Change, chaos, and resilience as an artist

My life has changed more times than I can count, as illness, loss, and transformation have all left their marks. But through it all, I’ve learned that creation is resistance, and that hope burns brighter than despair.

As my following onlie has grown, I wanted to share where that fire comes from- and why, no matter what life takes from me, I’ll never stop creating.

I got the opportunity to move to the Netherlands to pursue my degree in illustration- and while I was there, I began working on children's books, and I ended up doing a solo project where I went to Northern Norway to interview and work with Indigenous reindeer herders, where I created the book Yuka's Way Home.

Then, when I graduated, things took a turn. When I finished university in 2021, everything I had planned for my future was suddenly thrown into chaos. I became ill with a long-term condition that we still don’t fully understand, and the pain never stopped. Like many people with chronic pain, I began to grieve the version of myself I thought I’d lost- the one who could work endlessly, travel freely, and keep up with a world that never slows down. I was also so young, and didn't know how to cope with the loss of so much. I began to feel resentful sometimes when I saw people my age not having to worry about their health constantly.

My career changed, too. The pandemic had rewritten everything, the creative job market had collapsed, and then came the rise of AI- an industry I had just found stability in was now being reshaped overnight.

Something big happened in my personal life too, out of a mix of grief and anger, that caused me to also lose my marriage.

And just when I thought I’d adapted, life demanded more. I tried to cope with the grief and make a new life with what I had, and with how things had changed. But I had to abruptly leave Europe last year. The home I had built, the friends and community I had, all because of another medical emergency and another new, horrible thing to get used to.

That was when I lost the sight in my left eye to glaucoma. Not a genetic condition, not bad luck or carelessness- this was something someone did to me. A doctor’s mistake. There’s a kind of rage that comes with that- my entire world has now changed, and I doubt this will ever impact her career the way it should. I don't know how to explain the rage and grief you feel with losing a part of yourself like this, losing half of your sight as a visual artist, and remembering what life before being sick used to be like.

Rage can be a fire that never really goes out.

Understanding chaos, and understanding how life has taken me on such a weird journey has lit a spark more powerful than rage, in the face of all this loss.

My hope burns hotter and brighter than my pain and my grief. Through everything I've been through and everything I've lost, I have hope.

I feel like hopelessness creeps in when I try to process not only my own grief, but the grief for the world around me and what's happening. But I refused to give in to my despair, whether it came from a place of reflection of my own circumstances, or whether it came from the awful truths of habitat and species loss, famine, war, and existential threats barraging our planet. The world bombards us with terrible news daily - but it's up to us to fight to create the world we want to live in.

But my fight taught me something about hope, and about our own voices. I started working on something as a response to the grief I was feeling, and that project became an ode to hope.

Out of that journey, and my growing sense of ecological despair and dread of an uncertain future came The Sixth Sun.

It began as my way of asking: What do we do when the world feels like it’s ending?

The story reimagines Aztec mythology in modern-day Mexico City, following two musicians who cross paths with the trickster god Huehuecóyotl and discover that the world’s end may not be what it seems.

For me, The Sixth Sun is both myth and mirror. It’s my response to climate grief, disability, and change. It’s about survival through creativity, and about finding, or even creating light even when the world feels dark.

This year, I lost vision in my left eye due to glaucoma.

It’s been a painful and transformative experience - one that reshaped not just how I see, but how I create. I live with chronic pain and fluctuating sight, and I’m still learning to adapt. But through that change, I’ve found a deeper way of seeing.

Art became my anchor through it all- a way to turn loss into meaning. I stopped painting what I could no longer see clearly, but despite the headaches and strain, and the constant uncertainty, I will always keep doing what I love.

I’ve written and illustrated many children’s stories, and I’m thrilled to share that I’ll soon be collaborating with a publishing house focused on social awareness, environmental storytelling, and historical education for kids.

Work is resuming on my next children’s book, The Grand Arctic Inn, which teaches about Arctic ecology through an imaginative hotel run by the animals themselves - where migrating species are the guests, and local residents keep the place running. But when one worker goes missing, everything begins to fall apart. It’s a story about balance, interconnection, and what happens when even one voice goes silent.

Through Coyote Studio, the creative hub I co-founded with my partner, I bring all these threads together - illustration, sound, and storytelling- to celebrate resilience and connection. Our goal is to center disabled, queer, and Indigenous voices, and to make art that inspires hope where it’s needed most.

I live with one eye, but I see more clearly than I ever have.

I see the purpose of what I was put here to do, and I'm never going to slow down- just adapt.