I participated in my first art show last April.
And honestly, it changed something in me.
It was the first time I’d ever put my work out into the world for people to actually see. Not on a screen. Not tucked away in my home. Not something I could quietly create and keep to myself.
It was there.
On the racks.
And so was I.
Walking around the room. Meeting other art lovers. Talking with other artists. Seeing people pause to look at something I made.
What touched me most was hearing the positive feedback from other artists.
There was something so special about another artist looking at something I’d created and genuinely appreciating it. It made me realize just how much I’d been hiding.
Maybe there was some fear of being seen.
Maybe there was a part of me that didn’t quite believe I had earned the right to call myself an artist.
A few months before the show, I was at Michaels buying supplies when the cashier asked me if I was an artist.
I stumbled over my answer. Think I said “not professionally”. Because, in my mind, I wasn’t really an artist because I wasn’t getting paid for it.
And, I had never really said the words out loud before.
I’m an artist.
It felt strange.
But after the show, it didn’t.
I knew.
Even though I didn’t sell a single piece at that show, something shifted in me.
It felt almost like I’d finally given myself permission to be me. To play. To experiment. To follow an idea without knowing where it was going. To make something without immediately wondering whether it was good enough.
And maybe that’s what my first show really gave me: Permission to stop hiding.
There’s something incredibly vulnerable about allowing people to see what you’ve made. Even more so when what you’ve made feels like a little piece of you.
But I’ve realized that being seen isn’t necessarily about having everyone understand you or approve of what you do.
Sometimes it’s simply about being willing to say:
This is something I love.
This is something I made.
This is who I am.
For years, I couldn’t quite say those things.
Now I can.
