I am not a perfect artist. Most of my life was overshadowed with depression, anxiety, and lack of self-worth. I’ve come a long way since then, but my greatest regret is that I never let myself fall deeply into my art. Even now I struggle with letting my hand rest with a pen on a piece of paper, the defense mechanism of my brain so strong that I give up before I start, without even realizing it half of the time. It took me over 25 years to even believe that I could be beautiful. It took me just as long to believe I deserve more than being treated like shit by people in my life. I often give up in fear of failing, but I desire to keep going even when what I make looks like shit to me. I am nothing if not a creator, in any capacity or facet of my life.