I Painted My Fear. Then I Learned to Breathe Through It.
Two years ago, I painted five faces reflecting the pain of domestic violence. One of them was mine—wide eyes, clenched jaw, the look of someone barely holding it together.
Two years ago, I painted five faces as part of what I called the “Faces of Fear Project.”
Five portraits reflecting the pain of domestic violence. The wide eyes. The clenched jaw. The look of someone who’s been holding it together for too long.
I couldn’t cry it out. I couldn’t scream it out. So I painted it out.
All of those faces was mine.
I couldn’t cry it out. I couldn’t scream it out. So I painted it out.
Complete, honest, messy frustration. The kind that builds when you’ve been performing strength for so long that something inside you has quietly begun to collapse.
And when I finished those paintings, I had a choice: show them to the world, or hide them forever.
Because here’s what I was holding together at the time:
My entire life. My reputation as an artist in Lynchburg. The possibility that going public with these paintings might help other women—or destroy everything I’d built.
What if people thought I was “too much”? What if galleries stopped showing my work? What if my art life here—fragile as it was—couldn’t survive the truth?
But what if staying silent meant abandoning myself all over again?
I sat with that question for weeks. And every time I tried to decide, my chest tightened. My breath got shallow. My mind spun in circles.
Until I finally stopped trying to THINK my way through it—and started breathing instead.
Not as some spiritual practice. Not because I’m enlightened or “good at meditation.”
But because I was so cracked open from painting those faces that stillness was the only thing that could bring me back together.
So I sat. Just one minute. Eyes closed. Hand on my heart.
Four counts in. Four counts hold. Six counts out.
And for the first time in weeks, the noise stopped.
Not the fear. The fear was still there.
But the NOISE—the spiraling, the second-guessing, the voices telling me what I should do—that stopped.
And in that quiet, I heard something else. Not a grand revelation. Not a cosmic download.
Just a whisper: Show them.
So I did.
This is where the story gets real.
Not just about the front page or the missed opportunities—but about what I built after. The foundation that came from breathing through disappointment. The life that became possible when I stopped abandoning myself. If you’ve been reading quietly and these words keep finding you—this is your invitation.
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