The Art of Still Surviving

Wings don’t always break from falling—sometimes, they break from carrying too much.

This piece was inspired by the feeling of being cracked open by chronic illness. The figure holds herself gently, as if protecting the parts still whole, while pieces of her wing scatter into the air—worn from the weight of survival.

Living in a chronically ill body can feel like this: beautiful but breaking, still moving but altered. There's grief here, but also motion. The pieces are falling, yes—but there’s still flight. There’s still forward.

Viewers might see struggle, transformation, or quiet resilience. The intention is to let you feel all of it—whatever it means for you.

This drawing speaks to the experience of wearing a mask—sometimes for others, sometimes for survival. The skeletal figure holds a shattered, geometric face, both revealing and hiding at once. It asks a quiet question: What’s left when the mask comes off?

For many of us living with chronic illness, there’s a version of ourselves we show the world—held together, smiling, managing. But underneath that, there’s fatigue, pain, grief, and resilience that’s often invisible.

This piece was inspired by the duality of chronic illness—the polished surface we present, and the bones of truth we carry underneath. It’s about identity, vulnerability, and how fragmented we can feel when we’re no longer performing wellness.

Is the mask breaking apart—or being set down? That’s up to the you to decide.

This piece was born from the feeling of being surrounded but untouched. The figure sits inside a transparent dome—watching the world happen, hearing the noise of life in the distance, but not quite part of it.

For me, this drawing reflects what it’s like to live in a body that doesn’t match the pace of the world. The soundwave-like horizon shows that life goes on—fast, loud, overwhelming—while I remain still, conserving spoons, trying to breathe through the noise.

It’s not always sadness. Sometimes, the bubble is where I feel safe. Other times, it’s a glass cage. This one’s for the in-between.

In this piece, time isn’t rigid—it drips, stretches, and dissolves. The figure is suspended in the center of a clock, dissolving into darkness as the hours fall apart around her. Some numbers have already fallen. Others are slipping.

Living with chronic illness means existing outside of traditional time. Days blend. Hours vanish. Plans fall through. Healing takes too long, but suffering feels endless.

This drawing came from that space—where time stops making sense, and the pressure to “keep up” becomes impossible. It’s about surrender, grief, and the strange freedom that sometimes comes with letting time melt around you.

You might see loss here. You might see flow. Maybe both.

She’s walking—but not freely. Her limbs are tangled in ropes and chains, her legs wrapped in knots that threaten to stop her. But she’s still moving.

This piece was inspired by the quiet kind of resilience that so many of us with chronic illness live every day. The kind that doesn’t look heroic. The kind that just keeps going, even when it’s heavy. Even when it hurts.

Sometimes, the chains are visible. Sometimes, they’re internal. Sometimes, they’re other people’s expectations. Sometimes, they’re our own limitations.

But forward is still forward. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy. This one is for every day you kept walking—even when no one could see what you were carrying.

In this piece, a girl stands facing a mirror—but what she sees reflected back isn’t her face, her skin, or her clothes. It’s her skeleton. Exposed. Bare. Honest.

This drawing came from the disconnect I’ve felt so often living with chronic illness. The outside might look “fine,” but inside, it feels like something is missing… worn… exhausted. Some days I see someone who’s falling apart, even if no one else can.

The mirror becomes a metaphor: a space where the invisible becomes visible. Where chronic pain, fatigue, and fear show up in ways that can't be masked.

But there’s also strength here. Because even when you feel hollowed out, you’re still facing yourself. Still standing. Still looking your reflection in the eye.

In this piece, the figure sits still, but their thoughts have already scattered. The shards of their head float midair—fragmented, abstract, unresolved—while they face a mirror that reflects the chaos back at them.

This drawing came from the mental fog, overstimulation, and identity confusion that often comes with chronic illness. Some days, my brain feels like broken glass—sharp in places, missing in others. But even in pieces, it’s still mine.

The figure isn’t panicking. They’re just… sitting. Watching. Maybe even beginning to accept the mess.

This is what it feels like when your mind and body are out of sync, but you’re still present. Still surviving.

A skeletal figure, exposed and bare, rises with wings made of fractured shards. The bones are delicate, honest—but the wings? Sharp. Weaponized. Broken, but still flying.

This drawing was born from that feeling of being both soft and sharp at the same time. Of being vulnerable and still somehow stronger because of it. The wings aren’t traditional—they’re not smooth or gentle—but they’re yours. They were built from everything that tried to break you.

This is what it looks like to keep going after the fall. To rise, jagged and real. Not because you healed perfectly. But because you didn’t disappear.

The figure in this piece is dissolving—not into nothingness, but into butterflies. Her form breaks into softness, line by line, as winged symbols of freedom and change emerge from her.

This drawing was inspired by the way chronic illness strips away parts of you—your routines, your identity, your sense of control. But in the middle of that unraveling, there’s also becoming. Not who you were before… but someone new. Someone softer. Someone stronger.

The butterflies represent that shift—not a return to what was, but a release into something else. Something free. Something light. Letting go isn’t always a loss. Sometimes it’s the first breath of becoming.

Inside the top half of the hourglass, a small figure sits in quiet stillness. Surrounded by falling grains of time, she’s not trying to escape. She’s just… waiting. Watching the minutes pass.

This piece came from the feeling of being trapped in time as a chronically ill person—when everything slows down, when you’re left behind, when you’re watching the world move while you're still. Sometimes you're waiting to get better. Sometimes you're waiting for energy. Sometimes you're just waiting for the pain to pass.

But there's peace in it too. A strange kind of surrender. You can’t rush the sand. You can only exist in the space you’re given.

A woman holds the strings of a marionette—but the puppet is herself. Same flowing hair. Same body. One is whole and in motion. The other, wooden, controlled, and suspended.

This piece was born from the strange duality of chronic illness—how you can feel like you’re moving through life, but not entirely in control of your own body. Like someone—or something—else is pulling the strings. A diagnosis. A flare. Fatigue. Pain.

Sometimes it feels like you're performing. Other times, like you’re being performed. But in the dance between them, there’s awareness. The figure knows what she holds. Maybe that's the beginning of reclaiming something.

A faceless figure made of puzzle pieces stands with a square gap at her center—one piece notably absent. More pieces float away from her body, breaking apart quietly into space.

This drawing was inspired by that constant feeling of being almost whole—but not quite. Chronic illness can take things you never expected to lose: energy, certainty, routines, even parts of your identity. Sometimes, it feels like there's always one missing piece you need to feel “normal” again.

But maybe being incomplete doesn’t mean broken. Maybe it just means changing.

This piece doesn’t try to fix the missing parts. It just acknowledges them. And sometimes, that’s the most healing thing of all.