I never wanted to be an artist. I refused to be an artist. Both of my parents were artists and I didn’t want to be like them. We had art constantly in our house, were always going to art classes that they taught, and went to the art museum often. While I enjoyed some of it, I also felt that there wasn’t a choice in these matters for us and that we went to the museum because of my father and that it didn’t matter what we wanted.

My father was also always losing his job as an artist and I remember feeling worried as a kid about money, even saving up money for a carseat for my brother who was about to be born. I remember thinking even then that I would not be an artist when I grew up but would pick something where I made more money and wouldn’t be laid off all the time. Of course these were just the views of a child but it made an impression on me. And looking back I realize that my painting Christmas ornaments and other holiday decorations, sewing, cross-stitching, crocheting, using modeling clay and tracing picture after picture making my own paper dolls, was in fact artistic. But in my mind as a kid and young adult, I wasn’t an artist.

In high school I fell in love with chemistry and then went to college and majored in Chemistry and fell in love with inorganic chemistry. Not an artist, I told myself. One day, however, my chemistry professor told me, ‘you know you picked the most artistic chemistry, right?’ There are so many beautiful colors for every metal complex and beautifully colored crystals that I synthesized. I remember being miffed when he pointed that out and tried to brush it off, because as I’ve told you, I wasn’t an artist.

But perhaps the real reason that I didn’t want to be an artist was because of childhood abuse with all of the hang-ups and triggers that it comes with. My father was not a man that I wanted to be like and he was a magnificent artist. Therefore, I would not be an artist.

I‘ve made great progress in healing my unseen scars of the past with therapy and self-love. I’ve gotten healthy inside and out. I am now a competitive powerlifter and Olympic lifter. I am captain of my coed adult rec soccer team. I am a wife and mother of 6, with my youngest only being one. I know who I am. I know what I want. I know what I love.

And then I did something different. I homeschooled my youngest boy in first grade. I picked out a curriculum that looked lovely and that I thought that he would love. And oh, crap, I picked one that had watercoloring in it almost every day. Not one to do things half-heartedly, I decided to go online and learn how to watercolor before the school year began. Somehow, I loved it. It set something free in me that I didn’t know that I had trapped inside of me. Like an avalanche, my feelings and thoughts started coming out on watercolor paper. I was expressing myself in a medium that I never had before. I felt like I had been set free. I didn’t know that painting was a part of me. I felt giddy. I felt like I was coming home, coming home to myself.

After the initial online learning that I could do, I craved more. I went to a local arts center and took some watercolor classes in my hometown, then at an arts center in a larger city, and then finally taking one on one classes with an art instructor. I look forward to these art classes where my teacher knows so much and I’m just trying to soak it all in. She has an art degree, has won awards and has her own art business. Right away I knew that I loved her style. Her style is freeing, where she often just paints without a sketch which is something that I have found that I need. She is patient, constructive and encouraging. She is exactly the type of teacher I need. I am so glad that I found her.

I’ve now become this crazy person who runs after birds trying to get their photo to paint, who stops on the side of the road to get photos of cows, goats, horses or flowers. Unsolicited, my kids yell to tell me if there’s a bluejay in the yard or a beautiful sunset so that I can snap a picture. My husband has even been known to sink down in his seat while driving to let me get a good picture of a hillside. They’re all so supportive and loving.

And I can't seem to get enough books on color theory (I’m still a chemist after all). I find it fascinating! I even requested to go to the art museum in Columbus on Mother’s Day this year. Who am I?

At first I started regretting that I wasted so many years not ‘being an artist’, but I have come to realize that I wasn’t ready before now. I hadn’t done the healing that I needed to do first. And now, I look around at my family, all artistic. Some crochet mad creations, sew their own clothes, draw, make Lego creations, create Barbie wardrobes, write books, dance, do scientific research, make their own Pokemon cards, stop motion films, jewelry, play musical instruments, compose their own music, or color pictures day after day. All artistic, every one of them. All with their own style. After all of my life running from art, I realize I never actually escaped it. It’s a part of me. But I am not my parents. I am not my father. My style is not theirs. My style is mine just as my husband’s and kids’ style is theirs. Who am I? I am me. And I am an artist.

Your friend, Christina Collins