I grew up in an environment where mothers wished their daughters were invisible. Within my family it’s preferred to silently endure and complain about the neighbors rather than change things. I had a childhood where at the age of 9, I had already undergone four heavy surgeries, each lasting for hours. My insides were cut open, worked on, and stitched back together.

Almost 40 years later, friends call me an “energetic bundle,” enemies a “machine,” because I’ve obsessively drawn, written, worked, and collected academic titles and other qualifications. All of that: liberation blows. It was my way of finding myself.

Sure, I often driven those around me crazy with it. But what remained in every phase: I broke free from the conventions of my upbringing and am becoming more me from day to day. I could not have done it differently than I did.

I could also not have become the person I am without my creative expression. Already in early school, I eagerly wrote in my daily diary, kept my sketchbooks and pen with me all day, and now, as an adult, I have a part of my art studio in my self-converted van to keep it mobile.

I started to write and do art by simply doing it, forgiving myself when an art piece was not as I intended. My strong will to not give up helped me.

Creation is life, life is creation.