The Independant Sport

My father once told me that art was an "individual sport"—something he couldn't participate in, a hobby that left him on the sidelines while I disappeared into my own world.

Growing up, I was the kid with a sketchbook glued to my hand. It was there on long car rides, at restaurant tables, and during family movie nights. I remember setting up paint stations on a towel in the living room just so I could be "in the room" while I worked, watching the movie with my ears more than my eyes.

Now that I’m a parent to a 14-year-old who takes a book everywhere, I finally see it from the other side. But back then, it was a source of constant, quiet friction.

The Language Barrier of "Cra-Z-Art"

My dad made a genuine effort to be impressed, even if it was a struggle. He wanted to fuel my passion, but he didn’t know how. For years, he’d buy me those all-in-one art "briefcases"—the ones with the basic watercolors and markers—not realizing I’d outgrown them years ago. It took a long time for him to realize that a gift card was the better bridge between his world and mine.

It wasn’t that we didn't bond; we had plenty of adventures outdoors hunting, fishing, and camping. But even in the middle of the woods, my art followed me. My sister’s favorite drawing is a sketch I did of her in a creek; my dad’s favorite was a campfire I drew using charcoal I pulled directly from the embers. That one actually blew his mind. For a moment, the "individual sport" became a team effort.

The 120% Heartbreak

The disconnect came to a head in high school. When my English and History grades slipped, I tried to defend myself by pointing to my Art grade: a 120%, bolstered by endless extra credit projects.

My dad, in a moment of frustration, told me he didn't care about my art grade.

As a parent today, I understand his point—you can’t let the core subjects fail. But as a teenager, it gutted me. It felt like he was saying he didn't care about the thing that defined me. That comment became a ghost that followed me into my adult career.

The Introvert’s Sanctuary

If my father was right about one thing, it’s that my art is not a social hobby. I don’t paint on a "team," and I don’t create with a group. While "Wine and Paint" nights are popular, they aren't my natural habitat. I’m far too introverted to host them, and the "Live, Laugh, Love" aesthetic of sunflowers and butterflies doesn't call to me.

That said, one of those nights changed my life forever. My wonderful husband once organized a mimosa and paint night for our closest friends. At the end of the evening, as we finished our paintings, he dropped to one knee and proposed.

But even with that beautiful memory, my heart still pulls me back to the quiet of my studio. My work centers on Zendala designs—intricate, circular patterns that require an almost obsessive level of focus. My process is slow, therapeutic, and deeply personal. I hand-draw the pattern twice, then paint it—again, entirely by hand. I’m not sure why I’m so obsessed with this level of detail; I’m sure a therapist could find the answer, but art is cheaper... I think.

From Hobby to "Career Directed"

Today, I am over 30 and a professional artist with my own small business. Yet, I still feel a twinge of anxiety every time I send my father an update. There’s a lingering fear that he’s still waiting for me to "get it together" and find a job with traditional benefits.

The reality of being an introverted artist is that "selling yourself" is terrifying. It’s debilitating to take something so personal and put a price tag on it. My father likely knew I wasn't going to be a "famous" or wealthy artist, and that was part of his concern.

Acceptance in the Gallery

For years, his response to my work was a single word: "Cool."

But lately, something has shifted. I’ve been getting more. "That’s really looking good," he’ll say. I find myself wondering: Does he finally like the work? Or has he simply accepted that this is who I am?

I don’t think my father was ever truly disappointed in me. I think he was just lost. Art wasn't up his alley, and he didn't have the map to navigate my interests. He spoke in camping trips and stable careers; I spoke in charcoal and 120% extra credit.

We may never play on the same "team" when it comes to art, but seeing those longer text responses lately feels like he’s finally joined the crowd to cheer me on.