Sometimes art captures what words can't quite reach. Sometimes you create something and realize you've been carrying this image in your soul for months, maybe years, just waiting for the right moment to let it out.

That's what happened with this piece I just finished. I've been sitting with this feeling for so long, and when I finally put pencil to paper (and then stylus to tablet), it all made sense. This is me. This is grief. This is what it feels like to exist in the space between darkness and light.

The Tunnel That Follows You Everywhere

Y'all know I talk about my car crisis moments, those times when I sit in my car staring at my front door, unable to move forward or backward. But what I don't always talk about is how grief feels like carrying a tunnel with you everywhere you go.

Not IN the tunnel. That would almost be easier, because then at least you'd know you were supposed to be in darkness, supposed to be lost. No, this feels like sitting right at the edge of it, one foot in the light, one foot ready to slip into that dark space where all your pain lives.

Some days I'm wearing my favorite sage green (because even in grief, I'm still me), sitting comfortable in my own skin, but positioned right at the mouth of this space that could swallow me whole if I let it.

When Comfortable Becomes Complicated

Look at this picture of me, head down, legs dangling, leaning, looking almost... comfortable? That's the thing about long-term grief that people don't tell you. You get comfortable with the discomfort. You learn how to sit with the darkness without being consumed by it.

After losing both my parents, with my Mama being my best friend and constant companion for the last two years of her life, I've learned that grief isn't always the dramatic sobbing in parking lots (though that happens too). Sometimes it's this quiet, contemplative state where you're just existing in the in-between.

You're not drowning, but you're not exactly swimming either. You're just... sitting. At the edge. Waiting to see which way the day is going to pull you.

The Art of Existing in Liminal Spaces

This artwork came from one of those moments when I was trying to explain to someone what grief feels like as a creative person, as a mother, as someone who's supposed to have it all together. How do you describe the weight of carrying this darkness with you while still trying to show up for your four-year-old daughter? While still trying to chase dreams and pay bills and figure out which of your many talents deserves your attention?

I realized I spend a lot of time in liminal spaces. That space between teacher and entrepreneur. Between struggling and thriving. Between missing my mama so much it hurts and being grateful for every moment we had. Between wanting to hide from the world and desperately wanting to be seen.

The tunnel represents all of that. It's not just grief from loss - it's the grief of dreams deferred, of feeling invisible in a world that moves too fast, of loving people who can't love you back the way you need, of having so much to offer but not knowing how to package it in a way the world will accept.

Creating from the Edge

What I love about this piece is that the figure isn't hiding from the tunnel or running from it. They're not trying to pretend it doesn't exist. They're sitting with it, acknowledging it, maybe even having a conversation with it.

That's what my art has become for me - a way to sit with the hard things and make something beautiful from them. A way to take the car crisis moments and transform them into something that might help someone else feel less alone in their own tunnel.

When my Mama was here, she was always my biggest cheerleader for my creative side. She loved seeing my sketches, reading my writing, watching me bring ideas to life. Now that she's gone, creating feels like both an act of rebellion against the grief and a love letter to her memory.

The Beauty of Monochromatic Emotions

I chose these soft greens and grays intentionally. Green has always been my color - it represents growth, nature, healing, life continuing even in difficult seasons. But mixed with the grays and that dark tunnel space, it becomes something more complex.

It's hope tinged with sadness. It's peace mixed with uncertainty. It's the color of someone who's healing but hasn't forgotten what broke them in the first place.

Sometimes people expect grief art to be all blacks and reds and dramatic strokes. But real grief isn't always dramatic. Sometimes it's quiet and sage-colored and surprisingly comfortable, even when it shouldn't be.

What the Tunnel Teaches Us

Here's what I've learned from spending so much time at the edge of my own dark tunnel: it's not trying to swallow you. It's trying to teach you.

It's teaching you that you're stronger than you thought. It's teaching you that you can sit with discomfort without being destroyed by it. It's teaching you that creativity can bloom in the most unexpected places. It's teaching you that healing isn't linear, and sometimes the most profound growth happens in the quiet, contemplative moments when no one else is watching.

The tunnel is also teaching you that you don't have to choose between light and dark. You can exist in both spaces, honoring your pain while still reaching for joy, missing what was while still believing in what could be.

For Anyone Else Sitting at the Edge

If you're reading this and you have your own tunnel - whether it's grief, depression, anxiety, feeling stuck between who you were and who you're becoming - I want you to know that sitting at the edge isn't giving up. It's not weakness. It's not failure.

Sometimes sitting at the edge is exactly where you need to be. Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is acknowledge the darkness without letting it define you.

Your tunnel might look different from mine. It might be painted in different colors, shaped by different losses, different dreams deferred, different ways the world has made you feel invisible. But if you're sitting at your own edge, you're not alone.

Speaking of not being alone in this journey, I recently discovered this book called Joy Rides through the Tunnel of Grief: A Memoir. The title alone stopped me in my tracks because it perfectly captures something I've been trying to articulate - that even in grief, even in the tunnel, there can be moments of unexpected joy, little rides that remind us we're still alive, still capable of feeling more than just pain.

And maybe, just maybe, there's something beautiful you're meant to create from that exact spot where you are right now. Something only you can make because only you know what it feels like to sit exactly where you're sitting.

The tunnel isn't the end of your story. It's just part of the landscape of a life fully lived, fully felt, fully honored in all its complicated beauty.

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