Tuesday, July 1, 2025
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much I cover up just to get through the day—old hope, old versions of myself, old plans. That’s what this piece reminds me of. It started as something else—something bright and blooming—and I painted over it. Not to erase it, but to make space for what needed to come next. Maybe that’s what recovery feels like too: not a restart, but a layering.
Three circles emerged, one inside the next, like those nesting dolls I used to play with as a child, wondering what I’d find at the center. Red. Then orange. Then yellow. The yellow glows softly at the core—steady, warm, quietly alive. I find myself returning to it with curiosity, maybe even hope. Is it a piece of me that endured the burnout, untouched? Or is it something new—something that could only surface now that so much else has peeled away? I don’t know yet, but it feels like truth. Like something essential I forgot I had.
The blue surrounding it feels like a sea, but not the kind that pulls you under. It’s the kind you float in when you’re too tired to swim. Vast, steady, forgiving. I didn’t realize how much I needed that color—how much I needed something to hold me—until it appeared. It doesn’t ask anything of me. It just exists, wrapping softly around the edges of the chaos. The lines still tremble, the circles still pulse with tension, but the blue stays. Constant and quiet. Almost like it’s saying, “You don’t have to carry it all right now.” For a moment, I believed it.
There’s a man—standing face-to-face with a butterfly, outlined in white, like light, like grace. I didn’t place him there on purpose. He just arrived. He’s not chasing or turning away. He’s present. The butterfly says: “Change is a chance to fly.” That line is unsettling to me. I was so focused on surviving this past school year, I haven’t thought about what I’m becoming. Do I need to change? Has burnout already changed me? Is the recovery process reshaping me in ways I haven’t even named? I used to fear change—mostly because it felt like losing parts of myself I worked hard to build. Lately, I wonder if holding on so tightly is what has made my burnout worse. What if some of those parts needed to shift?
Two words live inside this piece—LISTEN, bold and commanding at the top, and BREATHE, soft and unassuming at the bottom. At first, they seemed simple - almost obvious. The longer I sat with them, the more they began to feel like messages I had not realized I needed. It is not advice - more like quiet invitations from somewhere deep within me. LISTEN - not just to the noise around me, but to what has gone quiet, to what is no longer working, and what is asking to be let go. BREATHE - not to move past the pain caused by my burnout, but to be with it - gently. To also remember I am more than the weight I carry. Together, these messages offer a kind of rhythm and a way back to myself I almost forgot existed. They feel like permission to not fix everything at once. To be in process. To find worth in small and steady steps.
This artwork doesn’t offer answers. It doesn’t promise a resolution or relief. It feels like a mirror—quiet, steady, and honest. It reflects not who I should be, or who I was before my burnout, but something softer: a glimpse of who I might be becoming. Not fixed, not finished—just still here. Still trying. In that reflection, I see something I didn’t realize I was missing: possibility. Not the kind that shouts, but the kind that whispers, “Maybe.” Maybe this is enough. Maybe this is a beginning. Small wins.
me: I’ve looked at you so many times without really seeing you. Something asked me to sit and stay longer with you.
This is Not the End: You’ve been moving for so long. Sometimes stillness feels foreign—uncomfortable, even. But that discomfort is where something begins to shift.
me: I didn’t expect to feel anything. I thought I was just tired. But sitting here, I feel… something loosening. The blue—it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like a place to land.
This is Not the End: Yes. It’s not here to swallow you. It’s here to hold you. You’ve been carrying so much. You needed somewhere soft to put it down.
me: Those circles—concentric, layered, warm. I keep wondering: is the yellow at the center who I was? Or who I’m becoming?
This is Not the Ende: Maybe both. Maybe that brightness never left—it just got buried beneath the noise. You’re peeling back the layers now. Not to go back, but to remember what still lives in you.
me: Then there’s the man. Facing the butterfly. He’s still. No reaching, no resistance. Just presence. That message: “Change is a chance to fly.” It unsettles me.
This is Not the End: Change hasn’t been kind lately. You associate it with loss and with exhaustion. Not all change breaks. Some change unfolds. This change? It’s quiet and internal.
me: I thought burnout had flattened me. That I’d lost something essential. This piece… it doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like a whisper saying, “You’re still here.”
This is Not the End: Exactly. Not as you were, perhaps. But not less. Just different. Still breathing. Still becoming. Still worthy of care.
me: At the top, you tell me to listen. At the bottom, to breathe. They’re so simple, but those messages feel like… something sacred. Like instructions I didn’t know I needed.
This is Not the End: You’ve been surviving on noise and reaction. These words invite a different kind of living. Listen—to what hurts. To what’s no longer aligned. Breathe—not just to get through, but to come home to yourself.
me: You’ve named yourself This Is Not the End. I think I needed that reminder.
This is Not the End: You did. Not just once; you may need it again and again. That’s okay. Healing isn’t a straight line. You’re on the path. You’re pausing. You’re witnessing and that’s where restoration begins.
me: Maybe it’s not about returning to who I was. Maybe it’s about learning who I am, now. Maybe… that’s enough.
This is Not the End: More than enough. This is not the end. This is a beginning you didn’t expect—but one you’re ready for.
What Stays
I’ve learned to smile
through clenched teeth,
to keep showing up
when something inside me
was already slipping away.
I wore resilience like armor,
hoping no one would see
how tired I’d become
of pretending.
There were days
when desire slipped away—
everything felt out of reach,
and survival was all I knew.
Even then—
beneath the fatigue,
beneath the silence—
something stayed.
Soft-spoken.
Hesitant.
A subtle echo
that I’m still holding on.
Now, I sit in that quiet
and let it speak.
It tells me I don’t need
to hold everything.
That letting go
can be a kind of mercy.
I ache for the parts of me
I abandoned just to keep going.
I’m learning:
they haven’t left.
They’ve been waiting
for me to slow down long enough
to return.
This isn’t a victory.
It’s not relief.
It’s real,
and it’s mine.
That is something.
That is what stays.
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