Since becoming a mother, everything has changed. Painting is no longer just a way to express myself — it’s a way to connect.
I’ve learned that creativity isn’t always about peace and quiet, but about finding stillness within the chaos. Inspiration doesn’t wait until I have time; it appears in a smile, a pencil line, or a forgotten toy on the floor.
There are days when my son sits next to me while I paint. Sometimes he asks questions, sometimes he just watches. I can see curiosity in his eyes — and that gives me more inspiration than any exhibition or new canvas ever could. In those moments, I feel that art is not only about me, but about what I can pass on to him: perspective, patience, and the idea that beauty often hides in imperfection.
Of course, there are moments when I get tired. When everything feels loud, and nothing turns out the way I hoped. But those are the days I learn the most — about myself, about motherhood, and about how creativity is not always soaring — sometimes it’s persistence.
Art has become part of my daily life. My son has taught me to see the world with wonder again — to understand that colors are not only beautiful, but healing.
Every day he reminds me why I create: because love itself is an art form.
It’s not always easy to find balance, but I believe the most honest art is born where reality and emotion meet.
And when I get tired, I just look at him — and I know every brushstroke matters.
