What Still Blooms: Coping with Grief and Finding Purpose Through Art

An existential crisis—I get it now.
That deep unraveling where you question everything: who you are, why you’re here, and whether any of it really matters.

You can’t control grief. It comes for you, no matter how strong, prepared, or hopeful you think you are.
It’s like a virus running in the background, quietly draining everything.

Your brain goes offline.
You can’t think. You can’t sleep. Your limbs ache, heavy and strange.
You float, untethered. Disconnected.

Losing my mom was devastating. But what came after was even harder.
The support I needed vanished.
Everything stable and familiar—gone.
I was alone.
And I didn’t know if anyone even noticed.

Grief was crushing. So were the responsibilities left in its wake.
And just when I needed my brain and body to show up, they disappeared too, stunned by the weight I was trying to carry.

Now, I live in the in-between.
Quiet. Reflective.
Where the dark softens just enough to let hope flicker through.
It’s quick. Almost shy.
But it lingers.
And slowly, something begins to bloom.

Fur, Feathers and Flowers.

My art business.
Born from the ache. Grown in the quiet.

Maybe this is what purpose looks like now—one brushstroke, one story at a time.
My mom always believed in my creativity, even when I couldn’t see it myself.
And maybe, just maybe, this is how I carry her forward.

Life is hard. Life is beautiful.
Both are always here, side by side.
Some days, pain takes up more space.
Other days, joy slips in and stays a while.