Some Paintings Don't Begin with Paint

January 31, 2026

Some paintings don't begin with paint. This one began with words.

At the center of Hope Happens Here is a typewritten note, a quiet but steady representation of my writing. Writing has always been where I process, where I grieve, where I make sense of the parts of our story that feel too heavy to carry silently.

Surrounding the note are poppy flowers, deeply rooted in symbolism of remembrance and resilience. For our family, resilience hasn’t looked loud or triumphant. It has looked like showing up to appointments when we’re exhausted. It has looked like learning a new language of advocacy. It has looked like loving fiercely in a world that doesn’t always make space for difference.

These poppies hold that kind of strength. The quiet, determined kind.

And then, there is the single golden poppy bud. It’s small. It’s not fully opened yet. It doesn’t demand attention the way a full bloom might. But it glows.

That bud is hope, the honest kind. The kind that exists alongside grief. The

kind that says, something beautiful can still grow here. The kind that doesn’t erase the hard parts of our story but lives right beside them.

Hope doesn’t always arrive fully formed. Sometimes it’s just a flicker. A breath. A moment of light you almost miss if you aren’t looking closely.

This painting is a reminder that hope doesn’t have to be big to be real.

If this piece speaks to you, I hope it feels like a gentle hand on your shoulder. A reminder that even in the chapters you didn’t choose, there is still room for beauty, growth, and light.

Hope happens here. And if you’re reading this, it’s happening with you, too.