For so long, I’ve blurred the lines between myself and others—saying yes when I meant no, softening my truth so no one would feel uncomfortable. Lately, I’ve noticed that same hesitation spilling into my art, keeping me from creating as freely as my soul longs to. This piece is about understanding where I end and where my art begins… and what it means to finally honor both.
I’ve spent much of my life standing at the edge of myself—softly, carefully—afraid to take up too much space. Somewhere along the way, I learned that love was earned by being agreeable, that peace meant swallowing my own discomfort, that kindness meant keeping everyone else comfortable, even if I wasn’t.
So I became fluent in the language of people-pleasing. I said yes when I meant no. I absorbed tension before it could spark conflict. I offered understanding when I really needed it for myself. I thought that being good meant being easy. And little by little, I disappeared into the versions of me that others preferred.
But there’s a quiet shame that comes from living with no boundaries—a subtle grief that creeps in.
You begin to lose the essence of who you are.
That same hesitancy follows me into my art studio. There, too, I’ve felt the pull to please, to create what might be liked, shared, or bought. I’ve held back brushstrokes that felt too bold, muted colors that felt too emotional, silenced impulses that didn’t make sense. Even in my sanctuary of creation, I sometimes carry the weight of other people’s eyes.
But lately, something in me has been shifting. I want to push the boundaries in my artwork—to paint like I breathe, freely and without permission. I want to make a glorious mess of my fears, to spill my truth across the canvas and not clean it up afterward. I want to create from instinct, not approval.
It’s a strange thing—to need stronger boundaries in daily life and relationships yet softer ones in art. Boundaries, I’ve realized, aren’t walls to keep others out—they’re doors that open the connection to myself.
The boundaries I want to break are the invisible ones that have kept me small. The unspoken rules that whisper, Don’t be too much. Don’t be too strange. Don’t be too you. In painting, I want no fences, no filters, no fear—only the wide open field of my imagination.
Both forms of boundaries—those I’m learning to build, and those I’m learning to break down —are shaping my sense of self. They’re teaching me balance. In my relationships, boundaries protect my truth. In my art, the absence of them reveals it. One keeps me safe; the other sets me free.
And maybe that’s the lesson I’ve been circling all along: that authenticity requires both containment and release. To love myself enough to say no and trust myself enough to say yes on the canvas.
If any part of this resonates, I invite you to sit with it and ask yourself where in your life do you need firmer boundaries—and where do you crave more openness, more color, more play?
Sometimes healing looks like drawing a line. Other times, it looks like crossing one.
with love,
Martine
