Last year, I was running on full speed.
I was painting two to three paintings every single week—sometimes even more. If I wasn’t in the studio, I was planning the next painting, traveling to festivals, teaching workshops, preparing for gallery deliveries, or posting on social media. I convinced myself that staying busy meant I was making progress.
And in many ways, I was.
My business was growing. New opportunities were coming my way. I was teaching, exhibiting, traveling, and creating more work than I ever had before. From the outside looking in, it probably looked like I had found the perfect rhythm.
But eventually, my body started telling me something my mind refused to hear.
I was tired.
Not the kind of tired that disappears after a good night’s sleep. The kind that settles into your creativity and makes even the thing you love most begin to feel like another item on a checklist.
Living with PTSD has also played a role in that exhaustion.
Something many people don’t see is how mentally and physically draining PTSD can be. Some days my mind is clear and focused. Other days, even simple tasks require twice the amount of energy. It’s easy to become frustrated when your body and mind aren’t operating at the pace you want them to.
For a long time, I tried to push through it.
I thought that if I just worked harder, painted more, or stayed busier, I’d eventually outrun the exhaustion. I couldn’t.
This year, I made a decision that hasn’t always been easy.
I slowed down.
Instead of measuring success by how many paintings I finish in a week, I’m trying to measure it by something much more important: the quality of the work and the quality of my life.
I’m learning to listen to my body instead of fighting it.
If I need a day—or even several days—to rest, I rest.
If inspiration strikes, I paint.
If it doesn’t, I don’t force it.
That doesn’t mean I’ve become less passionate about painting. Quite the opposite.
Ironically, giving myself permission to slow down has made me even more excited about creating.
Rather than chasing the next finished painting, I’m building collections and series that genuinely excite me. I’m exploring subjects I’ve wanted to paint for years, including portrait painting—a skill that’s humbled me in the best possible way. Becoming a beginner again has reminded me that growth doesn’t always happen through speed. Sometimes it happens through patience.
The studio has become part of that creative process too.
I’ve been reworking the floor plan, repainting the walls, organizing supplies, and creating an environment that makes me want to paint. It’s amazing how much a refreshed workspace can refresh your mindset.
Then there’s the part of being an artist that most people never see.
The emails.
The bookkeeping.
Updating the website.
Ordering inventory.
Planning workshops and events.
Writing blogs.
Marketing.
If I’m honest, I’d almost always rather have a paintbrush in my hand than sit behind a computer.
But owning an art business means wearing more hats than just “artist.”
I’ve had to remind myself that these tasks aren’t distractions from my art—they’re what allow my art to exist as a career.
A painting doesn’t sell itself.
A workshop doesn’t organize itself.
A gallery relationship doesn’t maintain itself.
Every invoice, every email, every social media post, every website update, and every hour spent behind the scenes is another brushstroke in building a sustainable life as an artist.
I’ve also learned something even more valuable.
Rest isn’t laziness.
Listening to your body isn’t weakness.
Taking care of your mental health isn’t falling behind.
For someone living with PTSD, self-care isn’t optional—it’s essential. If I don’t take care of myself first, I can’t show up fully in the studio. The paintings suffer, my creativity suffers, and eventually, so do I.
I’ve stopped feeling guilty for resting.
Because rest isn’t the opposite of productivity.
It’s part of it.
For years, I believed productivity meant constantly producing.
Now I’m beginning to believe productivity also means protecting your creativity so it lasts for decades instead of burning brightly for a few exhausting seasons.
I’m still painting.
I’m still dreaming.
I’m still working hard.
I’m just doing it at a pace that allows me to enjoy the journey instead of simply racing toward the next finish line.
Maybe that’s what growth really looks like—not doing more, but learning when enough is enough.
As artists, we’re often told to hustle, create more, post more, and always keep moving.
But sometimes the bravest thing we can do is pause.
To breathe.
To heal.
To organize.
To learn.
To simply be.
Because the paintings will still be waiting for us tomorrow.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m okay with that.
In fact, that feels like progress.
