Sometimes, just sometimes, I still feel like I’m at the beginning.
Even after all these years.
Even when the dream is clear.
This face, mine and hers, feels raw, undone, a little vulnerable.

Not finished. Not perfect. Just here.
Showing up as I am.
And what even is showing up, anyway?
Some days, it’s painting.
Some days, it’s simply remembering to breathe.

Lately, I’ve been craving depth.
Softness.
The small sparks of beauty that remind me I’m still alive.

I’m not a polished professional.
I’m an artist finding her way.
Following what moves me.
Letting myself fall in love with life again, slowly, gently, imperfectly.

I try to stay with the process, even when it’s messy.
Even when I resist.
Even when I stall or disappear for a while.
And yes, I’ve failed at that more times than I can count.

This piece is still just a sketch beneath soft layers.
Kind of how I feel too.

But maybe that’s the point.
To let the tenderness show.
To create from that place.
To offer something honest, even when it shakes a little.

Because life goes unlived unless we choose it.
Unless we pick up the brush.
Unless we paint it.

And maybe it’s not just becoming.
Maybe it’s unbecoming too. Letting go of what never fit. Softening into something truer.

And I’m okay with that now.
With where I am. With who I am.
Learning how to be in my skin.
Learning what I love, and how I want to live.

Thank you for being here.
For the journey, not just the finished picture.
(Though yes… that part is still magic.)

Lv, Sanch ❤️