The Art of Becoming Who You Already Are

Do you know what is the best part of writing your own blog?

You get to write about whatever you want, including repeating yourself once in a while. No boss standing over your shoulder, no checklist to follow, no “approved topics only.” You hold the pen, or let us be honest, you hit the keyboard keys, and that is a delicious kind of freedom. Of course, being free does not mean being rude. We can write about everything we want while keeping a little respect in our pockets for other people’s feelings.

When I started this blog, I thought, “Perfect! A place to promote my work as an artist.” It sounded very professional, very grown up, very LinkedIn approved. But here is what I have learned: my blog does not have to be a showroom. It can simply be my little creative playground. Writing itself is an art, and sometimes art just wants to breathe without having to sell/promote anything.

Me at the age of 4 (I think): a drawing based on a photo of me

This post is about my rebirth. To paint a better picture, imagine peeling off old wallpaper to find bright colors underneath. For years I had to readjust myself just to fit in, like trying to squeeze into jeans two sizes too small. Everyone you meet carries their own luggage, packed with stories, mistakes, and lessons. Mine used to be a giant suitcase with broken wheels. Thankfully I have learned to travel light. Now I carry only a small backpack, and every so often I unzip it to take out the heavy stuff that sneaks in.

So what do I mean by finding my real self? Picture a little girl spinning in the living room like a firework, music blasting, hairbrush microphone in hand. That was me. I was pure energy, pure color. Between nine and seventeen, I spent a lot of time alone at home. My imagination was not just a toy, it was my survival kit. If you grew up before smartphones, you know what I mean. I hosted full blown concerts, staged dramatic ketchup crime scenes, gave my teddy bears funny lessons, and experimented with makeup that would make a clown say, “Calm down, kid.” And I danced, always, endlessly, joyfully danced.

2018 - Rose Monday

School and I had an interesting relationship. I did not hate learning, but I definitely hated the “sit down, be quiet, memorize this” version. There were only three classes I actually looked forward to: Technology, Art, and Dance Group. In those rooms, I could build, create, and get my hands dirty with something real. That feeling of shaping things with my own hands never left. But like so many creative souls I followed the so called respectable path. Good grades. Good degree. Good job. Good life. Society clapped politely while I quietly suffocated. If this was a lottery, I had all the winning numbers, but I was playing the wrong game entirely. My inner world was more like a carnival, full of bright lights, glitter, music, and surprises around every corner, while I kept being told (from the society) to sit still and do accounting.

It took years of detours, a burnout I did not see coming, trimming my circle of people, and a whole lot of soul work to finally get back to my own game. And you know what? It does not have to be a dramatic movie scene to count. No fireworks required. The best part is simply enjoying being myself, exploring my hidden talents, and walking through life without wearing a mask just to be accepted. And I deeply admire others who have also decided that they are enough as they are, kind, curious, and creative, without stepping on anyone else to prove it.

Life keeps trying to put us in molds that do not fit. The beautiful truth is that you can always break the mold and start sculpting again, this time in your own shape.

So here is my wish for you:

Unpack your own bag. See what treasures are hiding under the mess. You might find colors you forgot, a melody you have not sung in years, or a spark of curiosity you thought was gone. And trust me, the world could use a little more of the real you.

My garden - My playground 2025