Painting My Future

I stand small against a wall that feels impossibly huge, my hair a sunlit tangle and my hands steady despite the mess around me—paint buckets, stains, splatters, proof that I’ve been here for hours.

And there she is: me, older, larger than life, staring back with those impossible blue eyes like she already knows every version of my story.

I’m not just painting a face—I’m painting a promise.

A portrait of the woman I’m becoming, layer by layer, bruise by bruise, glow by glow.

Every stroke is a bridge between who I am and who I refuse not to be.