Letters From My Journal

letter no. 2 — 10.21

A letter about chaos and calm — finding rhythm again after the September–October blur, rebuilding what’s behind the scenes, and sharing two new works: one imagined, one imprinted.

Welcome to Letter No. 2.

These letters are meant to be shared slowly — written with authenticity, not urgency.

Thank you to everyone who sent such kind feedback after Letter No. 1. If you haven’t read it yet, you can catch up here: [link]

I wasn’t sure how it would be received, but I guess honesty still resonates.

My letters will always meet me where I am. Some months feel lyrical, free, and poetic. Others are dull and relentless. Wherever I am, I’ll write from that place — with honesty and truth in that moment.

This one started and ended more times than I can count. But once I realized I didn’t need to write in the same tone as I did in the summer, I finally let myself write how I actually feel. I suppose I am not a robot after all.

Opening Reflection

If summer was rebellion against structure, September is the bully who drags you back into line — but not gently.

Everything hits at once in September — from every angle.

The kids’ schedules - their emotions. My emotions. The sudden demand of routine.

It’s not that the shift isn’t positive — it is.

But it’s still a shift, and shifts can feel like an ass-kick to the face. Or was it a face-kick to the ass? Either way, it hurts.

Whatever’s hurting right now — your face, your ass, or both — I can relate. September came in hot, and October ran me over. Apparently Halloween is around the corner, and Santa’s already polishing his boots.

So if you’re army-crawling out from under September–October, you’re not alone. Let’s take the win if everyone’s fed and mostly clothed.

Maybe that’s the whole point — structure always feels harsh after freedom, but it’s what reminds us how to move again. Maybe the chaos is just the sound of life shifting gears.

Lately, I’ve been trying to soften that shift by walking — almost every day. It’s a habit I brought back from my trip to Wales, where I learned that beauty isn’t something you have to travel across the world to find. It’s here too, waiting, if you slow down long enough to notice it.

Some days, it’s the last thing I want to do. But I’m always reminded of how I feel after — grounded, quiet, fulfilled in every sense.

I try to catch the tiny beauties as I go —

sunlight glistening through the trees, the leaves ruffling together, the rhythm of the water, the light dancing across the surface as if a Goliath-sized jar of glitter had been spilled into the ocean.

I get lost in these senses — the sounds, the smells, the textures, the colours. I often share these little moments in my Instagram stories, not as content, but as reminders — glimpses of presence, of noticing, of being here.

This reminder came from my time in Wales. I wrote about that experience in an essay you can read it [here].

Recent Writings

Lately, between studio time and the rhythm of school days, I’ve been deep in the quiet kind of work — updating my website.

Organizing my original paintings, giving each one the space it deserves, and polishing corners I’d been dreaming of. I’ve spent more hours than I’d like to admit staring at layouts and spacing, but I’m finally happy with where it’s landed.

I also wrote a new piece — “Who Am I and Artist Statement” — that feels like a truer reflection of where I am now, and gives me a grounding point for all those times I need an artist bio or statement for exhibition and show applications.

If you have a moment, take a look at the new website and tell me what you think. I’d love to know what resonates… or what you’d love to see more (or less) of.

Studio Notes

Amid the September–October blur, I’ve been quietly working on two upcoming releases that I’m genuinely excited about. They’ve actually been finished for a while. Artificial Memories wrapped up in 2023. Pressed Reflections was completed in July.

It’s the releasing part that’s been the dread.

The anxiety of perception.

The need to present it just right so it feels worthy of what it is.

Sometimes I want to simply say, “Here it is,” and move on with life. But I know that would be doing it a disservice.

There’s this strange in-between space — after the making, before the showing — where everything feels vulnerable and kind of… stuck. So I’m leaning into that discomfort and uncertainty, slowly working toward the release of my Pressed Reflections prints and a very special project called Artificial Memories.

To dip my toes in, I’ve decided to share one image from each — two very different projects, yet both deeply connected to how I see and remember.

Focus Pieces

For this letter’s focus piece, I’m sharing two works — one from Artificial Memories and one from Pressed Reflections.

They come from entirely different processes: one built through digital imagination and longing, the other pressed by hand through ink and pressure. Yet both are born from the same place — a need to see what memory, or the absence of it, leaves behind.

One is imagined. One is imprinted. Both are real. Both are different from what you usually see from me —

no colour, but still full of depth.

This is just a glimpse — I look forward to sharing more of the story and more of the work.

Image 1

Project: Artificial Memories — “C-CHILD 4 2023-06-14 13.43.03”

From my imagined archive of memories that never were. I built this one from longing — a way to look at what was missing and still find tenderness in it.

Image 2

Project: Pressed Reflections — “The Gathering I”

This piece came from a moment of stillness — carved, inked, and pressed by hand. There’s no colour here, but the weight of the lines holds its own kind of warmth.

Closing Note

I’m learning that sometimes slowness isn’t hesitation — it’s patience. Patience for the work, for the story behind it, and for the part of me that isn’t quite ready to let go yet.

Maybe that’s what growth looks like when you’re almost forty — not rushing to the next thing, but learning to trust the timing of things, to let each stage stretch, ache, and settle in its own way.

I’ve been sitting in that space lately — the in-between — where two things can exist at once, where everything feels like it’s quietly forming but not quite ready to be named. It’s a strange mix of stillness and momentum, and I’m practicing the art of letting it be.

From that stillness — and a growing trust in my own rhythm — I can feel myself slowly gliding toward the next phase, where I’ll soon feel ready to share my upcoming projects: Pressed Reflections and Artificial Memories.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for pausing with me in it.

I’ll end with a question for you:

What’s one thing you’ve noticed lately that made you pause?

Until next time,

Nadia

website // instagram