Art has always been my quiet refuge. Growing up in Edmonton, my childhood was shaped by a controlling religious cult and marked by trauma, neglect, and instability. But even then, I found early peace in drawing—one of the few places where the world felt calm and safe. My journey has taken me through immense challenges: mental illness, substance abuse, sexual violence, and years of grappling with self-worth and identity. And yet, I kept surviving—and eventually, I rediscovered painting as a powerful way to process my past and live more fully in the present.

 

After a skateboarding accident left me unable to work, I picked up a paintbrush in a moment of stillness—and something clicked. What began as a way to pass time in recovery evolved into a deeply healing practice. Painting gave me the same mental quiet I once sought in alcohol, but with a lasting sense of purpose and peace. I often explore nature—especially trees and rivers—as metaphors for resilience, movement, and the quiet strength it takes to keep showing up for life, even when it hurts. For me, painting is more than self-expression—it’s a form of survival.

 

Today, I’m a sober wife, mother, and full-time creative. I continue to pour my story into every canvas. I paint not only to manage my complex PTSD and depression, but to connect—with myself, my community, and others who carry their own invisible battles. Through my art, I offer a message of empathy: for those who struggle to face each day, for those who feel like outsiders, and for anyone who’s ever needed a reminder that healing is messy, nonlinear, and worth fighting for.