Growing up in the rural countryside of western Pennsylvania, I often felt like I was searching for my voice, caught between the endless landscape of cornfields, and whispering forests. I spent time trying to find my voice, caught with the middle-child syndrome. I was trying to find my inner voice, and see the possible ways I can express myself.
Childhood me, holding my dearest guinea pig named Peeker’s.
I found my escape in art, burying my head in paper to block out the noise of local gossip. Every surface became my canvas—receipts, the backs of restaurant menus, napkins—wherever inspiration struck, I was ready.
“Do you have a pen?” became my mantra, echoing through my mother’s mind to this day. She often tells the story with a smile: “She was two when she picked up a paintbrush. I cried. It was beautiful. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.” Even then, art was more than just a pastime—it was how I made sense of the world.
Art has always been my refuge. Growing up with learning disabilites, I had to work twice as hard to grasp what came naturally to others. Creating became my way of navigating and interpreting the world from a perspective uniquely my own. It was this difference that shaped my passion for creativity and connection through my work.
Currently me being silly, wearing a “Bee Kind” yellow hat, while holding a tiny banana in the shape of a smile.
I created wherever I could, no matter the circumstances. I’d draw in the pouring rain, with snow falling, or with fingers so numb I could barely hold my tools. I grasped at everything, desperate to let the inspiration flow. I wanted to be a “true artist,” but often found myself hesitant to leave my comfort zone.
Art has been with me for as long as I can remember. From asking my mom for pens to sketch on napkins to navigating life’s challenges through creativity, it’s always been my way of seeing, expressing, and connecting with the world. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.