Lately I’ve been looking back through old photos of acrylic pour paintings I made in my early twenties. Every canvas feels like a time capsule- not just of color and texture, but of who I was back then. A version of me who was searching for something… freedom, quiet, confidence, maybe even myself.
Back then my days followed a familiar rhythm. I would work, come home drained, and settle into a routine that felt comforting in its own chaotic way. I loved coming home, packing a huge bowl, and letting music fill the room. Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, Glass Animals, A Perfect Circle… my playlists were always a little random but deeply personal. Music wasn’t just background noise. It was the switch that told my brain it was finally allowed to slow down.
Once I relaxed, the paints came out.
Mess, Flow, and Color
Mixing colors was meditative. Watching pigments swirl together felt almost meditative. I didn’t follow many rules. Sure, I looked online occasionally to learn about different techniques, but most nights I just winged it. Dirty pours became my go-to. I would layer colors into a cup, flip it onto the canvas, and let whatever happened… happen.
Sometimes I experimented with Dutch pours too, watching paint stretch and bloom into delicate shapes. But my favorite moments were when I tilted the canvas and watched colors move in ways I never expected. Tiny rivers formed and collided, patterns emerging on their own as gravity took over. It felt alive, like the painting was creating itself and I was just guiding the motion.
Paint ended up everywhere. My hands, my clothes, probably my hair. Paint pooled under the canvases and instead of wasting it, I would scrape it up and pour it onto another canvas. Those recycled pours usually turned muddy, but I didn’t care. The point wasn’t perfection. It was movement. Mess. Release.
Learning to Create Without a Crutch
Canvas after canvas, I created without overthinking. Hours passed unnoticed. Creativity felt effortless-until the fog lifted. As sobriety returned, so did the criticism. Paintings that had felt magical earlier suddenly looked flawed. I thought I needed to be high to enjoy creating- or to enjoy much of anything at that point in my life.
Looking back now, I can see how deeply that belief shaped the way I viewed my creativity and my worth.
I want to pause and say: this isn’t about judging anyone who uses cannabis responsibly. For many people, it’s relaxing and perfectly fine. But for me during that season, it became a shield against self-doubt and emotions instead of a tool for presence.
I didn’t realize until I was 29 that I didn’t actually need it anymore to feel free or creative. Turning 29 became my 180. My moment of deciding I was going to be the person I had always wanted to be.
Showing Up Anyway
I still compare myself to others. I still hesitate before trying something new. I still doubt my abilities. But now? I create anyway. I show up anyway.
Today when I look back at those paint-covered nights and dripping canvases, I don’t see wasted time or failure. I see a younger version of myself trying to feel something, trying to quiet her inner voice long enough to create freely. I see experimentation. I see courage hidden inside the mess.
Rediscovering creativity hasn’t meant becoming fearless or perfect. It has meant learning to sit with discomfort and create anyway. It has meant realizing that the freedom I was chasing was never inside a substance or a perfect outcome. It was always inside my willingness to show up honestly, messy and uncertain.
Next in the Series
In Part 3, I’ll share my obsession with string art—the “Hippie With a Hammer” chapter—and how creating, selling, and dreaming about art became a spark of hope in a time of uncertainty.
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