BREAKTHROUGH : The Painting That Changed Everything

Three years after leaving NYC with nothing, I lost it all again in a fire—90% gone. But this time, I had $3K, a job, and a farmhouse to paint in.

Three years after I left NYC with nothing, I lost everything again.

A house fire. Summer of 2007. Suburban Virginia.

My roommate stubbed out a cigarette in a plastic planter with a dead plant. Sat right up against the vinyl siding in the middle of a drought. You can do the math.

I was upstairs in the master suite, clueless. He was downstairs in the den watching TV. And then—neighbors banging on the front door, smoke crawling up the walls, somebody kicking in the door to drag me and my dog, Mr. Napoleon, out into the street at 9 PM.

Ninety percent of my belongings, gone.

Second time I started over from zero. The first was leaving Manhattan. That time, I walked away with nothing but my name and my will to rebuild.

This time, I had $3,000, a used car, and a tiny rental farmhouse in Blacksburg with five acres of grace and a little studio/laundry room that smelled like dryer sheets and dreams.

Outside my studio window was a maple tree that didn’t care one damn bit about my trauma. She just kept changing colors—burnt orange, deep crimson, the kind of gold that looks like it could save your life.

I didn’t want to paint the tree.

I wanted to paint the moment the leaf lets go. The surrender. The exhale. The in-between.

So I did. I painted “Autumn Falling.

AUTUMN FALLING

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And for the first time, I let myself believe: maybe I had something.

I took it to a gallery. The man behind the counter went quiet. He called it “stunning.” I floated all the way home. He didn’t offer me a show, but it didn’t matter—I’d been seen.

Later, I took the painting with me to Louisiana. Hung it in my dad’s dining room while I cared for my stepmother in the final stretch of her life. Grief was heavy, but that painting gave me something to return to. It waited for me.

And then my sister Melba Jean walked into the studio, looked at it from ten feet away, and said:
“It’s flat, Monica Rose. You gotta drop in the shadows.”

She wasn’t wrong. I glazed in the shadows, slow and unsure, one leaf at a time. And the whole thing came alive.

A cousin saw it. Offered me $1,000 on the spot. I took it. Opened a savings account.

That painting saved more than my bank account.

It saved me.

Because it proved what I’d been afraid to say out loud: I am the real deal.

Not because of the sale.

Because of the staying power.

I painted through the ashes. Through the grief. Through the tiny space that smelled like laundry soap and dog biscuits and possibility. I painted even when I didn’t know if anyone would care. And one day, someone did.

“Autumn Falling” was my proof.

And this week, I bought myself the easel I’ve always wanted.

Not the broken-down one missing knobs. Not the hand-me-downs from a nephew long gone. Not the one my ex gave me for Christmas and then left me to fix. A new one. One that moves with ease, doesn’t make me stop the flow to adjust it. One that honors the artist I’ve become.

Because that’s what “Autumn Falling” taught me:

If the work is worth honoring…
Then I’m worth honoring.
And you are too.

So let me ask you something:

What have you been “making do” with for years?

What tool, space, or simple upgrade have you been denying yourself—not because you can’t afford it, but because deep down, you still think you haven’t earned it?

For me, it was an easel. For you, maybe it’s the quiet. The studio. The solitude. The spark.

Whatever it is, go get it.

Stop making do. Start making real.

And hey—if you’re ready to stop putting yourself last, come join us. When you become an annual subscriber, you’ll get my Breakthrough guide for free and an invite to our weekly Zoom gathering. No pressure. No performance. Just folks doing soul work together—one shadow, one leaf, one breath at a time.

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P.S. If this hit something in you, heart the post. If you’re ready to claim one thing you deserve, drop it in the comments. Let’s name it. Let’s make it real.