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The Return
Chapter II | The Call You Don’t Expect (2015)
She was fine on Friday.
Hospital on Saturday.
Gone on Sunday.
A few months ago, my mom unexpectedly passed away.
She had just begun her second battle with cancer after being cancer-free for nearly two years. But she never got the chance to finish that fight. Severe pneumonia came out of nowhere, and it moved fast.
There was no warning. No time to prepare. Just a moment that changes everything, and then you’re left trying to make sense of a world that suddenly feels different.
I never planned on sharing this publicly. But recently, I received a handwritten card from a longtime friend that stopped me in my tracks. It forced me to slow down and reflect in a way I hadn’t yet allowed myself to.
And with my work beginning to reach a wider audience, it felt like the right time to share a part of the story behind it.
Hospital on Saturday.
Gone on Sunday.
A few months ago, my mom unexpectedly passed away.
She had just begun her second battle with cancer after being cancer-free for nearly two years. But she never got the chance to finish that fight. Severe pneumonia came out of nowhere, and it moved fast.
There was no warning. No time to prepare. Just a moment that changes everything, and then you’re left trying to make sense of a world that suddenly feels different.
I never planned on sharing this publicly. But recently, I received a handwritten card from a longtime friend that stopped me in my tracks. It forced me to slow down and reflect in a way I hadn’t yet allowed myself to.
And with my work beginning to reach a wider audience, it felt like the right time to share a part of the story behind it.
Chapter III | The Silence
After she passed, I started thinking about my life differently.
What I was doing. What I wasn’t doing. What actually mattered.
And somewhere in that process, I realized something was missing.
Not something small. Something foundational.
My art.
Until recently, I could count on one hand the number of times I had sat down to draw over the past 10 years. More than 10 years.
That’s hard to admit.
Especially when I think about how much it meant to her.
She was always my biggest supporter. Every time I showed her a new piece, her eyes lit up. It didn’t matter if it was great or not. To her, it was.
And somewhere along the way, I walked away from that.
What I was doing. What I wasn’t doing. What actually mattered.
And somewhere in that process, I realized something was missing.
Not something small. Something foundational.
My art.
Until recently, I could count on one hand the number of times I had sat down to draw over the past 10 years. More than 10 years.
That’s hard to admit.
Especially when I think about how much it meant to her.
She was always my biggest supporter. Every time I showed her a new piece, her eyes lit up. It didn’t matter if it was great or not. To her, it was.
And somewhere along the way, I walked away from that.
Chapter III | The Spark
I’ve never been someone who stays stuck in regret.
You can replay the past over and over, but nothing meaningful gets built there.
So instead of asking what I should have done differently, I asked a better question:
What do I do now?
And the answer was simple.
I went back to the work.
I picked up a pencil again. No plan. No expectations. Just a decision to start.
Not because I felt ready. But because I knew I couldn’t keep ignoring something that had always been a part of me.
And then, not long after, something unexpected showed up.
A handwritten card from a longtime friend.
It didn’t change my direction. It confirmed it.
A quiet reminder that I was moving in the right direction.
You can replay the past over and over, but nothing meaningful gets built there.
So instead of asking what I should have done differently, I asked a better question:
What do I do now?
And the answer was simple.
I went back to the work.
I picked up a pencil again. No plan. No expectations. Just a decision to start.
Not because I felt ready. But because I knew I couldn’t keep ignoring something that had always been a part of me.
And then, not long after, something unexpected showed up.
A handwritten card from a longtime friend.
It didn’t change my direction. It confirmed it.
A quiet reminder that I was moving in the right direction.
Chapter IV | The Spark
When I picked up a pencil again, something felt different.
Not easier. Not comfortable.
But alive.
Over the past month, I’ve rediscovered the process. The discipline. The challenge of attempting something I’m not even sure I can pull off.
In many ways, it feels like starting over.
And that’s exactly what makes it exciting.
I’m seeing things differently now. Not just as they are, but as they could be translated, refined, and brought to life.
I’m pushing further. Taking risks I wouldn’t have taken before. Holding the work to a higher standard.
Because now, it means something different.
Not easier. Not comfortable.
But alive.
Over the past month, I’ve rediscovered the process. The discipline. The challenge of attempting something I’m not even sure I can pull off.
In many ways, it feels like starting over.
And that’s exactly what makes it exciting.
I’m seeing things differently now. Not just as they are, but as they could be translated, refined, and brought to life.
I’m pushing further. Taking risks I wouldn’t have taken before. Holding the work to a higher standard.
Because now, it means something different.
Chapter V | What This Work Means Now
There’s something powerful about taking a blank sheet of paper and the simplest tool imaginable, and turning it into something that stops people in their tracks.
A reaction.
A connection.
A moment that stays with them.
That moment is everything.
That’s what I’m chasing.
But the work means something different to me now. Especially given the considerable amount of money my art raised for charity.
It’s no longer just about creating something visually compelling. It’s about creating something that changes lives.
Something that means something to the person who owns it. Not only because of the work itself, but also because of the positive change it brought forth.
Because I know how quickly things can change.
And when they do, what we’re left with are the moments, the memories, and the things that remind us of them.
That’s what this work is about now.
Not just precision. Not just realism. But meaning.
I wish my mom was here to see what I’m creating now.
She’d be proud.
Actually, she is.
I know she’s smiling.
A reaction.
A connection.
A moment that stays with them.
That moment is everything.
That’s what I’m chasing.
But the work means something different to me now. Especially given the considerable amount of money my art raised for charity.
It’s no longer just about creating something visually compelling. It’s about creating something that changes lives.
Something that means something to the person who owns it. Not only because of the work itself, but also because of the positive change it brought forth.
Because I know how quickly things can change.
And when they do, what we’re left with are the moments, the memories, and the things that remind us of them.
That’s what this work is about now.
Not just precision. Not just realism. But meaning.
I wish my mom was here to see what I’m creating now.
She’d be proud.
Actually, she is.
I know she’s smiling.
