When the dream becomes heavy: crossing the trough after having given everything

L'art de l'introspection. Ça fait partie de ma vie depuis 5 ans.

“I do exactly what I have to do, with love and passion.”

The sacred fire, then the void

I created my oracle with everything I had. Head first. Open heart. Carried by a vision, a flame. And once the launch was complete, I didn't slow down. I accepted painting contracts, wanted to capitalize on the momentum, ride the wave. But the wave abruptly withdrew. And there I was, stranded on the sand, drained, my mind in a fog.

I told myself, "You've handled everything else, you can handle this too. Keep going." But my body wasn't saying the same thing. It was screaming. Silently, but firmly. A timid start: red patches on my fingers. Burning, tingling. My automatic reflex: Dictionary of Discomforts and Illnesses. Verdict: dermatitis.

The anger of the cells

What I read there shook me. Repressed anger. Feelings of helplessness. Loss of control. My body was speaking to me, but I wasn't listening. I continued. And he raised his voice: rheumatoid arthritis. In my hands. My precious artist's tool. The pain, the loss of strength, of sensitivity. A brutal reality.

And I'm not here to play the victim. I didn't listen to him. I thought I was stronger than him. I ignored him to perform. To avoid losing momentum . To avoid facing the fear of heights.

And then, the wall

One morning, brush in hand, nothing. No more pleasure. No more breath. Just harsh words: "So it's really ugly. You're doing anything. Where did you learn to paint?" The little voice had transformed into an executioner. I understood. BOOM. The wall. You don't paint in this state... you stop now!

Physical fatigue. Mental fog. And a strange loneliness. Not the kind I choose, the kind I love, but the kind that follows overflow. The post-adrenaline emptiness. The shock of carrying an immense dream.

“The void is not a mistake. It is a transition.”

Mourning a wait

I also experienced a silent grief: that of expectations. I hoped for more sales. More recognition. And I felt like my work was invisible. Not seen. Not received. My ego took it as rejection.

There were also the unanswered messages. The silences. The " seen "s without follow-up. It stings, even when you pretend not. I asked myself, "Does what I do really interest anyone?"

“You can give it your all and still not be received the way you expected. You haven't done anything wrong.”

What the hollow teaches me

I've learned that as long as I don't accept to stop, life will force me to. I've learned that creative impulse cannot be commanded. That recovery is an art , just as much as creation.

I need gentleness. Rest. Empty space for something new to emerge. Emptiness isn't the end. It's the foretaste of renewal.

"Any living system, in times of stress, followed by rest, spontaneously returns to equilibrium."

I'm afraid, yes. Afraid of losing momentum, of no longer selling, of not being seen. But I can't pretend anymore. I can't force it anymore. My body is my accomplice, not my slave.

Close one door, open another

What do I want now? To create from the heart. Not to perform. To paint what moves me. To observe without judging (hey, that's the very title of my next painting).

I've taken out my pen again. I'm starting to write texts again, song lyrics to accompany the videos of my paintings, with their stories. Just because it makes me trip . Just because it nourishes me.

“When you no longer do anything to please, but everything to thrill, you find your truth.”

And you?

Maybe you're at your lowest ebb, too. You gave it your all, you stayed the course, you even shone... and now you don't know anymore. That's normal.

I want to tell you: you haven't missed anything. The low isn't a mistake, it's a step. A sacred pause. The return to yourself that's necessary.

So rest. Look at yourself with tenderness. And remember why you started.

"I do exactly what I have to do, with love and passion."

If this text speaks to you, don't hesitate to leave me a comment.

Thank you for reading me.

Nagie xx