When I Put Down Their Pain, I Picked Up the Brush Again

There’s a certain kind of pain that doesn’t scream—it just sits.
Quietly. Heavily.
In your chest.
In your shoulders.
In the silence of your studio when you can’t seem to begin.

It’s not always your pain.
Sometimes it belongs to someone else.
But you’re the one carrying it now.

And whether it’s your grief or theirs, your childhood story or someone else’s disappointment—you can only carry so much before it crowds out your creativity.

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I didn’t realize how heavy it had all become until after having a mastectomy.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my untouched art supplies across the room. I hadn’t painted in weeks.

My body was in pain, yes—but it was more than that.

I felt like I was carrying a thousand invisible pounds:

Other people’s emotions. Their needs. Their fear. Their disappointment.

And underneath all that?

My own grief, fear, and exhaustion—ignored so I could keep the superwoman cape on and keep “showing up.”

That’s when it hit me:
I wasn’t blocked.
I was buried.

My creativity hadn’t disappeared.

It had been smothered under layers of pain—some mine, some not—that I had never put down.

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When we hold it all, we have no hands left for the brush.

Pain isn’t the enemy. Avoiding it is.

Pain is a two-sided coin. One side deepens your capacity. The other shuts you down.

And sometimes, the difference comes down to this one question:
Am I still supposed to be holding this?

We all hold onto stuff and carry stories.

Some are ours. Some were handed to us. Some we picked up simply because we didn’t know we had a choice.

And over time, we forget we’re even carrying them.

We normalize the exhaustion.

We call it being strong.

We start to believe that if we put it down—if we drop the rock—we’re selfish, or lazy, or letting people down.

We convince ourselves: I have to keep this story to keep myself safe.

Especially the childhood stuff. The identity we built around surviving.

But what if the real safety—the real freedom—is on the other side of letting go?

What if you could finally be available to yourself… and your art?

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The studio is not a space for Superwoman and her cape.

Art doesn’t ask for perfection.

It asks for presence.

But presence is impossible when your mind is managing pain—yours or anyone else’s.

If you’re wondering why your creativity has gone quiet, try asking:

What pain am I still holding that I haven’t named or processed?

I’m not saying to shove it away. I’m saying: see it clearly.

Say to it:
I see you, old pain. I carried you when I needed to. But I don’t need to anymore.

And then—gently, honestly—put it down.
Not to erase it. Not to forget it.
But to make room for something else to grow.

If your art feels far away, maybe it’s not a lack of discipline.

Maybe you’re just too full of what doesn’t belong to you anymore.

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Try This Writing Prompt

Grab a pen. Sit somewhere quiet.
Answer these prompts like you’re writing to the wisest, most compassionate part of yourself:

• What pain am I still carrying—mine or someone else’s—that’s weighing me down?

• How long have I been holding it? Who asked me to carry it?

• What does that weight feel like in my body, in my art, in my energy?

• If I set it down, what might come alive again?

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Try These Kinder Thoughts

• I don’t need to carry everything to be strong.

• I don’t need to hold on to pain to prove I’ve lived through it.

• I can lay it down now—gently, lovingly—and return to myself.

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Create a Visual Reminder

Pull out your collage materials—magazines, scrap paper, old art, paint, ink—and create an image of release.

Let go of trying to make it pretty.
Let it be raw. Honest. Unfiltered.
Let it say something your heart needs to see.

You might include phrases like:

• Drop the rock

• I create from truth, not tension

• My pain is real, but it’s not my identity

• Superwoman cape off

• I get to choose freedom

• I make art for me

When you’re finished, tape it to your studio wall or tuck it in your journal.

Let it remind you:
The emotional weight is optional.

And your voice is still in there—waiting.

With you,
Lynn
Make art~ Be happy. We weren’t meant to carry it all.