When I was young, I often wished that I could make art erupt out of my fingers and wrap around my entire body. Only then could I feel the stress melt away, I thought. Only then could I feel alive when my anxiety froze everything inside of me.

I thought my art form was writing. In many ways it is. But with writing comes its own form of anxiety–the dread of the blank page, the pressure to keep moving on, the failure when you let go of a project. Writing demands time. It requires soaking in the right moment, bathing in emotions and memories.

And when Jaya was born, finding that time became impossible.

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