Make art. Be hot. Period.

I’ve loved art for as long as I can remember.
Not in a look at me way, but in a quiet, personal way. The kind of love that feels like it’s stitched into who you are without needing to be explained.

Growing up, I found comfort in poetry, in reading writers like Jack Kerouac and George Orwell, who somehow put feelings into words in a way that made the world feel a little more understandable. I wasn’t the best at math, I didn’t always feel like the smartest person in the room, but give me a blank page or a set of paints, and I felt like I had everything I needed.

I think that’s the beauty of creativity. It’s freeing.
It’s not about being perfect or impressive, it’s about being present.
When I sit down to paint or draw just for the sake of it, when I write messy poetry, I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just existing. And in a world that constantly asks you to perform or produce, creating for no reason at all feels like the most powerful thing you can do.

Art has always been a way for me to stay connected to myself. It’s healing in the way that being outside is healing, like when you take a walk, breathe in the fresh air, and realize how small your worries feel compared to the open sky.
It’s the same feeling I get when I journal after a long day, literally unloading the noise inside my head onto a page and making space for something lighter.

Creative expression reminds me that I don’t have to have everything figured out. I don’t have to be the smartest, the most organized, or the most logical. I just have to show up and be myself.

That’s enough.
It always has been.

If you’re feeling a little lost (or just brain-fried), seriously… go make something.
It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t even have to make sense.
Paint something weird. Write the worst poem ever.
Just create for the hell of it.
You’ll be shocked at how much lighter you feel after.