All it took was my sister-in-law saying she liked my chalk drawings. That’s it. We were just playing with my nieces on the sidewalk, and she made an offhand comment about how good they looked. And something in me shifted.
That was six years ago.
That single moment of encouragement cracked something open, and I started sketching digitally almost every day. This year, I finally picked up painting—and I’ve fallen in love with it in a way that feels both immediate and ancient. It’s become a kind of language I didn’t know I spoke.
But I’ve also found myself asking: Why didn’t I find this sooner? Why did I wait until now to let this part of me out?
And the answer surprised me.
When I was seven, I won a statewide art competition. My drawing—a piece celebrating people with disabilities—was selected to hang in the Capitol. I remember loving the act of creating it, feeling proud, feeling seen.
I told an older girl at the daycare I lived in—someone I looked up to, the daughter of the owner—that I was thinking about taking art classes. She rolled her eyes. Gave me the kind of side glance that only kids can deliver with surgical precision. She said something sharp. I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember how they landed.
And that was it. The fire went out.
What’s wild is I completely forgot that memory. It only resurfaced when I started painting again this year, like a seed I’d buried so deep I didn’t even know it had ever been planted. But it shaped me. One moment of ridicule, spoken carelessly by someone I admired, redirected an entire trajectory.
Why didn’t my parents encourage me to keep going? Why didn’t anyone notice the door had closed? Simple: they were busy surviving. My mom was supporting the family. My dad was off chasing degrees and distractions. Nobody had the bandwidth to notice a quiet light going out in their kid.
And so the door stayed closed for decades.
In another life, maybe I kept drawing. Maybe I kept learning. Maybe I discovered much earlier how art can heal, how it soothes something primal. But not in this one. Here, it took nearly four decades and one kind comment on a chalk drawing to bring it back.
It still astonishes me: how one word of ridicule as a child can change your entire existence. Or how one word of love, spoken later, can unlock something that’s been waiting all along.
That’s why we have to be careful with our words—especially with children, but also with each other. Language is lightweight on the tongue but heavy in the soul. You never know what story you’re ending… or beginning.
For me, no amount of praise from strangers could’ve shaken me loose. But one gentle observation from someone I love cracked the shell.
So I say this to anyone reading: speak love out loud. When you see beauty, name it. When someone shows you a piece of themselves—especially something new, raw, and risky—don’t hold back your kindness. You might be the reason they try again.
You may grow a future without even knowing it.