01/31/2026
When my world narrowed and safety disappeared, art became how I steadied my breath. Making art is resistance; it's a refusal to disappear, a refusal to let fear or cruelty have the final word. I've lost some things on this journey, but I've gained clarity. I feel much more introspective now; reality cuts sharper, but so does beauty. Amid the daily noise, I can love more clearly.
I see the people this nation turns into scapegoats – immigrants, poor and working-class people, LGBTQ+ folks, Black and Brown communities, Indigenous people, disabled and neurodivergent people, people living with mental illness, survivors, artists, caregivers, educators, people who protect the earth. I see their light, and so many of them are our greatest healers.
And I also see the cruelty – rooted in extreme wealth and deep disconnection. Money without humanity hollows people; a more, more, more mentality can never be filled. This is the real devil – a hell of being trapped by extremity and control.
Two years ago, I was kidnapped and carjacked at gunpoint. Trapped in a moving car with a man driving, wrecking, all while aiming a gun at my body, my head, my leg. A man taking my possessions, money, trust – and every possible ending for me filled my body at once. 'This can't be how it ends,' I thought, and yet I knew it could.
What followed was a 45-minute terrorizing ordeal and a miraculous turn of events that placed me back into the next chapter of my life. Perhaps I will save that to speak on it at a later date. Especially now in a society where weapons and force are funded while others don't have heat or food. Survival for me came first; healing creeps but its steady. Art is carrying me back to myself. I keep creating because it's how I breathe, because that inner connection matters, and because survival alone was never the point. I see you; I'm still here too.