Crow and Flame

Today I submitted my artwork to be considered for a summer contest and fair.

And my hands were shaking when I did it.

Not dramatically. Not for attention. Not because I wanted to feel brave.

But because somewhere deep inside me, the old narrative woke up like it always does when I take a step forward.

That voice that says:

Who do you think you are?

This is child’s play.

They’re going to laugh.

You’re not a real artist.

You don’t belong in those spaces.

It’s amazing how quickly excitement can turn into fear when you’re not used to being seen.

Because submitting your art isn’t just submitting art.

It’s submitting yourself.

Your taste.

Your vulnerability.

Your time.

Your eye.

Your soul.

Your courage.

And it’s not lost on me that I’m already waiting to hear back from the museum submission too.

So now I’m in that strange in-between space… where I’ve put myself out there twice, and there’s no way to pull it back.

No way to unsend it.

No way to pretend I didn’t want it.

And that is terrifying.

Imposter Syndrome Is Loud Right Now

I’m sitting in the discomfort of wondering if I’m good enough.

Wondering if I’m talented enough.

Wondering if I’m just… embarrassing myself.

That’s the hardest part about growth—when you start reaching for something bigger than what you’ve always believed you deserve.

The truth is, I’ve spent so long shrinking.

So long treating my creativity like it’s a hobby, like it’s something cute, something harmless, something that doesn’t deserve space.

Something I can do quietly, privately, safely…

But not something I’m allowed to share.

Not something I’m allowed to be proud of.

Not something I’m allowed to claim.

Because claiming it means risk.

And risk means rejection.

But I Submitted It Anyway

I submitted it anyway.

Not because I suddenly feel confident.

Not because I’ve conquered fear.

Not because I woke up today overflowing with self-esteem.

I submitted it because I’m tired of letting my fear be the final decision-maker in my life.

I’m tired of waiting until I feel “ready.”

I’m tired of requiring perfection before I allow myself to participate.

I’m tired of letting my inner critic speak louder than my inner artist.

So I pressed submit.

And it felt like stepping off a ledge.

What If I Am Good Enough?

Here’s the question that’s been echoing through me all day:

Why does it matter if they accept me?

And I don’t mean that in a bitter way.

I mean it in a sacred way.

Because what I’m realizing is this:

Even if they don’t choose my work…

even if I don’t get in…

even if I get rejected twice…

I still did something I’ve never done before.

I still showed up.

I still claimed space.

I still dared to believe my art belongs somewhere beyond the walls of my own home.

And maybe the bigger question is not:

What if I’m not good enough?

Maybe the question is:

What if I am?

What if my art is worthy?

What if it’s not “child’s play” but something honest and raw and alive?

What if it speaks to people?

What if it makes someone feel something?

What if I’m becoming the person I always wished I was brave enough to be?

This Is What Growth Feels Like

This is what growth feels like.

It feels like nausea and excitement in the same breath.

It feels like wanting to run and wanting to be seen.

It feels like standing at the edge of your own potential and realizing you can either retreat…

Or leap.

Today I leapt.

And I’m scared.

But I’m proud too.

Because whether they accept my work or not…

I’m finally accepting myself as someone who creates.

As someone who tries.

As someone who refuses to keep hiding.

And that matters.

That matters more than a ribbon.

More than a title.

More than a judge’s opinion.

Because I didn’t submit my art for them.

I submitted it for the version of me who used to believe she’d never be allowed to.

And this time…

I didn’t ask permission.