and unbelievably, I did not care how I looked or how it turned out. My main goal was to go from “I want to make videos” to “I make art videos.”

And here we are …

I would love for you to subscribe to my YouTube channel. Right now, I have zero subscribers, and that’s just not a good look.

I’ll be posting new videos every two weeks or so, and I will continue to write and post here.

Thanks for being along on the journey!

“Really? This?” is a series of short insights, rants, and obsessive thoughts that take up space in my brain until I spill them onto the page—mostly so I can get back to life (who am I kidding, I mean work).

Really? This?

I admit it. I am thrifty to a fault sometimes. I work hard to squeeze all that’s left in the toothpaste tube, try to extract every last ounce of moisturizer, and apparently, walk in shoes that should have been retired years ago.

My favorite Keen sandals (picture on the left) are four years old. I had to make myself buy a new pair, and as I clicked the purchase button, I was still thinking I had a few years left in them. But my rational brain knew better.

Today, when I received my new pair, I was astonished at the brightness of the colors. And then, when I put old and new side-by-side, it hit me that being thrifty is a good trait to have, but like many things, it can be used to my own detriment.

Feet, legs, hips, and back: I am so sorry for walking miles and miles in these shoes that obviously no longer have the support you need. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.

I promise, from this point on, to use my tendency for thriftiness only for good, and not take it so far that it starts to resemble masochism.

Victoria

From my journal…

That shame didn’t appear overnight. I’ve been living with it for years, and it’s rooted in a lifetime of creating and questioning whether I should be creating anything.

I have always been a creative person, although it took me over thirty years to acknowledge this about myself, despite being a graphic designer for the entire time.

When I was a kid, I loved to draw, sew, arrange furniture, create crafts, and do anything that allowed me to make something out of nothing. My love of creating was not supported by those who raised me, and I entered my childhood without a shred of confidence in my creative abilities.

Yes, I was still creative as I bounded through young adulthood. I became a makeup artist, almost became a hair stylist, handled marketing for salons, planned and executed fashion shows, and loved creating outfits. It was the 1980s, so there were numerous fashion trends to explore.

Then I decided to pursue a different path: college, and eventually, law school. Well, I got sidetracked from that path (a long story I may write about in the future) and found myself starting a graphic design business in 1992. I had no experience or skills, but I was confident I could teach myself.

Because I lacked professional training, no matter how good my designs were, or how much my clients loved them, I always felt like an imposter. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally started to accept and believe that I was a talented graphic designer. It took over thirty years, a specialization in book design, and a few design awards to get me to this place of confidence I embody today. And even then, that level of confidence could be higher than it is, but I will take what I can get, right?

When I taught myself how to paint in 2020, the imposter fears came at me so strongly that I had to write a book about everything painting brought up for me: shame, disgust, anger, sadness, fear, regret, and just about every other emotion a human can experience.

I thought that the more I painted, the more I would see an increase in my confidence. But, as I learned with graphic design, your “worth” as a creative is determined by another human’s desire to spend money on what you create. After three years of painting, I realized in 2023 that I had not sold a single piece of original art. To be fair, I was not trying too hard to sell, but I did have a website.

That summer, after painting the abysmal Sammy the Swan, I decided my semi-realistic / abstract realism painting style had to end. I felt the same ache I had as a kid—wanting to make something and being told it wasn’t good enough, but only this time, it was me delivering the news. It was a heartbreaking realization, and to help alleviate the pain, I created a new “plan.” If I wasn’t going to paint realism, then the only other choice is abstract. So, I immediately took a deep dive into the deep end of abstract expressionism.

After a few months of experimenting and trial and error, I began to settle into my style. But the question of “Was my art saleable?” constantly bounced around in my head. Actually, the main question was, “Is my art good?” which, I know, is a loaded question, but I had to know the answer. At the same time, we decided to end our full-time RV adventure, which meant I could test the artistic waters and apply for a few art shows. Then, I told myself, I would know the “truth” about my art.

My 2024 art show experience did not go as planned. I sold some art, but not as much as I had hoped. I wrote about it here.

But my last two shows, Funky Ferndale and St. James Court, were my best, so I considered doing them again in 2025. I told myself that my art was not “bad” since so many people at every show told me how amazing my art was. And I concluded that the reason I did not sell as many originals as I would have liked was that “I had not found my people yet.”

That got me through, sort of. As 2025 approached, I was still devastated and unsure if I would even paint again. I decided to forgo all shows for 2025 because I didn’t think I could handle any more rejection.

Then, a week before my lung cancer diagnosis, I received the invitation to come back to the St. James Court show in Louisville. I was thrilled and told myself that meant my art “might be good,” so I decided I would at the very least do that show. I knew I wanted a “dry run” before St. James, so I said yes to Funky Ferndale, too.

Throughout my recovery from cancer surgery, I looked forward to painting again and creating new pieces for the two upcoming shows. I had suspended my disbelief in my artistic ability enough to be excited and confident about the shows. I painted ten new pieces, and one of them, “Learning to Love Who I Am” (shown below), was my largest ever at 36 x 60 inches.

I was confident, ready, and excited for the shows.

I shouldn’t have been.

From my journal, the last day of the St. James Court show:

This is wrenching, humiliating, and financially sucky. No more art shows for me and my art. I cannot put myself through this again. I do not know why people love my art but do not buy it. I love my art. Maybe others will love enough to buy.

It’s noon on Sunday, and I am looking forward to six hours from now when I can cry. The tears have been in my eyes all day, but I will not let them out until everything is packed away and we are back in the safety of our Airbnb.

Then I will cry. I will process. I will begin to heal from this artistic trauma.

A man came by while I was out of the booth and said to Rich that he bets my art triggers emotions and that it would take a special person to put one on their wall. I appreciate the insight, but his comment makes me feel even worse about my art.

I can either embrace this or run from it.

Well, days later, I was doing more running than embracing. From my journal:

This sucks ass so bad. I am humiliated and sad.

My shame is strong, and it feels like the only way to alleviate it is to promise not to paint or write anymore. Then, the shame will stop. I think that is the only way the shame will stop.

I don’t want to stop, but part of me does. It’s so emotionally difficult to pursue this route. Why can’t I be happy with book design only? Why can’t I do that 50-60 hours per week and enjoy the rest of the time? Well, I am not sure what I would do with the rest of the time, though.

I don’t know where to go from here. Maybe that is okay. I just want the shame to stop.

The pain was so intense, and I was teary on and off for days. Hell, I’m teary as I write this now. I have been through a lot this year (cancer, mom dying), and that is probably contributing to my pain because this feels so much more intense.

More from my journal, three days after the show:

I don’t know if I will ever be able to write or paint again. The pain I feel from the horrible performance at St. James is so deep and is stopping me in my tracks. I do not believe that “I just haven’t found my people yet,” but instead believe, with my whole being, that my art is just not what other humans want to see. As Miriam said a year ago, it is chaotic, claustrophobic, and has too many colors.

If I have to change my art to sell more art, I don’t think I can do that. I will have to be okay with not being an artist who creates paintings people actually want to buy.

I want to hide every aspect of my paintings, but they are throughout the house, and I have nowhere to put them. I want to burn my easel, my paints, my blank canvases. I want to pretend I was never a painter, never wrote a book, and never started a Substack.

I want to hide from the world so they can never see my shame and my failures.

As I write this, it’s been a week since the show in Louisville. I am still sad, but the intense feelings of shame and anger are more fleeting now. I don’t look at my paintings with the same level of disgust as I did, and my desire to burn my work to the ground has been extinguished.

However, I still have questions that I endeavor to find answers for:

• Can I be a “good” artist without selling anything?

• Is a sale the only thing that gives an artist credibility and validation?

• What do I do with all the painted canvases if I am not selling them?

I understand that I took the “hobby” of painting and turned it into a business, and in doing so, it caused me great pain. I could keep painting and writing as a hobby, but that is not who I am; I am a serial entrepreneur. It’s in my DNA.

I aspire to one day earn a living from my art and writing. And if that is the case, I need to disengage my “business” from my emotions. As a creative, this is one of the hardest things to do. My creations, whether on the computer screen or on a canvas, are extensions of who I am as a person, especially the painting creations. My books and paintings reflect my design instincts, emotions, and essence. My designs are “me.” Creating is personal, and because of that, rejection of the creation can be devastating.

So, I need to sever the connection between my emotions and my creations enough to withstand rejection and move forward with confidence as I put my art out into the world, so that others can find it and make it their own.

Can I do this? Honestly, I’m not sure if I can. But I think I am going to try.

I love my art. I love the part of me I leave on each canvas, the emotions it absorbs, and the introspection it inspires. I love sharing my art and hearing that it’s beautiful, amazing, colorful, cool, extraordinary, and emotional. I love that people read my writing.

I don’t love that more people don’t buy more of my art. I don’t love that I don’t have enough confidence in myself to not go down a bottomless rabbit hole when disappointment arrives. I don’t love that I am still ashamed of my book. I don’t love that I punish myself when things don’t go my way, even though I could not have done things differently. I don’t love that I am still struggling with this.

Knowing what I love and what I don’t, is the first step for me. These things must coexist, whereas they are currently at odds with each other.

I promise to try.

I will start today.

I may paint.

And I just realized, I wrote this piece. So there’s that.

Thanks for being with me on this colorful journey.

I shared too much.

I was too emotional.

I should have kept that private.

I believe that’s my grief talking—and my shame, too. They like to gang up on me, and usually, they win.

But I’m leaving the piece published because it’s real, it’s my life, and grief is too much. It’s messy, emotional, and rarely well-behaved (kind of like me!). And my writing—like my painting—isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being true.

So if you read it and felt the stirring of some of your losses, then my vulnerability did what I hoped it would: connect us.

Thank you for reading, for witnessing, and for reminding me that honesty isn’t “too much.” It’s enough.

And to lighten the mood…

New Art!

Over the last month or so, I have been creating new pieces of art for my two upcoming art shows (Funky Ferndale in Ferndale, Michigan, and St. James Court in Louisville, Kentucky).

The four paintings below are not yet on my website, but they are for sale. Please contact me if you’re interested in giving one or more of them a forever home.

Bursting With Dots and More Bursting With Dots

Happy, chaotic, and just a bit eccentric, both Bursting With Dots paintings happened at the same time and were the product of my letting go and not caring about the outcome. I was in a happy mood while painting, and I think that shows through. I tend to gravitate toward purples in my painting, as that’s the color I chose as the basis for these two.

Bursting With Dots

• 8x8x1.5

• Sides painted sides

• $125 (does not include shipping)

More Bursting With Dots

• 8x8x1.5

• Sides painted

• $125 (does not include shipping)

Swallow the Fear and Take the Chance, and Swallow the Fear Again and Take the Chance

I desperately wanted to try something different in these two pieces. Typically, I am very controlled and like things to have a pattern while at the same time conveying chaos, which is how my brain works. With these two pieces, I didn't care about pattern or conforming; I just painted until I smiled widely at the canvas, which meant I was done.

Swallow the Fear and Take the Chance

• 10x10x1.5

• Sides painted purple

• $150 (does not include shipping)

Swallow the Fear Again and Take the Chance

• 10x10x1.5

• Sides painted purple

• $150 (does not include shipping)

Thank you for witnessing not only my words but also my art—it means more than you know. Have a fantastic day!

Seven days after my last post, my mom died.

Five days before that, my son told me he was moving back to Denver.

At the end of this month, my stepdad will leave for Chicago.

And fourteen weeks ago, cancer took a quarter of my right lung.

Loss after loss after loss. Each one opened a fresh wound before the last had even begun to heal.

I have cried more in the last month than I have cried in the last five years, or maybe even 10. Well, I did cry a bunch when we lost the gluten-free business in 2020, but these tears feel so much heavier and never-ending. I am fairly certain I will be crying in a few seconds as I continue to write.

I’ll share the events as they unfolded for me.

From my journal the day after Dawson told me he was leaving…

My son is moving back to Denver, and I am both sad and happy. Sad that I will not see him every day, and happy that he will hopefully be on a path to happiness.

But I am so sad. And I think it is not just Dawson moving, it’s my mom’s situation as well. But I feel like he is leaving me, again. It feels like a rejection, and I know it is not, but it feels that way.

And my mom is in increasingly bad shape. Her heart had AFib again yesterday, and I am not sure if it is strong enough to keep her going for much longer. We should know more next Tuesday at her cardiologist appointment.

She never made it to that appointment.

I thought we had more time, and her sudden death put me in a bit of a tailspin emotionally. As I struggled to make sense of it all, I wrote in my journal the morning after she passed…

My mom is dead.
My mom is dead.
My mom passed away.
My mom died.
My mom left me.
My mom left me, again.

And there it is. The forever wound that has been picking away at my soul for nearly 59 years.

She has left me, in different forms, several times since she birthed me and then gave me away. Now, she leaves me for the final time. Will my feelings of abandonment recede?

Why does her death have to mean or change anything? Maybe it just is what it is, death.

She suffered, she fought, she pushed me and others away. She died, not even realizing that some of the last things she said to me in person were mean and hurtful.

But finding her was one of the most influential things in my life. I was obsessed and had to know who my biological mom was. We met and then spent the next 32 years together.

The pain that morning was so raw for me, and there were moments I wasn’t sure I was going to be okay. I cried myself to sleep the night before and was crying as I wrote that morning.

My entire world has been upended, and now I am faced with questions about my future and pain I have never experienced before.

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I have painted and journaled (a bit) during these weeks, but I have not written anything substantial or art journaled. It seemed so hollow and pointless at the time. Now, I feel like I MUST write to keep myself on the path of healing and acceptance, or I may find myself stuck and spiraling in grief.

So here we go…

My Son

My son and my mom were very close. She knew moving back to Denver was something he was considering, but he hadn’t made the decision yet. He realized, after nearly a year here in Detroit, that he really did love Denver and missed it greatly. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he had decided to move back. But I was astonished at my intense emotional response. Typically, I don’t react to things the way I reacted to his news.

From my journal the day after he told me…

I think I can get past this. Dawson needs to follow his heart. This is not about failure or losing. We gave him a chance to do something different, and he did. Now he wants to do something different again.

I need to stop thinking that this is a finality, “he will never come back,” or “he doesn’t love me.”

This is not about me. This is not about me.

Nothing is about me, yet I make everything about me.

I don’t feel safe. What is being triggered here?

It’s about abandonment. It always is.

I thought twice about sharing the above, but my quest to be honest is stronger than my fear of being judged. It’s raw and vulnerable, but it’s the truth.

My son was planning to tell his grandmother he was moving back to Denver the weekend after he told me. He wanted to do it in person, and I agreed that it was best. Then, on Thursday, she was having a very difficult time breathing. My stepdad called 911, and she was taken to the hospital and quickly admitted. We all went to visit her that evening, and although we all wanted her to know about my son leaving, we didn’t want to tell her while she was in the hospital.

From my journal the next day…

My mom is in the hospital again. It’s her heart, and I am not sure they will be able to find a medication cocktail that will help her breathe when she moves. We will see.

The shit my son moving back is bringing up is crazy. I don’t understand any of it, and I am no closer to any conclusion. I don’t like this emotional ride and want to get off.

But I cannot, and I don’t know why.

I keep seeing memories on Facebook and feeling sad. It’s like I want to go back to some time in the last ten years and stay there. Was everything better? No, I don’t think so. So, why?

I don’t understand. What is being triggered inside me?

I am so sad, and I feel I am sadder than the situation warrants.

I didn’t go to see my mom on Friday as I have a very late Zoom call. The plan was for me and my son to see her the next day. But before our visit, she asked us to go to her house and work on a sales tax return that needed to be filed by Monday. Yes, she was 80 years old and still working.

We Facetimed with her as we worked on her computer, and I could tell she wasn't as coherent as usual. Because of that, she wasn’t much help in guiding us through the sales tax return, so I told her I would let her go, figure it out, and call her back in a few minutes.

When I called back, she didn’t answer. I called again, but there was still no answer. I began to worry, and my son reassured me that she was probably just talking to the doctor.

I learned shortly after, when my stepdad called from the hospital, that as I was calling her, she was dying. She worked up to the moment she died. It’s crazy, so very crazy.

And because she did, I was not there with her when she took her last breath.

My Mom

A short recap for those who may not have been following along, or haven’t read my book:

At five days old, my mom gave me up for adoption. I was raised by a couple that probably never should have raised children. They told me early in my life that I was adopted, and I remember having the thought that I needed to find my real parents when I was old enough. At the age of nine, and because I was such a curious child, I discovered my adoption papers. In them, I found my birth parents’ names and the name I was given before I was adopted. The knowledge was a turning point in my young life, and I knew in that moment that someday I would find my birth parents.

In 1993, when I was 27, I hired a private investigator who specialized in finding biological parents, and within a couple of days, he found my mom. On November 19, 1993, I picked up the phone, dialed a California number, and tried to steady my shaking nerves as I waited for the call to be answered. As soon as the person answered, “Hello,” I blurted out, “I was born Victoria Ann Leahy, and I think you are my birth mother.” And from that moment until Saturday, July 19, 2025, my mom, Carol, and I were inseparable.

But the relationship was complicated, and after nearly 32 years together, some baggage has accumulated.

From my journal the day after she left us…

“May her memory be a blessing to inspire you to do great things.”

My client just sent this to me, and it is so beautiful. My mom wanted the best for me, that I do know. She sucked at showing her feelings, talking about how she felt, and even acting in accordance with her feelings.

But I do know, she loved me.

But, in the end, for me, it was not enough. It could never replace or repair the abandonment, the betrayal, the pain. She could not love me in the way I needed to be able to let go and heal.

Maybe that was my fault, not hers, and I will never know.

Now, it’s my turn to make things anew. To grow and heal, to thrive and flourish, to give and nurture, to find and give joy.

I am unburdened by the history between us that always weighed down the present. I could never let it go, and maybe, much of our strained years were the fault of that stubbornness on my part. But, I could not let it go for a reason, and I need to know what that reason is. I cannot grow and move past this if I do not.

It was the “sacred wound,” the “mother wound,” as some on Substack call it. The wound that dictated the rest of my life. How can I move on from that?

Well, there must be a way.

I will find the way.

My family was in town, and their presence and support were incredibly important to me. We spent the next week planning her celebration of life and going through her things (she had a lot of stuff!). We had to take care of all her things so my stepdad wouldn't have to. He would have his own stuff to pack for his move to Chicago.

From my journal…

I am feeling better today. Less tears.

It was weird going through all of Mom’s things today. It felt so final, but it had to be done, and now was the time. Jim will need to move as soon as possible, and there is so much to do.

I planned the celebration of life, designed a couple of posters filled with photos, and created a brochure for the event. It was very difficult to go through photos, select the ones I wanted to use, and be creative with the design, but I did it, and not without so many tears. My son, stepdad, and I decided we would split my mom’s ashes into three so she could be spread in three of the places she lived: Chicago, Denver, and Michigan. We had three boxes, and my stepdad and I both chose to paint ours, which I thought she would love.

The day of her celebration of life had arrived, and I wrote in my journal…

Today is Mom’s celebration of life. Then, tomorrow, life will resume, forever changed, but moving forward, back to normality, until Friday, when my son leaves for Denver.

I am sad, mad, confused, hurt, scared, joyful, and hopeful at the same time. It’s a very confusing time.

I am relieved that Mom is free from pain and suffering. I am relieved that I am as well.

I am glad Jim has another chance to build a relationship with his kids.

I am sad that my son is going back to Denver because I will miss him greatly, but so very happy he is on his way to his happiness.

I am happy to refocus on Rich and me, and now Bodi, and forge forward in life, no matter where it takes us.

Goodbyes are Hard

Less than a week after I said my final goodbyes to my mom, my son left for Denver.

From my journal that day…

He left.
I have tears.

But I am happy for him. He is going back to the place he loves, to people he cares about, and people who care about him. He is heading west a different person than the one who headed east just a year ago. For that, I am happy and grateful.

Being a parent is so bittersweet. You raise your kids to be independent, to be prepared to leave home one day. But then, when they do, you feel such loss. I guess it would be different if we were in the same city, or even state, but we are not.

We will visit often. And he will come here, too.

I will be okay in a few days. It’s just sad. So much loss. So much pain.

My mom dying and my son moving back were a one-two punch that hit me like a freight train. I have been trying to make sense of it these last few weeks.

From my journal the day after my son left…

I am less teary this morning. I walked into Dawson’s former room, now Rich’s office, and our “studio,” and I did not shed a tear. That’s progress.

I was weepy all day yesterday, and so very sad. Everything I looked at, recipes, his room, Bodi, made me sad. I felt as if my life as I knew it had come to some sort of end.

I don’t have my boy near me.

I don’t have my mom.

I don’t have anyone to cook for anymore.

I don’t have family.

Oh, here come the tears.

Over two weeks of tears. That is unheard of in my world. But I guess this is my new world. One where my mom does not exist in the flesh, where Dawson lives in Denver, Jim and Tucker live in Chicago, and Rich, Bodi, and I live in Michigan.

It’s been two weeks now since Dawson left, and I don’t cry as much, but I still do cry. Geez, I have been crying since I started writing this.

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Grief Has Its Own Agenda

I do know that I can’t control grief and how it chooses to manifest in my life. Given that I am somewhat of a control freak, it’s monumental that I am not trying to control my grief. Well, I may be trying to control it a wee bit, but I know in the end I will fail.

I cry when I need to cry, but I still want to make sense of it all. In an attempt to understand and heal, I put together a list (I do love a good list) of what I will miss and what moving forward looks like.

Things I will miss about my mom…

• She was always the first to react and comment on my various posts, paintings, and writings. She was my biggest fan.

• Calling or going to see her when I wanted her advice. She was a very opinionated woman and did not hesitate to give you her opinion whether you wanted it or not.

• Cooking her favorite dishes for her, such as egg foo young, anything with beef, potato salad, strawberry cake, and so much more.

• Knowing that she is there for me when I need her

• Her interesting takes on life, sports, and politics

• The amazing support system she provided for my son

Things I will miss about not living near my son…

• Talking to him in person, sharing stories, happenings, opinions, and more

• Our coffee chats at the Yemeni coffee shop

• Hugs

• Cooking his favorite dishes such as Korean lettuce wraps, potato salad, dill pickle pork chops, more potato salad, shrimp caesar salad, and so much more.

• Grabbing a seat at a bar and having a fancy drink together

• Exploring new places and things together

• Seeing his smiling face regularly

Things I Am Wary About…

• The holidays. They will never be the same, and I will need to create a new normal.

• Not having an immediate family around me. It’s just Rich, Bodi, and me for the foreseeable future. Well, Rich’s mom is in town, so that’s good.

Things I Will Focus On…

• Staying healthy and in good physical shape

• Growing and improving Wolf Design and Marketing

• Creating book design videos

• Painting and writing, and someday offering classes for one or both

• Getting back to cooking videos

• Traveling and exploring

• My two upcoming art shows (Ferndale and Louisville, KY)

My grief journey is just beginning, and I have no idea where it will take me, and I like it that way. I know I must be open to the journey and the healing, and I am doing my best to do so. Some days are difficult, though.

From my journal…

I am not nearly as frustrated today. Well, I thought so until Bodi started biting on my pothos plant and whining at me to go out when I was in the middle of something. I am just so on edge.

I drove to FedEx and cried about my mom. I am so mad at her. There are things I wanted to say before she passed, and I could not because she could not handle reality. Would I have really said those things? Maybe not, but I would have liked to have had the opportunity.

I am very angry, extremely sad, and not capable of handling even the smallest amount of stress. And, I have no hope for my future.

And on another day I wrote…

What’s the point of doing art or writing?

I just want to be done with hoping, dreaming, wanting.

There is no second, or third, or fourth act for me. I just don’t have it in me anymore. I am tired and cannot even begin to contemplate creating something new that could actually be successful.

How did I get myself to this place? I am so stuck and in some way happy to be stuck.

I have no dreams left.

The good news is that today, I don’t feel any of what I wrote those days, but then again, the day is still early. But, as down as I have been, I am still working, still designing, and still moving forward. When I am in the despair that I was when I wrote that journal entry, I feel like there is no future for me. But when the fog clears, I know that is not true. The push and pull of grief is strong and unmooring at times, but I know that I will survive and most likely thrive as I continue on the journey.

To end on a lighter note, something Rich, my son, and I say all the time to each other: Saul Goodman! Translation for those who have not watched Breaking Bad:

Thanks for reading and being there for me. I really appreciate you.

Since I can remember, I have never possessed a strong sense of who I am, what I want, what I am capable of, or how I am seen by others. I am not a narcissist who thinks extremely highly of myself, but rather the complete opposite. Nearly every introspective thought about myself tends to skew in negative and incorrect directions.

I realized this in my twenties and set out to do something about it. I began therapy and have been in and out of it for over thirty years. Although I have answered about 70% of them, the remaining questions about who I really am are proving to be the most difficult. I am not sure I can work out the final 30% without taking a leap of faith:

I am enough, I am told.
I am enough, I guess.
I am enough, I think.
I am enough, I feel.
I am enough, period.

There, I said it, but I will admit, I don’t quite mean it yet.

When I set out to paint my latest piece (I will reveal its title later), I was deep in the oh-so-familiar throes of self-discovery, attempting to get closer to the missing aspects of who I am. I was feeling frustration and anger, but also a bit of joy and excitement. Feeling polar opposites is normal for me, so I moved forward to start the painting, knowing the emotional landscape would work itself out on the canvas.

Bodi had been playing with a teal and red tennis ball the days prior to my painting this piece, and since I love that color combination, I knew I had to see those colors on my canvas. I boldly started with the red, which scared me a bit since it’s such a bold and commanding color, but as soon as it hit the canvas, all fear drained from me. I loved it!

The first layers I put down are always emotionally driven and intense. Painting the layers of color involves not only my mind and emotions, but also the physicality of using my arms in a full range of motion, my hands and fingers, and my hips and legs supporting the drama-filled process. It’s my way of expressing what has been bottled up for a while, and the process also clarifies my direction. It’s cathartic, refreshing, and very necessary if I want to maintain any stability in my mental health.

There is strategy in my stroke placement, but also capriciousness. I want to be unencumbered by thought, but I also want my creation to flow and speak to the viewer. Smooth is not something I crave, so the scratching and scraping of the paint after I have added it to the canvas creates a visceral release as well as visual interest and tactile texture.

When I was done, I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment. Yet I was also conflicted. I loved it as it was, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had to do more, and only then would the painting be “finished.”

It was not enough.
I was not enough.

I stared at the painting for a long time, hoping to “feel” it was done, or it needed more. I just couldn't land in either camp, and instead, I was in the middle, unsure of any direction. I find myself in this place more often than I would like.

There’s always more, right? Better, faster, prettier, smarter…

I long to be connected to my true self in a way that the question of “more” is faint and only seldom answered.

I want to be, and be happy just being.

But, I feel, in order to achieve such a goal, I must not only know who I am, but I must also accept and love who I am. Only then will questioning and obsessive searching relent.

I was born to one woman and raised by another.

The former did know me, and the latter did not try.

The one who carried me would have loved me, and the one who didn’t, couldn't love me.

A childhood lost to uncertainty, apologizing, and fear. The feeling of not belonging, not being wanted, and not being loved created the void I have been seeking to fill.

The trauma was so long ago, yet I still reel from it. The pain is so far in the past, yet it still stings. My childhood trauma remains alive not only in my thoughts but also in my body. And that is why it remains. It has become part of who I am, but not the entire explanation of who I am.

I can’t say I’m trying to find myself again, as I was never acquainted with the real me. I am on a path of discovery, hoping to discover someone I never knew, scared I may not like what I find.

Who would I be if I were truly loved by those who raised me?

Who would I be if those who raised me allowed me to express my feelings and thoughts without ridicule and fear of reprisal?

Who would I be if those who raised me instead supported, encouraged, and loved me instead of making me a participant in their life of misery?

The answers are always in the paint.

Am I enough?

I intended to lay down the emotional layers and then return in a day or so to finish the final layers of mark-making and whimsy. However, it was a full week before I could return to the painting, and I struggled to find a direction when I stood in front of it, ready to proceed.

Competing thoughts in my head were engulfed in a fierce battle. “It’s done, move on,” said one voice. “No, no, it can’t be done, there must be more added,” said the other voice. The back and forth lasted longer than I had hoped, and I knew I had to try to pull myself out of what had become a very stressful moment, one that could have ended in an emotional meltdown.

I picked up a black grease pencil and made some marks. Then I found the white grease pencil in my hand and made more marks. Then, four colors of oil pastels made an appearance as I added more marks to the canvas. With every mark I made, I cringed inside and convinced myself that I was destroying my painting. It was both exciting and excruciating at the same time, as if part of me was enjoying torturing myself. But the other part of me was in a shame-filled spiral. Yet, at the same time, I felt a glimmer of freedom as I pushed forward into the fear.

But then, I stood back and thought, “Geez, I fucked it up!”

Real Victoria: Did I, really? Nah, it’s okay.

Imaginary Victoria: No, yeah, you fucked it up. It’s too chaotic now. The marks are not distinctive enough. It looks like you could not make a decision. You choked.

Real Victoria (being very defensive): Whatever. Who cares. I suck at this art thing.

I am not enough.

I am not going to lie. There are many times when I have to seriously ask myself why I'm doing this art thing, especially when I think thoughts like that.

But I always keep going, no matter how painful it becomes.

And, that’s the point, I guess.

The paint and write process gives me the opportunity and the space to confront the things that cause me pain, frustration, and sadness. A place to hopefully find both myself and my enoughness.

I used to think that healing was a destination, but now I know it's a journey that never ends. Well, not until I am dead, that is. But for all I know, it could continue in the afterlife or whatever awaits me in death.

Maybe I am enough? Maybe.

I typically have a title for my painting before I finish it, and this time was no different. While starting my mark-making, a childhood memory jumped into my head. I don’t remember why, but when I was a child, the Witch would often say to me…

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

When the Witch said this to me, she intended to shame me for something she thought I had done wrong. It was a very effective tool of shame for the Witch, as I remember feeling ashamed and wrong for most of my childhood.

When I was adding the marks, I could hear the Witch in my head, saying those exact words, and I knew I had found my title. And for a little while, I fell in line and felt the shame, and that made me very sad. But, then, I didn’t. I rebounded and was okay.

Yes, I verbally abused myself.
But then I set the record straight.

I stand by my artistic choices.
I love my painting because it was created by me.
And, I love myself, just a little more every day.

Am I enough? Maybe, soon, but not today.

Thanks for joining me on this adventure!

I lost myself trying to be what others wanted. Now, I create to find who I really am.

Perpetual Conflict is my illustrated memoir—a raw, unflinching journey through shame, grief, and self-abandonment. I picked up a paintbrush in the wreckage of my life, not to make art, but to survive. Each painting in this book is a snapshot of emotional truth—rage, release, hope, reclamation—followed by the words that rose from the canvas when I finally stopped hiding. It’s chaotic, cathartic, and real. It’s how I found pieces of myself in color, texture, and honesty. If you’ve ever lost your way—or your voice—this book might help you find a little of both.

Yes, improvement, I get it, and I’m all for it. But what if my constant desire to be “er” is getting in the way of experiencing “in the moment” joy?

When I landed in front of my easel today, I really tried to empty my head of preconceived ideas so that I could “paint from my soul,” or something similarly lofty-sounding. I was working with a tiny 10x10 canvas that I painted last year, but did not finish. It was not a blank canvas, but rather it was painted solidly in a medium purple with some nice texture.

As I stood there ready to start, I was consumed with thoughts about how I could improve my skills and creativity beyond my last painting, Letting It All Out, and a my last post (Painting As If You Don’t Give a F*ck) where I questioned my fear of myself and my ideas.

With palette knife in hand, but not quite ready to put down the first stroke of paint, I wondered what it would be like if I weren’t constantly trying to one-up myself. What if I just complete something to my satisfaction and walk away without any analysis?

Is that even possible for me?
I am not sure, but let’s break this down and see where it leads.

My top three Clifton Strengths (if you haven’t taken the test, I highly recommend it) are Strategic, Competition, and Achiever. With strengths like those, it’s easy to see why I'm always looking to improve.

So, not a bad thing, right?
Well, yes and no.

I love my drive to improve constantly, but I also realize that in the relentless pursuit of improvement, there is much stress and few feelings of accomplishment. Once I complete something (a task, project, painting, or writing), I quickly begin strategizing on how to do it better the next time.

And if not for my “must improve always” nature, the topic of this post would be something completely different, but probably closely related. It’s a vicious circle that I seem to have no problem continuing.

So, the question is, do I need to make any changes?

Honestly, I'm not sure, so let’s examine the pros and cons.

The Pros of “Always Improving”

I always improve
Makes me think deeply and strategically
Keeps me challenged

The Cons of “Always Improving”

I gloss over my accomplishments
I chase satisfaction
I, ultimately, am never truly satisfied with what I create, do, etc.

Well, geez, there it is. “Must always be improving” is one more way I keep myself stuck in the cycle of self-sabotage. I was going to write self-abuse, but it seems too harsh, but with more thought, I think it is accurate.

I don’t use my quest for improvement in a healthy become a better person manner, but instead I use it to continually reinforce my belief that “I will never be good enough.”

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Ouch, that hurts, and it exposes some hard truths. I know I’ve done much good work on myself, and it’s disheartening to be back in this place. Why can’t I just feel some shit and then be over it? Why is this healing thing so hard?

I don’t know the answers to either of those questions, but I have learned that healing is not a linear path, and for me, it’s an especially curvy, intertwined, and somewhat confusing one.

So, how do I turn this around? How do I improve myself?

Geez, I can’t believe I just wrote that! I just can’t stop wanting to improve myself, can I? No, and that’s okay, and not the issue here. What I can change, and what is the real issue here, is my relationship with the concept of improvement.

If the quest for improvement causes me sadness, worry, anxiety, or any other negative feeling, I will recognize that it stems from a place of sabotage and rekindling old wounds, rather than a genuine desire to improve. And when that happens, I will not reinforce old thinking. I will see it for what it is and move on.

Yes, yes, that sounds like an excellent plan! The key, and the challenge, though, is to be aware when it’s happening. I am not entirely convinced I will be aware, but my hope is that I will.

As I began to add paint to the small, square, purple canvas in front of me, I wasn’t feeling very confident about my painting skills, my creativity, or myself. I was a bit off, and I felt it strongly in my body. I was hoping the time spent with the canvas would shake all that out of me.

I was drawn to using purple and pink, and immediately set out in that direction. I struggled with the background, but then I found my zone in the background. I got very excited when I started mark-making and was curious to see where it would take me and how it would turn out. One of the most agreeable aspects of the painting process was the use of bubble wrap, which always makes me smile.

I finished the painting, liked it at first, then didn’t like it, and now I am not sure how I feel about it. I do love the painted sides, and I also love the colors, but ambivalence is what I feel most when I look at I Do What I Want.

The name of this painting is well-intentioned, and for the most part, it reflects how I felt while painting it. I really did do what I wanted without concern (well, maybe, there was a wee bit of concern) about rules or how it would be received. So, that was a big win.

Although I still felt off, emotionally and physically, it was still early in the day when I finished the painting. I felt like there was more in me to express and process on the canvas, so I cleaned up my painting tools and prepared to start a new painting. After working with a 10x10, I was eager to have more real estate to work with. I chose a 30x30 canvas and contemplated my first color.

It seemed like I was thinking about which color to start with for a long time, so, to speed it along, I did a “gut-check” to try to find some inspiration from how I was feeling: sad, mad, frustrated, and just blah. Black. I must use black.

I squeezed Carbon Black onto my palette, and I knew when I saw its beautiful, shiny darkness, my decision was a good one. I grabbed a large spatula and smashed the canvas with broad, angry strokes. Oh, it felt so good! I added more and more. With every stroke, tension, sadness, pain, and anger left my body.

Then, I added white in the same manner, and more emotions were thrown onto the canvas. I took a step back and noticed how good I felt, both mentally and physically, and knew what I was doing in those moments with the black and white paint was what me and my art needed. When I paint from that place, I am working from a true place of authenticity.

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After basking in the glow of my black and white moments, I began to think about the process of deciding what color I would add to my monochrome creation. It’s really not a formal process that I employ when choosing colors. More accurately, it’s a crap shoot. I wait for a color to pop into my head, and then I decide, yeah or nay. Blue was the color that was green-lighted to join the black and white party.

After the blue was added, I chose Yellow Ochre, which at the time I told myself was a “bold choice.” I loved how it interacted with the blue, black, and white, and congratulated myself on my color decision.

I was feeling very delighted with myself and my painting. Now that the bottom layers were in place, it was time for the “ordered” layers to begin. Once I release all that emotion onto the canvas, I typically find myself in a calmer, happier frame of mind, which enables me to be more playful and relaxed in my painting.

When I determined I was “done,” I sat down across from my newly completed painting and entered the admiration phase of my painting process. I don’t always make it to the admiration phase with every painting, though. Sometimes, the “I’m done, it’s okay, let’s move on” phase takes its place.

As I was smiling in admiration, happy with my creation, I noticed the familiar post-painting thoughts beginning to emerge.

It’s too much
There’s not enough contrast
Too many circles
Where’s the focal point

But, as I continued to stare at I Can Only Be Me, the thoughts began to sound softer, and I was able to quickly stomp them out of my head. It was a huge win, and I am proud of myself for it.

When I wrote my book, Perpetual Conflict, I created my paint and write process and have used it ever since. And I am still amazed every time I paint and write, how effective the process truly is. The painting is for my emotional expression, and the writing is my path to greater insight and understanding of myself. It’s a one-two punch that knocks me out in a good way, every time.

Thanks for being on this journey with me!

P.S. Here’s the book…

I lost myself trying to be what others wanted. Now, I create to find who I really am.

Perpetual Conflict is my illustrated memoir—a raw, unflinching journey through shame, grief, and self-abandonment. I picked up a paintbrush in the wreckage of my life, not to make art, but to survive. Each painting in this book is a snapshot of emotional truth—rage, release, hope, reclamation—followed by the words that rose from the canvas when I finally stopped hiding. It’s chaotic, cathartic, and real. It’s how I found pieces of myself in color, texture, and honesty. If you’ve ever lost your way—or your voice—this book might help you find a little of both.

I have been called a control freak before. Not once, but multiple times. Well, to be especially clear, the word freak was not used, but people noticed I like to be in control of things and felt the need to let me know that they indeed noticed, saying, “You always need to be in control, don’t you,” or “I can tell you like to be in control.” Nevertheless, control is something I am fond of and comfortable with. I don’t think, however, I am a freak about it.

I do think, though, that I let my fear of not being good enough, or creating the most amazing painting ever known to man, get in the way of authentically expressing myself in my paintings. It’s not that I think my past paintings lack expression or emotion, but rather, I am curious and excited to see what I will create when I let go of the fear (and control) of not being the best.

And I would be kidding myself to think that the feeling of not being good enough was my only barrier to my creativity. I also fear that my creations will go too far, be too weird, and not be received because they are “too out there” or “too much.”

So, again, which now I can see must be my theme for life, I am dealing with polar opposites.

Message to Victoria: There is a middle ground, you know!

Well, actually, I must not know, since I have not found that middle ground yet, thank you very much, Bleak Victoria.

Painting, for me, has been, and still is, a struggle between opposites in many ways.

I want to be authentic and honor “me,” yet it feels as if every cell in my body needs to be accepted, and acceptance typically means safe. Translation: paint what people like and buy, and the hell with your “vision.”

I feel dark emotions that are so strong they can stop me in my tracks, yet the feeling I get from the “happy” ones feels fleeting and shallow. Translation: Nobody wants to see all the “dark” emotions on the canvas; they want the happy ones, and I am not sure I can do that.

I believe in “all creation is art,” but also, almost obsessively, need my art to be “the best” or “good enough to buy” to justify its (and possibly my own) existence.

These “issues” of mine contribute to the strong hesitance I feel whenever I paint, or art journal, or do anything creative in the analog world. I want to move past them, but fear always pulls me back in.

But, with Letting It All Out, I took the big first step to not analyzing my every creative choice, and instead just acted on the ideas that popped into my head. And since I have hardly painted in 8 months, there were a LOT of ideas, and it seems they all made it onto one canvas.

I am not sure I like this “put it all on the canvas” painting. One minute I do, one minute I do not. I am ashamed of this one, a bit, so I must be on the right track in some way, right?

Wow, yes, there it is, the heart of the matter. I do not trust myself enough to let go and see what happens. Okay, I can work with that. It’s progress.

Intellectually, I could tell seven reasons why I don’t trust myself, but constantly staying in that “emotionally safe” place will not propel me forward. I’ve been living in the “figure out the why” for far too many years, and now it is time to feel the emotions behind the lack of trust, learn where that trauma lives in my body, and work through it.

And, of course, I must begin with an intellectual question to get the process started.

Why do I distrust my creative instincts?

As I take in that question to myself, I am aware, and actively looking for, the emotions that sentence brings up and where in my body it lives.

When I ask that question, I feel:

A great sense of relief washes over me as tears well up in my eyes. Does this mean I am hitting on something that has been bothering me for years?

That I will be wrong in others’ eyes, or better stated, my art will be conceived as “wrong, amateurish, bad, stupid, etc.” This is just more evidence that I don’t trust myself, and I am struggling to figure out where these thoughts live in my body.

If my art is not mainstream, it is an exhausting task (and a scary one, too) for me to defend, support, and promote my art until other “like-minded” people discover it. Which, again, is more evidence that I don’t trust myself. I am still strongly guarding the truth, and I may not uncover it right now.

So, I ask myself the same question again: Why do I distrust my creative instincts?

Now, my mind is taking me to an internal debate I have been having with myself for over thirty years:

Who decides if our art is worthy? Of praise, of purchase, of honor, or consideration for wall space?

Who?
Me?
You?
Society?
Juries?
Who?

In my mind (maybe in my soul), I create for myself, but also for others. Creating solely for myself leaves me empty. However, when creating for others, I have to accept that not everyone will like what I create. Then what?

Well, that is where I get all fucked up. A little free-thinking…

I am in a room by myself
I create a painting
I am on an island by myself
No one will ever see my painting
I like my painting

One day, after I had created over 20 paintings
A boat arrives on the island
A man and a woman leave the boat and start to explore
They see my paintings
They probably have thoughts

Will they like them?
Does it matter if they do?
Will it keep me from creating more if they don’t?
Will I create more if they do?

What if they do like them and create more
But they are different from the first ones
Will they like those?
What if they don’t?

What if those two never saw my paintings?
Am I still an artist?
And back to the question that got us here: Is my art good?

Maybe I should stop asking that question
Maybe I should

But if others do not like my art,
Why should I keep making it?
See, I just can’t stop connecting art to acceptance.
And herein is my core issue.

Message to Victoria: Not everyone needs to like you for you to feel worthy. You are innately worthy.

Yeah, that last line is a “fake it ‘til you make it” thing for me. My worth is tied up in my likeability and usefulness, and I don’t feel that there is any innate worthiness to be had. But I’m working on that.

So, I’m back in a familiar place, which means I have more work to do. I feel I will work on my worthiness for the rest of my life, and that is okay. One woman spent the greater part of 29 years tearing my worth to shreds, so it makes sense that it would take the rest of my life to regain it.

I know that painting, and then writing, is my path to redemption and healing. I just need to keep asking myself the hard questions, and when I don’t feel I can, I just have to remember to ask simply, why?

And now, a conversation between the two Victorias…

Imaginary Victoria: Do you like your latest painting, “Letting It All Out?”
Real Victoria: Yes, and no.

Imaginary Victoria: Why?
Real Victoria: I don’t know!

Imaginary Victoria: Why?
Real Victoria: My immediate reaction when I see it is, “Wow, I like this!” It has a bit of a graffiti vibe.”

Imaginary Victoria: So, what’s the issue?
Real Victoria: Then, I see all the things I did not do “right,” such as creating a focal point, adding more depth with darker values, too much scribble and stencil, just TOO MUCH!!

Imaginary Victoria: So, you are embarrassed by your painting?
Real Victoria: Yes, somewhat. Ashamed that it is not good enough, and even more ashamed that it is not “the best’ whatever that is. And then ashamed it was not weird enough, if I am going in that direction.

Imaginary Victoria: Why does it need to be “the best?”
Real Victoria: No one will buy it if it is not “the best.”

Imaginary Victoria: Is that true?
Real Victoria: I cannot say with certainty that the statement is true. You got me there!

Imaginary Victoria: So, then, why do you keep believing that everything you paint needs to be “the best?” What serves you with that thinking?
Real Victoria: My first thought was that it keeps me from expressing my true self, and I am scared to do that, so I keep myself in this “I must be the best but never will be the best” place to avoid feeling scared and unworthy.

Imaginary Victoria: Nice work, Victoria. You truly are scared of yourself.
Real Victoria: Thanks, and now I'm back where I was when I started this writing.

Imaginary Victoria: I don’t know the answer to that question, but I encourage you to start down the path of discovery.

Real Victoria: Well, that was not very helpful!

As with all things in life, I will need to find and embark on this “path of discovery” on my own. There’s nobody who will snap their fingers and magically make me discover why and implement the appropriate changes. And that’s okay. I do love the journey of self discovery, although it can be a long and winding clusterfuck of confusion.

So, I will ask myself daily: Why am I scared of who I am? And every day, in my journal, I write the answer to that question. And, every day, that answer may be different. Until one day, when the question will no longer need to be asked, because I’m no longer scared of who I am.

I look forward to that day.

Thanks for joining me on this journey of art and truth.

P.S. After writing this, I got to thinking about Letting It All Out and had the thought that if I am going to create weird, out-of-the-mainstream paintings, then I should fully embrace it. So, I had the idea to paint the sides black and add green dots, white squigles, and yellow and blue spotches that expand the ideas from the face of the painting. I love it! What do you think?

I have been without 25% of my right lung, and the cancerous squatter that lived there, for six weeks, and I can say I am 97.5% back to normal. My entire cancer experience was encapsulated into such a short time, and I am struggling with how to process it all.

I am fairly sure I haven’t adequately embraced, accepted, or internalized that I had cancer. It didn’t happen to someone else; it happened to me, and I have the scars to prove it, but it doesn’t feel as real as I think it should.

With an event this big and consequential, I assumed there would be a significant mental shift or something equally relevant and obvious. But no. Not for me.

I don’t feel that different. I don’t feel like my life has changed drastically.

Maybe that is simply how I process life, or the magnitude of the situation will hit sometime in the future without warning. I don’t know right now, and I guess that’s okay.

What I do know is that if I needed more evidence of my resilience, perseverance, and inner toughness, I surely found it with this experience. I really thought I had enough of these attributes, but life didn’t agree with my assessment. Because of that, I am now better than 100% in these areas, which will serve me well at some point in the future when another of life’s curveballs is hurled my way.

Oh, that’s such a positive spin to put on things, isn’t it?

And there it is. My childhood trauma comes out in so many different ways, it’s sometimes difficult to recognize it unless it hits me over the head.

I am shrugging off my cancer diagnosis and subsequent major surgery as something that just happened to me, was not a big deal, and now I am past it. No problem, it’s all good here.

That’s how I've rolled since I can remember. The bulk of my childhood was trauma, and for me, it became a normal occurrence.

The above message was strongly conveyed to me by The Witch (the woman who raised me). She never missed an opportunity to “teach” me that bad things ALWAYS happen and when they do, you’ve got to suck it up, move on, and by all means, never shed a tear about it. Push it all down and look tough while you do it. Got it, thanks.

She was one of the most unhappy people I have ever known, and it was her goal (though probably not one she had put on a vision board) to ensure that I, too, would feel her despair. Telling me the world was a shitty place was just one of her tactics.

And, I must say, she was right about bad shit always happening becasue it did, a lot, when I was a kid. And for the longest time, I cried hard about it, every time bad stuff came my way. The feelings of devastation, confusion, and sadness enveloped me, and I remember feeling as if the tears would never end. When this happened, the Witch always told me to “Stop crying or I will give you something to cry about,” but for many years, when I was in the “bad stuff” place, I just cried. Until one day I didn’t. The death of tears marked the Witch’s successful programming of my brain to accept all trauma, injustice, indignation, and other general nastiness that came my way. I learned to acknowledge, react without emotion, and then move on swiftly.

Being “tough” and staying positive when confronted with a difficult situation is standard operating procedure for me, and I haven’t, until now, given it much deep thought.

But maybe I should. Maybe it’s where unresolved trauma lives. Maybe, there’s healing to be found in the exploration.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

That’s always the question, isn’t it? Is all okay with me, or should I poke the bear and see if I can find out for sure? Well, the fact that I am even questioning whether my reaction and handling of my cancer experiences are “normal” or indicative of deeper issues signals that maybe I should take a deeper look. Right?

Well, I’m doing it anyway.

It’s not like me to be emotional, unmoored, or incapable of making decisions in any given situation. I am the one you want in a crisis. I am calm, focused, and ready for action. And that is exactly how I approached my cancer diagnosis.

I must confess that the ability to be tough when the world is crashing down around me has served me well many times. However, with further reflection, I can now see how this ability robs me of the experience of feeling things deeply, and more importantly, it prevents me from healing.

Well, the crisis, for now, is over, and even though I have not emotionally processed it, what’s the issue? Let's be especially honest here; I think I am perfectly content with never fully understanding the emotional impact of what has happened to me over the last three months.

Well, maybe not perfectly happy, but I am okay with avoidance in this case.

Who wants to emotionally visit these things?

• It could have been much worse had it not been caught as early as it was

• What if it had spread?

• What if my breathing had been affected negatively for the rest of my life?

• What if I had died?

Yet, as I write these things, I realize that they’re just surface questions, and the real issues are much more akin to fear, disappointment, and loss. And, of course, that must be what I am hiding from.

• My body housed cells that have the ability to end my life. They are gone now, but they could come back and bring reinforcements.

• I am entering the last third of my life, and the medical issues, after a strong lack of appearances for the majority of my adult life, are knocking at my door. My cancer was the first, and will most likely not be the last.

• I am now staring my mortality in the face, and I am not sure what to do about it. Well, there’s nothing I can do to change the fact that I will die, but I can change a few things that may either speed up or slow down the coming of that event.

Yes, this list is true, but I feel it does not expose my real fears and concerns. Let’s see if I can do better.

• Death is now a real prospect, rather than a concept that “happens to everyone eventually.”

• I may spend much of the last third of my life battling illness instead of living. Or, I may not. The not knowing is maddening, but to be expected.

Still, no. I need to delve deeper, and it’s interesting to me how challenging it is to uncover my truth.

• Having cancer, or high blood pressure, or any similar illness means I am broken in some way. It means I have failed in some way. It means the Witch was right about life and about me.

• Although I am a very positive person, I acknowledge that there are fewer days in front of me than behind me, and that makes me sad. The cancer cemented this truth, and now I am not sure how to plan for the future when I don’t know how much future I have left. Yes, I know that has always been the case through my life, (I could never know how much time was left at any given time and was just fine,) but now, it seems more real. I don’t want my life to be defined by what illness or conditions I am experiencing.

• Contrary to what I wrote at the beginning of this article, I think, truly, I have changed since hearing “you have cancer,” but I resist admitting that to myself. My cancer experience has reminded me that life can be short and I should spend it wisely, with purpose, and happiness. I feel this more strongly now and worry that I cannot make the necessary changes to “life the fuck out of life,” as much as I want to.

• And, of course, when something this huge happens to you, taking stock of where you have been, and what you may have accomplished, failed at, missed, and completely fucked up, is to be expected. It’s been an enlightening assessment for me.

Oh, I went much deeper and with more truth than I expected. I could probably go down a few more levels, but I think it’s a good start.

Well, that just came out, and I think it's closer to the truth, the exact truth, or at least the truth I will allow myself to reveal at this time. Oh, and so judgy of me, right?

So, that means I must have deserved the cancer, the pain from the surgery and recovery, and regular CT scans and waiting for results for possibly the rest of my life.

It was my punishment for failing, yet again.

The Witch is strong in me, still. 🙁

No, I was just surviving. And that is exactly how the Witch wanted me to live, forever. She was such a good teacher, or I a good student, because I have fulfilled her prophecy so many times over, even without her in my life for the last 30 years. Self-sabotage keeps me down, on her level, where she wallows in the depths of her misery. I have unwittingly been down there with her for far too long.

Yet, if I am looking at my life objectively, in many ways, I have been thriving for many years now. But, even so, my mind still has past traumas on constant replay, making me feel like I am not making much progress, and keeping me forever stuck between surviving and thriving.

And that is the thing about childhood trauma that I have come to learn: it doesn’t solely live in your thoughts or emotions, but rather, trauma lives in your body. And until that trauma is fully expressed, understood, and mourned, it will keep coming back, an annoying reminder that there is still work to do. That, for me, is the definition of a trigger.

I may be able to process the trauma intellectually, “oh, that’s why I do that,” and emotionally by feeling and working through the feelings associated with the trauma, but what I am not sure how to do is to process the trauma that lives in my body. I do know my body wants to feel safe, and when I am triggered, or “in my trauma,” my body does not feel it is safe at all. It needs reassurance or proof that the danger has passed.

My first instinct is to feel as if I don’t know how to do this, but if I look at what I do for Bodi (our sweet rescue puppy) when he is scared, I have a roadmap. When Bodi came home with us from the shelter, he was scared of everything: people, garage doors opening, cars, the couch, dogs, stairs, and leaves blowing in the wind, among other things. With every new experience, we assured him that he was safe and that we would make sure nothing happened to him. We soothed and reassured him.

And that’s what I need to do for myself. However, let’s be clear: I'm not entirely sure I can pull it off. It feels so hokey!

I will try, though. I promise.

I have fought this “self-punishment” battle numerous times in my life. Each time, I feel as if I gain some ground in the fight, but an outright win seems so very far away. Now, armed with the working theory that my body needs to feel safe, I will begin to step away from the living much of every day in the past and surviving, and instead walk into the warm sunlight of the present, where life is thriving. I think the best place to start this journey is on the canvas.

Prompts? Really?

Historically, I am not one for prompts (writing or painting), but lately, I have found myself drawn to them. Or at the very least, experimenting with them. So, I am going to give myself some prompts to choose from for the next time I am in front of a blank canvas or a blinking cursor.

Painting prompts, for me, need to be about feelings, not thoughts; otherwise, I will not be able to connect with my emotional self or my unconscious self.

• What does self-punishment feel like emotionally and physically?

• Where do you feel shame in your body, and what does it feel like?

• Where does the detachment you feel when dealing with a crisis live in your body?

• How would it feel if that “control” aspect were not accessible?

Writing prompts, on the other hand, are more about thoughts with feeling mixed in for good measure.

• How has a lifetime of self-punishment deprived you of joy?

• “I have done nothing right in life” is one assessment you have completed many times with yourself. How does this feel in your body? Is it true?

• What would it feel like if you did not blame or shame yourself?

• Is it possible to see yourself as a person worthy of anything and everything?

Oh, it’s going to be an intense painting and writing session!

Thanks for being a part of my journey.

I posted the above to social media, from home, two days after my surgery. I was blissfully unaware of what the next two weeks would have in store for me.

The Surgery

The morning of the surgery, I was relieved to wake up on time after having dreams of being late for my lobectomy. I was in a good mood, had no fear or nervousness, and was mentally prepared, as best I could be, for what was ahead of me.

As we drove to the hospital for our 5:30 am scheduled arrival, I had a few thoughts about not waking up after the surgery and about waking up during surgery. Both were fleeting and did not scare me enough to call up the butterflies.

I had accepted my fate and all that it could bring with it. My only path was forward, and I would not entertain any other thought.

Nearly as soon as I checked in, they took me back to the pre-op area. I undressed, sat on the bed, and then the preparation began. IVs were started, blood was drawn, and I had a quick pre-surgery chat with my surgeon (Dr. B.), and met my anesthesiologist. Then I was presented with a “pain block” procedure that injected pain medicine into the area near my spine. Similar, yet different from the epidural that I had for my son’s c-section.

After all the preparations were complete, the nurse brought Rich and Dawson into the preoperative area, and we began our journey to where the main event would take place. When they traveled as far as was allowed, Rich and Dawson said their goodbyes to me, as I continued on to the OR.

Once in the place where my surgery would soon commence, I assisted in my own transfer from the bed to the operating table. Before I knew it, there was a mask over my face and nose, and I could hear Dr. B. and the anesthesiologist conferring to my left.

Post-Surgery

And boom, my following thoughts were drug-induced and are now buried somewhere in my brain. I remember Rich being there, me feeling high as a kite (which felt so good), and my bed being wheeled to the ICU. I remember feeling happy, relieved, and of course, high.

After they got me all settled in the ICU (I cannot remember all the things they did), Rich and Dawson came in to see me. I remember feeling really good and being amazed at the lack of pain. Now, don’t get me wrong, there was pain, but it was not what I imagined it would be. And, of course, I was still on the pain block (which lasts 12 hours), Tylenol, oxycodone, and Dilaudid, all at the same time.

I knew ahead of time that I would have several incisions, with one of them being 3-4 inches wide, and a chest tube. Even though the drugs dulled the pain considerably, I felt pain and discomfort on my right side and made an effort not to move too much.

The nurse, Miriam (a fantastic human being), gave me the rundown on how the rest of the day would play out:

• The Foley catheter would come out soon, yeah!

• I was to use the breathing thingy (incentive spirometer) to help expand my lungs. 10 times per hour. I told her I was an overachiever, so she set a higher goal for me.

• She wanted to get me up to walk later in the day, and I agreed to meet that goal.

• As soon as the doctor liked my progress, the chest tube would be removed, and I would get to go home.

Miriam laid out goals, and as a goal-loving person, I accepted them. And, as a very competitive person, I wanted to rock my recovery and take the nonexistent prize for winning.

Breathing deeply hurt, but I knew I needed to “hit my numbers” with the breathing thingy to be able to go home the next day, so I did hit that thing hard.

Dr. B came by later to see how I was doing and give me an update on the surgery.

• He removed the tumor and its home, the upper lobe of my right lung

• 10 lymph nodes were also removed

• All were sent ot pathology to confirm either localization or the spread of cancer

And here is the most bestest part ever—Dr. B. said my lungs were pink and beautiful, like a baby’s lungs. Which means they healed completely after smoking for 30 years.

Well, I did get all this news because I had a cancerous mass in my lung and had to sacrifice 25% of said lung, but I still feel lucky!

Shortly after Dr. B. left, the Foley catheter was removed, and I was setting my sights on walking later in the day. I was nicely medicated for pain and decided to wait until my next dose of Dilaudid to try the walk. Rich and Dawson joined me on my jaunt through the ICU, and when I returned to my bed, I felt victorious. I was sure I would be released the next day.

Because I still had the chest tube inserted, I was not allowed any food or liquid, except for sporadic sips of water. I desperately wanted some Jello, but had to wait until the next day.

I didn’t sleep well that night, but my vitals were stellar, and eventually I enjoyed a few hours of blissful rest. I eagerly awaited the doctor’s rounds, hoping to get confirmation that I would be leaving the hospital later in the day.

Dr. B. came by and said I was his “rockstar patient” and that I would be going home later that day. Less than an hour later, my chest tube was pulled, which was an interesting sensation. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn't pleasant either. The best part was the Jello and apple juice that arrived shortly afterward. It felt good to eat something again.

I wanted to walk more before my discharge later that day, and I did so. I had the option to walk out of the hospital or be wheeled out. I chose the latter because I was unsure how much stamina I would have.

Home to Recovery

Arriving home was terrific, and I was excited to start my 3 weeks of recovery before returning to work. I was determined to “win” the recovery and had high hopes.

The first few nights, I slept on the couch in a sitting position. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t excruciating either. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much sleep.

When the chest tube was removed, they had to put an enormous amount of tape over it and most of my side to protect the incision until it began to heal. I was not to remove the tape for 72 hours. The tape was painful and limited my range of motion. I told myself that when the tape came off, I would feel much better.

I came home with a few Oxy pills, but they were adamant at the hospital that I should rely on the Tylenol and not the Oxy. I am guessing they tell everyone that to help prevent Oxy abuse. I have a high tolerance to pain, but there were times I really wanted the Oxy, but abided by their directions.

The day the tape came off was spectacular. I was able to put on a bra, which I did not think I would be able to do for weeks. That seemed to help the pain and allowed me to go outside and walk, which I did a couple of times per day. My breathing was good, as was my O2 saturation.

For the next three days, I felt fairly good and was able to sleep in bed instead of on the couch. I felt so good, I did the following:

• I made dinner

• I made chicken salad

• I did laundry

• I walked the dog by myself

• I held Bodi (my dog) in my left arm and flowers in my right at the same time

• I used my right arm to carry and drink from my 32-oz water bottle. When full, it is quite heavy—approximately 3 lbs.

• I did some work on my computer

I felt no ill effects from the above tasks at the time. But Wednesday evening, it all came crashing down.

I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. B. that morning, and he said I was healing well and did not need to see me until my 6-month chest CT.

When I went to bed that night, I had an excruciating pain above my right breast. It was sharp, burning, and took my breath away. I could no longer lie down flat.

I headed back to the couch and had to sleep in an upright position. I concluded that all my activities had severely aggravated my pectoral muscle and hindered its ability to heal. The pain was on the same level as my large inquisition just under my armpit, and according to Doctor Google, the incision cut into it. Now this horrifying pain was my constant companion, and I had no idea how long it would last.

• I could not lie down flat anymore without pain

• The pain would come when I moved my arm a certain way, and the movement that caused the pain would vary

• When the pain arrived, it was deep, sharp, burning, and took a few minutes to subside.

I had an appointment with my primary care doctor the next day, and she confirmed the pain was normal, given the surgery. So, I would need to find a way to cope with this new situation. I decided that I needed to be completely immobile for at least three days to hopefully allow my muscles to heal and get me to a more manageable place.

And I was. I did not walk, make any of my own food, fill my water bottle, or anything. I just read and watched TV.

By Sunday, I could shower again, walk outside, and complete a few tasks. But the pain was still strong, and I was still sleeping on the couch in an upright position. My sleep score was low (according to FitBit), as were the hours I slept.

I was in pain. I was tired. And I was mad at myself for causing this.

Actually, I don’t know for sure if I caused this by my overzealous desire to heal quickly or not. It’s not like I have any experience with healing from an upper lobectomy. And, according to what Doctor Google says (and my doctor, in real life), it’s part of the healing process. My actions may have contributed, or they may not have. I will never know for sure.

But those facts did not stop me from spending way too much time berating myself for causing my recovery failure. However, during that brief trip to the rabbit hole, I realized that I needed to learn how to tame the strong Achiever and Competitor that lived within me if I wanted to heal. Those traits are amazing and necessary in many areas of my life, but I should never use them against myself, which, in this situation, I was doing.

It was a challenging and painful lesson to learn.

Back to the Real World

As I write this, I am exactly three weeks post-op. The pectoral pain is still with me, but it has migrated closer to my side incision, and although strong, it subsides more quickly. I have more range of motion, but still need to be careful how I move and use my right arm. Everything I do is in slow motion compared to my movements pre-surgery. I am being so very careful not to overdo anything and extremely careful not to trigger the pectoral pain, which is still somewhat excruciating.

I still cannot lie flat and had the idea to look for some kind of wedge thingy to help prop me up when I sleep. I found one on Amazon, and it arrived yesterday. My first night with my new “wedgy” friend allowed me to sleep in my own bed and stay mostly asleep through the night, achieving a fairly high sleep score.

My doctors did not adequately express how painful, prolonged, and challenging my recovery would be. I suggested a total of three weeks before I went back to work, and Dr. B. agreed. He did not tell me that I would still have considerable pain, be moving quite slowly, have a swollen abdomen, and a huge amount of numbness. He was pretty clear on the fatigue, though, so there is that.

Even if he had given me more information, I don't think I could have imagined or even adequately prepared for the physical and emotional experience of recovering from a lobectomy. And that’s okay. That’s life. You don’t know until you know.

Throughout this journey, I have chosen to focus on the positives, and I will do the same with my recovery.

• My body is free of cancer. The cancer was localized to the tumor, and it has been removed. There was no progression to the lymph nodes (they removed ten).

• My breathing has been exceptional since right after the surgery, and I have experienced little shortness of breath

• I had the opportunity to binge-watch television shows, read, and do nothing, which is a rare treat.

• Rich and Dawson have taken great care of me, and Bodi has not left my side.

• Many friends and clients have reached out, sent flowers, gifts, and cards, which warmed my heart immensely.

• I was able to attend a magical concert just 18 days after my surgery (Ben Folds playing with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra).

• I have had a lot of time to think, which I do a lot anyway, but it seemed different this time.

I'm back to my client work today, although I'm not sure I'll be 100% productive, and that’s okay. Each day, I will feel better and be able to do more.

My intellect, creativity, and work ethic are still intact, and I look forward to getting my brain back into full service. Mentally, I feel good, although this post isn't my best writing. However, you know what? I don’t care. I wrote it, and that is all that matters.

I hope the pain subsides soon so I can get back to painting, but I understand that it may take a few more weeks or longer. And, I am not deluding myself that I will be kayaking any time soon, and that’s okay. I will get back onto the water soon enough.

This was an interesting and challenging journey for me. I feel so very lucky to come out on the other side of cancer so quickly and without complications. My recovery was tougher than I imagined, but in the scheme of things, not as bad as it could have been.

Thank you for following along on my cancer journey!