When I Couldn’t Paint, I Swept

It's all I could manage until I named the thing

When I Couldn’t Paint, I Swept

Content note: This essay discusses childhood sexual abuse and cultural responses to abuse. Read with care.

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Many of you may not know that I was the victim of domestic sexual abuse at the age of six, at the hands of my uncle.

I’ve done the therapy. I’ve sat with the little girl. I’ve held her hand, cried the tears, lit the candles. I’ve read the books, listened to the experts, done the damn work. And still—sometimes something cracks through. Not as pain, not as panic, but as a strange, heavy quiet.

That happened this week.

With the release of the Epstein files, something stirred in me. Not a memory. Not a flashback. But a kind of long-view sorrow—a deep, cellular disappointment in the sheer volume of how many people have been touched by abuse. The headlines weren’t retraumatizing; they were clarifying. They pulled a fog off my eyes I didn’t know was still there. And when I looked at the landscape of this country—this culture that still protects power over people, image over integrity, reputation over safety—I just went still.

For hours, I couldn’t move. I sat at the edge of my bed, wearing my indoor knee-high Uggs, one hand over my heart, breathing gently. Not meditating. Not praying. Just being. And wondering: why do I feel so drained? I’ve slept. I’ve eaten. I’ve taken my supplements. Why can’t I get off the floor of this moment?

It wasn’t until I said it out loud—*This is about Epstein. This is about the system. This is about a whole culture that still doesn’t see women—*that I felt any relief.

Naming it gave me back some air. But I still wasn’t ready to create. The relief was enough to let me breathe—not enough to let me make.

So instead, I swept the floors. I dusted my baseboards with a new duster I’d ordered. I wiped surfaces. I put my body to work in small, tangible ways that required no brilliance. No insight. Just motion.

Then I ate a bowl of homemade cream of chicken soup, thick and warm and slow. I let it soothe what my nervous system couldn’t yet metabolize.

And slowly, I began to return to myself.

I’m still not ready to paint. But I am ready to write this. Because I know I’m not the only one who gets caught in the crosscurrents between personal healing and cultural despair.

So here’s what I want you to know:

Sometimes the body knows before the mind does. Sometimes you’re not tired because you’re weak. You’re tired because you’re waking up to something that requires a holy stillness. Not a hustle.

When that happens, don’t reach for productivity. Don’t shame yourself for being flat. Don’t panic.

Sweep.

Dust.

Sit.

Eat something warm.

Put your hand on your heart and wait for your spirit to come back.

It always does.

And when it does, it will return stronger for having been held in stillness instead of forced into performance.

I’m writing this not because I’m “healed” or because I have it all figured out. I’m writing this because I know some of you are sitting at the edge of your bed right now, wondering why you can’t move. And I want you to know: you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re waking up. And that requires stillness.

Sweep. Dust. Sit. Eat something warm.

Your spirit will come back. I promise.

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If this spoke to you, give it a ❤️ and share it with someone who needs permission to be still.