Where does art begin, and where does it end? For me, art begins the moment the creator finds the courage to turn the inner world outward. It is about learning the language of one’s soul. Whether visual, acoustic, olfactory, or gustatory— art is the act of rendering the hidden visible, of bringing the shadowed places of the self into light.

To walk this path requires courage, for it demands not only imagination

but a radical honesty with oneself— the willingness to show oneself to the world in the unvarnished, unfiltered truth of one’s own beauty.

For me, this process took more than half a lifetime. My soul needed time— time to grow brave enough, ripe enough, to come forth.

As a child, I dreamt of becoming an artist. I was enchanted by philosophy, painting, music, and dance. But in my family, my creative impulses went unnoticed. Sometimes they were even laughed at. My questions, my desires, dissolved into silence— and from that silence grew the belief that I simply wasn’t good enough.

The thought of applying to an art academy felt shameful, even ridiculous. So I chose a different path— a school of design, focused on communication and graphic arts. But the years I spent in advertising felt like a slow extraction of my strength. It was hard to summon creativity for lifeless products. I felt out of place. It grew worse when I became a mother. Despite countless overtime hours, weekends spent working, and frequent praise for my skill, I was bullied— repeatedly. This industry was not made for women with children. Permanent employment slipped out of reach. I was left to scrape together freelance jobs.

I found myself in a marriage that seemed to pass by without me, as though I were sitting on a train rushing through stations without ever stopping.

At one stop, I’m with my daughter in the midst of a lavish wedding. At another, I’m caring for a man slowly dying. At yet another, we disembark in Berlin.

But even this life in Berlin feels unreal. I catch myself wondering— did I live all this, or only dream it?

I stand in a meadow of wildflowers, a bubble wand in my hand, blowing soap bubbles into the sky. Each one holds a scene from my life in Berlin. In one, I’m standing in the workshop of a metal fabrication company. I can even smell the metal. I’m running the place. It feels strange.

In another, I see myself with another man. Am I happy? Maybe—at least for the moment. In the next, I float above a hotel room, watching what takes place. A number of people are there— naked. I am there too. Or at least, my body is. I am flying. In yet another bubble, I’m getting married again. But this time, the wedding feels sad. My face is tired, expressionless. There is no joy in it.

I stop wanting to look at the other bubbles. They’re filled with sex parties and drugs. I can see myself dissolving, growing more ill, fading. I don’t want to look anymore. But I blow once more. This time, I inhale deeply— deeper than ever— and exhale the blackest darkness from my soul.

I am so tired. Exhausted. Yet in this final bubble, I see it. The reason I surrendered myself to all that madness. Inside it, I see my childhood. The sexual abuse I endured within my own family. It is finally out in the open.

I can let it float past me now. And I— I am free. Free to give myself to life at last. To feel. To be here. To be present. To be now.

I spent more than two years traveling the world. And in that time, I found myself. My life now is something else. It is new. It is fresh and clean and whole. It is beautiful. It is strong. It is full of light.