In 2018 I packed up my design studio and immediately pivoted into an art business, ignoring that the reason I called it quits on freelance remained unresolved.

In hindsight, the glaring issue of functional capacity, or rather, lack-thereof, was obvious. But despite the stats on what others with my condition go through I was determined that I could do better. If I was just more determined than them, I could power through.

I would adapt; I would stay useful. I blame The Little Engine that Could. 

A main-stay in my childhood rotation of Little Golden Books this little engine haunts my psyche. Little Engine is a much too small train that thinks she can succeed at a task that much bigger trains than her have failed at. Yet, by the power of her own magical thinking she repeats the mantra I think I can, I think I can and miraculously, Little Engine overcomes her own physical limits and is good and useful and worthy, unlike the less determined, lazy locomotives that came before her.

So, thinking I can, I took the remnants of my design career and shoe-horned them into a space that looked productive, reasonable and respectable.

And then. My health persisted to decline, and I burnt out.

This sucks, obviously. It turns out that sometimes the little engine just can’t. Where is the fable for that? Sometimes, when things deteriorate out of your control, there is nothing left to do but accept it. Not everything recovers. Ooph!

Ableism aside, what has become even more pronounced for me of late is the feeling of containment within the brand I made, and now I just feel cross. Consistency is not afforded to the chronically ill. To adapt, I need to explore and experiment, but the immediacy of feedback on the internet is a hurdle for that. I feel flaky when I change course. When I adapt.

When I started experimenting with loose-style paintings, a man direct messaged me to tell me that he liked my old stuff better than my new stuff. Ha! The audacity. I sent him a link to purchase my old stuff, and — like magic — he disappeared.

Why do we expect artists to stay static? Maybe it’s a comfort thing. I am not sure. But I am sure that we don’t own someone else’s creative pathway (I refuse to say journey). Should we have a visceral connection to a work we should marinate in that feeling and be grateful that for a small moment, someone made us feel connected to something bigger than ourselves. Artists — and anyone else for that matter, don’t owe us consistency.

It doesn’t matter to me that you were obsessed with lacrosse last year and this year you are rabid for cross stitch, I am thrilled that you have fire for anything at all.

But, I’m human, and there’s a still a niggle inside me; about quitting things. But aren’t we all quitters and starters and evolvers?

The more I think of it the more I think of what a waste it is, to not follow your nose. Alice down the rabbit hole, or whatever. It’s exciting, no?

So what’s next? I am currently mid way through a diploma. When I finished my Graphic Design degree I swore I would never go back to uni, and here I am. The diploma is really interesting, I am studying the effects of creative arts on the brain and body throughout the lifetime. It’s been quite incredible so far to see the evidence on healing mental and physical health with music, painting, embroidery and more. Our innate creativity is a powerful force. I have always known this, anecdotally, but to see it evidenced in brain scans is affirming. I hope to share more of what I am learning. I hope to feel more confident sharing diverse things with the space of contentment and creativity, and, likely, disability. And in time, I hope it finds a community and helps somehow.