I always drew. I couldn’t help it. But somewhere around middle school, I sensed

I always drew. I couldn’t help it. But somewhere around middle school, I sensed that drawing wasn’t neutral in my world — it was indulgent. Suspicious. Potentially dangerous.

Art was fine as decoration, but dangerous as vocation. Dangerous as passion. Dangerous as identity.

Adults didn’t say this outright. It was in the tone. The sigh. The subtle disapproval. The suggestion to “do something stable.” The belief that business was noble and art was frivolous.

I internalized that fear — the belief that creativity must be contained.

It took me decades to unlearn.