The Morning After

I came back to the studio tired.

Not the kind of tired that asks for rest. The kind that comes after something real has happened. After something you worked toward for a long time, nights and days, finally, actually, happened.

The truth is, I never really stopped, not before the opening, not during, not after.

The morning of the opening, I was still working. I got ready and went to the gallery. The next morning, sessions. The weekend, the exhibition, people, presence, giving. And Monday, I was back in the studio, standing in front of empty walls and large white pages.

Stopping was never part of my vocabulary.

And sometimes, I won’t pretend otherwise, I fantasize about it. A real break. A pause. Just to breathe and let what happened actually land. But life doesn’t wait. The children need you. The sessions are scheduled. The cooking gets done. And you move with it, because that’s the only direction there is. There is something healing in that. And something exhausting. And I’ve learned to hold both.

Standing in the studio, everything came at once: exhaustion and excitement and something close to awe.

Here we are again.

And underneath it all, the familiar fear, what if it won’t come this time?

What if that drive, the one that always made me begin again, one day simply stops?

I don’t have an answer to that. I just keep walking.

Sometimes you have to let the body lead, even when the destination isn’t clear. Trusting that somewhere inside, the north star is still pressing. One step at a time. One breath at a time.

And this week I was reminded, again, that I don’t walk alone.

If there is one thing this exhibition taught me, it’s that things find their way. But it requires belief. Real belief. The kind that isn’t easy to hold, especially on the hard days.

The secret, I think, is to keep showing up. To treat every encounter, every person, every unexpected meeting with curiosity and respect. To stay open to what the journey is still unfolding.

Because it is still unfolding. And so am I.