Recently, I caught up with an old friend and her wife. I’ve always adored everything about this funny, clever friend and clung to her every word. I think, in a sense, I’ve emulated her (or at least this type of person), particularly in my late 20’s on. To be as captivating and as hysterical as my friend takes a certain type of confidence that, at its core, almost always comes from a deep sense of insecurity. Knowing her, I know this is true. That resonates with me, as I correlate my eagerness in sharing my art with the world as actually my way of coping with a gut punching lack of self worth. I must be worthy, must be.

As a result of this catch up, unexpected melancholy swept over me for the rest of the day. I’ll be honest; I hate melancholy. In no way do I romanticize sadness and longing and dreary days filled with thinking. Ugh, thinking. I am an Enneagram 7, an Aquarius, an artist who throws glitter around. My tolerance for it in others has improved, but at the cost of never accepting it in myself.

Fuck melancholy.

In an effort to figure out the “why” of this STUPID FEELING I decided to go straight to the most obvious source of my bad feelings lately, money. There is often not enough and I dread that will never change. On my best days, I am hopeful the creative pursuits of my husband and or/my own will work out financially. “It WILL work out, end of story,” I tell myself. On the worst days, I worry about my children as adults, breaking down in therapy about how reckless and irresponsible their parents were pursuing their big, fantastical dreams. Should we focus on their college fund or their therapy fund? Seems only fair that we offer to cover one of those, if not both. After a journey down the worst case financial scenario I could imagine, I determined this was not the source of my melancholy. Once again, a sprinkling of delusion and unwavering optimism saves the day.

Moving on.

Next up came identity. Am I an artist, like a real serious artist? Does a real serious artist make trendy, artsy Instagram reels hoping for some attention because gallery representation seems like a pipe dream (and frankly, a waste of time)? Does a real serious artist care deeply about skin care routines and flawless makeup? Does a real serious artist smile or lean into optimism as much I do? Does a real artist order Starbucks or watch Bravo the way I do? ARE REAL SERIOUS ARTISTS MOTHERS? And the glitter….sheesh! Don’t even get me started about the existential crisis I have everytime throw some glitter on top of modge podge. It’s an epic battle of art vs. craft that I simply cannot reconcile with a total tailspin of self-doubt. With every passing day, however, I become less concerned with seeing my identity as something others experience. Identity comes from within and should be difficult to describe to others, it should be difficult to pin down. I just exist, make choices, and live with those choices. That’s my identity. A series of choices. Sparkly, loving choices.

Moving on.

Finally, I thought more about my morning meeting with the old friend and her wife. Both of them are in creative fields and thriving. They have a beautiful daughter who is charming, curious, and hasn’t hit the age where she doubts their perfection. They live in a city that graciously supports their creativity and provides endless opportunity for them to succeed. They own a home that is four times the cost of mine and they talk of traveling abroad as if it’s the most obvious thing one could do. It might be easy to simply say “Oh, you’re jealous, that’s all!” I mean, obviously I am jealous, but it’s not just that. It’s more a reminder that I am on the right path, that I need to keep creating and trying. Ugh, trying. I have to continue to get up, make art, struggle, succeed, worry, hope, and harness opportunity at every turn. My art must continue to get in the way of family, family get in the way of art. I have to continue to explain what I do all day to other people, only for them to say “well it’s great you get to stay home, you know?” I have to continue to have days where melancholy washes over me and in my futile effort to figure out why, I will be reminded that I have plenty to be sad and stressed about.

This is who I am, an artist. A mother. A spouse. Who has to work. And who sometimes has to be sad for no reason whatsoever.