Of Dreams and Daisies (My Art Journal)

 My Art Journal Pages

Art journaling is not something I do — it is something I live. It winds through my days like a quiet thread, pulling together the scraps of who I am: the poems, the images, the moon phases, the feelings that don't have names yet. It is where I process and dream and sometimes just make something beautiful for no reason at all.

Each week I share a page from that practice — a glimpse into what this kind of slow, intentional creativity actually looks like from the inside. Not polished. Not performed. Just real.  Oftentimes, as I teach in my own life coaching system, I will look at the page I create and reflect via my journal.  

Because this is what I know to be true: when you give yourself a page and permission, doors open. Something shifts. You start to see yourself more clearly, shed what no longer fits, and grow toward who you were always becoming.

This is my practice. These are my pages. I hope they open something in you too.

In meadows thick with daisies, I remember who I was before the world taught me to forget—and know that girl still lives, wild and unbroken, in every bloom that dares to face the sun.

I was seventeen when I learned to shrink myself small enough to fit into other people's ideas of who I should be—shoulders curved inward like question marks, voice pitched low so as not to take up too much space in rooms that suddenly felt too bright, too demanding. The girl who once cartwhheeled through dandelion fields and declared herself queen of every backyard kingdom got buried beneath layers of should-be and must-not, until even my own reflection felt like a stranger wearing my face. But today, walking through this meadow where daisies grow wild and unashamed, their faces turned boldly toward the sun without apology or explanation, I remember her—that fierce little thing who believed the world was hers to claim, who spoke her truth like gospel and loved with the reckless abandon of someone who had never learned that hearts could break. She's still here, I realize, in the way my pulse quickens at the sight of white petals catching light, in the sudden urge to spin with arms outstretched until the sky blurs into endless blue possibility. The world tried to teach me to forget her, to trade wonder for wisdom, wildness for acceptance—but some things refuse to be tamed, and today I choose to remember that being soft doesn't mean being small, that there's power in the parts of us that never learned to dim their light.

*i created this page with images made by me