Rage Monster
With Its mouth open wide, we’re already inside before we realize it.
Don’t let it eat you.
Don’t let it swallow you whole.
Once you’re in the belly, it’s harder to crawl out.
The darkness, the familiarity, might feel like comfort,
but don’t fall for the tricks of the old self.
Challenge those patterns.
Rise.
Even if it’s just for yourself.
This statue struck me; the heaviness in its posture, the child frozen in sorrow. It reminded me of grief.
Grief can feel like that: still, silent, and impossibly heavy. A child weighed down by the heartbreak of the world.
There is so much hurt happening around us, and grief is a universal emotion. But please—don’t become like this statue. Don’t let pain freeze you in time.
Feel the sadness. Let yourself mourn. But it is also important to take moments to feel the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair, the rain on your face. Seek out the beauty that still exists, even in the midst of loss.
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means continuing, step by gentle step. Please don’t cancel it out or rush through the hurt. Learn to walk, softly and slowly, alongside the grief and sorrow.
There’s something about this image that keeps calling me back. The tender buds reaching toward sunlight. The bold hint of pink just beginning to emerge. But what draws me in most is the quiet presence of what once was — the delicate remains of a bloom that’s already had its moment.
It reminds me that sometimes, growth asks us to shed old patterns, to release what we’ve outgrown — even if it once brought beauty. The letting go isn’t failure. It’s part of the becoming.
Just like this plant, we grow by honoring our past and making space for what’s unfolding. Through sunshine and rain, bloom and decay, there is always more ahead. And even when we don’t feel in full bloom… we are still growing.
Bright colors catch our attention—do we dare take the time to mindfully notice? Notice the way the lights intertwine, the lines as they burst outward from the screen, alive with motion and energy.
Happiness shows up in small and unexpected ways. Sometimes it’s quiet and subtle, and other times, it’s loud—vibrant—right in our faces.
When happiness finds you, I hope you take a moment to mindfully notice. Notice the way it washes over you. Notice the corners of your lips curl even if it’s slightly upward. Be brave enough to let down your guard and allow happiness in.
Trust me, I’ll practice doing the same.
Sadness can feel empty and hollow. We may struggle with feeling lifeless—just floating along—or find ourselves wanting to hunker down because the world might not understand the depth of our sorrow. This image reflects that sensation: black and white, gloomy, even eerie.
But sadness is more than what we see on the surface. Not many people can understand your sadness in the way that you do. Because underneath this floating, lifeless branch, fish are taking shelter among the twisted wood. Life is still moving—just differently.
The sadness we feel in the face of loss is equal to the care, passion, and love we had for the person or situation that has ended. As heavy as sadness can be, it is also a beautiful privilege to grieve so deeply.
Lucy, the Unexpected Ally
This is Lucy. She was a cellar spider that lived in our dining room. The first time I noticed her, my immediate reaction was fear—I wanted her gone. But then, I saw what she was doing.
Lucy had captured a harlequin lady beetle, better known as an Asian beetle. These invasive pests are everywhere in the upper Midwest, especially in the fall. They bite, they smell, and they always seem to find their way inside. But Lucy, with her messy, disorganized web, had managed to catch one—one less beetle for me to vacuum up.
At the time, my kids were just toddlers, and like me, they were afraid of spiders. But instead of passing my fear down to them, I chose to break the cycle. We watched Lucy together, learning about her instead of fearing her. I told them how cellar spiders are harmless and actually help keep other pests in check. And just like that, Lucy wasn’t a scary, unwanted guest anymore—she was part of the house. We even gave her a name.
Sometimes, the things we fear have a purpose. And when we take the time to learn about them, that fear can begin to fade. Of course, it’s easier with something tangible—like a spider—but the same idea applies to the fears we carry inside. If we lean in, just a little, and try to understand them, maybe they won’t seem so scary after all.
The overwhelming sensation of anger disturbs and disrupts—not just our vision, but our internal balance. When rage takes hold, it can feel like the only relief comes from a volatile eruption of disdain and distress, releasing the tension however we can.
For a long time, my walk with anger was exactly this—a rush for release, no matter the cost. I didn’t care who I hurt or how I used my words. I lashed out, swirling like a storm, leaving a wake of destruction behind me. This was the old me.
But I grew tired of the endless damage control, the aftermath of my internal storm spilling onto others, whether provoked or not. A need to change became undeniable. Anger is heavy. It can consume. But when I stopped fighting it and started listening, I began to understand what it was trying to reveal to me. I had to set better boundaries—not just to protect others, but to take care of myself. I had to learn how to control my anger, to recognize its signals before it spiraled into destruction.
Looking at this digital piece I created, I feel the weight of it—the ominous, heavy waves of rage. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet so real. As I reflect on this piece, flashbacks are pulling my attention-images of the old me- but I have the ability to combat these thoughts with the realization that I have come so far, I’ve done the work. I see the transformation- and that is something to celebrate!
The winter storm stirs up wonders. Through snow and wind, bending and blowing, the very things that should be buried beneath layers of ice and frozen to the earth resurface. A perfect white canvas, now speckled with autumn’s remnants.
Sometimes, healing feels like this. A storm blows through, uncovering things we thought we had buried. Triggers, past traumas—showing up at the most inopportune times. But instead of fighting it, I take notice. I don’t chastise the leaf for landing on fresh snow. I don’t demand that it disappear. Instead, I wonder—how did the wind carry it here? I notice the edges, the color-worn but not damaged.
We can make matters worse by denying what surfaces. We can freeze our hands trying to dig through the snow, desperate to put things back where they belong. Or we can simply notice. Be curious. Trust that, just like the leaf, these things will find their way—no matter how much they contrast against the untouched snow.
Art has always been my sanctuary, my solace, and my voice when words fail to capture the complexity of my emotions.
“Violet Veil” emerged from a moment of profound reflection. The interplay of vibrant purples and reds in this image reflects the layers of emotion I was experiencing: the deep shadows of pain interwoven with the soft light of hope. The flowers, delicate yet resilient, seem to push through the veil, symbolizing growth and transformation even in the midst of struggle.
Through this piece, I was reminded that beauty can exist alongside sorrow, and that healing often involves embracing the contrasts—the vivid and the muted, the joy and the ache. Violet Veil invites the viewer to look closer, to pause and notice the intricate details that often go unseen, much like the small but significant moments of healing in our own journeys. Art allows us to find clarity where there was once only chaos, and Violet Veil serves as a testament to the power of seeing through the layers—both in the image and within ourselves.
The ice on Lake Superior can do some pretty impressive things. Waves push shards onto the shore, shifting and moving them miles down the coast in a matter of days—or even hours. The ice on Lake Superior is both unstable and magnificent at the same time.
With camera in hand and ice cleats attached, I take a calculated risk to capture the shards that fascinate me. The details, the shapes, the color—I am drawn in, mesmerized by their raw beauty. As I stand there, I reflect on the way emotions are similar to these ice shards…
Emotions can feel sharp. They can feel cold, catching you off guard. They shift, they spike, they fall, they freeze—emotions are notorious for being unpredictable.
We can put all our energy into controlling or suppressing them, trying to force them into a box. Or we can choose to observe them as they shift.
As emotions rise and fall, I remind myself that managing them is a lot like observing the ice on Superior. I am both fearful of the fragile space they claim and in awe of their beauty and arrangement.