Ko-fi helps me keep going
Living with chronic illness means carrying an invisible weight — one that shifts daily, hourly, sometimes by the minute. Pain comes in physical, emotional, and even spiritual forms. And some days, words just don’t cut it. That’s where art comes in.
I’ve always been drawn to drawing, but it wasn’t until my body began to unravel under the weight of conditions like EDS, POTS, gastroparesis, and endometriosis that art became something more than a hobby. It became a form of survival. It gave my pain a voice — and gave me back a piece of myself.
Most of my artwork begins not with an idea, but with a feeling I can’t explain. Sometimes it’s the dissociation of staring into a mirror and not recognizing myself, like in my piece “Shattered Thinking.” Other times, it’s the way time becomes warped by fatigue and brain fog — where hours melt away without meaning — captured in “Melted Hours.” There’s “Built from the Breaks,” a skeletal figure sprouting fractured wings — a reflection of how illness breaks you down but also forces you to rebuild, piece by piece, into something stronger. And then there’s “In the Bubble,” where I sit trapped in a glass dome, cut off from the world, watching life move on without me. It’s quiet. Lonely. Too real.
These drawings are not just pictures — they’re parts of my body that words couldn't reach.
Not every day is a drawing day.
There are days when the pain in my hands, wrists, or shoulders makes it hard to even hold a pencil. My grip gets weak. My joints protest. Sometimes just pressing down to make a mark feels like too much — like I’m pouring energy I don’t have into the page.
On those days, I rest. And I let that be enough.
But when I still feel the need to do something creative — even gently — I turn to coloring books. They let me connect with art in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. I don’t worry about staying in the lines or picking the “right” colors. I just let myself play. Sometimes I only manage a few strokes. Sometimes I get lost in the rhythm.
Other times, I use watercolors.
There’s something soothing about dipping the brush in water and letting the pigment flow freely. Watercolors don’t fight back. You don’t have to press hard or hold the brush tightly. The paint does most of the work for you — it moves, blends, and softens, like it understands you’re tired. And honestly, that’s a comfort in itself.
These gentle art days are still valid. They’re still healing. You don’t have to “produce” anything to be an artist. You don’t have to push through pain to feel creative.
Some days, rest is the art.
You don’t need to be an artist to start processing your pain through art. You don’t need fancy supplies or even a plan. All you need is a pen and a willingness to listen to whatever is swirling inside you.
Try this:
Scribble how your body feels today.
Doodle your pain as a creature, a shape, a storm.
Make a mess. Let it be ugly. Let it be honest.
Or grab a coloring page and just start.
The goal isn’t to create a masterpiece. The goal is to feel seen — even if it’s just by yourself.
Let’s be real: art doesn’t magically make the pain go away. It doesn’t undo the diagnoses, refill the spoons, or suddenly make your body more functional. It’s not a cure — but it is a companion. Art sits with me when I’m grieving the life I used to have. It gives shape to the feelings that are too heavy to name. It lets me scream without making a sound — and sometimes, it lets me breathe when nothing else can.
There’s power in putting your pain on paper. There’s relief in seeing your story reflected back at you, even in abstract lines or chaotic splashes of color. And in those moments, something shifts. The pain might still be there, but you’re no longer carrying it alone.
If you're curious to see more of how I express this journey, you can explore of my artwork on the artwork page of my website. Every piece has its own story, its own moment in my timeline of healing.
So if you’re holding onto something too big to carry — try art. Not because it fixes things, but because it feels things with you.
💜 One Spoon at a Time, Alice 💜
March 30, 2025