I’m taking it slow. For the past few days—just coming off a stomach bug and trying to re-orient myself after two weeks away—I’ve slept in. And I’ve done less work than usual. And I’ve given myself more free time. And more conversations with friends. And more internal processing.
And I’ve taken it slow.
I’ll admit that’s a luxury I have as a business owner. One I probably would have felt guilty about not too long ago. Because guilt always has a tinge of worth associated. And I didn’t feel worthy. I felt like, if others had to suffer, I should too. That it was spoiled or irresponsible or just bad business to take things slow. That I didn’t deserve it. That I couldn’t gift myself what I needed because it’d be socially inappropriate.
That last line makes me pause. And really think. Of how often in my life I’ve given more weight to someone else’s subjectivity than my own. Like trusting someone else’s description of what happened over what I saw. Or feeling pressured to minimize my feelings. Or toning myself down to fit in. Or ignoring my intuition to do what’s socially appropriate.
And then, when I’ve allowed my voice an power to be given away for so many years, even a small act like taking work slow can feel revolutionary. Can feel like provocative art I’m creating.
Because it’s me. Unadulterated me. Honestly acting my truest emotions and intuition. And that’s the most beautiful art that I could create.
It makes me think about a lot of those ‘revolutionary acts’ I’ve made over the last several years. Like choosing to be with Garrett, despite fears and judgment. And choosing to leave my job and start this new business. And choosing to grow this business slowly and full of ease—on my own terms. And choosing to create my own ideal work schedule, even if it’s not the most productive I could do. All the way down to choosing to get engaged in Italy and get married in Aruba, with 50 of our closest friends and family.
All of those choices were in some way terrifying. And often bucked convention. They were often met with protest or anger or calls of my selfishness. But I did them anyway. I had to do them. Because anything less would have been inauthentic. A cheap imitation of the life—the art—that was me. Looking somewhat similar, but lacking the passion and essence of Truth.
I had this moment on my wedding day. We were sitting at the most stunning little secret garden. A place hidden from the street by big gates. And when you walk in and turn past the shrubbery, it’s hard not to gasp. Because an intimate garden oasis waits for you. It’s where we had our reception.
And I was sitting there—eating one of the best pieces of fish I’ve had in my life, paired with a buttery chardonnay, and looking out over the garden at the 50 most important people in my life—and I had this thought. I thought, “Yeah, this is me. If somewhere were to take a picture right now and hang it in a gallery, it’d perfectly articulate who I am.”
Everything from the people to the food to the atmosphere and location and love all communicated something about me. Who I was, where I come from, what I love, what lights me up, what world I want to create, and who I am today. All of it.
It was surreal and potent. And I remember thinking that it’d be amazing if every moment of my life were like that. Simply a piece of moving art that articulated who I am. From the way I dress to the way I express love down to this very blog post. Snapshots of my essence, always.
Small, intentional, revolutionary acts of empowerment, of agency. That make beautiful, beautiful art.
It’s a beautiful world out there. One in which I get to be me in all the ways I’m able to today. And, still, I get to fight for new ways to be me in the future. And passionately physicalizing that. Making art as I go.
What would the art of your life look like?