🎨 Is It Really Allowed to Feel This Good?

A reflection on painting, family, permission, and joy

Today I painted.

Not because I had a deadline. Not because I needed to fix something.

But because I felt frustrated — that murky, stuck feeling — and I needed to come back to the brush. And what started as frustration turned into something else entirely: lightness, flow, and eventually, a quiet joy that almost didn’t feel real.

I followed along with an art course by Emily Powell — someone whose boldness and freedom I admire. Her paintings are joyful, messy, unapologetic. As I painted a still life with two flower pots and a lemon, following her prompts, something started to loosen in me.

And what followed was an hour I can only describe as magical — and deeply complicated.

🖌 Following the Lead — But Staying With Myself

I followed her lead, but also listened inward. I noticed which shapes I liked, which colors made me smile. I wasn’t just copying — I was exploring. And as the hour passed, I found myself enjoying it. Like really, truly enjoying it. Without second-guessing. Without trying to prove anything.

When I laid out all my sketches on the floor and started taking photos, I was overcome by a strange wave of disbelief — like,
“Wait… can it be this good?”
Is this allowed?

🤫 The Quiet Joy We Don’t Always Share

And then, a familiar voice in my head whispered:

“What do you do when your dreams come true? You keep it to yourself.”

I don’t even know where that sentence comes from, but I’ve carried it for years.

There’s this resistance in me to sharing joy — especially when it feels effortless. I’ve always been a reasonable, analytical person. But some part of me still believes that things have to be hard to be real. That joy is suspicious. That if I say it out loud, it might vanish.

So even in this moment of pure, creative delight, I wanted to keep it quiet. Hide it like something too delicate to expose.

🩺 From Medicine to Meaning

My thoughts wandered — to my former life, my first career.

I was a doctor. Internal medicine.
It was always hard. Every day was layered with anxiety and pressure. And while I deeply admired the people I worked with — some of the most brilliant, kind, capable people I’ve ever known — I was constantly on edge.

Med school had its fun moments, but the pressure was relentless. I used to have stomach aches from the stress. And still, I pushed on because I believed in what I was doing. I believed it mattered.

And I thought of my grandmother.

🕯 My Grandmother’s Dream

She had what I call a dark Russian soul — poetic, melancholic, strong. She was born in what is now Moldova, though her mother tongue was Russian. Over time, the land changed hands: it became Romanian, then Moldovan. But her essence stayed rooted in something vast and knowing.

She wanted to be a journalist — a storyteller. She was artistic, deeply so. I remember once, she casually picked up a pencil and sketched this graceful, elegant woman. It just flowed out of her. I would give so much to have that sketch now — to hold that glimpse of who she might’ve become.

But she never got to follow that path. Her family pressured her into medicine. She became a pediatrician because she loved children, and she was amazing. But it was always hard. She carried an undercurrent of suffering — even when she was being the most loving, devoted grandmother in the world.

I always said we were kindred spirits.
But I think part of me feared inheriting her ache, too.

🧬 My Choice, My Path

When I chose medicine, it was my decision.
She wasn’t thrilled — maybe because she knew what it might cost me. But my family supported me. They didn’t push me. They were proud, but they understood.

I’d always been creative — I thought I’d be an architect, a perfect blend of logic and beauty. But medicine felt meaningful. It felt useful. And it was.

Then in my 30s, I immigrated. I started over. In a new country, in a new system, I rebuilt my career. And I did it. But eventually, I hit a wall. I remember thinking:

“I don’t want to live a life where every single day is hard.”

🎨 And Then… Joy

Today, after just an hour of painting — after play, not pressure — I felt this wave of disbelief all over again.
Is this real? Can life feel like this? Is it allowed to be beautiful?

And that’s when I realized — I started painting after my grandparents died.

They were like second parents to me. Huge, joyful, optimistic forces in my life. But even with all their love, I never really felt like art was a legitimate path. It felt too soft, too selfish. Too uncertain.

Only after they were gone did I finally let go.
And only then did I begin to let joy in — not as a side hobby, but as a life.

🎭 When Joy Feels Like Cheating

And still… I wrestle with it.

Because somewhere deep inside, I’ve absorbed this story that real work is supposed to be painful. That meaning comes from exhaustion. That joy isn’t enough.

But today I sat on the floor, surrounded by color and paper and ease — and I asked myself:
What if this is enough?
What if I don’t need to earn every good thing through struggle?

Maybe the real work now is unlearning that.
Maybe the most radical thing I can do is let this life — this beautiful, creative, art-filled life — be mine.

🌸 The Closing Thought

I want to work hard, yes. But I also want to enjoy my life.
Not just in moments squeezed in between stress and obligation — but in real time, with real presence.

Painting gave me that today. And maybe, slowly, it’s giving me permission too.

💬 Have you ever felt this conflict — between what you were told life should be and what your heart is asking for? I’d love to hear how you’re navigating your own joy.