Content Warning: This post discusses mental health struggles.

In a moment alone, I looked up towards the window.

The clouds in the sky were emblazed by the sun in a wondrous display of quiet passion. You could only catch it if you paused to glance. In that moment, I immediately stopped the video I was watching, sat on my couch, and stared at the sky with my dog dancing playfully in my lap.

I often wonder about what our ancestors did to pass their time, before electricity, before books.

I think about the hot days in the sun, lounging around and merely existing. I’d like to think that they too would stop and stare at the sky in wonder. I can imagine their eyes slowly tracking the clouds as they drift, inch by inch. I imagine their fingers raised to trace the shapes in the sky, as they shift from daisy yellow to harmonious pink before they disappear within night’s blanket.

I’m grateful we were once able to share the same sky and bask in the beauty that is our world. I am grateful I’ve lived and survived to get to where I am now.

The past few years of my life were a spiral of torment with some golden moments of peace and clarity woven within.

I lost family, lost the feeling of a pain-free day, and lost a sense of self. I also gained an appreciation for family, gained bountiful love, and regained self-belonging.

There were days I didn’t know if I would live to see the present. I am not sure how I survived those days. All I remember was a tiny lingering voice in my head telling me to live. I would hug myself until I fell asleep, hoping it would get better soon.

Looking back, I see myself in pain, and I cry.

I cry that I struggled too hard.

I cry at the version of myself that was trying their best to get through the next moment.

I cry because I am so very grateful that I did.

I like to think that the voice in my head back then, pushing me to keep going, was the present day me traveling back in time to comfort myself.

I also like to think that in present moments where I cry, fight, and struggle, a future version of myself comes to visit. They hug me, encourage me, and carry me through the pain, just like I did in the past.

And for my past self and my future self, I am grateful.

~ . ~

It took me six months this year to start writing again.

I think a big portion of what was stopping me from writing in the last couple months has been the fear of vulnerability. I feared seeming unprofessional or losing credibility if I shared personal aspects of my life.

The truth is, you cannot speak of art without intersectionality. I am neurodivergent, queer, genderqueer, and Hispanic. My identities undoubtedly shape my perception of the world.

Art is intersectional, multifaceted, and political. Art is a powerful tool for change and connection.

Who I am as an individual will deeply recolor the way I experience an artistic vision, and that is beautiful.

Just like when looking up at the sky, no two people will ever experience art the same way.

And for that, I am grateful.