The Art of Vulnerability

When I was in Kindergarten, I was nominated for the Courage award by a teacher who clearly didn’t know me at all. I was to march in a parade through the school, celebrating the most courageous students in each class. Rumor had it that there was going to be a clown at the Courage parade. I promptly refused to go. You see, this Courage award recipient was, all too ironically, afraid of clowns.

Then again, I was afraid of everything.

My predisposition to fearfulness has haunted me for as long as I can remember. It’s been my constant companion over the years, strangling me into paralysis with its suffocating grip. Fear has tried, incessantly, to force me into a life of complacency and ordinariness. It has been my life’s work to resist.

As a girl, I discovered that the only way to quiet the buzzing of fearful, anxious thoughts in my head was to create. When I was anxious or fidgety or restless, my mother would put a paintbrush in my hand. “You always looked so worried,” she remembers, “but when you were making art, you would hum.”

Through painting, I found my peace. I found rest and quiet.

Over time, with practice, encouragement, and ample amounts of fortune and privilege, my skills developed and sharpened. Soon, painting fed my confidence, and in turn, my courage. Art became my form of resistance, and I owe it everything I have today.

Now, I climb mountains. I’ve jumped out of an airplane. I’ve deep water soloed in foreign countries. I’ve given a televised public speech to my county’s Board of Commissioners. I’ve done things I never would have considered possible in my fear-consumed childhood.

This is not to say that I am without fear. It’s still my constant companion. But now I know how to live with my fear instead of under it. Like Nelson Mandela said: “courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.”

Understanding this, I can freely admit, I still have so much fear. I’m afraid of starting my own art business. I’m afraid of putting my artwork out into the world, to be judged and scrutinized by friends and strangers alike. I’m afraid that you won’t like my art or my words or even me. I’m really quite heart-poundingly, stomach-churningly afraid to be this vulnerable.

So, I’m doing it anyways.

Thank you for being here and for being a part of this journey. I hope my work brings you the same kind of peace that it gives me to create. More importantly, I hope it inspires you to chase after that thing you’ve been too afraid to do. There might not be a parade at the end, but I’ll be cheering for you just the same.