I participated in my first group exhibition last week. It was the dopest feeling. After almost 12 years of pursing being an artist, my success came in the smallest form. To be honest, at 28 it seems kind of late to be excited about a mere basic milestone that many artists have reached at much earlier stage in their careers – but it is what it is. This is my life. This is my reality.
If this is what it takes to keep me from falling into another quarter – life crisis, then so be it.
The tragic thing about being a late-twenties something, is that the whole world has convinced me that I should have my entire life together by now -- and that’s not it. Some days I’m unsure if I’m actually the late bloomer that I’ve self-identified as all of these years, or if this is simply normal. Are some people meant to rise while others are destined to be stuck in the seconds, minutes, hours of a passionless existence? I’ve been at a standstill multiple times in the past 8 years. Fear of both failure and success has kept me from reaching out to take my dream by the hand. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been the dreamer -- the girl with the universe in her hair -- the one with potential. But at what age does unused potential go to waste? When do we become too old to reach our dreams?
Photo Credit: Chris Donadio.