Why I Create: The Turning Point That Changed Everything

Back in 2015, my girlfriend and I were walking down Atlantic Avenue in Delray Beach when we stepped into a small local gallery. I got into a conversation with the owner and mentioned that I was an artist. She asked to see some of my work, so I pulled out my phone and showed her a few photos.

After a quick scroll, she looked up and said, “Your artwork is all over the place. If you want to be in a gallery, you need a polished portfolio and a cohesive body of work.”

At the time, that stung. I walked out of there feeling a little deflated. Honestly, for most of my life, I kept my art to myself. It always felt too personal, too weird, too much. I didn’t think anyone else would really get it—or want to.

Then in January 2023, while on the island of Fiji, a family member, Clayton, and a dear friend, Craig, challenged me to see it differently.

In there own way they asked:

“What if your art isn’t just for you? What if someone else needs to see it—because they’re dealing with the same things you are?”

That thought really sank in. What if the things I’d always created just to get through the hard stuff could actually mean something to someone else?

That’s when I started thinking differently about why I create.

So instead of trying to mold myself into what someone else thought an artist should be, I made a decision:

I would keep creating as I always have.

Because my art wasn’t about approval, portfolios, or fitting into a neat little box. It was about getting something out—about surviving, about transforming the weight of my experiences into something I could hold in my hands.

After that moment is when I truly began to let go and embrace what I now call Post-Traumatic Stress Expressionism (PTSE)—my own way of doing the art that I've always done since I was a kid struggling to make sense of this beautiful world and the difficult events that changed the trajectory of my life for the better.

PTSE: This Is Why I Create

I create because I have to.
Not for recognition. Not to impress.
But because sometimes, words just don’t cut it.
Art is how I get it all out—everything that’s too big, too heavy, too tangled up inside.

I refuse to be silent.
My past may have shaped me, but it does not own me.
My work does not ask for permission to exist—it comes through me because it must.

I know where I’ve been, but it doesn’t define me.
Yeah, the past leaves its mark. That’s just the way it is.
But my art isn’t about dwelling on what’s behind me—it’s about moving forward,
about turning all of it into something that makes sense.

Healing is messy, and I’ve learned to accept that.
There were years when the music cracked me open,
when I cried so hard I couldn’t see the canvas,
when everything felt like chaos.

But I kept creating, and eventually, something shifted.
Now, the storm has passed, and I paint from a different place—
a place of understanding and peace.

I refuse to let the darkness win.
I’ve had those thoughts—the ones that whisper,
"Wouldn’t it just be easier to let go?"

But here’s the thing—that’s a lie.
Taking the easy way out steals everything that’s waiting for you on the other side of the storm.
The art you haven’t made yet.
The peace you haven’t felt yet.
The version of you that’s still coming to life.

I’m not about to miss out on that.

Perfection? Not interested.
My work isn’t about neat lines and perfect symmetry.
It’s raw, it’s real, it’s unfiltered.
There’s no roadmap, no clean edges, no rules.
Just feeling, just movement—just getting it out however it needs to come out.

I embrace the chaos.
There is no symmetry in suffering,
no straight path to healing.
PTSE is a conversation between pain and possibility—
one that is messy, unfiltered, and deeply human.

And through all of it, I’ve learned this: Laughter is good medicine.
There’s something about laughing at the very thing that tried to break you—
something that takes its power away.
I laugh because trauma does not own me.
I alone own me.

I acknowledge the thoughts that tell me to quit.
The whispers that say to walk away, that the weight is too much.
But I also acknowledge this: those thoughts are not the truth.
They are fear, they are exhaustion, but they are not final.
There’s more for me beyond this moment.

I welcome the unknown.
I do not always know where the work is going or what it will become.
But I show up anyway because something is waiting for me on the other side.

I accept that I am still learning.
My art, my process, my understanding of myself—they will keep changing.
And that’s okay.

I create in hopes that someone else might see themselves in my work.
That they might feel less alone,
that something unspoken in them might be understood.
If my work connects with even one person,
then it has done what it was meant to do.

And so now, I let this caged bird fly wherever it may go.

If You’re Struggling, You’re Not Alone. Help Is Available.

📞 U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988 (Call or Text)
📞 Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 (Free, 24/7 support)
📞 Veterans Crisis Line: Dial 988, then Press 1 (For U.S. military veterans & service members)
📞 SAMHSA’s Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

🌍 For International Help:
🔹 Canada: Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 (Available 24/7)
🔹 U.K.: Samaritans: 116 123
🔹 Australia: Lifeline Australia: 13 11 14
🔹 Find Your Country’s Helpline: findahelpline.com

Disclaimer

I am not a professional therapist or healthcare provider. The insights and perspectives I share through my art and my life story are based solely on my personal experiences and the ways I’ve found to cope with trauma over the years.

My artwork and creative process have been a form of self-therapy for me, helping me navigate challenges and find a sense of peace. While I hope that sharing my journey might resonate with others, please remember that it is not intended as medical advice or a substitute for professional mental health care.

If you are struggling or need support, I encourage you to reach out to a qualified mental health professional who can offer guidance and assistance tailored to your needs.