Why I Paint for the Parts of Me That Never Got to Speak

Some parts of me learned to shut up early.

Not because I didn’t have anything to say, oh no, I had plenty to say, but because the room made it pretty clear that my voice was inconvenient. Too loud. Too emotional. Too... much.

You know how some kids are told they’re gifted and others are told to sit down and stop making everything weird? I was in the second category. Bonus points if you got told both on alternating Tuesdays. The chaos!

So eventually, I adapted. Like any good little chameleon with big feelings and a hypervigilant nervous system, I became excellent at reading a room and terrible at hearing myself. It’s a neat little trick, dissociation. Five stars, would not recommend.

But here’s the thing no one tells you, even when you shut up on the outside, your insides don’t get the memo.

All those silenced parts? They don’t vanish. They just get quieter. And sadder. And weirder. They hang out in your gut and your chest and that spot behind your ribs that always feels a little tight. They don’t die, they just wait.

And one day, they say, “Hey, bitch. We’re still here. You gonna let us talk or what?”

Enter: art.

I didn’t start painting because I thought I was good at it. I started painting because words stopped working and I needed something that didn’t roll its eyes when I said I felt like I was floating outside my body or like grief had a texture or like I wanted to scream but didn’t know what for.

A canvas doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t talk over you. It doesn’t say, “Maybe you’re just too sensitive.”
It just lets you exist.

So I paint. I paint for the five-year-old who got scolded for being dramatic when she was actually just having an emotion. I paint for the teenager who sat silently in class so she wouldn’t get mocked for knowing the answer. I paint for the adult woman who still apologizes when someone bumps into her.

I paint for the parts of me that never got to speak.

And don’t get me wrong, sometimes those parts come out looking like a hot mess. Sometimes they want to smear neon pink over textured charcoal and then scribble like a raccoon on espresso. Fine. That’s valid. Some of my best breakthroughs have looked like a tantrum with a paintbrush.

But sometimes, sometimes, they whisper truths that I forgot I knew. Like: You were never too much. They were just too small to hold you. Or Your rage is not a flaw. It’s a compass. Or even:
ou don’t have to explain your art to people who’ve never been told to shut up their whole lives.

It’s not always pretty. It’s not always gallery-worthy. But it’s mine. And for once, that’s enough.

So no, I don’t paint for trends. I don’t paint for sales. I don’t paint for the algorithm or the people who say “you should do more pastels.”

I paint for the girls who got labeled difficult. For the women who were told they’re intimidating.
For the souls inside me who are finally allowed to make a mess without saying sorry.

I paint because silence was never peace, it was just well-decorated suppression. And I’m not decorating cages anymore.