It all came from a vision that started developed when I was around 17 years old.

I remember hearing the artist Bon Iver for the first time back in high school:

I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind

I'm building a sill to slow down the time

I remember learning that Justin Vernon, frontman of Bon Iver, went into a cabin in the middle of winter to write his first album. My imagination took flight…

Visions started to form in my head of a cabin in the woods—of a rustic wood kitchen. Of someone pulling **fresh-baked blueberry muffin**s out of the oven in the morning, and there’s a window in the kitchen where you can see nothing but trees and maybe a little meadow. I thought about the **delicate, simple beauty** of steam rising out of a hot cup of coffee and of **sitting quietly by a fire…**

This vision started to develop at the end of high school and into my first two years in college. I remember the runs I went on for track and cross country and the first backpacking trips I ever went on with friends—breathing in fresh crisp air, jumping over rocks like a kid, traveling miles through the woods.

I felt so incredibly alive.

I remember the books I read, the Chopin and Mozart songs I played on the piano, the farms I worked on in college and in Alaska and California, the travelers I met…

…These strands of inspiration blended together and bubbled within me. It was the beginning of my artist vision, and really, my deepest hope for my own life: a quiet, active, and inspired life close to nature, where the simple moments can be the most beautiful. But one where you have to be actively inspired and engaged in life in order TO experience this beauty. Going on a hike or run means taking initiative to do it. Sitting by a fire, baking muffins…experiencing and more importantly, noticing beauty doesn’t just HAPPEN to us. We must seek it out.

This vision taunted me and often came into my mind.

I felt like I needed to respond to it— either by living it out myself, or somehow, creating it...

But I didn’t know what it all really meant.

And I most certainly wasn’t brave enough to start doing anything about my innermost thoughts and creative impulses for years.

That is, until I went to Argentina.

PART 1: FINDING MY VOICE FOR THE FIRST TIME

Girl standing on mountaintop with mountains in background — *21-year-old me hiking in Argentina*

In my first weeks studying abroad in Mendoza, Argentina, I was getting accustomed to new classes and a new country—one which is also where my grandparents are from.

One woman in my class, Nadia, intimated me at first.

She walked around the ceramics and drawing studios with purpose, joking with professors or focusing deeply on her work. She could do everything from pottery to making paper from scratch to drawing impeccably. Eventually, we became friends.

One afternoon, Nadia and I sat in ceramics class and we were hand-building pots. I told her about my struggles with feeling like I was creatively and intellectually inadequate.

I could play classical music on the piano, but since I couldn’t improvise (make songs up on the spot or “jam” with friends), I felt like I was majorly lacking in ability.
I had a natural ability to draw and paint and had some formal training, but I couldn’t create the kind of majestic paintings I admired.
In class discussions, I had compelling ideas, but I didn’t trust that I’d fully articulate them, so I rarely raised my hand to share anything. I remember scribbling down my thoughts, trying to prepare myself to speak, because I wanted to respond to what my professor was saying. I never wrote fast enough before another student raised their hand.

I was full of thoughts, reflections, and visions, but I felt I couldn’t contribute, create, or share unless I knew “enough.” This anxiety would cause my mind to go blank or my words to jumble up whenever I tried to share thoughts and ideas.

Nadia looked at me after I shared all of this. Strongly, she said:“Pero es mentira. No es la única forma de comunicarse,” Nadia said. That’s a lie. Words are not the only way to communicate.

I was struck. So simple, but so profound.

In Argentina, I realized that I could indeed **release the bubbling ideas and visions** inside my mind and heart **in ways other than words**: painting, drawing, and making music.
The Argentine culture, like most Latina American cultures, is collaborative. People share EVERYTHING—from time spent together to *yerba mate* to food, emotions, and ideas.

Sharing felt like it was celebrated there, whether or not what is being shared is perfect.

And because of this, I felt comfortable enough to start sharing.

For the first time, I found my voice. But it wasn’t just my speaking voice; I started experimenting with art and music in many ways.

For 5 months, with the backdrop of the Andes mountains, I recall making music with my Argentine friends, sitting by a fire in the desert near the mud home my friend built, sharing & making many meals together…

…working on a farm, painting and drawing in the parks in Mendoza, building pots in ceramics class, drinking mate…

…and when I returned to Amherst College for my last semester, I finally had the confidence to ask questions in class and share my ideas. I took art classes, conducted a psychology study about music and memory, and moved off-campus into a co-op house.

I remember early morning runs through the rural area of Western Massachusetts, watching the sun rise over the mountains and Friday afternoons sipping whiskey with my friend Siraj, prepping giant pots full of paneer for our house to share together.

Still riding the high from Argentina, surrounded by beautiful nature, living in a creative space… my last semester at Amherst College felt magical.

I thought the feeling would never end.

Until it did.

PART 2: DISILLUSIONED IN THE NOISY CITY

*Philly from the Schuylkill Banks Boardwalk*

A year later, it’s the fall of 2017. I’ve graduated, no longer in the rural area of Western Mass where my college was located, and I’m living in Center City in Philly on the corner of Broad Street, which is arguably the busiest street in the city.

Traffic sounds floated up into my apartment all day and night long. I was working part-time as a Montessori assistant teacher for preschoolers and at a place called The Herbiary in Reading Terminal Market. Like Broad Street, Reading Terminal is one of the loudest, busiest places in Philadelphia, packed to the brim with stands stocked with everything from fresh vegetables to meats to jewelry to cheesesteaks… and tons of people making tons of noise.

Life felt loud and chaotic. **Everything felt like plastic**. *Fake, inauthentic, uninspired, too fast-paced,* and so far away from the Andes mountains I was just surrounded by one year ago in Argentina, and the beautiful rural valley of Amherst I was just living in a couple months ago.

I thought to myself, what happened to riding on the back of my friend’s motorcycle through the Andes mountains? What happened to relaxing by a creek in Amherst and sketching a tree for my art class? What happened to trail runs? What happened to sharing yerba mate at the park in Mendoza with my friends?

I found this from a fictional story that I wrote while I was in Philly those first few months, based on what I was experiencing:

Frustrated drivers projected their rage onto my sanity, loud noises crept in and tugged at my heart and pulled on my chest and rose up into my throat.

Was I just playing into some narrative weaved by society? And I couldn’t take any solid action, of course, I couldn’t jump out the window, nor could I start doing the Right things at the Right times everyday, because when you’re boxed into yourself, how can you move an inch?

Yet, miles away, the sun still peeps through dear branches, fractally curving around one another. Ocean-eyed children pick strawberries. A man kisses his lover’s forehead. People are settled into their quirks, without questioning the pea coat and auburn hat with two buttons they chose that day.

They are inside of a beautiful song, but they do not know it. Patiently, they fold their bath towels, they brush their teeth, they walk their dogs, they don’t hesitate to laugh, smile, or say a word. I hear the song, in fact it is too real, but that’s all. I just hear it. And it sounds funny, and it seems a little too loud, but I can’t really tell. So I long to be inside of it, too.

I was struggling with feelings of depression. I was disillusioned and desiring SOMEthing more beautiful in my life, and I was unsure how to navigate the “real” world. I was barely making my rent each month, and I asked myself: “Is this really what life is to be? How do I get myself out of here?”

Eventually, I got a normal 9-5 job and moved to a quieter place in the city. Things were quieter and more steady in my life, but something was still missing. I still frequently felt a void and an artistic longing.

I remember going out to dinner with friends one time. The decor of the place we were at was particularly eye-catching. It had an industrial type of vibe, with abstract art on the walls. As I looked around at the alluring decor and inspiring ambiance, I could barely hear what they were saying at the table. I was filled with a longing to somehow be part of the beauty I saw around me.

Tears threatened to spill over my eyes.

In that moment I knew: I needed to create. I needed to make art.

It was time.

PART 3: MY PAINTING JOURNEY TRULY BEGINS

Around the spring of 2019, I walked to the art store and bought myself canvases, an easel, and paint.

I still heard some of those voices in my head saying, “You don’t know how to do this. You do not know enough. You can’t.” I had only taken a handful of art classes in my life and had made many art projects over the years—but never with consistency.

But I pushed back. I thought, “So what? Surely I can paint. I can make SOMEthing beautiful.” I remembered the words of one of my professors, Jake Meginsky (an incredible composer/filmmaker) at Amherst: “Start with the materials you have. Start with what you know.” And that’s what I did.

One of my favorite things was blending colors, and I knew how to do that. So I started there by blending and trying to create forms of light. These turned into skies, and eventually, full landscapes.

These are my very first paintings:

For the first time, I finally felt like things were clicking. Regardless of where I was living or my external circumstances at the time, I was finding peace and fulfillment through making art. I could even walk on Broad Street without flinching.

Shortly after I started painting, I started offering my art for sale. It always felt like it was meant to be that way. I never considered NOT giving them away or selling them. For me, making and sharing art felt synonymous.

**Slowly but surely, I felt my creative vision, the vision of a simple life close to nature, where beauty abounds, come to life.**

Yes, I had gotten a glimpse of it in Argentina, at Amherst, and through a couple of other experiences throughout.

But afterwards, in real, adult life… I realized…

I need to be the one to CREATE it. And it didn’t just have to be my literal lifestyle everyday. It’s simply part of my aspirations and my drive in life.

It could be created through art that shares the FEELING of it all.

And above all?

The feeling I hope to share through my art is about hope.

When the world gets too…

chaotic

noisy

sterile

cruel

manufactured

…let us remember the cracks of light that spill through some of the simplest and most natural parts of life—a steaming cup of tea, fresh baked bread, the sound of light wind rustling the trees.

Let us appreciate the peace of simple moments and consider the ways these things may hint at the divine. Because hope lives where beauty is found.

I feel so immensely grateful to be able to make art and to try my best at fulfilling what I can only describe as a calling. I pray that my art can bring beauty and hope to your walls and to your life, and I can’t wait to continue on this journey of art-making.

If you got this far, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’ll stick around!

To stay up to date on my latest artwork and artist journey, be sure to sign up for my email list. I love sharing personal life & artist updates to the list, and by joining, you get early access to all my original paintings. I hope to see you on the list! :)

How I Became An Artist

PART 1: FINDING MY VOICE FOR THE FIRST TIME

PART 2: DISILLUSIONED IN THE NOISY CITY

PART 3: MY PAINTING JOURNEY TRULY BEGINS

2024 YEAR IN REVIEW