I Used to Think Art Was a Luxury.

I didn’t expect an ordinary meeting at work to become the beginning of something entirely different.

While I was on vacation, my employers messaged asking if we could meet when I got back. I assumed it was finally going to be the performance review and salary discussion that had been hanging in the air for months. Instead, I walked into a conversation about reducing payroll costs. Somewhere between discussing staffing hours and trying to defend my team, it became painfully clear that we weren’t really talking about payroll at all. We simply had very different philosophies about how a business should be run, and for the first time, I wondered whether I had simply outgrown my role.

That meeting stayed with me long after it ended. I applied for another Area Director position, the first job application I’d submitted in almost ten years, and completely bombed the interview. The rejection wasn’t really what hurt. What hurt was the realization that followed. I wasn’t ready to leave the security of my current job, but I couldn’t imagine staying either. For the first time in a very long time, I felt stuck.

The weeks that followed felt unusually heavy. I kept showing up to work, but only half of me was really there. My mind kept searching for an exit plan while my heart resisted every option I came up with. One evening, I came home convinced that I needed to resign, hoping my husband would somehow make the decision easier. Instead, we talked about responsibilities, bills and practicalities. None of those concerns were unreasonable, but when the conversation ended, I realized nobody else was going to solve this for me. Whatever came next, I would have to create it myself.

Once I accepted that I needed a way forward, my mind did what it always does—it started making lists. I considered applying for more leadership roles. I even joked about becoming a barista or driving for Uber. Every option felt like an escape hatch, but the more I explored them, the more I noticed they all had one thing in common. I’d still be working for someone else. I’d simply be exchanging one employer for another, hoping our values aligned a little better this time. There was no guarantee I’d end up feeling any differently a year later.

That realization led me somewhere I had been returning to for years.

I’d spoken often about my dream of becoming a full-time artist and spending my summers exhibiting at art walks. Every year, I’d arrive full of hope. Every year, I’d come home with a car still full of paintings. Sometimes I sold nothing at all. Other times I had wonderful weekends, only to realize many of those sales had come after offering significant discounts.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am deeply grateful to every single person who has welcomed one of my paintings into their home. Without you, none of this would have been possible. But every artist knows what happens when you unpack the same paintings year after year. The mind starts telling stories. Maybe you’re not good at selling. Maybe your work isn’t good enough. Maybe art was never meant to pay the bills.

Eventually, I convinced myself of something that felt painfully true. Art is a luxury, not a necessity.

Anyone who has exhibited at an art walk will probably recognize that feeling. People stop, smile and tell you how much they love your work. They tell you the colours make them happy or that a particular painting reminds them of someone they love. Then they quietly walk away because they don’t have the space, the budget or a good enough reason to buy it.

Over time, I stopped questioning that reality. I simply accepted that art belonged in the “nice to have” category rather than the “need to have” category. But this time, something felt different. Instead of accepting that explanation, I found myself questioning it.

Was art really a luxury?

Or had I misunderstood the problem it was solving?

The more I reflected on it, the more I realized I had been asking the wrong question. Art doesn’t solve the kinds of problems we’re used to paying for. It won’t lower your mortgage or clear your inbox. Because of that, it’s easy to dismiss it as something nice to have rather than something worth investing in. But maybe that was never its purpose.

After losing Sam, I didn’t choose abstract art. Somehow, abstract art chose me. There was no other way I knew to hold onto the unconditional love, joy and happiness he had brought into my life. I couldn’t put those feelings into words, but somehow I could pour them onto a canvas.

Painting didn’t erase the pain, and it certainly didn’t bring him back. But over the months and years that followed, it became the place where I could quietly lay down emotions that were too heavy to carry all the time. It also became my way of telling the world, I had a dog who loved me with everything he had, and I hope, somehow, you feel a little of that love every time you look at my work.

Perhaps that’s why every painting has always felt like a small piece of him finding another home.

That’s when everything finally made sense.

Maybe art doesn’t solve the obvious problems.

Maybe it solves the quieter ones.

The kind that only we can feel.

Just like the paintings hanging on the walls of our homes.

Most people walk past them without giving them a second thought, but the person who chose them knows exactly why they’re there. They know the memory that painting holds, the feeling it brings or the quiet smile it creates every time they walk into the room. Only they know the difference it makes.

Perhaps that’s why so many people believe they don’t need art. It’s not because art has no value. It’s because its greatest value often can’t be measured.

And yet, even after that realization, another question kept returning.

Why was selling my work still so important to me? Was it the sale itself? Or was it because I wanted to share that feeling with more people?

I realized I didn’t want to spend my life creating paintings that only I would ever experience. I wanted them to leave my studio. I wanted them to become part of other people’s stories. But somewhere along the way, I also sensed I was searching for something deeper—something I couldn’t quite name at the time.

Around that same time, my sister and I were brainstorming business ideas. She already teaches French, so naturally we started throwing around possibilities—French, yoga and art classes for children. It was a fun conversation, but afterwards one question stayed with me.

Why children?

The people I couldn’t stop thinking about were adults. More specifically, women who spend so much of their lives caring for everyone else that they rarely pause to care for themselves.

I know, because for a long time, I forgot to care for myself too.

By then, I had stopped trying to solve my future and started paying closer attention to what was helping me through the present.

One day, I made a decision that seemed completely sensible at the time. With so much financial uncertainty ahead, getting my nails done suddenly felt like an unnecessary expense. I had them removed instead.

It sounds like such a small thing, but over the following weeks, every time I looked at my hands, I felt a little worse. It wasn’t really about my nails. They had simply become a daily reminder of everything I was carrying. I questioned my future, worried about my finances and replayed work conversations over and over in my mind. The only time those thoughts seemed to quiet down was when I painted.

When I painted, I wasn’t thinking about my job or my worries about the future. I wasn’t trying to solve anything. I was simply present. For a little while, my mind stopped racing and my attention shifted entirely to colour, movement and the canvas in front of me.

A couple of weeks later, I finally booked another nail appointment. I walked out feeling lighter, happier and more like myself. I remember thinking that perhaps this was the self-care I’d been missing.

The feeling lasted less than twenty-four hours. The very next morning, one of my Lead Assistant Directors resigned. Within minutes, all the stress, uncertainty and heaviness I had been carrying returned as though it had never left.

That was the moment something clicked.

The confidence I had felt the day before hadn’t disappeared because my nails looked different. It disappeared because it had been built on something external. As wonderful as those little acts of self-care can be, their effect often fades as soon as life throws something difficult our way.

It made me think differently about self-care altogether.

So often, we associate self-care with things someone else does for us—a manicure, a massage, a nice meal or a vacation. There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of those things. I still love getting my nails done. But the practices that seem to create lasting change are often the ones that ask us to participate. A walk strengthens our body while calming our mind. Exercise leaves us feeling mentally clearer as well as physically stronger. Reading allows us to see ourselves through someone else’s story. Meditation doesn’t remove our problems, but it often changes the way we return to them.

The more I reflected on it, the more I wondered whether art belonged in that same category.

Not because everyone wants to become an artist.

But because everyone carries thoughts and emotions that don’t always have words.

You don’t need artistic talent to express yourself through colour. You simply need permission to pause long enough to notice what’s happening within you.

That is exactly what painting had quietly become for me.

I never picked up a paintbrush believing it would change the way I understood myself. I painted because I missed Sam. Somewhere along the way, painting became a practice that helped me slow down, reflect and reconnect with myself. The painting itself was never the most important part. What mattered was the space it created within me while I was making it.

That’s when I realized something.

Perhaps what I had been searching for wasn’t another career.

It wasn’t another employer.

It wasn’t even another way to sell my art.

What I had really been searching for was a way to share the experience that painting had given me.

Not the techniques.

Not the finished paintings.

The experience itself.

That is the beginning of The Inner Canvas.

The Inner Canvas is a creative self-care practice built around curiosity, reflection and colour. It is an invitation to pause, to notice what is happening within you, to write if words come, to make marks if they don’t, and to let colour continue the conversation where words begin to fall short.

There is no painting to copy.

No expectation to create something beautiful.

No pressure to share.

Only an opportunity to spend a little time with yourself, without judgment, and discover what appears when you stop trying to create and simply begin.

Will a couple of hours change your life?

Probably not.

But perhaps they will remind you that caring for yourself isn’t something to squeeze into the spaces left over after you’ve looked after everyone else.

Perhaps they will remind you that creativity isn’t reserved for artists.

Perhaps they will remind you that slowing down is not the opposite of productivity, but sometimes the beginning of clarity.

And perhaps, just as painting quietly transformed my relationship with myself, it might offer you something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Perhaps the most meaningful thing we create isn’t the painting we take home. Perhaps it’s the space we make to meet ourselves again.

The Magic of Faith, Loss, and 3:30 PM

There are moments in life that change you—moments when faith meets magic, and you realize you were never really alone in your journey. Last Sunday at 3:30 PM was one of those moments for me.

But before I get to that story, I want to take you back to how all of this began.

How It All Started with Sam

When I lost Sam—my soul dog, my child in every way that mattered—it felt like all the color drained from my life. Grief has a way of making everything muted, gray, and heavy. Picking up a paintbrush again wasn’t about creating art for a wall. It was about survival. It was about finding my way back to the joy and brightness I thought I’d lost forever.

Sam, in his own way, brought me back to painting. Every burst of neon pink, every splash of yellow, every messy texture on my canvas carries a little bit of him—his energy, his love, his playfulness.

The Quiet Doubt

Fast forward to this summer.

I’ve been showing up—at markets, at art walks, online—pouring myself into every piece. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have doubts. There were days when I wondered if my art was too much. Too bright. Too bold. Too different.

Would it ever find its people? Was I painting just for myself, while the world quietly walked past?

The Booth Space Sunday Morning

And Then, Magic

Just when I was starting to lose faith, something magical happened.

Last Sunday, at 3:30 PM, two angels sent by Sam walked into my booth.

They weren’t strangers. R & S had bought a piece from me last year. But this time, they came running—literally—from a camping trip just to see me at the Whyte Ave Art Walk. And within 15 minutes, I was sold out.

Not because they bought “a lot” of paintings (though they did), but because they saw me. They saw my work for what it truly is—a reflection of joy, grief, love, and hope—and they believed in it.

I can’t explain what that moment felt like. It wasn’t about the sale. It was about being reminded that magic can find you at any time. That one “yes,” one unexpected twist, can shift everything you thought you knew.

My Booth at 4:00 pm on Sunday

A Reminder for You

If you’re reading this, maybe you’ve been in a slow or heavy season too. Maybe you’ve been waiting for a sign, a breakthrough, a moment when everything starts to make sense.

Here’s what I know: You are always just one breakthrough away.

The key is to keep showing up—even on the days you don’t feel like it. Keep putting your heart out there. Keep believing in the thing that sets your soul on fire. Because magic doesn’t always come when you expect it, but it always comes to those who don’t give up.

Sam’s Legacy and Stella’s Reminder

Sam gave me the courage to start again. Stella, my gentle golden retriever, reminds me every single day why I keep going. And you—whether you’ve ever bought a painting, left a kind word, or simply stopped by my booth—you are part of this journey too.

Every piece I create carries a story, but it’s your stories that give them life once they leave my hands.

Little Joys from This Week

• The moment of being sold out—not because of numbers, but because of belief.

• The love and support from R & S (my angels), who came running from camping just to see my work.

• The beautiful energy of Whyte Ave Art Walk—the smiles, the conversations, and the connection with each of you.

PS: If you’re going through a slow or heavy season, trust that your Sam moment—your breakthrough—is closer than you think. Just keep showing up.

Where Art Found Its Corner

We live in a two-bedroom apartment in Leduc. Not because we can’t afford more space, but because our golden girl Stella doesn’t like stairs. Most homes here are duplexes, and Stella, in all her senior dog wisdom, has made it clear that floor-level living is non-negotiable. So, here we are, all four of us (me, my husband, my sister, and Stella), making it work in a cozy space where every inch has a purpose.

In the beginning, I painted at the kitchen counter. One bedroom was ours, the other belonged to my sister, and Stella had free rein over the whole apartment—beds, mattresses, sunny spots near the window. Painting in the kitchen worked for a while. I’d pull out my paints, work for a bit, and then pack everything back up before dinner. But the dance of unpacking and cleaning up eventually wore me down.

I tried renting a studio at the Leduc Arts Foundry next. It felt like a step forward, finally a dedicated space! But there were no windows, no natural light—and I felt like I was painting inside a box. Creativity needs to breathe, and that space just didn’t breathe with me.

Then I tried to set up a corner in my sister’s room. With her study table, bed, and bookshelf already in place, I felt like a guest squatting in a library. It wasn’t sustainable.

Finally, we made a big decision. My husband and I gave up our bedroom. We turned it into my full-fledged studio. Right now, while my sister is traveling, we’re sleeping in her room. But when she returns, our plan is to move our mattress into the living room at night. We don’t use our beds during the day anyway—they’re just for sleeping. So, why not?

And that’s where I paint now.

The Perfect Studio Space

It’s not a Pinterest-perfect studio. It’s full of colorful chaos, drying canvases, plants, a ring light for videos I sometimes forget to film, and one very happy dog sleeping right in the middle of it all. But it’s mine. Ours.

There’s something magical about claiming space for your dreams—even if it means giving up a little comfort to do so. I don’t have it all figured out. But what I do have is a room full of light, paint under my fingernails, and a heart that knows this space is sacred.

If you’ve ever had to get scrappy for your dreams, or if you’re making something beautiful out of whatever corner you have—I see you. And I hope this little story reminds you: it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be true.

Is it just me… or are clothing tags out to get us?

Because apparently I'm the only one with a back that feels things.

You know what no one ever talks about? Clothing tags.
Not the price tags, not the designer label flex—but those sneaky little fabric assassins sewn into the back of your clothes that look innocent but feel like a thousand paper cuts from a plastic fork.

The Lost Tag

Yes, I’m talking about that tag.
The one that’s always just a little too stiff, a little too plasticky, and always exactly in the wrong spot.

And maybe it’s just me—I seem to have been cursed with the world’s most sensitive skin—but I can feel that tag the minute I put the shirt on. Doesn’t matter how soft the fabric is, or how pretty the print is, or how much I paid for it. That tag? It must go. Immediately.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to cut it. I love the aesthetic of the tag. It feels like part of the outfit’s story. You know—“Made with love in Italy” or “Handcrafted with recycled hope and moonlight.” It’s poetic. But also, it’s itchy. So, snip snip.

What blows my mind is—how is this still a thing? I mean, we’re in 2025. We have AI writing Shakespeare, cars driving themselves, and someone out there is growing chicken in a lab. But nobody—and I mean nobody—has thought of fixing the dang tag?

I’m not even talking about luxury labels. I’ve never bought Chanel or Gucci or whatever fancy brands are out there, so I can’t speak for their tag game. But I’ve worn clothes ranging from $10 to $500 and somehow, the tag quality is still… painfully consistent. Which is to say, consistently painful.

So now I’m left wondering:
Am I the only one?
Is there a secret society of itchy-backed humans who have silently suffered in shame?

Because if so, hi—welcome to the club. I see you. I feel you. Literally.

And to the one magical brand out there who’s quietly said:
“My brand will not have pinching tags”—
please know: you are the hero I didn’t know I needed.

Are you one of us?
If you’ve ever been personally victimized by an itchy tag—or if you’ve got a secret list of random things that bug you—I’d love to know.
Reply back. Tell me what your “tag” is. Let’s swap stories like the sensitive-skinned legends we are.

The Love You Carry (Even When No One Sees It)

There are some stories that take time to share.
Not because they aren’t important, but because they’re sacred.
Because they’re tangled in grief and gratitude.
Because they hold love that never left—even if the one you loved did.

Mother’s Day just passed. And I didn’t post anything.
Not because I forgot.
But because I couldn’t.

Not because I’m not a mother—because I am.
I’m a mother to Stella.
And I was a mother to Sam.

But when your motherhood doesn’t look the way the world expects it to, it often goes unseen. Unrecognized. Unnamed.

Sam wasn’t “just a dog.”
He was my baby.
And losing him felt like losing the brightest part of me.
It’s been nearly two years since he passed, and still—his birthday, holidays, even the smell of summer air—bring a knot to my throat.

The truth is, I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day anymore.
Not because I’m not grateful.
But because it brings up too much.
Too much that people don’t understand.
And honestly? I don’t expect them to.

But I do want to say this—to the woman reading who’s lost a child, or a pet who felt like one.
To the woman who never became a mother the way she’d hoped.
To the one who mothered people, animals, dreams, and never got recognized for it—

You are not invisible.
Your love counts.
Your grief counts.
Your version of motherhood matters.

And if this weekend, you needed quiet instead of celebration, I want you to know:
You weren’t alone in that.

There’s another part of me that’s been whispering lately: “Is it okay to feel both lost and lucky?”
Because that’s what I’ve been feeling.
So deeply grateful for Stella, for my little life here.
And also stuck—between the life I have and the one I’m still dreaming into existence.
Eleven months out of twelve, my website hears crickets.
That’s the hard truth.
But I still keep showing up—not just with paint, but with presence.

I don’t write these posts as a marketing strategy.
I write them as a way of finding my own voice—and maybe lighting a little candle for someone else stumbling through the dark.

So if you’re here, reading this—thank you.
If you’ve ever felt unseen in your grief, your longing, your love—thank you for letting me say what I wish someone had said to me.

And no, I’m not here to complain.
I’m here to recommit.
To try again.
To remind both of us that showing up—heart open, even when we’re not sure how—is always enough.

I don’t know exactly where this is all leading.
But I know I’ll keep telling the truth.
And if that truth reaches you today, even just a little—then maybe we’re both one step closer to healing.

With love,
Rose, Sam and Stella 🐾

The $900 Lesson: Listening to My Soul (Not the Crowd)

I’ve been meaning to tell you this.
Not because I think I have answers—but because maybe you’ve felt it too.

Over the past 2.5 years, I paid Planet Fitness $900.
Thirty bucks a month, every month.
And if I’m being honest?
I probably showed up enough times to fill, like, one decent month—cumulatively.
Yep. $900 for guilt. $900 for shame. $900 for the heavy weight of "I’ll start Monday."

Meanwhile, every time I spend $30 on getting my nails done—this small, silly thing that actually brings me joy—I tell myself, "Ugh, what a waste."
Funny, isn’t it?

We think spending on our happiness is irresponsible.
But throwing money at guilt?
That's what the world tells us is "discipline."

And here’s the thing I realized:
It’s not that I hate moving my body.
I hate forcing myself into fluorescent gyms when what I really crave is fresh air and open skies.
I don’t want treadmills.
I want trails.
I want wind in my damn hair.

If I had just asked myself one honest question sooner—
"Does this make me happy?"
—maybe I wouldn’t have had to buy a year’s worth of regret.

Maybe you’ve had that moment too.
That moment where you realize you’re not tired because you’re weak—you’re tired because you’re swimming against yourself.

I used to think authenticity was some big, scary leap.
But maybe it’s just tiny moments where you stop pretending.

Like asking yourself,
"Am I drinking this coffee because I love it, or because I’m too exhausted to function?"
"Am I walking into this workout with excitement—or dread?"
"Am I doing this for me—or because I’m scared of what people will say if I stop?"

No bullet points. No guidebooks.
Just one small, brave question at a time.

That’s how I’m learning to listen to my soul again.
It’s messy and slow.
It’s imperfect.
But it’s mine.

And maybe, just maybe, you needed this reminder too:
You’re allowed to stop fighting yourself.
You’re allowed to choose the thing that actually feels like home.

“Joy doesn’t have to be justified.”

Even if it’s $30 nails instead of a $30 guilt trip.

Especially then.

Where is the balance?

A small messy musing on control, nature, and the contradictions of life.

I’ve been thinking about balance lately — and how clueless I still am about it.

We’re always told, "Balance is the key to a peaceful life." Parents tell children. Teachers tell students. Society preaches it constantly.

But when I look at nature?
Where’s the balance there?

Some countries are freezing cold. Others are burning hot.
Here in Alberta, Canada, it’s almost the end of June — and it’s still 5 to 15 degrees Celsius.
Meanwhile, my parents in India are sweating through 45-degree heat.

You don’t even need a stove to make an omelet in India right now. Just crack it on a car hood.

So how do we teach ourselves — or our children — that "balance" is natural when even the universe seems to operate in extremes?

Is balance even real?
Or is it just another thing we’ve been taught to chase?

I don’t have the answers.
But I’m still asking the questions.

Finding My Voice (and Painted Nails)

Some days are small victories. And those are worth celebrating too.

 If you ask me why I’m writing this blog — honestly, maybe it’s not for anyone but me.

My website isn’t famous. There’s no spotlight. No expectations.
I can speak my heart out without worrying who’s watching — and that's exactly the point.

Every blog post is a tiny act of rebellion.
A step closer to finding my voice.

Also, I got my nails done yesterday. Shellac, not regular polish — because I wash my hands a thousand times a day, and regular polish dies in two.

Today, because of something as small as painted nails, I love myself 1% more.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

Healing Prayer

Sometimes, a small moment of grace finds you when you least expect it.

While scrolling Instagram (aka procrastinating), I stumbled upon a story by artist Lesley Grainger. She shared this beautiful prayer rooted in metaphysics, said to unlock healing:

I am love.
I am health.
I am peace.
I deserve to be loved, happy, and healthy.
Today, the healing of body, mind, and spirit begins.
I forgive myself for my past mistakes — I didn’t know better at the time.
I forgive others who hurt me — they couldn’t be what I needed.
I release resentment and free my future.
I stop judging myself and others.
I hand over my pain to the Universe, to be transformed into love and peace.
I accept today with patience and start to heal.

I saved it immediately.
Maybe it will help you too.
Maybe today can be the day something starts to heal.

Yesterday & Today!

Another snapshot from the messy middle of figuring it all out.

 Yesterday, I had so much to say.
Yesterday, my mind was on overdrive.
Yesterday, I wanted to write for a month straight.
Yesterday, I thought inspiration would never run out.

Today, I can’t think of a single thing worth writing.
Today, I wonder why I even started.
Today feels like just another ordinary day — eventless, thoughtless.
Today, nothing seems important enough to talk about.

And that’s okay too.
Not every day needs to be profound.