Snapshots of Becoming: A Summer of Healing and Homecoming

What It Means to Come Full Circle: Rediscovering Life After Depression

One Tuesday evening after the gym, I sat across from my aunt at a local frozen yogurt shop, pink sunglasses perched on my nose, spoon in hand, heart unexpectedly full. It was the first eighty degree day in New York—golden, the kind of heat you welcome after weeks of wind and rain, the kind that hums with possibility.

Inside, the shop buzzed like a hive. It was packed with people: teenagers on dates, families sharing stories over gobs of froyo and sticky fingers, and the workers moving with the rhythm of the rush, ringing orders up like clockwork.

My aunt and I weren’t celebrating anything. Just catching up. But somewhere between the vanilla froyo and her quiet, careful questions, I realized I was tasting something more than dessert—I was tasting the beginning of a full-circle moment in my glow up journey.

Last summer, I was a ghost in pearls. My sense of style masked a broken confidence, as if silk and suede could mend what Asheville had shattered. I had just returned to New York after ten years away—college in New Jersey, then seven long years in Asheville.

I traded music photography and a rent-stabilized downtown apartment for a futon in my aunt and uncle’s basement, the kind that left my back aching each morning. There was no fanfare in my return—just heartbreak and heavy eyes.

Failure had started to feel like my identity. My thirties loomed ahead like a shadow, like a debt collector I couldn’t outrun. My thoughts were as scattered as the memories I’d carried back from Asheville, a chapter that ended not with closure, but in a spectacular crash—a personal growth story written in reverse.

I’m lucky my family took me in. If they hadn’t, I might’ve ended up on the streets—just another ghost wandering the unforgiving roads of a city that had already chewed me up.

My spirit felt like soaked fabric strung out to dry, never quite catching the sun. The sparkle in my eyes had dulled, replaced by a bitter frost.

But healing doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives in snapshots—in outfits that make me feel like myself again, in fresh laundry instead of piles of the unwashed, in the steady strength of limbs shaped by consistency at the gym.

It shows up in creative bursts at midnight, when I’m cross-legged on the studio floor, flinging paint onto paper while pop punk blares through my headphones.

It shows up in my bohemian lifestyle blog where I scribble stories about my creative life in New York and upload blog entries before the doubt sets in. And it shows up in conversations like the one I had with my aunt—on an ordinary Tuesday evening, with someone who’s seen me at my lowest and still chooses to witness the becoming.

Somewhere between that first spoonful of froyo and her gentle reminders of how far I’ve come, it hit me: I’m making more progress than I realized. I get so wrapped up in chasing the version of myself I’m still building that I forget to notice the blooms already breaking through the soil—the very things I used to pray for.

My life is taking shape again, slowly but surely, with every choice and with every small act of self-respect—every meal cooked, every time I show up for my passions, every piece of watercolor paper I throw paint on. I’m building something new after heartbreak and depression—not a return to who I was, but a quiet becoming of who I was always meant to be. This is my glow up in real time.

This post isn’t really about frozen yogurt. It’s about the quiet milestones—the moments that feel ordinary until you realize how far they’ve carried you. It’s about the full-circle glimpses, the soft markers of growth that remind you the glow-up was never just about aesthetics. It was always about the return. The return to self.

And this summer, for the first time in a long time, I feel something in me beginning to bloom. This is a self development story—one that captures the full-circle moment I’m living in. For an entire year, I was depressed and ready to give up on my life. Now, I’m slowly stepping into the beginnings of a life worth living again.

Snapshots of Becoming: How I’m Creating a Life That Feels Like Mine After Depression

Lately, I’ve been catching glimpses of myself—little moments where I realize I’m no longer the girl I was, and not quite the woman I’m becoming, but somewhere in between. That in-between space, where the results of my glow-up journey are just beginning to break through the surface like new growth, feels uncertain—but necessary. Frustrating at times, yes. But essential.

Because the becoming is the point.

If I were to freeze-frame this season of my life, it wouldn’t look like a highlight reel. It wouldn’t be curated or filtered or polished—not the kind of transformation story you see on Instagram.

It would be quiet scenes: mornings where I force myself out the door to go to the gym. Gym mirrors where I fixate on form and fight to stay consistent. Paint-stained hands. Long walks through my neighborhood. Blog drafts uploaded in defiance of perfectionism on this little corner of the internet—my bohemian lifestyle blog.

Because becoming isn’t about everything falling perfectly into place—it’s about choosing to show up, again and again, even when no one is watching. It’s built in repetition, in restraint, in all the unglamorous choices that slowly shape the slow living lifestyle I’m building, and the life depression once tried to steal from me.

How I Know I’m Coming Back to Life: The Signs of Becoming

Here are the beginning signs of growth:

There’s new strength in my arms—lines and curves I hadn’t noticed before. The early outline of abs. A quiet cinch at my waist, rebuilt through discipline and care. My clothes fit differently now—not just in size, but in spirit.

I’ve started painting again after a long hiatus. I don’t wait for inspiration, and I don’t let fear of failure stop me. I create—even if I end up discarding the piece. Even if it’s messy. Even if the painting takes on a mind of its own. My afternoons are filled with brushstrokes and bus rides to Michaels for paint thinner and acrylic inks—a bohemian artist’s routine slowly coming back to life.

I carry myself with a steadiness I forgot I could trust. My heart, once cold and guarded, is softening again—like earth thawing after a long frost. I’m not as sad as I used to be. I have bursts of energy throughout the day. I feel hopeful about this season of healing.

I’ve stayed consistent with my blog—pressing publish even when doubt creeps in. I write from the heart. I write even if no one sees it. I write hoping someone who’s where I was will find it—like a friend who understands. This creative lifestyle blog has become my way of documenting the journey.

I take regular showers now—not because I have somewhere to be, but because I care enough to feel clean, refreshed, alive. I’m wearing outfits that make me feel like myself again—leaning into personal style as a form of self-worth.

These may seem small, but to me, they’re everything. These small moments, no matter how insignificant they may appear, are the building blocks to becoming. They are the rituals that tether me to the present, quiet reminders that I’m still choosing to live. They’re part of a slow living lifestyle I’m finally beginning to embody.

And that choice—the one depression said I wouldn’t make—is proof that it doesn’t get the final word.

Looking Ahead By Looking Back: From Seasonal Sadness to a Summer That Feels Like Mine

Over the last several years, I haven’t had the best luck with summers. In Asheville, while tourists flooded the mountains to hike Blue Ridge trails and sip craft beer in open-air breweries, I often stayed inside—windows closed against the heat, the apartment dim and cold like a refrigerator. Seasonal depression was a quiet, uninvited guest that stayed too long.

The days blurred together in a haze of television reruns and too many hours spent alone. I picked up the occasional photo gig here and there, but most summers passed me by without anything to mark them. No flings. No wild nights. No sun-drenched memories to hold onto. My summer glow-up never came. I just tried to survive.

Those summers felt like winter. Walking through downtown Asheville, I often felt like a spectator in someone else’s life—watching others laugh, drink, kiss, move through the heat with purpose—while sadness clung to me like a second skin.

Becoming a Music Photographer Changed the Tempo But Not The Ache: How Music Photography Gave Me Purpose—Until It Didn’t

That was until I became a music photographer in 2022, after years of having nothing to do. Then, the summers turned into late nights at dive bars and outdoor venues, capturing moments I knew would vanish by morning. It became about transient connections, hangovers, and half-remembered conversations with people I’d never see again.

It was a different kind of rhythm. I was doing things—but nothing stuck. Nothing left a permanent mark. I’m someone who looks for meaning, and after a while, nights spent dancing to funk music and chasing stage lights began to feel hollow. The creative life I had once romanticized turned out to be more performative than profound, and I was left searching for something real in all that noise.

The Summer I Survived, Not Lived

Last summer was a shock to my system—my first summer back in New York after nearly a decade away. I had just left Asheville, where I’d spent most of my adult life, and now I was sleeping in someone else’s basement, trying to pretend I was okay while quietly falling apart. It was a post-burnout reset I didn’t ask for.

The stress of apartment hunting on a shoestring budget wore me down. I was on a time crunch and the weight was crushing. I was moody, overwhelmed, and clashing with my aunt more than I wanted to admit. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel like myself again. The emotional weight of starting over in your 30s was heavier than I imagined.

This Summer Feels Different

Summer 2025 is different.

I have my own apartment now—a little bohemian nest with hardwood floors, thrifted from head to toe, and sunlight that spills through the windows in the late afternoon like honey. Everything in the space has a story: a metal lamp found on bulk trash day, my bookcase that I rescued from a home renovation down the road, framed prints from the thrift store, a foam green mirror that makes my living room look bigger. It’s my version of boho apartment living. I love it most because it’s mine, designed to fit my truest and most authenic self. And somehow, that makes it beautiful.

A New Season, A New Space: Finding Joy in My Apartment

I’ve fallen in love with my neighborhood, even though it’s quieter than Asheville. There are high school kids waiting at the corner for the bus in the mornings, parents pushing strollers on dusky evening walks, and a mile of trees lining the road that change with the season. This slower rhythm feels like healing.

I know the rhythm of my days now—a boho, creative lifestyle that’s finally starting to feel like mine. I know the sound of this place: the creaking footsteps of my neighbors upstairs, the man with the dog that looks like a bear making his morning rounds, the neighbor who blasts classic rock through his window before noon.

I know the look of my apartment—art supplies scattered across the living room, half-drunk coffee mugs on the kitchenette table, canvases propped against the walls like quiet companions. It’s a slow living lifestyle, and for once, I’m not rushing through it.

I’m Not on the Sidelines Anymore

I know the pulse of my neighborhood—where to get the best iced coffee after the gym, the middle-aged men who gather outside the deli near my apartment, speaking in thick New York accents I almost forgot after seven years in the South, and the tattooed young creatives in Chelsea boots and cuffed jeans who frequent the popular coffeehouse in the artist town nearby.

It finally feels like I live here—not just physically, but emotionally. I’m not watching from the sidelines anymore. I’m in it. I’ve carved my own life, made something from the ashes. Although it’s not finished and I’m not where I want to be, I’m finally feeling like I have a life worth living. This is what healing through slow living looks like.

Summer, Again: A Summer Healing Season

After years of summers that felt like emotional winters, this one feels different. Not because everything is perfect—but because I can feel a tide of change coming.

This summer, I want to show up fully. I want to say yes to invitations. I want to wear the clothes I’ve collected over the years and actually feel like myself in them—not just dressed up in someone else’s confidence. This summer glow-up is about presence, not performance.

I want to sit in the sun with paint on my hands and iced coffee sweating on the table. I want to be at parties and not disappear into the host’s bedroom. I want to live inside the moment instead of watching it from the sidelines.

This summer isn’t about reinvention. It’s about return. To myself. To joy. To art. To the kind of life I once thought was out of reach.

Bohemian Artist’s First Show in New York

I have an art show coming up in July. It will be at a busy downtown café in a small Hudson Valley city known for its bustling artist scene and the telltale signs of gentrification on every other block. It will be my first New York art show—an emotional milestone in my creative glow-up.

The theme for my show is still undecided, and I don’t have a clear direction yet—just a mix of pieces from different seasons of my life. There are paintings from my first show in Asheville back in 2021, works I created during my two-month lock-in after walking away from music photography, and a small series I painted last summer in my aunt and uncle’s backyard. It’s a collection rooted in becoming.

Honestly, I’m behind on prep. I don’t have a budget for frames yet, and I’m using whatever supplies I can get my hands on. I’ve been repurposing old, unfinished pieces with fresh eyes and—hopefully—a clearer vision. This is a real look at preparing for an art show with limited resources.

I’ve made a promise to myself: this month, I’m locking in. I’ll be in my apartment, dressed in my paint-stained “art uniform,” focused and quiet—painting, thinking, dreaming. The only places I plan to go are the gym, mass, the grocery store, and a family camping trip in late June.

I want this show to be something special. And honestly, I’m hoping to sell a few pieces too. I want to build a career as an independent artist one canvas at a time.

I want to feel like a bohemian artist again—and to me, being an artist is more than just creating. It’s a way of being. A way of seeing. A way of coming home to yourself. It’s part of my creative healing process.

I’ve been working on a few pieces. They’re darker and more morose than I expected—layered in deep blues and reds that remind me of blood. I’m trying not to judge what’s coming out of me. I’m trying to detach from the outcome, even though my inner critic has plenty to say about the tone of this new work.

It’s like the paintings have a mind of their own—moody, chaotic, unruly things that don’t want to be tamed. I don’t know how I feel about them yet, but they’re demanding to be seen, as if they’ve been waiting for a voice and chose me to speak through. Maybe this is what it means to overcome depression through art. Maybe the pieces are fragments of my depression, maybe my subconscious is speaking of the inner turmoil I’ve learned to choke down.

I don’t know what these paintings will become. I don’t even know what I’m becoming. But I know I’m here now. I’m living in this body, in this season, in this little apartment that now smells like oil paint and coffee grounds.

I don’t need this summer to be perfect. I just want it to be mine. I want sunshine again and maybe, rainy days spent painting and writing. This is my version of a healing summer.

Dreaming Again, In Color: My Full Circle

When I think back to that frozen yogurt shop—pink sunglasses on, heart unexpectedly full—I realize something has shifted.

I’m waking up again. Waking up to a life I once thought was better off abandoned. Waking up to the quiet blessings tucked inside ordinary days. Waking up to the woman I’m becoming—not who I used to be, but someone wiser, stronger, and more rooted. I live a boho artist life now—a life I dreamed of as a teenager, a life that sometimes feels surreal to be living.

I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m not waiting for life to begin. I’m not holding out for perfect conditions. And I’m certainly not letting depression—or the voices in my head—win.

I’m already in it. In the thick of it. In the trenches of my own becoming—building something beautiful, building a creative legacy, one painting and one blog post at a time.

🌿 Stay awhile. Join Slow Notes, my monthly letter from The Bohemian Bungalow — a quiet, creative space for art, style, and soul.