About The Therapy Artist

I didn’t set out to make a new kind of art. I was born with the ability. But after giving it away — to people, to praise, to pain — something in me went quiet. What brought joy now carried grief.

What came out wasn’t polite or pretty. It didn’t ask permission. It came in fragments: faceless figures, bruised light, a kind of honesty that wouldn’t shut up.

“You don’t need to explain your pain. But it still needs somewhere to go.”

These pieces are digital. Not because I can’t paint, but because the screen keeps up with my hands. It moves faster than fear. Every stroke is still mine.

This isn’t art for galleries. It’s not wall candy. It’s for the ones who’ve sat in silence so long, they forgot how much noise lives inside them.

Some days, it wasn’t people who kept me going. It was these four walls. When the noise died down, when everyone else faded, they were still here. Steady. Honest. Like the blank canvas — quiet until spoken to.

I make what I needed to see. And sometimes, that’s enough.

For therapy rooms. For shadow work. For those still learning the shape of their own survival.

Not For Everyone — If you’re still reading, maybe that says something. Some entries are only whispered.