"Where the Light Finds Me" | I painted this after years of silence; brush untouched, colors waiting patiently for me. This is me, standing at the edge of a new beginning, where the waves hush the past and the sun promises nothing but light. This piece captures both a memory and a wish, reminding me to rise with wonder, to chase the dawn, and to meet each day with open hands and a full heart.
"Saltwater Sanctuary" | Miami's beaches have always known me; before the noise, before the unraveling. It holds the sun, the sky, and the breath I forgot I was holding. This is my Saltwater Sanctuary. A place that doesn't ask for anything but presence.
"Let the Colors Dream for You" | I didn’t paint this to be precise. I painted it to pause. This piece isn’t about perfect perspective or realistic proportions. It’s about soft rebellion. The kind where you let the figure stay small so the sea can stay vast. Where the back of a woman becomes an open doorway inviting you to step into stillness, not performance. Her hair isn’t styled. The ropes aren’t even. And still she’s held. By the hammock. By the sky. This is what it looks like when presence wins. When we let go of needing to get it “right” and just let the bright colors lead the way.
"While the Light Unfolded" | She didn’t chase the light. She let it find her curled in softness, bare against the hush of tide and sky. This piece is about stillness, and the quiet kind of healing that happens when no one’s watching. A moment to simply be.
"Before the World Arrives, She Greets the Quiet" The sky doesn’t rush to bloom. The ocean doesn’t beg to be seen. She learned from them. And so she stands steady, open, radiant, a woman who knows that peace is power.
"Between Masks" | Some days I forget which self I’m wearing. Some days I forget if any of them are mine. I painted her in front of the chaos, a fallen angel, caught between who the world expects her to be and who she actually is. Masking to belong, unmasking to breathe. Each change blurs the edges a little more.
"Writing my Own Story" Series | These two pieces, gold and silver, survivor and shapeshifter, completely transform in direct sun. What was subtle becomes radiant. What was quiet becomes undeniable. They’re part of the same storm. Painted from different pieces of me. One born of grief. The other, of defiant joy. But both say the same thing: I get to write my story.
“Scars into Brushstrokes” | Some stories aren’t told in words. They’re told in layers. In textures. In colors mixed with memory. This piece poured out of me in the midst of anger, clarity, and a reclamation of self. I started with chaos, using paint and: berries, cotton, twine, dying flowers, seed pods, and then she appeared. Not soft, but sovereign. Not broken, but becoming. They tried to write my story. But I turned the scars into brushstrokes and made something beautiful.
"She Came Out Dancing" | In full color. In full control. With glitter in her scars and a beat in her chest. Because healing doesn’t always look quiet. Sometimes, it struts. Sometimes, it sways. Sometimes, it storms the canvas in bare feet without no shits to give
"The Vivid Series" | Three pieces. Three daydreams. Each one rooted in something real but stretched by color, emotion, and imagination. This series poured out without planning, just brush to canvas and feeling to form. Bold, instinctive, and a little chaotic...just like the best kind of dreaming (and just like me)
"Cafecitos and Periquitos" | Part I. Vivid Series.
"Dress-shirt with a View" | Part II. Vivid Series.
"Soaking Suds" | Part III. Vivid Series.
"The Weathered Heart" | A love story dissolving in space dust | Emotional weather, captured in layers. A soul untangled. A love that wasn’t really love. Just something familiar dressed as safety
"Storm Lock" | Turbulence disguised as tenderness
Contact, but only with her own rising | "Contact Light" | A hush between weather systems.
| "Atmospheric Fade" | She exits orbit
"The Space She Claimed" | She needed no witness; only breath, only stillness, only the pulse of her own becoming. This is not surrender to anyone else. This is what it looks like to come home to the body that stayed when everyone else left. She is not waiting. She is waking. She is hers.
"Not Yours to Hold" | She is not art for your pleasure. She does not ache to be chosen. She is the choosing. Untamed, unhidden, utterly whole.