Art Was My First Language

Before I learned how to spell my name (which, to be fair, has a lot of letters for a tiny human), I already knew how to communicate with color. While the other kids were trying to eat crayons or shove glue sticks up their noses, I was busy constructing emotional masterpieces out of construction paper and glitter.

Art was never just something I did. It was how I made sense of a world that rarely made sense back.

As a neurodivergent kid—before I even knew that word existed—I often felt like the radio was playing on the wrong frequency. Instructions felt like riddles. Social cues? Forget it. And don’t even get me started on group projects. But hand me a box of markers and a blank piece of paper, and suddenly I could breathe.

Art was where I could be loud without saying a word. Where I could explore ideas without being told they were “too much” or “too messy” or “not how the assignment was supposed to go.” (Spoiler: I never did the assignment the way it was supposed to go. And I regret nothing.)

It wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t even about talent, if we’re being honest. It was about truth.

A streak of red when I was angry. A swirl of blue when I didn’t know how to say “I feel weird and I don’t know why.” Yellow for the days I had just enough joy in my little kid body to light up a room—until someone told me to tone it down.

Color never told me to tone it down. And you know what? Neither does the canvas. That’s still true today.

Even now, as an adult navigating life in a body that doesn't cooperate and a brain that doesn't quit, I return to art not as a pastime, but as a lifeline. My palette still speaks louder than my words ever could. It remembers things I forgot. It knows how to hold grief, joy, rage, and stillness all at once.

So no, I didn’t grow out of it. I grew into it. Art was my first language. And in many ways, it’s still the only one that speaks me fluently.