Finally Saying It Out Loud: I Am an Artist

I don’t think I ever realized how much I resisted calling myself an artist. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been creating or at least transforming whatever was in front of me. When I was a preteen, I’d wait for my aunt to clean her house just so I could dig through her “trash” and turn it into something new. What other people tossed aside, I saw as possibility. Around that same time, a wonderful art teacher introduced us to oil paints. It only happened once, but it stuck with me. Something sparked that day, like discovering a language I didn’t even know I could speak.

And still, I resisted. Growing up, I was told an art career was either for the rich with connections or for people willing to struggle just to survive. Somewhere along the way, I decided I didn’t fit either story, so I tried to be practical. But a calling doesn’t just disappear. Like Moana being drawn back to the ocean, no matter how far I drifted, I always returned to art. When I was preparing for college, I signed up for visual arts but missed the test. I tried architecture but didn’t qualify. So I ended up in tourism and hospitality. Even there, art found me. Through events, I discovered how much I loved visual identity, the way colors, textures, and details could shape an experience and tell a story without a single word. Once again, I was back where I had always been, creating.

After college, I moved to the US to marry the love of my life. I tried a few art-related things here and there, restoring furniture and making felt keychains to sell. Over time, they faded. Not because I didn’t love creating, but because of my identity. I was so desperate for people’s approval that the fear of not being good enough would freeze me every time. Eventually, not living in my God-given identity led me into a deep, deep depression that almost ruined my marriage.

I realized I had to find my way back to myself. Over the next few years, I slowly started rediscovering who I was. Getting closer to God, leaning on my community, and working through therapy became my guide. Step by step, I rebuilt my sense of self. And as I did, something amazing happened. The space I made for healing became space for creating. Art, which had always been part of me, started to flow again, not forced, not for approval, but naturally, as a reflection of who I was becoming.

It wasn’t until recently that everything finally unblocked. I’ve been creating nonstop for months and for the first time had the courage to call myself an artist. Part of me still feels like an impostor, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re all called to create. It’s written in our DNA. We just have to keep showing up, doing our one thing a day, finding joy in ordinary life, practicing gratitude, and letting beauty guide us. In that process, in agreeing with the truth of who we are, we begin to become.

When I look at my work today, I feel proud. Not because it’s perfect, but because it shows growth. It’s that moment when I pause and think, “Wow, how did my hands make this?” Sometimes it even feels like it wasn’t me at all but something divine. Maybe becoming starts with agreement.

I didn’t become an artist overnight. I finally stopped resisting it. And maybe this is only the beginning. I’m still learning. Still messy. Still unsure some days. But I’m no longer disconnected from my hands, and that's the real beauty.