The Things I Know Now
For the past five years, my life has been shaped by profound uncertainty. Becoming disabled and largely homebound after Long COVID has forced me to let go of so much of what I once thought defined me and to learn things I never would have chosen to learn.
This new series, The Things I Know Now, is an exploration of those lessons.
Each painting will begin with something difficult l've learned through loss, uncertainty, isolation, and rebuilding a life I never expected to have. Alongside each piece, l'Il share the lesson it holds—not as someone who has figured everything out, but as someone who has lived through the questions.
This is the beginning of the series, and there are already several pieces taking shape. The works are primarily large scale and created on raw canvas. I chose this because of the difficulty: more paint required, additional layers necessary and the difficulty presented by my physical impairments as I must lay on or next to the canvas as I paint. I wanted the additional challenges to echo those that now present themselves in my daily life as an individual with disabilities vs. when I was able bodied.
I'm excited, and honestly a little vulnerable, to share where this work takes me. Please check in occasionally to see the work as it progresses.
The things I know now...
Rest Inside of Uncertainty. (2026) diptych with each piece 43”x 55”. Acrylic, Graphite and Oil Stick on Raw Canvas.
Uncertainty has been one of the hardest parts of this journey. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Not knowing what I will be able to do, or who I will become, or whether the life I once imagined will ever return. I'm slowly learning that uncertainty doesn't always have to be fought.
Sometimes, we can simply rest inside it.
The Unfolding. (2026) 56”x 45”. Acrylic on Raw Canvas.
Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.” — Rumi.
In the aftermath of brain injury, so much of what once defined me fell away: my words, my sense of self, the roles I’d built over decades. What remained was a raw, unfiltered way of perceiving the world. In that empty space, wonder took root. I began noticing small details, feeling possibility in places I’d never looked for it, and moving through the day with the tentative curiosity of a beginner. The Unfolding captures that transition: the loosening of the old, the quiet emergence of the new, and the strange, unexpected beauty of seeing with fresh eyes. I’ve learned to see the world through a new lens of curiosity and wonder.
The Healers. (2026) Triptych each 39”x 72”. Acrylic, Oil Stick and Oil Pastel on Raw Canvas.
The Healers is a tribute to the many individuals whose skill, compassion, and steadfast presence have carried me through the most challenging years of my life. This piece honors not just the medical professionals and researchers that help further science and provide relief from suffering, but to the many others in my small world that provided much relief. Healing has never come from professionals alone. This painting recognizes the unwavering support of my husband, children, and friends, whose love has held me through every setback and every fragile step forward. They provided comfort, advocacy, laughter, and stability when my world narrowed to the walls of my home. The Healers is both a thank-you and an acknowledgment: true healing is a collective effort, woven from expertise, empathy, and the quiet bravery of those who choose to stay.
What I’ve learned: I avoid people who cause harm and hold close to those who love and support me; nothing is more important.
Still Underneath. (2026) 43”x 24”. Acrylic, Oil Pastel and Graphite on Raw Canvas.
Layers of paint obscure and soften the lines beneath, reflecting the ways my life has been transformed by illness and disability. The visible surface feels unfamiliar: quieter, slower, and fundamentally different from the life I once knew. Yet beneath those layers, my original marks remain.They have not disappeared; they have simply become harder to see.
This painting is a reminder that I am still underneath it all.
My personality, curiosity, creativity, strength, and capacity to love were not erased by the life I lost. They remain present, even when circumstances make them difficult to access or recognize.
The lesson: Change is inevitable. Adapting to life's circumstances and evolving into someone new doesn't mean losing who you were. Though it may be difficult for others to see, you are still there beneath the layers.
Chasing Happiness. (2026) 43”x 24”. Acrylic, Oil Pastel, Oil Stick and Graphite on Raw Canvas.
For much of my life, I chased happiness as though it were a destination. I believed I would finally be happy when I finished my PhD, earned tenure, published my research, reached the next goal, or accomplished whatever came after that. I might experience a brief moment of joy when I achieved something, but almost immediately, my attention would shift to the next thing I needed to accomplish.
We are surrounded by stories—especially in movies and fairy tales—that suggest happiness is something we eventually find: meet the right person, achieve the right goal, acquire the right thing, and live happily ever after. But happiness doesn’t work that way. It is fleeting. Even the most meaningful accomplishments eventually become ordinary, and our minds begin searching for what comes next.
What I know now is that happiness isn’t something we earn at the end of suffering or achieve after checking enough boxes. It is something we can choose to notice in the present. I may never get to live the life I once imagined, but I can still experience beauty, connection, gratitude, creativity, and moments of joy in the life I have today. This moment will never come again.
Don’t chase happiness. Choose it.