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While my friends are planning their retirement, I decided to start over. Not subtly. Not cautiously. Just honestly.

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I have wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember. But where I grew up, art was a hobby, not a profession. And I wanted to be taken seriously. So I chose another path. For years, I was a writer and media professional. I learned how to observe. How to listen. How to shape stories. Art existed alongside, but as a private refuge. Something I did for myself.

 

Then life intervened.

 

When my mother fell ill and I became her caregiver, my world shrank physically. Emotionally, it expanded. Art stopped being an escape and became a constant. A way to stay steady. A way to process what could not be explained away.

 

Soon, I stopped hedging and became a full-time artist. Will I make it? I don’t know. But I do know this. This is the first time my life feels aligned.

 

I am drawn to line, repetition, and structure. I have a deep love for minimalism, just as much as I do for bold colour and stylised form. I follow the story rather than force a style.

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My studio, for now, alternates between my study and my dining table. It overlooks potted plants and open sky. There are interruptions. There are good days and difficult ones. But this life feels honest. Aligned. And it makes me happy.

 

I make art because it makes me aware. And if my work finds its way into someone else’s home, becoming part of their everyday life, that feels like enough.

 

And long after I’m gone, I hope my art will still be out there somewhere. Sitting quietly. Telling its own stories.