A story about trusting your instincts
She didn't know their names yet. Didn't know who'd make her laugh, who she'd trust with the real stuff, or who she'd still be talking to in a year.
She knew the flowers though. She'd picked those herself.
There's a kind of trust in walking into a room of strangers with your hands full of something soft. No history, no proof yet that any of it would matter. Just flowers and a heart worn where anyone could see it.
Some people wait to be sure before they open up. She didn't wait. She just kept showing up, to the next thing and the next, hands full, heart out, betting the right people would notice.
Some call that naive. She calls it hope, dressed up and walking out the door.
Acrylic, coloured pencil and wax pastel on timber panel, 20 × 25 × 4cm
A story about trusting your instincts
She didn't know their names yet. Didn't know who'd make her laugh, who she'd trust with the real stuff, or who she'd still be talking to in a year.
She knew the flowers though. She'd picked those herself.
There's a kind of trust in walking into a room of strangers with your hands full of something soft. No history, no proof yet that any of it would matter. Just flowers and a heart worn where anyone could see it.
Some people wait to be sure before they open up. She didn't wait. She just kept showing up, to the next thing and the next, hands full, heart out, betting the right people would notice.
Some call that naive. She calls it hope, dressed up and walking out the door.
Acrylic, coloured pencil and wax pastel on timber panel, 20 × 25 × 4cm
