There I was, sprawled on my bedroom floor with nothing but a red bull, 17 unpaid bills, and a looming sense of doom. This wasn’t quite the glamorous life of a “self-employed artist” I’d imagined. You know the one — full of creative breakthroughs, sunset beach walks for inspiration, and, of course, the effortless sales of my paintings. (Spoiler alert: None of that was happening.)

Instead, I was on the brink of burnout. Totally wiped, zero motivation, staring blankly at half-finished canvases and wondering if I should just become a barista. At least baristas get to talk to people and wear cute aprons.

I thought, “Isn’t art supposed to be my happy place? Wasn’t this the dream?”

But honestly, when your dream turns into a “must-pay-rent” job, it loses that glittering sheen real fast. After three years of chasing creative freedom (and, let’s be honest, financial stability), I found myself stressed out, broke, and somehow allergic to the very idea of holding a paintbrush.

I needed a change. Desperately.

After three years of chasing the artistic dream and nearly faceplanting into burnout, I realized something had to change. Enter: the plot twist no one talks about.

Like many creatives, I had this romantic idea of breaking free from traditional jobs to pursue my heart’s true calling. But, spoiler alert, “following your bliss” doesn’t always pay the bills. So, I did something that felt like admitting defeat—I got a day job.

And no, this wasn’t some artsy, freelance gig where I could wear paint-splattered jeans and call it my “creative process.” Oh no, we’re talking a real job—an office, emails, meetings, the whole shebang. I traded in my watercolor stains for a laptop and sensible shoes. (well, mules, because I’m a barefoot babe at heart—hippie forever)

At first, it felt like giving up. Like I was abandoning the one thing that used to make me feel alive and fulfilled. But here’s the kicker: that job gave me back the time, space, and permission to fall in love with art again. Without relying on it to pay the bills, painting became something I *wanted* to do, not something I *had* to do.

And let me tell you, that makes all the difference.

Suddenly, there was no pressure. I wasn’t obsessing over how to turn my art into a paycheck, how to make it marketable, or how to keep up with all the other “successful” artists who seem to have their lives perfectly Instagrammed. (I mean, seriously—how do they do it?) Painting became something I wanted to do—not a "do it or eat ramen for the rest of the month" kind of deal.

Instead, I started painting for the hell of it. If it turned out beautiful, great. If it looked like a toddler's finger-painting, well… at least I was having fun? Without the stress of needing to sell every piece I created, I found myself playing with colors again, experimenting, making messes (literal and figurative).

I eventually let go of comparison, shame, and modesty, and shifted my focus inward. Scheduling studio time became a sacred affair—because if cheaters can find time to cheat, surely I can find time to paint. Right?

With a renewed focus on creating art purely for the joy of it, I’ve realized the significance of curating an environment that fosters my creative spirit. Gone were the days of needing a fancy studio—my supplies now live in my hot pink tool chest, bolted to the floor of my van. Her name’s Freya, and she’s not just a van—she’s a trusty companion on my art trips and a grounding space where I prep for adventures.

But what really speaks to my artist’s soul? Painting while exploring new places. It’s exhilarating, a little scary, and absolutely freeing. No laptop, no Photoshop, no safety net—just me, my brushes, and a moment waiting to be captured. No perfection allowed, no overworked ideas—just pure intuition.

My new plan was clear: Work full-time, leave work at work, and paint on my days off. Somehow, this structured chaos made everything feel a little more fun.

Here’s the thing no one tells you about balancing a job and your passion: it’s hard. Like, really hard. I had to learn how to prioritize (or at least pretend I could). I mean, who has time to paint, work, meal prep, stay fit, and maintain a social life? No one. (Especially not me—I can’t even keep a cactus alive.)

But in this wild, semi-chaotic juggling act, I stumbled upon a few nuggets of wisdom:

1. Having a day job doesn’t make you any less of an artist. (I repeat: having a day job doesn’t make you any less of an artist.) If anything, it gives you freedom to create without financial panic looming over your head.

2. Burnout is real and dangerous. If you’re in it, take a break. Even if it feels counterproductive. Because pushing through when you’re already drained will only leave you hating the thing you once loved.

3. It’s okay to paint just for fun. You don’t need to slap a price tag on everything you create. Sometimes it’s nice to paint just for the joy of it, no expectations attached.

4. Balance is a myth. Really. You’re always going to drop a ball (or five). Some weeks I’m painting non-stop, others I can barely look at a canvas. And that’s okay. The art will be there when you’re ready.

5. It’s all a journey. Cliché? Maybe. But I mean it. Creativity isn’t a straight line, and I’ve stopped pretending mine should be. Some days I’m an “artiste,” and some days I’m barely getting by—but aren’t we all?

Now, I find myself painting more often—not because I need to sell, but because I want to. It’s become this wonderful, freeing thing again. The kind of thing that makes me excited, makes me feel like a kid with a new box of crayons. And when the pressure isn’t there, it turns out I’m more productive. (Go figure.)

I still sell my art, but it’s not the center of my universe anymore. It’s just one part of me—a part I get to nurture, love, and occasionally ignore when life gets in the way.

So, here I am: balancing (or attempting to) a full-time job, a painting passion, and everything else life throws at me. Some days are a hot mess. Others are magical. But I’m learning to let go of the idea that I need to “have it all figured out.” Spoiler alert: I don’t. And that’s okay.

If you’re an artist—or just a human—who’s struggling to keep it all together, just know that it’s okay to take breaks, have meltdowns, and come back when you’re ready. The art (and life) will be there when you are ready.

And honestly, if all else fails… there’s always wine. Or tea. Or a very long nap.

Cheers to being slightly adventurous, a bit messy, and totally human.

Here’s to the ongoing journey—one brushstroke, one red bull, and one miraculous comeback at a time.