Not Perfect, Just Honest

Not Perfect, Just Honest: Why I Finally Declared Myself a Painter

For years, I painted in the margins of my life, quietly, inconsistently, never daring to say out loud: “I’m a painter.” I told myself I wasn’t good enough, that real artists had some secret knowledge I didn’t. So I treated painting like a hobby I could pack away whenever doubt got too loud.

And then for Mother’s Day my daughters surprised me with a visit to the Vancouver Art Gallery (thank you, girls). We wandered into the Emily Carr exhibit, and something inside me shifted. Her paintings weren’t tidy or “flawless.” They were layered, chaotic, raw, visible brushstrokes flying everywhere, underpaintings bleeding through like whispers. They were not perfect, just honest. And they were breathtaking.

I came home that day with a fire in my chest. I picked up a canvas I’d been avoiding, and instead of tiptoeing around it, I dove in. I poured everything into it;  the fierce love that holds families together, the silence that tears them apart and the quiet strength of women who refuse to give up. For hours, I was lost in the process. And when I stepped back, I actually loved what I saw. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t pretending. I was a painter.

Georgia O’Keeffe said it best: “I found I could say things with colour and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way.” That’s exactly how it feels. My semi-realistic kinda whimsical style isn’t about perfection, it’s about capturing the stories, emotions, and moments that don’t always have words.

Now, every time someone buys one of my paintings, I’m stunned. (Really? You want this messy, emotional thing from my heart hanging in your home?) But I’m starting to understand: people connect with the honesty. They see their own stories, healing, resilience, love, reflected back at them.

So here it is, written down for the world to see: I’m a painter. Not perfect, just honest. A BC artist telling stories of motherhood, loss, memory, and the gripping power of women through colours, shapes, and brushstrokes.

To Andrew, my kids, and the friends who’ve nudged me forward, thank you for seeing what I couldn’t. And to you, reader: thank you for being part of this journey. If my story resonates with you, or if you’ve ever doubted your own creativity, I’d be forever grateful if you’d share this post or leave a comment. It helps more than you know.

Wow. This is going to be fun.