How Drawing and Writing Became My Lifelong Best Friends

How Drawing and Writing Became My Lifelong Best Friends

The greatest gift I have gained from drawing and writing is not achievement or recognition, but the ability to know myself more deeply and to feel honestly. The quiet moments spent in front of a canvas or a blank page have always felt like meditation to me. In those moments, the noise of the world fades, and I am able to sit calmly with myself, without judgment, without performance.

Without this time of stillness, I do not think I could have become emotionally strong. Looking back, I realize that the periods when I was most deeply hurt were the times when I lacked this space to reflect and reconnect with myself. When the inner foundation is weak, even small words from the outside can wound deeply.
Thankfully, I was never truly alone.

I had drawing and writing—like eternal best friends by my side.
This is something I will remain grateful for throughout my life.
In a harsh and demanding world, I was given a way to express myself through words and images. For that, I quietly say thank you. Perhaps that is why I am so devoted to art education. I could not be otherwise.
Even when the process looks slow, tedious, or difficult, I know what it truly offers children: a lifelong companion for their inner world. One day, they will cry. They will feel hurt, overwhelmed, or misunderstood. When that time comes, having a safe place to return to can change everything.

There, they can heal.
There, they can be comforted.
There, they can feel loved.
That was my experience.

Drawing and writing were my refuge. As long as I could create and write, the state of the world did not matter. Within that space, I felt happiness, safety, and freedom. Even now, as I write these words, I feel a kind of peace and joy that the world itself cannot provide.
Yet this path was not always gentle.

There were long periods in my life when I could not speak freely, choose my direction, or live according to my own values. I suffered among people who were forceful and emotionally dominant. They spoke carelessly, without filters, imposed labels, crossed boundaries, and never apologized for the pain they caused.
When I withdrew into myself like a snail pulling into its shell, they questioned why—without ever asking how many wounds had pushed me there in the first place.
In hindsight, I realize that if they had been capable of seeing others as independent human beings worthy of respect, they would not have caused such harm to begin with. If they had understood even a little earlier that words carry responsibility, some relationships might have remained warm and intact.

But I no longer force myself to preserve such connections.

I now understand this clearly: healthy relationships require no excuses.
I have known many truly good people, and those relationships have remained unchanged for decades. Because of that, it has become easier to recognize what is unhealthy. Writing, in particular, has helped me clarify my thoughts and emotions, allowing wounds to heal quietly and honestly.
Today, there is no lingering resentment or regret in my heart.
At times, I choose to forgive those who hurt me and even pray for them. This is not for their sake alone, but for my own peace. In the end, I overcame what I needed to overcome, and I lived the life I dreamed of.
They did not want me to become an artist.
Yet here I am, living as one.

I refused to internalize the darkness and negativity that were spoken over me. Perhaps the ones who heard those words most persistently were the ones who spoke them. That is what feels most tragic.
The journey was lonely. Painfully so. Looking back, it feels almost like the path of a monk—quiet, uncertain, and isolated. I feared failure. I feared being judged as foolish. Still, I continued walking.

This path has not guaranteed success or wealth. I may never become an artist who astonishes the world. But that does not matter to me.

Standing on a path I carved myself, speaking my thoughts freely, living without manipulation, gaslighting, or imposed narratives—this, I believe, is a profoundly blessed life. Many people do not realize how rare that freedom truly is.
That is why I hold the life of an artist with deep reverence and gratitude.

And that is why, once again today, I return to drawing and writing--
to my oldest, most faithful friends.
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