I remember the days when I used to dream of many different futures — and one of them was to become a fashion designer. I loved drawing. I loved working with my hands. DIY projects always lit me up, and I believed I was good at them.

Back then, I didn’t realize how deeply art was woven into my life. Creating with my hands was the only time my mind felt truly quiet — calm, mindful, and free from all the noise.

Many years ago, I went through a dark period of anxiety that nearly slipped into depression. I can’t even fully remember how I found my way out, but I do remember not having much money at the time. One day, I thought of my childhood love — painting and drawing — and I signed up for a watercolor class. From there, I began a small project I called “Art is a Way of Healing.”

It’s easy to forget how much art can hold us together, how much it can say without a single word. In recent years, when I faced another life crisis and depression, I turned to art again. I hold onto the hope that one day I can take an art therapy course and become an art therapist, helping others find light the way I did.

Especially children — when they don’t yet have all the words, their paintings speak for them.

There was a time when I was separated from my son, against my will. Each weekend when I picked him up, he would sit down and start painting and drawing. At first, I didn’t pay too much attention to each one. But one day, I gathered them all together for my project, and when I saw them side by side… my heart broke.

The paintings were dark — filled with black skies, monsters, sharp teeth, scary shapes, and dinosaurs. They were not the drawings of a happy child. I showed them to my best friend, and we both agreed — something was wrong. I cried for hours. I carried those paintings with me all the way to Europe on a trip, unable to let them go.

In that moment, I understood why he would cry at night, clutching his grandmother’s hand, holding my fingers, begging us not to leave. Why he held my hand so tightly, afraid I would disappear. His paintings had told the story all along — they were the missing pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t been able to see.

Now, it has been half a year since I gained custody. His paintings are completely different. They’re filled with pictures of us together — mommy and son, our home, flowers, clouds, trains, cars, and everything that makes up his world. Sometimes, a monster or animal still appears, but the feeling is different. The darkness has lifted. His colors are brighter.

Today, everywhere he goes, people call him one of the happiest, most energetic kids they’ve ever met. He lights up every space he walks into.

When a child is only 3 or 4, they might not have all the words — but their paintings will tell you exactly what’s in their heart. I can look at his drawings from when he was 3, full of detail but heavy in feeling, and compare them to the simpler ones now, at 4, radiating joy. The shift is undeniable.

As his mother, I still feel the ache for the time he spent in that dark place. But I also feel immense gratitude. We can’t change the past — but we can fill the future with love, with color, and with light. And together, we are doing just that.

I’m sorry, my son — but thank you for being patient with me in this life.