Many years ago, after my separation, a friend saw me for the first time in a while. She hugged me, then held me by my shoulders for a long moment, stared into my eyes, and said one word.
“Resilience.”
I still remember it so clearly. Not because I agreed, but because I didn’t. Even though the whole ordeal was amicable, I was just getting through. Putting one foot in front of the other. But she could see it clearly, long before I could.
Resilience rarely feels like strength when you’re inside it. It doesn’t feel brave or admirable. Sometimes it feels like just getting by. Like doing what needs to be done, even when it’s difficult, even when you’re exhausted, even when you don’t have a clue if you’re moving in the right direction.
I see it in my mom and dad these days, as they face the quiet realities that come with time. There’s a steadiness in them. A willingness to meet what’s in front of them, one day at a time. Love always in the lead. I marvel at it.
I also recognize its place in the studio. The mix of emotions that arise when we’re making something can be surprisingly intense. Doubt, attachment, frustration, hope … all layered together, often within the same hour. Your whole heart is involved. The work is personal. There can be rejection or lack of recognition and it can feel deeply discouraging. Resilience isn’t about ignoring that feeling, it’s about continuing anyway, without letting those moments define you or change your vision.
Resilience also shows up in evolution. The willingness to outgrow your old style, to experiment, to risk making “bad” work in pursuit of something even better. I’ve been there many times over the past 25-plus years and can see now, that’s a long-term form of creative strength.
Resilience is a stubborn companion (thank God). It’s there in the moments where nothing is coming easily, where things fall apart, when the painting resists you and every mark seems to make it worse instead of better, and it keeps you showing up the next day to do it all again … turning on a new soundtrack, finding your breath and your place at the canvas, and trying again, again and again.
I would say, it’s also in knowing when to step away. When to leave it for a while. Rest. Reset. Trusting that you’ll see the work differently when you return.
Maybe trust is at the core of it … an enduring trust in yourself that holds you from the inside out. Maybe.
I do know for sure that it rarely feels present while you’re going through the hard stuff. But it’s there. It’s always there.
Laura. xo
