Somewhere between about 25 and 37, I got lost. I made my way along that strange path well enough. I would say successfully, even.

Until I didn’t.

This isn’t an unfamiliar story. Young woman becomes mother, loses self. Aren’t we all the Martyr in some way at some point? The thing is. When you are lost like that, you are often alone. You may surround yourself with other lost souls, and for a time, being lost together makes it bearable. Maybe even fun.

Until it isn’t.

Eventually, the path becomes submerged, and you begin to tread water. One day I got tired of treading, I was drowning. Someone who had once successfully pulled herself up from the same depths threw me a life vest. She said, “do one thing JUST for you.” The ONE thing I could remember that was all mine, and mine alone, was painting.

And so it was. I’ve called it my snorkel.

My return to it came quickly and fiercely. It allowed me to breathe deeply enough that I began to see a path that I recognized.

Now, by what seems like a miracle, I can see where I’m going. I can look at a map. I can be where I want to be. I am finding my way.

One brush at a time.