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.

Feeling Lost and Questioning Purpose

This post comes from a raw, honest season of figuring things out. I’m keeping it here as part of my story—unfiltered, unframed.

I feel like a useless piece of shit sometimes — and honestly, I’ve felt that way for a very long time.

I’m not focused, disciplined, or clear about what I want from my life. There are so many things I’m passionate about, so many things I could talk about... but what am I doing with all of them?

At the moment, I’m still a slave to a 9-to-5. I don't loathe it, thankfully, but it’s not what I dream about. I want to speak my heart out, curse if I want to, and drop the facade we’re all supposed to wear in public.

Why can’t we just be our raw, authentic selves?

The irony is, the world sees potential in me. I speak English well (even though it’s not my native language), I dress well, I love colors, I have an eye for detail... and yet, I’m stuck feeling like a jack of all trades and master of none.

Everywhere I look, people talk about "0 to 6 figures," "0 to 1000 YouTube subscribers," but we never see the grind behind the scenes. We glorify the destination, not the messy, chaotic journey it takes to get there.

Does any of this resonate with you?

Would you want to create a space where we don't have to pretend?
Because honestly — I’m tired of pretending.