After My New York Art Show Install: How I’m Practicing Self-Care Before Opening Night

Life Reflections after New York art show install

It’s been a year. Almost.
Just about one full orbit around the sun in this space I now call home.

There was a time I wasn’t sure I’d get to stay here—wasn’t sure what my future looked like at all.
A time when everything felt black. When I stopped answering phone calls.
When I disappeared for days. Almost agoraphobic.
When dishes piled up on my nightstand and I buried myself in blankets, numb under the weight of a sadness that felt endless.
I had no ambition. No vision. Just a heaviness that wouldn’t lift.

But I stayed.
I made it mine.
And now, after the whirlwind of installing my first New York art show, I’m letting this quiet apartment hold me again—like a soft, grateful breath.

This place feels like home now. I am safe here.
I’m following the quiet peace in my chest, letting it guide me back to myself—gently, one soft moment at a time.

It’s been a few days since the hanging.

The walls are filled.
The QR codes scan.
The white frames look beautiful against the exposed brick.
I walked out of the café gallery stunned—blinking in disbelief that I actually pulled it off.

I thought I’d feel panic, or exhaustion, or collapse.
Honestly, I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it at all.
But what I felt—unexpectedly—was relief.
Not the kind that shouts: we made it!
The kind that whispers: you’re still here.

And yet, the opening reception is still ahead.

As someone who struggles with social anxiety, I feel a swirl of nerves and excitement. I’m still learning how to talk about my art out loud.

I wonder who will come.
If anyone will connect with the work.
If I’ll sell anything at all.

Now, I’m in the in-between.
The show is up, but the applause—or silence—hasn’t come yet.
The work is done, but the next chapter hasn’t turned.
It’s just me, back in my apartment, letting this quiet wash over me—like cool water on my skin, rinsing away the static of a long, loud season.

It’s almost the weekend, and I sit in bed—exhausted from a long day, possibility humming in my chest like the soft whir of the air conditioner my aunt and uncle gave me.The first flickers of a changed fortune are beginning to spark, and I feel it in every word I write, in the way the light catches on the plexiglass of my framed artwork.

My apartment walls have seen me disappear and re-emerge.

They’ve seen me curled up in grief, and standing tall in the mirror, taking in my gym progress. They’ve seen me haul artwork down the stairs with shaking hands, and try to get my life together one load of laundry at a time. This place has held a version of me I never thought would be strong again.

And now, I get to stay here one more year.

The last few weeks were chaos. Beautiful, meaningful chaos—but chaos all the same. I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying until I sat down and exhaled. There’s still work to be done. It never stops—it just evolves.

These past few days, I’ve been doing the small things that help me feel like myself again.It’s part glamour, part sacred—the kind of rest I need after pulling off what felt like a Herculean feat, all under a time crunch where every moment felt heavy.

Imperfect Progress

I’m still on my glow-up journey.
I’m healing through everyday self-care rituals.
I’m still learning how to hold joy and sadness in the same breath.

I am still learning the bohemian lifestyle. Learning how to be authentic even in sadness. Even when I don’t want anyone to see my scars or how I feel like a burden when I’m not okay.

The mirror is starting to reflect real progress—but some days, all I see are flaws. Things to fix. Things I don’t like. Some days I wake up energized, other days I want to give up, disappear, quit everything, and close the curtains for good.

But I don’t.
I stay.
I keep moving.
Even if it’s just from my bed to the kitchen.
Even if I cut my gym time short, or don’t cross everything off my to-do list.
Even if all I do is wash my face and heat up leftovers in the microwave.

I’m living by the motto: done is better than perfect.

I used to chase perfection—reaching for it, but never quite touching it.
Now, I’m getting things done, whether or not perfection shows up.

I don’t have it all figured out. I’m not at the finish line.
Some days, it feels like the journey is endless—but maybe you never really arrive.
I’m learning to be present, to embrace the process, and to accept both the good and the hard along the way.

But this post—this moment—is part of my legacy.
A page I’ll look back on years from now and say, “That’s when everything started to shift.”

Rituals of Return

I’ve been leaning into self-care after the art show. My energy levels are low but I want to continue creating good habits after depression.

Some days, walking into the gym is the most defiant thing I do. I lift heavy to remember that I exist in this body—not just as an artist, or a survivor, but as a woman with strength in her bones.

I feed myself like someone worth keeping alive. A curry simmering on the stove, a chocolate chip pancake flipping in a pan—these aren’t aesthetics. They’re proof that I didn’t give up.

My skin doesn’t reflect how hard I’m trying. Breakouts still bloom when I feel closest to glowing. But I keep showing up—layering serums like prayers, hoping one day my skin will catch up to my spirit.

I walk the same streets I once cried on. I watch the greenery and neighborhood bloom. The world is still turning, and so am I.

Soft Resistance

Self-care, for me, isn’t always soft.
It’s not candles and bubble baths and perfect skin.
Sometimes it’s showing up in the mess. The mundane. The quiet after the storm.

It’s opening mail that’s been sitting untouched for weeks.
Washing dishes even when my arms ache.
Writing for my blog despite the weight of writer’s block.
It’s getting on the bus to go to the gym in the thick heat of summer.
It’s doing laundry. Scrubbing the bathroom.
It’s walking the neighborhood streets and feeling, for once, like I belong—like I’m part of the hum of everyday life.

These are the moments that stitched me back together in the days between the hanging and the reception.
Snapshots of stillness. Glimmers of grace.
This is my visual diary of healing.
Scenes from the in-between.

A Sheet Mask and a Small Yes to Life

It is late afternoon and the sun pours through the window as it begins to set like it knew I needed a reminder—I’m still here.

After a sweaty gym session, I washed my face to feel refreshed. A sheet mask went on, an iced coffee with cream in hand. I felt a small return to myself. I put my sunglasses on and I posed. I was ready for my closeup. These tiny acts of care don’t fix everything, but they soften the sharp edges.

They soothe the ache in my chest. When every cell in me aches, a sheet mask and coffee feel like a quiet yes to staying alive. A small rebellion against the urge to disappear.

Walking into the Light

I threw on sunglasses, popped in my AirPods, and left the house before I could talk myself out of it. When the bed calls my name like a long-lost lover, I take the stairs instead—down, out, into the light. The sun hits my face, fresh air floods in, and for a minute, moving forward is enough.

The neighborhood was buzzing in that golden hour way. I used to walk these same streets when the sadness was heavier and the chill of winter kept me awake—now I walk because I want to, not because I’m trying to outrun the dark. Yes, I’m still sad. Yes, there are days when the sun feels too loud. But, there’s healing in motion. I’m learning that.

Curry, Chickpeas, and Small Victories

After my evening walk—sun still clinging to the sky like a soft gold ribbon—I came home and started to cook.

Coconut milk bubbled in the pan, swirling with melting peanut butter, shredded chicken, and chickpeas. I tossed in a handful of spinach, and the air began to smell like warmth. Like healing. Like freedom.
That moment—the sun hitting the stove just right, the scent of curry rising with the steam—felt like a quiet kind of victory.

I’ve always loved cooking, but now it’s something deeper. It’s part of my ritual, a return to myself. It’s part of the creative routines I do at home. Healing through creativity can be so much more than painting or other visual arts. Cooking counts.

I make food from all over the world, even though I’ve never traveled. Thai curry on this night. Ethiopian chicken and couscous on another. These dishes are my passport. My offering. My proof of care. Some people travel to find themselves. I travel through a thrifted Farberware skillet and a bag of jasmine rice.

Because sometimes healing looks like feeding yourself well.
Sometimes it smells like turmeric and garlic.
And sometimes, the most sacred thing you can do is stand in your kitchen and choose to stay.

The Glow Ritual

Skincare went out the window when depression moved in.

I restarted tretinoin a few months ago—slowly, carefully, learning to rebuild my skin barrier and my confidence. It became a ritual of rediscovery—each layer a quiet attempt to find the girl I lost. This isn’t vanity; it’s survival.

The glow is returning, but so are the stubborn dark spots that bloom beneath my jawline like reminders of everything I’ve been through. I get frustrated. If I’m honest, I thought I’d be further along by now. Sometimes I want to overhaul my routine, throw in every trending serum just to speed it up.

But healing—like art, like growth—isn’t about rushing. It’s about returning. And so I return to this ritual. Each night, I find joy in serums and massaging Cetaphil into my skin.

Even on the nights when exhaustion pulls at my limbs and my bed calls to me like a siren, I still do it. Cleanse. Tone. Moisturize. Layer serums like prayers. It’s not just skincare. It’s sacred. It’s soft resistance.

There’s something tender in that mirror light. A quiet kind of care.
One that says: you’re still here, and you still deserve softness.

The glow will come—just like the results in the gym came. Quietly, steadily. One night, I’ll look in the mirror and see it staring back at me.

I hope to meet the woman who wears that glow. Not the fragile shine that vanished when her old life collapsed—the one her burnout and heartbreak as a music photographer stole. But a deeper glow. A resilient glow. One that doesn’t flicker when life gets hard.

A glow rooted in truth, not performance. One that radiates from a woman who stayed, who healed, who rose—soft and strong at the same time.

Alive, Anyway

And that’s the beauty of the in-between.
Not quite the before, not yet the after—just a soft pause in the middle of becoming.

Self-care is medicine when life has no answers,
when the voices in my head are loudest,
when my joints hurt and my heart aches
and my mind loops yesterday like a song I want to forget.

Just small rituals that remind me I’m still here,
still trying,
still worthy of care.

I’m not waiting to be whole, or for the heavens to part.
I might be waiting for a sign from God—
but maybe my reflection is the sign.

I’m alive.
I chose to stay.

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